“You need to be careful,” I said. Maybe it wasn’t the right reaction; maybe I was supposed to congratulate her, a daughter who’d caught the attention of an important Pater. But a familiar heaviness seized me.
She pressed a hand to my face. “See? I told you. Such a sweetheart.”
I’m older than you, I wanted to say. Listen to me.
“Don’t worry. This is what I signed up for. Besides, it’ll be worth it in the end. And there are benefits.” She waggled her brows. “He’s paying for my apartment.”
Someone had paid Laurel’s rent, too. “I just have to know,” I said. “Give me a hint—” But Nicole’s eyes slid behind me, and she leaned close. “Incoming. City boys. They’re traders. Try not to roll your eyes.”
Three American Psycho wannabes in identical slim-cut suits and artfully arranged hair circled us. I could see why Nicole called them boys—they were younger than the average Paters, younger by far than the Marquis. But still, they were in their twenties. Old enough to know better.
All three of them regarded us with hungry eyes.
“Do you like it?” one asked me, pointing his drink in the direction of the wall, where the film played. I made the mistake of looking, caught the woman in the throes of screaming, and quickly glanced away.
He grinned at my reaction. “It’s from my personal collection. Do you even know how much the real shit costs? Almost impossible to get your hands on.”
So it was real. I suppressed a chill. “I don’t like it,” I said, studying him as best I could in the dark. Up close, he didn’t have the same gloss as the other two. His long hair was lank, and his skin was sallow and pockmarked.
“I know.” He winked. “Daughters never do.”
“Apologies for the Incel.” The man standing closest to Nicole, the one who was most clean-cut, with a boyish face, extended his hand. “We keep telling him to keep at least one of his perversions private, but he never listens. It’s why the old guard hates him.”
“No matter what he pulls with those tech tips,” added the third man, laughing.
I stared at the clean-cut man’s outstretched hand for a moment longer than socially acceptable. Then I shook it. What did it say about me that it was the moments of normalcy that were starting to throw me?
“I told you, I’m not a fucking incel.” The sallow-faced man glared at me. “Don’t call me that.”
“Well, you can call me Greggy,” said the one whose hand I’d shaken.
“I’m Steven,” the Incel said. “I don’t need a code name like those cloak-and-dagger assholes.”
I frowned. “You guys aren’t worried about protecting your identity?”
The Incel scoffed, tossing a hand at the party. “Why? Everyone we know is here.”
Everyone. An undercurrent of anxiety tugged at me.
“Hey, have one,” Greggy said, grabbing a passing waitress by the elbow. When he turned her, I realized she was wearing a demure, high-necked dress. A daughter, playing party servant. Probably to ingratiate herself, or maybe we all took turns, and mine was coming. She lifted her tray so we could see the shots lined up in slim glasses and, beside them, a small mountain of pastel-colored pills. They looked friendly, like Smarties. Nicole popped one and chased it with a shot.
Greggy held the tray out to me and raised an eyebrow.
Nicole leaned in. “Take it,” she whispered. “They’ll get a lot more interesting.”
I took the shot glass but left the pill. “Thanks.” The liquor was smoky. Mescal.
“Greggy, tell her the candy’s the important part,” said the third man. “Gotta get her loose.”