I didn’t turn around to look. “Not sure a good balayage is going to fix the ugly that’s her soul.”
“Aww. When God made you pretty, he forgot the R.” Keller hopped off his stool. “I’m gonna go say hi.”
“But she issobasic, Kel.” I scrunched my nose.
“Behave while I’m gone.” Keller’s eyes flicked toward his own reflection dancing along a stainless-steel wine bowl before he headed toward his target.
Perry Cowen was an up-and-coming fashion designer and a woman I didn’t like. Mainly because she was designing my sister Hera’s rehearsal dinner dress. And anyone who was a friend of my sister’s was an enemy to me.
Perry had also sold a story about me toThe Mail, after an unfortunate incident involving me, a bridesmaid dress, and an unexpectedly spicy pizza sauce. I knew it was her, because no one else in the room would leak it. My mother was horrified we were even related, Dad wasn’t an ass, and Hera…well, she hated how I always made headlines for the wrong reasons.
I flagged Frederik, ordering two more cocktails and a shot. I needed some liquid courage to get through the night. Even though I was in a room full of people, I felt desperately alone.
Perry was a reminder that a flight away from me, in Dallas, lived the most perfect First Daughter to ever grace the face of the earth.
My twenty-nine-year-old sister.
An androgynous, sylphlike creature. The type you see on the cover ofVoguemagazine. Put-together, quick-witted, and impeccably mannered.
Hera finished med school at Stanford University with her fiancé and high school sweetheart Craig, and was currently planning their upcoming wedding while slaying an internship at Baylor University Medical Center.
Hera’s whole life was meticulously planned.
I couldn’t even control my breasts (which were still wrestling the chiffon of the corset, trying to break free).
I downed the two cocktails and the shot, then snuck a look at Keller and Perry, standing in the corner of the room, laughing. Perry swatted his chest. Around me, masked people swirled and danced. Some kissed in darkened corners of the room. This was my life. Stilettos and overpriced drinks. An empty mansion, full bank account, and blank dance card. There was a hole in my chest that kept on growing, taking more space, until it felt like that hole was real and visible and see-through.
I signaled Frederik for another shot. My drink arrived promptly. Unfortunately, so did Wes Morgan, celebrity trainer extraordinaire.
Wes was the co-host ofBig Fat Loser, a TV show as horrible as its name. He “helped” celebrities lose weight, normally by yelling at them while running shirtless by their side, as they keeled over and vomited mid-exercise. He’d tried to recruit me to season three of his show, promising to get me to a size four within two months. I hung up the phone on him, but not before keeping him on the line for fifteen seconds, while I alternated between laughing and munching loudly on a sleeve of Thin Mints.
Apparently, our last interaction had left him craving more.
“Howdy, Hallion.” He braced his elbow on the bar, next to my drink, flashing me a blindingly white smile. Hallion was the nickname the tabloids gave me for my antics. “Did I ever tell you I’m a fellow Texan, too?”
He had enough wax in his hair to sculpt a Madame Tussaud figure. I wasn’t talking young Dakota Fanning, either. More like Dwayne Johnson.
“You don’t have a mask,” I commented blandly.
“Don’t need one.” He shrugged, grinning wider, still. “You’re looking at a man who just donated 10k to help a veteran get his surgery.”
I examined the paint job on the ceiling, waiting for him to go away.
“D’you hear what I said?”
“Yes.” I scooped a cherry from my empty cocktail glass, sucking it clean of alcohol. “You said it a second ago.”
“I meant about both of us being Texans.”
“I’m not a Texan,” I said flatly, tying the cherry’s stem in my mouth and dropping it back into my hand.
“Oh, yeah?” He leaned closer, so I could truly appreciate the eye-watering scent of the five gallons of cologne he’d bathed in. “Coulda swore President Thorne was—”
“From Dallas, yes. But I was born in D.C. and spent the first eight years of my life there. Then my parents tossed me into a boarding school in New York, Swiss summer camps, British winter camps, and French soirees. Texan, I am not. A cultural mogul, however…”
I could tell from Wes’ vacant stare that I’d lost him at ‘culture’. Perhaps even ‘soirees’.
I’d spent some time in Texas over the years, never by choice. My parents would beg, bargain, and drag me “home,” encouraging me to attend local schools, stay close to the family. I always dodged their efforts. Texas was too hot, too wholesome. All in all, I considered myself a Texan no more than I considered myself a neurosurgeon. And besides, I knew why they wanted me around—it was better optics for them. Showed they at least tried to rein in their wild child.