Chapter 8
EIGHT
brIAR
I pulled the whole I-forgot-something-in-my-car-I’ll-be-right-back to give myself a moment to breathe.
To calm down.
To bury the guilt that continues to slip out from behind my shield, slashing at my insides.
But as the sun began to set, turning the horizon into a rainbow, I managed to contain my feelings.
Sure Chrissy seems nice and she puts on a good front about caring for the people who are schlepping food and drinks for her, but she’s just like the rest of them.
And we’re interchangeable, disposable.
Meaningless.
On that lovely thought, I make my way inside just in time to come face-to-face with the lady with the clipboard.
“Name?” she asks sharply.
“Sorry,” I say, “I just had to run out because I left my phone in my car.”
Her gaze lifts from the clipboard, one eyebrow lifting.
In judgment.
Shit.
Because I’m supposed to be working and not on my phone.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her quickly, shoving it into my purse. “I’m not planning on using it. I just didn’t want to leave it out in the open.”
The eyebrow slides back down. “Name?” she says again and it’s not exactly warm and fluffy, but at least it’s not edged with ice.
And damn, I should have been using this time to come up with a name.
Except, it’s not going to be on that clipboard.
Which means she won’t let me inside. I can see that on her face, see it in the firm lines of her expression, her brow slowly arching up again.
I open my mouth…
Just as I’m shoved from behind, hard enough that I topple into the woman, her clipboard smacking me in the face as I fall onto my hands and knees.
Pain flames through my kneecaps, my palms.
“Oh, my God!” I hear. “What is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
I glance over my shoulder, spot a delivery guy carrying a huge box in front of him.
“Why are you coming in this way?” she snaps. “We take deliveries at the other door.”
“What do you mean? I always bring them here—”
A scoff. “Certainly not.”
The clipboard is right there and I don’t waste any more time—though I can’t deny it crosses my mind that this is a setup, a way for me to get past Clipboard Lady without blowing my cover.
Always watching.
They’re always watching.
I shiver, the hairs on my nape lifting, as though those eyes are on me, even now.
And they probably are.
I pick up the clipboard, scanning rapidly as she gets rid of the delivery guy, getting to my feet just as a hand lands on my arm.
I flinch, pull away.
I wish I didn’t. Wish that instinct wasn’t there, that I could bury it because it reveals too much.
But…
I don’t, or I’m not able to, or—
“Sorry,” Clipboard Lady says and there’s definitely no ice in her tone now. It’s gentle, almost conciliatory.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, climbing to my feet. “Are you all right?” I ask, passing her the clipboard.
A pause. “Yeah. You?”
I nod, take a breath. “My name is Rebecca.” The only no-show on the list.
A no-show who would, hopefully, continue to no show.
Her eyes flick down and back up before she studies me for a long moment. But all she says is, “You’re in the coat room.”
Coat room.
I don’t know what I thought that would entail aside from applying the proper use of hangers and giving out tickets.
I do know I’ve worked harder in the last couple of hours than I expected.
The coats are heavy, the ticket book has given me paper cuts left and write…er, right. Though, I have been doing a lot of writing, scribbling down the items that were checked in and out on a spreadsheet Clipboard Lady insisted we use.
Seems like overkill, but what do I know about fancy charity events?
“You should go eat.”
I blink, the words that had gone blurry on the paper in front of me coming into sharp focus. “What?” I ask of my co-coat checker in crime.
“Dissociate much?” Dale asks.
I lean back against the counter as he smiles, his eyes dragging down my body and back up in a way that so totally does nothing for me.
Not like the press of Brooks’s chest against my back had just a few nights ago.
Not like Brooks giving me the same look would have done years—
I shove that down. “Sorry,” I say, mirroring his smile. “Yeah, I was zoning out.”
He leans against the counter beside me. “The party’s going to start winding down soon, which means we’re going to get slammed with people and then if you’re sticking around for cleanup—” He pauses and I nod.
Hopefully, I’ll be long gone by then.
But it pays to be flexible.
“We’ll be busy for a while yet,” he says. “Though, maybe after we’re done for the night, we can go out for a drink?”
I barely hold back my shudder.
“No?”
Damn. I don’t like the hard edge to his tone, the way he’s shifting closer, so his arm brushes against mine.
“How about I call it a maybe?” I smile and force myself to stay still, something in his eyes, his demeanor, that sharp edge of his words, telling me to tread carefully. “I’m just coming off working a couple of doubles. But,” I add when his eyes narrow, “if not tonight then tomorrow?”
He studies me closely. “Give me your number.”
A demand.
Yeah, this one is full of red flags left and right.
But it’s a demand I can give in to—mostly because the burner phone in my pocket is getting dumped tonight.
I recite the numbers, watch as he plugs them in…and then hits the button to make a call.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
He grins, friendly ally vibes reactivated now that he’s gotten what he wants.
Yup.
So, so many red flags.
“I’m going to take your advice and grab something to eat,” I tell him. “Want me to bring you back something?”
“Nah.” A shrug. “I snagged a plate after I used the bathroom.”
Hopefully, he washed his hands before getting all up in the buffet they laid out for us.
Though, that seems…unlikely.
Because red flags.
I nod and slip out of the coat-check booth. As creepy as Dale is, his suggestion is actually good timing.
It gives me some space to do what I need to do.
I slip down the hall, turn the corner, and—
Slam!
For the second time that night, I’m knocked down, pain radiating through my palms, my knees.
“Dammit,” I whisper, trying to breathe through the hurt.
But I don’t get that far.
Nope.
The hurt intensifies, hardening to a sharp point as a voice says, “Shoot. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
His hand appears in front of my face.
No. Not his.
Brooks’s.