Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elizabeth
The party continues. I avoid Dominic, since Andy stays close to him, and mingle with acquaintances and friends, pretending my heart isn’t racing, my body full of adrenaline.
Knowing Ming Ming, the party won’t end until well after midnight. A little after sunset, she finally brings out a huge, eight-tiered birthday cake with twenty-seven candles. We all sing “Happy Birthday,” then clap as she blows them out.
I take my cues from the people around me, doing the right things at the right time. I’m hypersensitive—I have to stay vigilant in case Andy tries to corner me again. That means I need to stay around other people, which isn’t too difficult. There are tons of them, many wanting to chat.
Still, I can’t help but feel unsafe. What I wouldn’t give to level a finger at Andy and tell everyone what a monster he really is…
Except who would believe me? He’s played his part well, just like I have. Perceptions are powerful things. I could shoot somebody point-blank in public, and people would still doubt what they saw. Shirley taught me that very valuable lesson.
My skin crawls, and I feel like an antelope stalked by some savage predator. Whenever I can’t spot Andy, my apprehension grows. If he’s where I can see him, at least I know what he’s up to.
Ming Ming and a few others introduce me to new people, many of them hoping I’ll act as a bridge to my brothers, cousins or some influential in-law. But I have trouble hanging on to the names and faces.
“For you,” a guy says, handing me a piece of cake with a wide smile. He’s the oldest son of the Texas governor. A friendly man in his early thirties, with good manners and an obvious Texan twang, he’s been sticking close, and I let him. He checked me out when we were introduced, but afterword, he kept his eyes on my face, not my nipples. But even if he were creeptastic, I’d keep him around as a safeguard against Andy.
“Thank you.” I take the cake, even though I know I’m not going to eat it. My stomach shudders at the idea of food.
A few yards away, Andy forks a big piece into his mouth, laughing at something a short, curvy redhead is telling him. His gaze finds mine. My instinct says to look away, not draw any attention to myself, but I hold his gaze. How I truly feel about him is irrelevant. I won’t shrink back in public, no matter how jittery I feel inside.
A Pryce worthy of her name is admired for her quiet dignity, her sterling reputation. She does not cower, does not lower herself. She keeps her chin up, eyes straight and looks at the world with pride—she has nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of.
Grandma Shirley’s mantra. It’s a comfort at times.
“I need to get something to drink. Excuse me.”
Before Mr. Lone Star can offer to get it for me, I walk away, holding the cake. After making my way around a huge crowd of people, I dump the confection on a server’s tray and trek back to the hotel, tagging along with a crowd of Japanese tourists milling in the same direction. My head throbs badly, and I can’t make myself stay there any longer, pretending I’m fine. Although I arrived with Dominic, we don’t have to leave together. He seems to be doing pretty well on his own, networking with all the right people. And that was the objective in the first place.
I hurry along the sandy path and step into the hotel lobby. The front desk has a different clerk now, a friendly young woman with a deep tan and wide-set brown eyes. She checks my information, then looks behind me. “Is your companion here with you too?”
“Companion?” My reservation is under my own name. No one else is on it.
“Yes. Mr. Dominic King.”
I gape at her, not processing it for a moment.
She clicks a few things on her computer. “Is that not correct, ma’am?”
“No. He has his own reservation.”
She frowns professionally. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see that anywhere.”
I press my thumb against the throbbing spot between my eyebrows. “It doesn’t matter. Give us two separate rooms.”
She types a few things on her computer, her coffee-stained teeth worrying her lip. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any vacancy. We’re booked full.”
What the…? “That can’t be right.”
“We have three big events, and unfortunately we only had the one suite left. And we gave that to you and your…um…guest?” She cringes a bit, then adds a smile as an afterthought.
Great. No room at all. I think back to the horribly depressing space where I changed into my bikini earlier. I bet those are still available, not that I plan to stay in one. It’s on the ground floor and has huge windows. As Tolyan would say, the room is a security hazard, asking to be broken into.
How could this happen? When Dominic and I came by earlier, the previous clerk said we needed to wait before our rooms—plural—were ready. How did the system suddenly decide there’s only one room—and one reservation now?
Ming Ming.
I groan, covering my eyes. This has to be her doing. I should’ve known better than to tell her she’d fail because nothing makes her more single-minded than a challenge. Screwing up a couple of reservations is a cakewalk for her.
“Fine. Just give me the key,” I say, too tired to argue. If Dominic doesn’t like it, he can find another place. Not to mention, I plan to take the couch anyway. He won’t be too inconvenienced.
The clerk hurries, giving me the key to the room plus a brochure with information about the amenities. “Can you have my bags brought up?”
“That’s already been done, ma’am.”
I thank her—it’s not her fault my best friend doesn’t understand boundaries—then find the tower where my room is.
The suite is Hawaiian-themed and lushly appointed, with colorful tropical flowers perfuming the air and pale beige rugs on an earth-tone stone floor. Huge windows and balconies face the ocean. Although the suite’s fairly high up, when I open the windows, the sound of waves rolls in from outside.
My entire body shaking, I finally collapse on a couch with a bottle of vodka. A sob punches through my thick throat. Clenching my teeth, I twist open the vodka, my hands trembling, then pour some into a crystal tumbler. I can’t break down and fall apart. I have an image to maintain—the only source of what nebulous power I have.
After a moment, I get up and find a corkscrew in the full-sized wet bar. I bring it back to the couch with me, just in case.
People think I’m influential because I’m pretty or rich or related to wealthy people. Those are ancillary. The main source of my power is my reputation. People admire me because I’m always polished, warm, sweet and help others. They’d turn their backs if I faltered, if I lost control of myself or a situation.
The sob shoves harder against the back of my teeth. I swallow the vodka, flushing it down my throat with the liquor.
I keep drinking. If I drink enough, the sob will be pushed down so low that it won’t come back up. Not for a while.
But no matter how much I drink, I can’t find peace. My thoughts become clearer and sharper. The old memories of what happened between me and Andy pop into my head over and over again in little fragments.
So much blood. So damn much blood.
I drink faster, hating my metabolism, which prevents the vodka from doing for me what it does best—giving sweet oblivion.