Page 66 of Take It Offline
“No thanks. I’ve got just what we need,” Charlie says, pulling a flask from the depths of his jacket. As the server departs, he looks at me, playful and wild, lighting a spark under my skin that threatens to bloom into a flame. “What do you say? Want to get a little naughty with me?”
Do I ever.
“Why am I not surprised,” I tease, slipping it from his hand as we exit the kitchen. “Next you’ll be asking me to get fresh in the back seat of your car.”
“It’s always good to be prepared,” he whispers. “Ask me what else I have on me.”
The fire in my chest roars.
Charlie whistles low as we step out onto the terrace. “Bet this was a nice place to grow up.”
Beyond the terrace are rolling hills, green as far as the eye can see. Of course, I didn’t do all my growing up here. There was the beach house and the cabin upstate. The beautifully restored Tudor. All sold now.
“It was, when we stayed long enough to enjoy it.”
“I get it. I moved around a lot as a kid. The novelty wears off quickly.”
“Yes, it does.”
We’ve settled at the edge of the party, by the railing that looks out over the view. It’s the best vantage point to people watch.
Charlie throws me a wry smile. “No need to act coy for my benefit. I already clocked the Rubinstein. I get it. I don’t get the toy box you’re choosing to live in, but this?” He gestures around us. “You don’t have to pretend to hate it.”
My life, I’m certain, could be a production, and my role in it, at least the one I’ve been asked to play every time I enter my parents’ world, filled by anyone. I’m dispensable, replaceable, extraneous.
A pretty extra with a welcoming smile who says little to nothing.
“I’m not acting. I promise you.”
The wrinkle between his brows is pure skepticism.
Okay, let’s prove it.
I gesture to Freddy Welsh, third son of a pharmaceutical CEO. “See the young guy in the gray Versace?”
“With the floppy hair and an eat-shit attitude?”
I nod. “In the last two years, his parents have paid to refit three private planes because Freddy and his friends partied so hard that the aircrafts were left soaked in booze, vomit, and smoke.”
Cringing, Charlie curses.
I continue. “Over my shoulder, by the pool, there’s a woman in a yellow dress. Very lithe, is probably talking a lot with zero expression.”
There’s no denying how beautiful Logan’s mother is. Violet has done more to advertise her plastic surgeon’s services than ten years of advertising could, and she looks every cent like the million dollars she’s spent on it.
“I see her.”
“Her father got caught stealing millions of dollars from domestic abuse charities, and instead of jail, he got off with a small fine.” I finish my drink and turn my back to the crowd. “I can’t tell you how many people I’ve overheard laughing about what they’ve gotten away with. How they’ve gutted employees’ wages to double their own bonuses or hiked up the prices of luxury herbal remedies that have zero health benefits.”
“Poor, unfortunate souls,” Charlie bites out. “Does everyone here have skeletons in their closet?”
“Some don’t. It might shock you to know that not everyone with money is a mustache-twirling villain.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t all benefit from the ones who are.”
You, not they.
We might be friendlier, but Charlie still sees me as the enemy. Maybe he always will.
