Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Walking into Alistair Blackwood’s party looking for a story is like walking into an all-you-can-eat buffet knowing a few of the dishes are poisoned.
His cul-de-sac has been transformed into something between a gala and a movie premiere.
Limousines and black sedans glide toward the red carpet to deliver people in glittering outfits.
Under a white canopy, a full orchestra plays music fit for thousand-dollar tickets instead of background noise, while security in black suits holds the perimeter with polite smiles that don’t reach their eyes.
The suit he sent me fits too well. It hugs my shoulders tight, and I tug at one cuff, disappointed to find there’s no drawstring to loosen the whole thing by an inch.
Before I can join the line for security, a waiter who looks like he stepped off a magazine cover cuts smoothly into my path.
“Welcome,” he says, and glances down at a tablet. “Mr. Wilder?”
I manage a nod and tighten my fist around the canvas Evie procured a few hours ago.
“What may I start you with?”
“Uh, Pbr,” I say, because both Evie and Alistair told me to and I haven’t yet worked out which command matters more.
“Of course.” The waiter pivots without hesitation. “Right this way, sir.”
He guides me past the small line while real guests watch, their curious looks assessing what I must be to deserve an entrance like this. Someone with a cane gives me a slow once-over. Somebody else whispers behind her snakeskin purse.
At the entry, security seals my phone in a tamperproof bag and hands it back as a receipt for my own silence. I’ll be going inside—and out, hopefully—with only whatever I can carry in my head.
The air smells of expensive champagne and perfumed guests. San Francisco hangs in one giant window.
The waiter threads through bodies toward a staircase, and I force my breathing to match his easy pace instead of my panic.
“Do you know who comes to these?” I ask softly, aiming for casual.
He smiles without slowing or making eye contact.
“Everyone,” he says, nearly clipping someone’s shoulder with his tray. He’s not very good at this, which could be good for me. “The mayor. CEOs. People who other people revolve around.” His chin tips, quick and subtle, toward a woman in white who does look familiar.
The abstract splatterfest I’m clutching suddenly looks like the weakest part of my disguise.
Hours ago, Evie bought it while I went to the gym.
It looks like junk to me, but she fed me three lines about anxiety being my inspiration.
I hadn’t worried about the lie until realizing I might have to tell it to the mayor or a celebrity.
“Don’t worry,” the waiter says. “Alistair doesn’t want you up here.”
I bark a nervous laugh. “That obvious?”
He glances back, and for a second his mask slips. “It’s your eyes,” he says, as if that’s explanation enough. He presses a cocktail into my hand. “You didn’t actually want Pbr, did you? That’s just… what you’re supposed to ask for?”
I know better than to drink it. Evie’s warning is barely an hour old, still fresh enough to taste. But I need to calm down more than I need to be smart, and the first sip is pear, ginger, and money. My shoulders loosen before I can stop them.
My escort looks pleased. “He’s not serving bad drinks,” he says. “Take two.”
I swallow the rest of the first like medicine and cling to the second as a shield while he guides me toward a staircase.
We descend alongside an indoor waterfall, each floor sliding warmer, darker, and louder until the bass on the bottom level rattles my chest. I repeat the mission until it comes back into focus: find the inner circle, get proof, get out.
Now where would he keep his inner circle?
If this were a movie, this mansion would be the big bad’s lair, and descending to the ground floor would put me closer to the truth. That, or a tank full of sharks he feeds his enemies to.
This floor isn’t shadowed in secrets, though. It’s as beautiful as the rest of his place—concrete and metal, bejeweled by the same sweeping view of San Francisco on every floor. It’s the crowd that’s changed more than the scenery.
The dignitaries are gone. In their place are men in their twenties and thirties, handsome in a way that feels curated, with too-perfect hair, too-practiced smiles, and bodies posed for gawking.
They read each other with quick, hungry glances, and now that I’m looking, any one of them could be part of his inner circle.
Is this my neon arrow?
The waiter waves me onto the dance floor. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped at the edge, too caught between overload and surveillance to step into the party getting started without me.
“You’ll be with the rest of them,” the waiter shouts above the music.
I nod, trying to reclaim my cool, while nudging past bodies that dance and eyes that stare, heading straight for a door at the far end of the dance floor.
Opening the door reveals a starkly lit room and trades the noise and booze of the crowd for black tile and white walls. Empty wire hangs like fishing lines from the crown molding, and a few artists have already taken the bait to hang their work.
This is not the inner circle. This room is for artists, and with one glance at the incredible watercolor lily pad thing to my immediate right, the backs of my knees go loose. I’m way out of my element. My piece is abstract. Evie said it was expensive, and I hope they all get it more than I do.
While this isn’t the room I want to be in, it’s not a bad place to gather information and plan my next move. Step one: get the artists talking. Step two: find out who Alistair favors. Step three: charm, flatter, distract—whatever it takes.
But Jesus. I’m a graduate from Berkeley’s School of Journalism, not the fucking FBI.
“Hi,” I say, extending a hand to the lily pad painting’s creator. “I’m Marcus.”
He’s shy, practically hiding in a beanie like the one I wore yesterday. Except he’s also hiding in a sweater three sizes too big, and I shake hands with his empty sleeve.
“Incredible,” I say, laying admiration on thick. “How do you get the sky to look so bright?”
“Make sure you’re using enough granulation in your washes,” he says. “Gives the sky some life.”
Oh, shit.
I turn to the only other artist who arrived as early as I did. He’s standing proudly in front of a canvas filled with overlapping colors and shards of recognizable objects, all arranged into a painting I almost recognize.
“Wow,” I say. “This is, uh, uh, that guy screaming? What’s it called?”
“The Scream.”
“Right. Yeah. Love how you’ve made it with all these different sorts of material. Mediums.”
“A collage?” The artist trades a glance with the first, and I’ve now blown my cover twice.
“Right,” I say, and distract their judgment by claiming a spot and turning my canvas around. “I do modern stuff.”
“Collage is modern,” he says, lip curling in disgust.
I shut my mouth before I can blow my cover again and look for another strategy.
No one asks about my work, which tells me plenty. They’re competitive despite my obvious inability to compete. That makes sense, considering how many artists would kill for Alistair’s patronage.
“Where’s Alistair?” I ask, ignoring how I’ve already blown charming them like I ignored the discomfort of cramming onto the MUNI.
The lily pad guy shrugs. “Sometimes he shows, sometimes not.”
“I heard he’s out of town,” says Mr. Collage. “Which is too bad, because he specifically asked me to bring this.”
“It’s my first time… clearly,” I say, which wins a few smirks. Yes. Keep it casual, open-ended. “How does this work?”
Mr. Collage’s fixed expression softens. “We’re basically the art gallery. People come down to admire our work.”
It’s not new information, but at least we’re talking.
“He, uh, got me this suit.” I pull at the collar, feigning discomfort. “Feel a bit overdressed.”
The lily pad guy pulls back layers of sleeves to show off a shining gold watch. “Watch for me.”
“Whoa. That’s awesome.”
A tinge of jealousy churns as the bizarre military painting flashes into my mind. But I fight it down; what do I care that it’s not a great gift for me?
He shrugs and pulls the sleeves back over it. “I wear it because he gave it to me, but I’m not really a watch guy.”
“Sounds like Alistair,” Mr. Collage says.
“What do you mean?”
They exchange another glance, passing an unspoken question instead of judgment this time. They’re wondering how much to say, so I stay quiet. Innocent. Clueless.
“You’ll see,” Mr. Collage says.
“Come on,” I try. “You’re not giving me anything? Artist to artist?”
He shuts down, and another angle crumbles.
Self-deprecation. Honesty. None of it turns me into someone with an art history degree. Evie’s prep hasn’t made me one of them. I don’t even want to be an artist. I want to get in deeper.
Outside our door, the party is half-naked bodies, glossy laughter, and men who look like they already belong to Alistair or want to. In here, it’s nervous hands and money-hungry eyes whispering about the gifts he uses to keep them downstairs on a leash.
On the dance floor, a guy in white pants and suspenders without a shirt throws his head back like he owns the night. Bet he couldn’t define granulation if his life depended on it. Somehow, he fits better than I do.
Dress for the part you were born to play.
The suit Alistair gave me doesn’t fit with the artists. At the park, he couldn’t keep his hands off me, and it certainly wasn’t my work he was measuring.
The bass from the other room punches through the wall.
Thump. I can’t keep pretending.
Thump. I can’t keep drowning in this suit.
Thump. So I stop.
Fuck it.
I shrug off the jacket and go for my shirt buttons, quick and decisive, ripping off the bandage before I can think better of it. The room stills as eyes lift on instinct. Their attention skates hot over my skin, pulling a thin, ugly filament of control taut.
If I want Alistair’s attention, I know exactly what currency I’m holding.