Like Jazz (11 page)

Looking forward.

—S

I pulled off the top to the largest box first, pushed red tissue paper aside, removed the black fabric beneath, then stood as I held it up by its shoulders. I recognized the dress immediately as it fell open and stopped before hitting the floor. It was the elegant, sleek number Sarah had me try on at Nordstrom. I’d been right: I’d never wear something
like
it. I’d wear the very thing itself.

Inside the smaller apparel box lay a beautiful black cashmere wrap. The shoebox contained a pair of diamond-embossed patent Ferragamos on a slingback pump finished with a grosgrain bow. The entire outfit screamed of a sophistication and class I didn’t possess, and I hadn’t a clue as to how I’d pull off such a look. I also didn’t have the time, money, or transportation to search for alternatives. As I took in the thoughtful ensemble, I wondered if Sarah and I might get through this after all.

A black Mercedes sedan pulled up in front of my house at exactly 6:30
PM
on Saturday. The driver opened the rear door and waited. Aside from greeting me with a polite “Good evening, Miss Warner” and telling me his name, he drove me in silence to the Grand Biltmore Hotel in Downtown L.A. The uniformed doorman who opened my door upon arrival directed me to the elevator bank and told me to proceed to the Paragon restaurant, located on the top floor.

As I exited the elevator, my jaw nearly fell open. The restaurant was elegantly decorated with A-line fabric backdrops of fuchsia, brown, and ivory panels. Large floral bouquets and columns of tasteful balloons reigned throughout. Near the entrance were exquisitely designed pyramids of appetizers on small round tables. Waiters and waitresses in fancy uniforms wandered between the tables and guests holding silver trays of champagne, wine, and more appetizers. Beyond this section lay dining tables that each had three ivory balloons rising from the center, small centerpiece bouquets, and crystal tea-light candleholders. The guests, primarily over fifty years old, were richly attired, the men in tuxedos and the women in variously colored gowns and dresses. I was far and away the youngest of the hundreds of people I could see.

After taking a few steps, I stopped and searched my surroundings, hoping for a glimpse of Sarah. Amid the sea of predominately black-and-white attire, without the benefit of knowing the color of her outfit or standing atop a table, staircase, or ladder, I couldn’t locate her. Several unsuccessful scans of the room later, I started to make my way into the crowd to continue my search when a thirty-something man stopped me midstride.

“Excuse me,” he said as he grabbed my forearm. I settled my gaze at his hand on my arm, and then looked pointedly at him. He didn’t take the hint, merely moving the hand from my forearm to the back of my elbow. “I didn’t think this shindig would be particularly enjoyable, but you, my dear, have made my attendance very worthwhile.” He grinned and held out his hand, finally removing his claim to my arm. “Preston Butterfield. Of the Scarsdale Butterfields.” He said this as if I’d be impressed, but it only made me think of an upscale candy, perhaps something I’d find on tonight’s dessert menu. And like a candy, Preston seemed covered in a sticky sweetness I didn’t want to get on myself. Nothing about him seemed genuine. “And you, besides gorgeous, are?”

I took his hand and donned a polite smile. “Cassidy Warner.” I didn’t want the shortened version of my name to be forever tainted by his saying of it. He turned my hand over and made a display of kissing my knuckles, which seemed like a move an overconfident person makes when mistakenly believing he’s suave. As he straightened himself, he pulled my hand toward him and gathered it in both of his while he softly caressed the back of my wrist.

“Cassidy, it’s my great pleasure to meet you. May I take your entrance as a sign that you’re flying solo at this event?”

Preston was making me feel claustrophobic and in need of a shower. I supposed some girls would find him attractive enough, with his dimpled chin, strong jaw, light-brown eyes, and dirty-blond hair. Yet I felt I’d walked onto a movie set with the male lead accidentally saying his lines to me instead of to his female co-star. He sounded as authentic as a politician. I nearly turned around to see if a teleprompter lurked behind me.

“I’m, uh, I’m meeting someone, actually.” I removed my hand from his and took the opportunity to peer past his shoulder into the crowd behind him. Where was Sarah?

“Ah, well, we’re all meeting someone tonight, aren’t we? That’s part of the point of such a gathering, after all. You and I have just met, for example, and I’m so glad we have. Tell me, Cassidy—one sec.” Preston spied a waiter passing by with a tray of filled champagne glasses. “Excuse me, sir?” Preston called out to him. The waiter stopped in front of Preston, who grabbed two glasses from the tray. He thanked the waiter, who nodded and continued on his way.

Preston held out a glass of champagne to me. “For you, my dear.”

“No, thank you.” It would be just my luck to have the police storm the place at that very moment and ruin the entire event because they inadvertently served alcohol to a minor. That would be a great start to meeting Sarah’s father and patching things up with her.

“Please.” Preston pressed. He was aptly named.

I shook my head and crossed my arms in front of my waist to thwart any attempt by him at forcing a glass into my hand. “I don’t drink.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Preston bowed his head slightly and placed the drinks on a nearby table.

To avoid further interaction, I took the opportunity of his finally being out of my personal space to make my move. As he re-approached, I nodded and pivoted away from him.

“It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Butterfield, but if you’ll excuse me, I—”

Instead of allowing me to slip by, Preston grabbed my hand. He placed his arm around my waist and steered me away from the dining tables toward one of the balconies overlooking the city.

“Please, Cassidy. Call me Preston. I’d be honored if you would allow me to be your escort this evening, at least until you find your date.”

I stopped allowing myself to be pushed toward the window. He wasn’t making it easy. I had to literally twist my body to move out of his grip in order to stop our momentum.

“Preston, that’s very kind of you, but I really do need to find my friend. She’s expecting me.” I’m sure the smile I’d plastered on my face appeared as fake as it felt.

He didn’t seem to notice. Rather, his face lit up at the pronoun. He placed his hands in front of him, palms up and toward me, in a gesture of mock defeat. “Tell you what.” He dropped his hands. “Describe her to me, and we’ll search for her together.”

The idea of describing Sarah to this asshole held no appeal. Even the thought of him seeing her made me slightly nauseous. If he purported to be this interested in me, he’d surely need the handkerchief from his tuxedo jacket pocket to capture the drool he’d manufacture upon seeing Sarah in whatever dress she was wearing tonight.

“I’m sure I’ll find her, but thank you.”

Preston slid his arm around my waist and once again tried to steer me forward. “Nonsense. It’s the least I can do.”

No. The least you could do is keep your damned hands to yourself.

I stopped our forward progress. “No. Thank you.” There was an unfamiliar edge to my voice. I pushed his arm off me. I wasn’t smiling even fake smiles anymore.

I heard a man bellow from a few yards away. “Ah, there you are, Preston!” Preston and I turned to face the newcomer. In step behind the approaching, extremely handsome, dark-haired man was Sarah. The man grabbed Preston’s hand in a firm, double-handed shake and forced Preston’s attention to him. “Your father swore you were milling about. Come, we were just talking about you.”

As my good-looking savior physically pushed Preston into the crowd, behind Preston’s back he surreptitiously gestured the cut-off sign at his neck while rolling his eyes at me, finally waving to me in a manner that said he’d ensure I’d be safe from Preston hereafter. As they departed, Sarah slid up next to me and purposefully led me into the ladies’ room. We entered a makeup and lounge area that was separated from the stalls and sinks.

“Are you all right?” Sarah turned me around and eyed me with concern.

I was not all right. I was in a mild state of shock. Seeing Sarah brought about a wave of relief and anger. She’d purposefully put me in a position she knew I’d be uncomfortable with, yet she’d not only forewarned me about the possibility of a Preston-like encounter, she’d saved me from it. Well, she and that man who’d whisked Preston away. I didn’t know whether to yell at her or hug her.

To further befuddle me, she looked like a million dollars in a floor-length, black halter dress. Her bare shoulders, exposed collarbone, and toned arms all conspired to diminish my brainpower. How could I be expected to keep my wits about me when she was impossibly stunning, radiating poise and elegance no teenager should possess? Instead of declining the champagne, maybe I should have downed it for courage. Preston’s too. Along with the other glasses on the tray.

“Cazz?” Sarah sounded worried.

I stared at her, a thousand thoughts racing through my head like items written out on an imaginary Wheel of Fortune that was spinning and spinning, clicking and clicking, until finally landing on one: escape. I shook my head and quickly walked to the elevator. After pushing the down arrow I waited, trying to mind-control the doors to open. Sarah followed close behind me, and instead of waiting with me, she grabbed my hand and tried to lead me to the stairs.

I shook her off. “I need to get some air,” I said hoarsely. Actually, I needed to find my driver and be taken home. I turned back to the elevator, unable to look at Sarah.

She stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Come with me.” She grabbed my hand again and we headed back to the door to the stairs. She flung it open, walked us down one flight, and opened the door to the 49th floor. It was devoid of activity and she led us to a balcony identical to the one upstairs Preston had steered me toward. We were alone.

“Why am I here?” I said aloud, mostly to myself. Why had Sarah invited me to this event?

Sarah mistook my question as wondering why we were on this floor. “There’s no good place upstairs with any privacy. I’m sorry I didn’t see you before Butterfinger put his paws all over you. As soon as I saw he’d cornered you, I grabbed my dad and got him to run interference so I could get you away from him.”

“Butterfield,” I grumbled.

“Butterfield, Butterfinger.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Jerk. His parents are friends of my dad’s and this is the first—and last—time he was invited. He’s here from New York on business or something. After the shameless way he greeted me, I told Dad not to stray too far from the entrance until you got here.” She sighed. “Most people here are good folks, Cazz. Some can be a little too friendly and a little too forward sometimes, especially after a few drinks, but they usually understand ‘no.’ Very few are downright creepy. I didn’t sign you up for this, and I’m sorry.”

“No worries.” My canned response lacked a sincerity we both could feel. Neither of us spoke for several moments. My jumbled feelings weren’t finding any greater clarity during the silence, though my anger was dissipating. “Thanks for rescuing me.” It seemed the polite thing to add, but even it sounded mechanical, devoid of actual gratitude. Several more moments passed. Until last weekend, our silences were usually comfortable, easy stretches. Not so anymore.

“Are you upset with me?” Sarah finally asked.

I shrugged. “Not really.”

“Not really? That means you are.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Sarah crossed her arms. “It matters to me.”

“Why do you care?” I sounded like a six-year-old.

Sarah cocked her head to the side and stared at me for several long moments. Then she nearly imperceptibly shook her head and looked out the window.

“You didn’t seem to care earlier this week,” I said, remembering how I couldn’t seem to get even five minutes alone with her.

“Well, don’t stop now. Tell me what that means.”

“I don’t know.” It was the truth. I couldn’t make sense of anything at that moment. “I can’t…I can’t figure you out, I guess. I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know why I’m here. Why
am
I here?”

“Why do you think I asked you to come?”

“I asked you first.” Ever the six-year-old.

“Fair enough. I promise to answer your question, but you have to answer mine first. Why do you think I asked you to this event?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“To help your father.” What a chickenshit I was.

“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be here. But I’ll rephrase. What’s the reason you were
hoping
I’d asked you here?”

“I wasn’t hoping anything.”

“Jesus, Cazz. Stop with the self-protectiveness already. Do you think I’m having this God damn conversation taped?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“You know what? Fine…Fine. Let me guess. You’re thinking I asked you here so I could…Jesus, I don’t even know how to bullshit this. I don’t know how to make my brain go where yours goes. But fine, I’ll try. You’re probably thinking something crazy like…like I asked you here so I could…so I could purposefully make you feel uncomfortable. Because that’s so fun for me. I have so little real enjoyment in my life and so much free time on my hands that I feel the need to prey on select girls in my school, treat them to a nice evening out, and then get my kicks by watching them squirm while some creep hits on them. Does that really make any sense to you? Because it sure as hell doesn’t make any sense to me!”

Sarah winced at the volume to which her voice had risen. She took a breath before continuing in a much more subdued tone. “I’m going to ask you one more time. You’re the most infuriating person in the world, but at least you’re honest. So I want an honest answer. What was the reason you were hoping I’d asked you here tonight? And, damn it, tell me the truth.”