Peter Sokolov, the man I can’t escape.
“I asked if you want to join me and Tonya this Saturday,” Marsha says, looking more amused than annoyed. “Andy just said she’s in; she’ll hang out with her boyfriend some other time. How about you, Sara?”
“Oh, sorry, I can’t,” I say, pushing my plate away. I ran into the nurses in the cafeteria while grabbing a quick breakfast, and they talked me into joining them for a sit-down meal. “I promised my parents I’ll go see them.”
That last part is a lie, but I figure it’s better than explaining that I don’t want to put my friends on the radar of a certain Russian killer—or whoever he’ll have watching me.
“That’s too bad,” Marsha says. “Tonya’s going to get us back into that club. You seemed to like it there, I recall. Tonya says that cute bartender has been asking about you.”
I frown. “He has?”
“Yep,” Tonya confirms. “He said something weird, though. He thought he saw some guy with you, acting all proprietary, like he was your boyfriend or something. I told him he must’ve been mistaken, because you definitely left alone that night. Right? You don’t have a secret boyfriend stashed somewhere, do you?”
Ice trickles down my spine even as my face turns uncomfortably hot. “No, definitely not.”
“Really?” Marsha says, sounding fascinated. “Then why are you blushing? And clutching that fork like you want to stab someone?”
I glance down at my hand and see that she’s right. I’m gripping the utensil so hard my knuckles have turned white. Forcing my fingers to relax, I give an awkward laugh and say, “Sorry. I was drunk that night, and I’m a little embarrassed about that. I think I must’ve danced with some random guy, and that’s what your bartender friend saw, Tonya.”
Andy frowns. “Is that random guy the reason you ran out of there like that? You looked almost… frightened.”
“What? No, I was just drunk.” I force another embarrassed laugh. “You know how it is when you think you’re going to puke at any moment? Well, that was me that night.”
“Okay,” Tonya says. “I’ll tell Rick—that’s the bartender—that you’re available. In case you ever join us at the club again, that is.”
“Oh, I…” My face heats up again. “No, that’s okay. I’m not really ready to date and—”
“No worries.” Tonya pats my hand, her slim fingers cool on my skin. “I won’t give him your number or anything. You can maintain your ‘princess in a tower’ mystique. Only makes them hotter, if you ask me.”
“What?” I gape at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“She means that you have the whole untouchable thing going on,” Andy says through a mouthful of eggs. “It’s hard to describe, but it’s like you give off this ice princess vibe, only not cold, you know? Kind of like if Jackie-O and Princess Diana decided to slum it by working among us regular folks, if that makes sense.”
“No, not really.” I frown at the red-headed girl. “You’re saying I come across as stuck-up?”
“No, not stuck-up, just different,” Marsha says. “Andy didn’t explain it well. You’re just… classy. Maybe it’s all that ballet you did when you were younger, but you look like someone taught you to curtsy and walk with a book balanced on your head. Like you know which fork to use at a formal dinner and how to make small talk with the ambassador of whatever.”
“What?” I burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous. I mean, George and I had been to a few formal fundraisers, but that was his thing, not mine. If I had a choice, I’d live in yoga pants and sneakers; you know that, Marsha. For God’s sake, I listen to Britney Spears and dance to hip-hop and R&B.”
“I know, hon, but that’s just the way you look, not the way you are,” Marsha says, taking out a small mirror to reapply her red lipstick. Swiping on a coat with a practiced hand, she puts away the mirror and the lipstick and says, “It’s a good thing, trust me. Take me, for instance. I could try to class it up all I want, but guys take one look at me and decide I’m easy. Doesn’t matter what I wear or how I act; they just see my hair, tits, and ass, and figure I put out.”
“That’s because you do put out,” Tonya points out with a grin.
Marsha huffs and flicks back her blond waves. “Yeah, but that’s neither here nor there. My point is, she”—she jerks her thumb at me—“couldn’t look easy if she tried. Any guy looking at her knows—he just knows—he’s going to have to work for it. Like dinners with parents and ring on the finger kind of work.”
“That’s not true,” I object. “I slept with George long before we got married.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but how long were you dating before you slept with him?”