I realized I was staring in the mirror at myself in the dress imagining him coming up behind me and kissing my bare back. I shivered. It had felt like he was there with me. Impossible.
I scooped up a small bag with a chain strap and my stilettos and headed into the living room. I turned off all the lights and poured another tequila. I found a crumpled pack of cigarettes and headed out to the deck. There, leaning over the railing looking at San Francisco, I drank my tequila and smoked a cigarette.
I was an on-and-off smoker over the years. After Nico died, I was no longer as concerned about my health and began smoking more again. It was sad but true. I had less to live for nowadays. Even Rose no longer needed me.
I was lost in thought when I heard a knock on the door.
Dante.
I stubbed out my cigarette and downed my drink.
Time to play good girl.
Thirty
The Gala
I was dying for a cigarette.
But the senator standing before me in his tuxedo droned on about his pancreatitis and how he could only drink top shelf bourbon or he’d end up in the hospital or something.
Yawn.
I tried not be obvious as I glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the chandelier-lit room. The backdrop on four sides was the San Francisco skyline at night—one of my favorite views in the world.
Although the music at the gala was low and sultry, the clink of Champagne glasses and rustle of silk and taffeta and the murmur of drunken voices made it difficult for me to hear what the senator was saying.
And that was just fine by me.
I was sort of zoning out, thinking that maybe instead of a cigarette I could rustle up a joint from one of the cute waiters. I tried to make eye contact with one who looked like he might have some weed on him. He was dressed in the required black button-down shirt and black slacks, but something about him was laissez faire. Maybe it was his hair, longer than the other waiters, or the slight scruff under his lower lip, or the tattoo that snaked around his wrist that gave him such a bad-boy air.
I caught his eye as he headed to the kitchen with a tray full of empty glasses. He did a double take and then slowly looked me up and down before smiling.
It made me feel like a pervert.
Was he even eighteen?
I knew I didn’t look my age in my black dress and stilettos, but even if I knocked off a few years, I could be his mother.
I silently sent him a message: I’m not trying to fuck you, I just want your drugs.
At that point, I became obsessed with getting high to make it through the evening, so I wasn’t really very focused when the senator leaned in and repeated a question I apparently hadn’t heard.
I backed up. His breath was atrocious.
Over his shoulder, I saw another VIP making a beeline for me.
Everyone wanted to talk to me tonight.
The senator was the fourth dignitary to waylay me.
For the millionth time, I tried to catch Dante’s eye, but he was deep in conversation with the head of the Chamber of Commerce. Shit. It was all Dante’s fault I was here. He owed me big time.
My scalp tingled a little bit, and I turned to see Nicoletta Marchese looking at me. She tossed her strawberry blonde hair and gave me a smile before turning away, leaning down toward James’s wheelchair to whisper something in his ear.
My face burned.
Obviously, she’d wanted me to see.
I swallowed back the lump of jealousy. That ship had sailed years ago. He was no longer mine and never would be again. Despite what had happened.
But he was too good for her.
There was something about the willowy opera singer that made me wary.
It wasn’t her fake-as-fuckness. It was something else. Something darker and more sinister.
Oliver Kingsley Hollingsworth, one of the richest men in San Francisco—and frankly one of the oldest—sidled up to her with his boy toy. Both men were gay, but that didn’t stop the old geezer from caressing Nicoletta’s shiny taffeta-clad ass as he went in for hugs and cheek kisses. Who knew the old boy was AC/DC?
Then the boy toy, Charles Wellington, whispered something in Nicoletta’s ear. She laughed and then leaned over and kissed Old Oliver smack dab on the mouth. He gave a gruff laugh but reached out and groped her waist, pressing her up against him. What the fuck?
Were they propositioning her? Come to think of it, Dante had mentioned Hollingsworth was into some kinky shit. Dude was rich enough to pay for any depraved sex act he wanted. There were some crazy stories about the things he liked to stick his dick into. Whatever. To each their own. I just wondered if James knew what his girlfriend was up to.
I shook my head. Poor James. His wheelchair had been turned away during the whole encounter. He didn’t have a clue. If that dumb bitch broke his heart, I’d kill her.
But right now, he wasn’t my problem. And she wasn’t worth my time or energy.
After tonight, I hoped to never see her again.
In fact, I hoped to never see 99 percent of the people in the room again. But that was just a pipe dream.
As a waiter passed, I scooped another glass of champagne off his tray and downed it.
“Miss Santangelo?”
Beatrice Stanford, a retired opera singer who liked to regale everyone with stories of her glory days, was at my side.
“It’s Santella.”
“Isabella?”
I gave up.
“Just call me Gia.”
She cleared her throat and started over.
“Miss Gia, where is your partner, Dante?” She was looking over my shoulder. “I thought we had agreed that the salmon canapes wouldn’t contain capers. They keep rolling
