“Is this my punishment for not talking about Worldwide Decurion? A discussion on how I should behave around Jayden?”
“I want him to get better,” Miles says with a hint of anger. “You’re not helping. Can you at least try? It would mean a lot to me.”
His terse tone says more than his words. I bite back the remainder of my comments and force an exhale. God, I want a cigarette. Why did I have to smoke them all? Hopefully they’ll have drinks at this event. Anything to dull reality.
Again, the cab of our vehicle returns to silence. The soft beat of rain and the occasional passing car become a blanket of white noise that eases me back into my thoughts. This is supposed to be some sort of special event for law enforcement officials—one where Miles earned admittance through sheer study and hard work, an honor, really—yet here I am, destroying his mood with my mere presence.
I’m such a jackass.
Disgusted with my own attitude, I attempt to blank my mind and focus solely on driving. I swerve at the last minute when I spot a pothole, causing Miles to give me a sideways glance, but it’s not my fault half my vision is obstructed with a contact lens. It seems that no matter what I narrow my attention on, I don’t have a grasp on myself.
Time flies when my thoughts are a void. Before I know it, I’m at the border of Noimore, staring at the miserable city from the outskirts. It doesn’t take long to cross the threshold.
The streets of Noimore, busy and bustling at all times in the evening, become impossible to pass once we near the Grand Noimore Waterfront Hotel. The spotlights, shining despite the rain, move back and forth, attracting attention for the world to see. Banners hung on the street posts read: A SALUTE TO ILLINOIS’S FINEST.
Technically, I could have some valet chump park our car, but I dislike the idea of handing over my keys to anyone who isn’t in my direct circle of associates. Instead I turn down a narrow road, looking for a spot to park that isn’t taken.
“We’re going to walk through the rain?” Miles asks.
I can’t believe it’s still raining. Then again, it gets wet this time of year. “You want me to drop you off? I’ll find a place to park.”
“Sure.”
I turn the car back around, navigate the unruly traffic, and allow Miles to exit at the front door. It feels right, somehow, to let him go in without me. I’m out of place here.
Before I allow my depression to catch me like quicksand, I instead admire the elegant decorations and lighting hung around the entrance of the hotel. The place is a palace—grandiose without crossing over to gaudy—styled with white, gold, and silver. The pillars that frame the double doors even have the state flag unfurled and hanging with tassels. The storm attempts to tarnish the view, but the magnificence is grand enough to withstand some water and bluster.
I park a few streets down, in the parking lot of a Denny’s, and lock the vehicle before starting my trek. The water is unforgiving, and I’m soaked by the time I reach the first crosswalk. When I step down into the street, I half plunge into a puddle, soaking one shoe and sock. I exhale and continue on my way, too lost in detachment to care.
By the time I reach the hotel, I’m cold and have my hands buried in my pockets. I walk up the steps to the doors, and a man in a bellhop uniform jumps into my path. He straightens his little square cap and gives me the once-over. Then he sneers.
“Sir, the hotel is hosting a private event,” he says. “There’s another entrance on the far side, and—”
“I’m here for the gala,” I say, practically growling.
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s very exclusive. Only those with a ticket can attend. We don’t sell them here.”
I reach into my jacket and withdraw the small slip of paper Miles gave me. It’s an event ticket—four hundred dollars a pop, apparently—and I hand it to the overzealous bellhop.
“Now get out of my way.” I push the scrawny guy off to the side as I enter the building. The light and warmth of the lobby hits me full force once the door closes. It’s glorious, but at the same time, I’m reminded how much I stand out.
There are hundreds of people in attendance, each one fancier than the last. Elegant gowns, tuxedos, expensive suits, some in officer’s uniforms—and I’m wearing fifty pounds of water, plus a wrinkled suit. My hair, clinging to my face, dries at a slow pace. Droplets of water hit my shoes at regular intervals.
I walk forward, a squish and squeak to my step, and I grit my teeth. There’s no way to avoid everyone while I search for Miles, but I do keep to the wall to minimize my presence. Champagne is passed around, glasses are clinked together, and conversation fills the air. It’s a nicer affair than I imagined, nicer than anything I’ve ever attended. No gun-toting thugs, no quick hits of meth and coke—a celebration grand without the dark taint that lingered over every party Big Man Vice ever threw.
Miles isn’t far. I spot him within a group, men and women engaging him in pleasantries. I walk past a myriad of round tables covered in white cloth and duck behind a few pillars that act as support. I don’t want to walk up to him while he’s talking—no doubt he’ll introduce me as his boyfriend or some shit—so instead I wait nearby, hovering around the limited shadows and slicking back my hair with a free hand.
“All your instructors speak highly of you,” a woman in a red evening gown says, her hand on Miles’s shoulder. “The moment you said your name, I knew who you were.”
“That’s flattering,” Miles replies as he swirls his glass of champagne.
A man joins the
