15. Renee

I’m stuck in a snarl of L.A.’s worst traffic on my way to yet another nauseating public appearance when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, so I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I could be in this jam for a while and I don’t have much else to amuse me.

“Hello?”

“This is Detective Shorz with the LAPD. I am looking for Renee DuBois.”

Panic flares in my belly. After the events of the last few weeks, I’m not particularly in the mood to talk to law enforcement. But now that I’ve answered, my only choice is to hang up or see what he wants. “This is Renee.”

“Ms. DuBois, I am calling to inform you that all charges against you have been dropped and the arrest has been cleared from your record.”

“I—huh—what?”

He repeats himself patiently, but it’s still barely clicking.

“So I’m… I’m good,” I stammer like a moron. “That’s it. That’s the end of it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I sit back in my seat, jaw hanging open. “I don’t even know what to say. Uh, thank you, I think.”

“Welcome, ma’am.” He hangs up abruptly without waiting for a goodbye.

My jaw is still hanging open when my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from a number I know well.

WESTON: I want to make this right.

I type and delete a thousand different replies before I settle on, I appreciate it.

WESTON: You’ll see. I’ll come through.

I don’t have an answer to that.

Traffic moves forward a few feet then stops again. I’ve got about a couple hundred yards until I can exit, but it might as well be eighty miles for all the progress we’re making.

My phone tings again.

WESTON: I haven’t stopped thinking of you.

I grit my teeth. Don’t bother. I’m fine.

He sends something else, but I don’t look at it, because a break in traffic lets me to my exit and I gratefully leave the bumper-to-bumper mess behind. When I get to the restaurant, I purposely shove my phone in my purse without looking at the screen.

My mother is on one side of an empty chair and Deacon is on the other. I plaster on my smile and take my seat.

Immediately I’m served yet another plate of mixed greens. Mom must think I’m a fucking rabbit. But I keep my smile in place, consoling myself with thoughts of some drive-thru chicken nuggets on my way out of here. For now, I push the nonsense around my plate and listen to the conversations going on around me.

The rest of the afternoon is a swirl of shaking hands and smiling prettily while Deacon and my mother tote me around the room. I recognize a lot of these faces. I swear these people just go from luncheon to gala to luncheon to gala their entire lives.

When the luncheon is almost over, Deacon turns to me. “Your mother spoke to me about a private birthing suite. I think it’s a good idea.”

“Okay. Sure.”

There’s no point in arguing. It’s easier to go with the flow. To be their little marionette. He looks at me suspiciously like he was expecting more pushback, but I just smile vacantly until his skepticism fades.

Deacon walks outside with me when it’s time to leave. The heat, for so late in the year, is sweltering and I wipe my forehead with my fingertips. I probably left smears in my foundation but I don’t care.

“You were late,” he chides. “We’re really going to have to work on your punctuality.”

“Traffic was a bear.”

Before he can go on, my phone rings and I pull it out of my purse. I don’t care if it’s a telemarketer for a religious cult drumming up memberships—I’m taking the call because I would rather speak to whoever is on the line than to speak with Deacon.

“Hello?” I speak softly into the cell and wait.

“Renee? It’s Danni and Michelle.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “Hi.”

“We are calling with news. Great news, actually.”

“Oh?” Deacon is staring at me and I turn away from him.

“Yeah! Weston went to bat for you with the front office and we are delighted to say that you can have your job back.”

“Yeah. The new chick, not great. She spelled Firebirds wrong on three consecutive posts.” Danni chimes in with a chuckle. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed them until now. “So, we’re calling to find out when you can come back. ‘Two Musketeers’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

I would love to talk to them, but Deacon is getting antsy behind me and there’s no missing the tapping of his foot against the asphalt. “I’ll, uh… I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Oh. Uh, okay.” They both sound confused by my apathy. “Okay, but talk soon. We miss you.”

I don’t speak again before we sign off. I drop my phone back into my bag and turn to Deacon, smiling once again like he expects. “Okay, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

We part company at these things all the time without much more than an air kiss, but today, he cocks a brow as if he’s expecting more. “Who was that?”

I try to think of a lie before deciding it doesn’t matter. “I guess the Firebird organization just offered me my job back.”

His eyes widen and his mouth curls into a snarl. “Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t—” But he holds up his hand and I stop speaking altogether.

“I won’t fucking hear of it. Do you understand me? You’re going to decline the offer.”

I swallow. “Yeah. Right. Of course. It was silly to think otherwise.”

I don’t say anymore until long after I’ve driven away when I bounce the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. “Dammit.”