Chapter 1
SIX YEARS EARLIER
KEATS MATTHEWS
“Alright. Alright, Sierra,” I reply, letting annoyance seep into my tone. I’ve been given a talk about that tone before, but damn, I’ve been hustling since I got here four hours ago. Ducking to the side, I avoid a tray of filet mignon heading out to the buffet table. “I’m getting a refill tray.”
“You know the rules, Keats. Get in and get out.” My manager points at the corner of the kitchen. “Grab the tray of micro-Wellingtons from the rack.” The strain in her voice has me moving faster in the chaos of the kitchen.
I scoot around a server headed in the opposite direction and drop my tray onto the marble counter of a kitchen that puts Michelin-starred restaurants to shame.
My stomach rumbles at the scent of savory foods, and I pray there are extra steaks left over for the crew to take home at the end. I roll up my sleeves, focusing on the money I’ll make. Sierra told us our tips might cover a month’s rent. I’ll trade Christmas Eve for getting that bill off my back.
I start chuckling when I retrieve the last tray of micro-Wellingtons.
These were called pigs in a blanket when I was growing up.
I’m not surprised by the name change. Rumor has it that an invite to this holiday party is the most coveted in Manhattan.
The threat from management—not to fuck this up and keep our traps shut with the guests or we’d lose our jobs—gives the rumor weight.
Easy enough. Money speaks louder than words.
With a tray in hand, I call, “Heading back out.”
“Take your break after this round,” Sierra says just before I exit the kitchen.
I hold the tray out for guests to take what they want, weaving through the black-tie affair.
My tray tips, but I’m quick to save it before it falls as sausage-sized fingers grab two of the hors d’oeuvres.
I steady it for the guest, then make eye contact by mistake.
An older man with an alcoholic’s red nose glares at me.
I remember my dad sharing the same characteristic.
Barely remember, considering he didn’t stick around much past me turning six.
The man says, “Seems like a simple enough job. Can you manage it?”
Now I know why I was told to keep my mouth shut.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling my attention to more important matters—the email I’ve been waiting for all week. I walk away, heading straight for my break. I drop the empty tray off and grab my coat from a hook, dipping my arms in before exiting through the back of the house.
The cold strikes first, and the warmth from inside is replaced before the coat can compete.
It could be below freezing out here, and I’d still be more focused on finding out the final grade on my essay.
I steer along a stone path that trails toward the guesthouse with my eyes locked on the screen.
I close the text from my mom, the first one all year, complaining that she never gets to see me, and open my email.
“Watch out.”
I stop, looking up to see a girl leaning against the side of the guesthouse with her feet angled away for support. “For what?”
She glances at the light hung at the corner under the roof’s awning. “It’s a motion detector. You can come under it, though.”
I step to the side, then stay near the wall as I move closer to where she’s standing. Stopping with a few feet between us, I ask, “Are we good?”
“Just avoid the corner.” She pushes off the wall and spins in the grass as if to prove a point. Her shirt is splattered in paint. Paying homage to Jackson Pollock? The moonlight’s not enough to tell if it’s her own design or if she bought it that way. “Are you hiding from the party?”
“I’m on a break.”
“Me, too.” She nods as if the world makes sense as she turns her attention to the main house. “So who are you?”
The girl is bold. I’ll give her that. Dressed in baggy jeans rolled to the top of a pair of dark red Doc Martens and a tee she customized by roughly cutting the hem to reveal the slimmest view of her midriff, I grin, already entertained by the company. “Keats.”
“Like the poet.” Her smile is soft as it shapes her expression. “Heard melodies are sweet—”
“But those unheard are sweeter.”
She’s pretty, even more so when her smile grows.
Her short blond hair ranges from sandy to the peak of summer highlights from the sun.
Some strands are in disarray, exposing a gentle wave more obvious on her right than on the left side of her head.
The street vibe she’s going for seems in contrast to how sweet her face is.
The Docs are scuffed, worn for real, not just fashion.
The light flicks on, causing both of us to glance over to find what set it off. Nothing new is seen. “Probably just the wind,” she says with a shiver.
I take off my wool coat and hand it to her.
She slides it on without question, letting it swallow her shoulders underneath the weight.
She can’t be more than five feet, judging by where the top of her head would reach on my lankier six-one frame.
Attractive. Her nose tends toward straight, rather than the upward-sloped nose job that so many in this city are having done.
I pull it closed at the front like I have a right to keep her warm.
I don’t, so I step back, leaning against the wall as if enough pressure from it can take my mind off her.
Cinching it together in her fist, she tilts her head while moving closer into the shadows with me again. “Saw you staring at your phone. Don’t let me keep you if it’s important.”
Easily distracted by her presence, I’d already forgotten about the email.
Instead, I find myself staring at her. She’s cute, but I raise the phone to open it and give myself something to do other than being a creeper here in this backyard.
When I look away, I’m still grinning like an idiot, as if I were busted doing something I shouldn’t have been. “It’s just a grade.”
Her eyes go wide with hope, like a connection has been made. “You go to university?”
“I’m a senior. You?” She has a sweet face with innocence still rounding the edges.
I catch myself looking her over again. The coat has come loose, giving me a sneak peek of how much it overwhelms her small frame underneath.
I spy a dip at the waist that blooms to her hips.
Her tits aren’t overbearing on her body, but each would fit nicely in my palm.
“Junior, but I took this semester off.”
“Why’s that?” I shouldn’t be so nosy, but my curiosity wins.
She doesn’t appear bothered by the question, remaining casual with a total stranger. “I had an opportunity, but I’m starting back in January.” Angling my way, she pops her eyebrows with curiosity. “What grade did you get?”
A section of hair falls in front of my right eye when I bend my head to read the subject line. Final Grade – Memoir Paper.
I drag my hand down the front of my pants, my nerves kicking in. Looking at her again, I say, “I spent a month working on this final project.”
Holding her hand out, palm up, she asks, “Do you want me to read it to ease the blow?”
Annoyance clenches my jaw. “There’s not going to be a blow. It’s either an A or a B. If it’s not an A, the professor is wrong.” With her hand still open and waiting, she laughs. It’s got a nice tone. “Fine.” I hand her my phone. “I’m confident in the results.”
“Cocky or confident?” She laughs a bit longer this time and gives the email her attention. She quietly scans the message from my professor, leaving me in suspense.
Running my finger through my hair, I ask, “Well?” She peeks up at me briefly as if she’s gotten insight into my psyche. Dread fills my gut. “Shit, what does it say?” I’m already regretting not reading it myself.
“Here are the highlights.” She reads, “Hides behind words, lacking authenticity . . .” Her eyes widen as she steals a glance at me before looking back at the phone again. “Masks behind ideas instead of truths.”
I should be shocked by the criticism, but Professor Johns is known as a hard-ass. “Not what I was hoping for. Did I fail—?”
“You got a B.” Thank fuck. Her expression softens into a matching smile, and she hands the phone back to me. “Can’t be all bad. I’d like to read it someday.”
Still in a bit of shock, I stare at the B listed at the bottom of the email and reply, “I’m thinking it needs some revision before anyone else sees it.
” But that she’s shown interest piques my interest to look at her again.
“But it’s passing and keeps me heading in the direction of graduation in the spring.
” I drop the phone back in my pocket and start rolling down my sleeves for warmth. “What’s your name?”
Another light laugh befitting the cold night rings from her chest. “I’m Sosie. I should have introduced myself, but you know how hiding out goes. It’s not the most conducive environment to get to know somebody.”
“Seems we’ve done alright for ourselves.
” I bend down to pull a cigarette from the pack tucked into my black polyester sock, and retrieve the lighter from the other one.
I look into her eyes as I light up to see whether they're brown, green, or maybe hazel. It’s too dark to figure it out, so I take a long drag, then slowly exhale. “I like your name. It’s different.”
“Sometimes too different.”
“There’s no value in being the same,” I add, though I’m thinking she’s no stranger to standing out from a crowd. She’s too pretty to blend in. Taking another long inhale, I slowly release the smoke into the air, letting it billow into the slightest of December breezes.
“Tell that to all the dupes out there.” She reaches over and asks, “Spare a drag?”
I hand the cigarette to her. “I have more if you want your own.”