Chapter 8 #3
Nothing yet. And why aren’t you talking to people about your miracle shit?
Because Secretary of the Year over here has them all riveted with gossip and I can’t get a word in edgewise.
“Oh, hello there!”
August closed his eyes for a moment, then squared his shoulders and turned to face—
“I’m Zeke, Mr. Redham’s executive assistant, he’ll be here soon but welcome, welcome!” Zeke beamed as he held out a manicured hand, and August put on his own smiling facade and returned the gesture.
“Thank you,” he said as they shook briefly.
“You’re a new face at this event, aren’t you? Wherever did you meet Mr. Redham?” Zeke looked August up and down appreciatively. “You look like you’re part of the same health-forward community he is.”
I do not look like an anti-vax, raw milk, carnivore-diet motherfucker. Rude. But now wasn’t the time for umbrage.
“You have a keen eye,” August teased before taking a sip from his glass of champagne. He didn’t say anything else, just let the silence drag out into the realm of discomfort as Zeke waited for a courtesy August had no intention of paying.
“How did you hear about Mr. Redham’s event?” Zeke finally asked.
“Oh,” August laughed, “I didn’t hear about this through Mr. Redham.”
Zeke arched an eyebrow. “What, Rachel brought you in?”
“Mrs. Redham has a long legacy of philanthropy,” August said. “And so do I, so she thought I’d be a valuable, shall we say, contributor to the cause.”
“Mm.” Zeke’s patina of affability was rubbing off now that he attributed August’s presence to the enemy.
“Well, I wouldn’t put stake in that legacy for much longer.
Once the divorce is done, she’s going to be quite destitute.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up misusing charity funds to support her exorbitant lifestyle. ”
Wow. Every accusation was a confession with these people, wasn’t it? Clearly, Harrison was priming the flash pan for blaming Rachel if—probably when—the charity’s losses were discovered. Oh, he deserves this. So much.
“I don’t know,” August said, “she’s got one of the best divorce attorneys in the state working on her behalf. I think Harrison will be lucky to escape with his chin implants intact.”
Zeke blinked. “Excuse me? Who—” There was a murmuration over by the door, and he left without another word as he saw his boss step into the conservatory. “Mr. Redham! Welcome, welcome!”
The man in question smiled blandly, but he seemed… distracted. He cleared his throat. Tried to speak. Cleared his throat again. “Where is Rachel?” His voice sounded odd, as if he were out of breath, even though he wasn’t panting.
Zeke tensed. “Oh, uh, she’s—”
Redham coughed. It was a harsh, painful sound, and he wheezed when he inhaled again.
“Mr. Redham?” Zeke touched his boss’s arm. “Are you all—”
The man wavered on his feet and grabbed the back of the nearest chair for support. Zeke put a hand on Redham’s chest and an arm around him. “Sir, are you okay?”
“I need…” Redham coughed again, with more effort this time. The wheeze made August’s spine prickle. What the hell?
“Pull out that chair,” Zeke ordered August, and August did so without thought. Redham dropped into it like a ragdoll, and he put a hand to his neck.
That was when August noticed the hives creeping up from beneath Redham’s collar. He leaned down. “Mr. Redham? Do you have an allergy?”
Redham stiffened. Then, even through the rising panic in his reddening face, he seemed to make a connection. To Zeke, he said, “Gimme my pen. Now.”
Zeke blinked, then shoved his hand into his inside pocket and produced an EpiPen.
Wait, he has a known deadly allergy? Well, fuck, that would’ve made our jobs easier.
“Give me your phone, sir.” Zeke jammed the needle into Redham’s thigh and pushed down on the plunger while Redham fumbled to get his phone out of his pocket. Still holding the needle in place with one hand, he called 911 with the other. “Yes, I need an ambulance…”
Heads began to turn. People began to gather. Rachel emerged from the crowd and hurried to her husband’s side. “Harrison? Harrison, what’s—” Then she saw the EpiPen. Her gaze snapped to August, a mix of fear, confusion, and fury on her face.
She stood and glared at him. “What’s going on?”
August showed his palms and said with complete honesty, “I have no idea.”
She stared at him. He stared at her. They both looked at Harrison. The EpiPen wasn’t doing much. Not enough, anyway. He was still wheezing. His skin was getting redder. Hives were popping up everywhere.
By the time the medics arrived, he was semi-conscious.
Within minutes, they were intubating him.
Before they could load him into the ambulance, they were starting CPR.
Then they were gone. Rachel was in hysterics. Zeke was on the brink of a panic attack.
As guests began a somber, whisper-filled exodus, someone caught August’s eye. Someone familiar. A member of the waitstaff, judging by his uniform. That face—a white guy with glasses and somewhat rat-like features—had bells clanging in August’s head.
But then the guy was gone.
And August had never been more confused in his life.