28. Hiss
Hiss
Cam
The problem with being seen is that people actually see you. I don't think I'll ever quite get used to that.
The venue was some converted warehouse with the soul of a car showroom and the acoustics of a skate park.
The Rich Wild Syndicate line launch was invite-only, no plus-ones except for the handful of "it" stylists, so when I walked in with an unlit cigar tucked between my fingers—purely for the entrance, purely because the Wolfepack lived for trying to predict my fits—the first face I saw was Shara's, holding a clutch and a six-inch tablet.
She always showed up forty minutes early, took inventory of every shoe, bag, and facial expression in the building, then made a tactical plan for how her client was going to dominate the visual landscape.
Tonight, the brief was "old Hollywood meets new money. "
She nailed it: I was in a white dinner jacket over black pants, bowtie hanging loose around my neck with an open collar. Loafers polished to a mirror shine. The cigar was extra, but that was just for fun. Floppy hat with a nasty tilt. Ridiculous. The photogs ate it up anyway.
The interior was all right angles—white resin floors, suspended screens everywhere showing looping promos, every corner shadowed except for neon Rich Wild Syndicate signage that hovered above the crowd.
I clocked the biggest clusters right away: two label tables packed with junior A she detonated into it. I felt her first: a sudden drop in background noise, then a hitch in the pattern of bodies moving near the bar. The usual hum of small talk and hype went slack for half a beat, then snapped back harder as people clocked who had just arrived.
Skye was in a champagne satin midi, simple and sleek, barely-there sandals, hair poured straight down her back. Glowing skin, nude lip, the effortless look that I happened to know took ninety minutes and a ring light. Still. Pretty. Objectively. Whatever.
I tried to shift behind a potted tree, but I moved too slow—she bee-lined right over. My muscles locked up, the exact opposite of the unbothered energy I was supposed to be projecting.
"Cammie!" she sang, slicing the air between us like a baton. Before I could react, she hooked my elbow with hers, pulled me close, and planted a kiss on my cheek. Too close to my mouth to be friendly, just close enough to get the camera guy's attention.
"There you are, bitch," she said, grinning. "Thought you were gonna ghost the whole event."
I kept my face neutral, but my jaw ticked. "Hey, Skye. Didn't know you were coming."
She laughed, head thrown back, loud enough for the nearest four tables to notice. "I'm literally in the ad campaign, babe. How you not expect me?"
I shrugged, but she was talking over me.
"Hold up—get a pic," she commanded, and the nearest photographer pivoted like he'd been waiting for the cue.
She leaned in, pressed her cheek to mine, and struck a peace sign with the hand that wasn't gripping my shoulder.
I smiled for the camera, then immediately peeled away as soon as the flash hit.
Skye turned, scanned me up and down, and pursed her lips. "You're serving butch tonight. I love this look for you. Are we doing a character arc, or did you just let Shara win the argument?"
I snorted. "I do what I want. You know that."
She cocked her head, taking that in, then let her eyes go sharp. "Cammie. You mad at me?"
I hesitated a second too long, and she was on it. "Not here," I said. "Let's talk somewhere else."
She let out a little "mmm" sound, half-amused and started after me as I headed toward the fringe of the venue.
Then her hand grabbed mine. Skye laced her fingers through mine, like we were still a we.
I worked my hand loose, smooth, no yank to it, and kept walking.
The only private spot in the whole warehouse was a lounge off the main floor, tucked behind two sliding glass panels.
It was meant for press interviews, but tonight it was empty except for a single low couch, a pair of pink acrylic chairs, and a minimalist table with nothing on it but bottled water and a bowl of little foil-wrapped mints.
The overhead was set to "ambient," so the light came from the floor, casting everything in a low, blue-pink haze.
I gestured to the couch. "Sit."
"Nah, I'm good." She stayed standing, arms crossed, hip cocked. I stayed on my feet too, keeping the coffee table between us. Through the glass walls, people moved around in the main room—execs, artists, hangers-on. Anyone could look over and see us.
She waited for me to start. I didn't.
"So we're doing this?" she said finally.
"Doing what."
"The silent treatment. Very mature."
I trailed my eyes over her. "You're looking healthy. That viral infection must've cleared up real quick."
Her smile tightened. "Funny."
"I thought so. Two weeks ago you were too sick to perform, next you're at an industry party in a—" I gestured at her outfit, "—full look. Miraculous recovery."
"It was just a cold."
"Right. A cold." I nodded, slow. "The kind that clears up the second you're not contractually obligated to be somewhere."
She shifted her weight, jaw working. "Okay. You've been weird since I pulled up. What's up?"
I studied her face. She was trying to look casual, bored even, but her smile was off. She looked nervous. Good.
"That verse," I said, keeping my voice low. The glass walls weren't soundproof.
"Which one?"