Chapter Eight Asher #2
I catch myself mid-search, irritated. The whole point of tonight was to make it seem like I can’t stand the sight of her. Yet here I am, craning my neck this way and that, desperate to know where she is, if she’s still here, and if she’s okay.
It takes me very little time to find her sitting at her table with the blonde girl from earlier, speaking a million words a minute. To be honest, even if I hadn’t been specifically seeking her out, I’m fairly certain Imani would’ve caught my attention anyway.
I meant what I said when I called her beautiful earlier. Imani is nothing short of striking on an average day, but tonight? Tonight she’s a golden beacon in a sea of dark blues, silvers and greens.
Her dress is strapless and a soft metallic gold colour that glows like starlight under the low lights without being gaudy. It’s patterned with delicate floral embroidery that catches the light when she moves, like she’s been stitched together from sunlight itself.
I drop down into my own seat, my eyes still on Imani.
I find myself lingering on the way the neckline of her dress dips low enough to show off the gentle swell of her breasts, and on how the fabric of the gown hugs her curves, cinches at her waist, and skims over her hips in a way that is simply just not fair.
Against her rich, warm brown skin, everything about the dress is perfection.
The kind of perfection that makes it very, very hard to remember that I’m supposed to hate her.
The blonde says something that has the rest of the table gasping and shooting Imani sad, sympathetic looks, before she leans forward and wraps a protective arm around her.
Imani hesitates for a fraction of a second and then leans into the embrace just enough to sell the performance, her lips pulling into a trembling smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
God, she’s good at this. I wonder if she’s ever considered acting as a potential career path. If being the only child of Malcolm Davies stops being so lucrative, I’d say she definitely has the skill for it.
The blonde suddenly looks up and sees me watching. Her eyes narrow and her expression turns tight as she leans into and mumbles something to Imani. Even from across the room, I can tell that she buys it. She believes, one hundred per cent, that Imani and I hate each other.
Imani will be pleased. Every word I spat, every ounce of venom I forced into my voice, it was all worth it.
So why do I still feel like shit?
By the time the final toast is made, everyone’s got their donations in (Teddy and I having been instructed to drop in a sizeable amount on behalf of the Vouvalis company), and the orchestra begins winding down for the night, I’m more than ready to get out of here.
I hate these kinds of events on a good day, and tonight is most certainly not that.
The back of my neck aches from the weight of curious stares all night, my shirt is still damp and smells like I’ve run wild in a sweet factory, and the whispers haven’t stopped since I walked back into the room.
Every time I catch someone’s gaze, which is irritatingly often, they practically snap their necks back to pretend they weren’t staring.
For the umpteenth time tonight, I tell myself that these are just the signs of a job well done.
The plan couldn’t have played out better if Imani and I had written a script.
Our little spat will fuel the gossip mill for weeks or, at the very least, until someone else does something wild enough to distract their attention.
My phone buzzes as I follow Teddy and his date – a doe-eyed girl called Penelope with wide eyes and a slightly agape mouth who hasn’t stopped staring at me since we returned to the table – out to the front of the building to wait for our car.
Imani
Hey.
I very nearly drop my phone down a storm drain as I see her name flash across my screen. I hadn’t been expecting to hear from her just yet. Before I can reply, another message comes in.
Imani
Meet me here in 10 mins?
A third message pops up; this one is a pin with a location about five minutes around the corner.
I don’t hesitate.
Asher
I’ll be there.
‘We’re heading to an afterparty in Soho,’ Teddy says, as he waves down his driver, snapping my attention back to reality. ‘You in?’
Even if Imani hadn’t just messaged me, my answer would be the same. ‘I’ll pass.’
Teddy gives me a dramatic faux pout. ‘And here I was thinking you’d actually become fun for once.
You sure you don’t want to join us?’ He’s got an arm draped around Penelope’s shoulders, and I have no doubt at all that the two of them will spend precisely five minutes at this afterparty before deciding it’s time to head back to Teddy’s place for more private activities.
‘No thanks. You guys have fun, though.’
Teddy looks like he wants to argue, but then his car pulls up and it’s like he suddenly remembers he has a pretty girl on his arm and having his younger brother follow him around all evening would be a bit of a mood killer.
Especially when said pretty girl very clearly wants to gossip about me to Teddy but is thankfully polite enough to hold off while I’m still in the vicinity. Hasn’t stopped her from staring though.
He shrugs, opens the car door and gestures for Penelope to get in. She gives me one last curious, lingering look over her shoulder then disappears into the car.
Teddy doesn’t follow her immediately; instead he pulls me in for a quick, one-armed hug. ‘Forget about this Imani business for tonight, okay? We’ll figure it out and work out a way to spin it with Dad tomorrow.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say firmly. ‘Everything is fine. Honestly, I’m good.’
Teddy doesn’t look like he believes me, but then Penelope sticks her head back out the window and whines, ‘Are we going soon?’
Teddy gives me another shrug, though this one is coupled with a devilish grin and I immediately know any remnant of concern about me has faded from his mind. ‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ I shove him towards the car. ‘Go. Have fun. I’ll call a car for myself.’
He doesn’t need telling a third time. I watch as Teddy climbs in and mutters for his driver to head off.
I don’t move until their car has turned the corner and disappeared from view.
Once it has, I take off in the opposite direction, glancing at my phone every now and then to make sure I’m heading in the right direction to the location in the pin Imani sent.
The pin leads me to a dark, dimly lit side street. At the end of the street, I see an idling sleek, black car, but there’s no immediate sign of Imani. I frown and glance at my phone.
No new messages and it’s been about fifteen minutes since her last one. Surely she hasn’t left?
Asher
I’m here.
I’m expecting my phone to light up with a message, but instead I hear a loud honk from the car at the end of the street. I squint into the darkness and can just about make out a head poking out of the backseat window and then—
‘Asher!’ Imani whisper-shouts. ‘Over here! Hurry, before someone sees you!’
There’s no reason for anyone in our social circle to be hanging around a dark side street at this hour, but I do as she says and half jog down the street over to the waiting car.
As soon as I’m close enough, the door slides open, and for the second time this month, a hand roughly yanks me inside a car.
‘Took you long enough,’ Imani says, shuffling a little to the side so I can right myself and close the door behind me. ‘We were starting to worry you weren’t going to show up.’
‘We?’
‘Hey.’
I realise, with a jolt, that there’s another person in this car. I vaguely recognise her as one of the other attendees sitting at the table with Imani back at the gala.
‘Asher? Sloane. Sloane? Asher,’ Imani says briskly. Realisation dawns on me. This must be Sloane Chavan, the best friend Imani highlighted in her dossier pages.
I give her an awkward wave. She responds by slightly lifting her chin in greeting, like this whole sequence of events isn’t extremely bizarre and is barely on her radar.
‘Don’t worry,’ Imani says, accurately deciphering the slightly wary look on my face. ‘She knows all about our plan.’
‘I know all about your ridiculous plan,’ Sloane corrects her, taking care to put extra emphasis on the ridiculous. I can’t blame her. It is pretty ridiculous.
Imani shoots her friend a scowl, but there’s no bite to it. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ She turns to me and gives me a sheepish wince. ‘I’m so sorry, by the way. God, this is becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it? Me having to apologise because I took things way too far.’
‘You didn’t take it too far,’ I say at the exact same time Sloane mutters, ‘Too far is an understatement.’
Imani smacks her cheeks and lets out a pained groan. ‘I threw a drink over you. A drink! I threw it! At you! Over you! At a charity event filled with some of the most influential people in this bloody city. And I threw a drink over you.’ Another groan escapes her lips. ‘Look, your shirt is ruined.’
I glance down. The front of my shirt is pink; the stain having grown larger and darker thanks to my useless attempt to dry it.
‘Imani,’ I start, but she’s not listening.
‘I’ll pay for it to be dry-cleaned,’ she says, now nervously picking at the skin around her fingers.
This close, I can see that the skin around her thumb and forefinger is red and slightly raw, like she’s spent an inordinate amount of time picking at it.
‘Or I’ll just buy you another one,’ she continues, voice taking on a slightly hysterical tone.
‘I’ll buy you another two to make up for it. ’
I glance over at Sloane, who looks vaguely amused and gives me a shrug that seems to say, ‘You deal with it.’
‘Imani,’ I say again.
She doesn’t hear, too lost in a spiral of panic. She’s still apologising over and over and pulling at the red skin around her thumb.
I reach out, place a hand on her thigh, and give her a gentle squeeze. ‘Imani.’