Part 26 (1/2)
Ca.s.sie looked disgusted, but she reciprocated, and we shook on it.
Wouldn't want to get sentimental, after all.
(c) 2001, K. Simpson To Part 22 The Devil's Workshop (c) 2000, M.C. Sak Disclaimers, Credits, & E-Mail: See Part 1.
CHAPTER 22.
New Year's Eve *
By the time we got to Jenner's house, the casualties were already stacking up. There was nothing strange about that, considering the guest list, but ten-thirty was a bit early in the evening to ride the pink elephant.
Ca.s.sie stepped cautiously around a victim, trying not to catch her heels on his fake-suede jacket. ”Do you think he's dead?”
”Only if the fas.h.i.+on police shot him,” I said, half-seriously.
She made a moue and reached over the body to hang her coat up. ”I'm going to work the room for a while. You will dance with me later.”
”We'll see.”
”You will,” she repeated, leaning over to give me a quick kiss before she left.
We'd see.
I'd never liked New Year's Eve, even in those years when I'd had dates. The only really good New Year's Eves were the ones I'd spent at home watching old movies in my pajamas. Ca.s.sie, however, loved dressing up and going out, which meant no Casablanca, no Citizen Kane, and no pajamas. Most of my clothes had perished in the fire, except for what I'd kept at her place, so she'd taken me shopping. Which was why I was wearing black leather tonight. Was she crazy?
Rhetorical question.
Dourly, I gave the crazy woman another once-over. She was holding court in a herd of overheated males, reveling in the attention, which was understandable given what she had on. Or, more precisely, didn't. It was less a dress than an innuendo -- the black halter was cut too low; the long black skirt was slit too high -- and it could only lead to trouble.
Speaking of which...
”So, Dev,” Walt said, ”where'd you two get the Bride of Satan getups?”
I gave him a thin, cool smile and no satisfaction.
”Oh, c'mon, I'm kidding. I like 'em. No kidding.” He threw down a shot of Scotch -- not his first. ”You gonna dance with her? Can I watch?”
”Weren't you married a minute ago?” I asked, unamused.
”Married doesn't mean dead.”
”It will if your wife ever hears about this conversation.”
He was a good-enough sport to laugh, but not very hard. ”You take all the fun out of working with gay babes, you know?”
”We're not g...” Oh, h.e.l.l. ”Never mind.”
He was about to punish me for that mistake when Heather raced over, breathing hard. ”I got here as fast as I could,” she told me, glowering at Walt. ”Has he been stupid yet?”
”Baby love, you hurt me,” he complained. ”I was just making nice polite conversation about how I want to see Dev and Ca.s.s do the horizontal mambo tonight, but if that's what you call stupid...Ow! Ow! d.a.m.n!”
Heather, who had just stamped on one of his wingtips with a very sharp heel, rolled her eyes as he hopped off.
One down, but way too many to go. And Kurt wasn't even here yet.
We met up again a while later, in a more-or-less private end of the room. Ca.s.sie looked amused. ”I've had some interesting comments on the clothes,” she said.
I didn't doubt it. ”Have you, now?”
”And a lot of questions about our living arrangements.”
”What kind of questions?”
”Interesting ones.” She smiled, daring me to take the bait.
”Ca.s.sie...”
”All right, all right, all right. I'm not telling anyone much. I'm just saying you're staying at the guest house until you figure out what to do.”
Watching her narrowly, I shook my head. ”That's not what I heard. I heard you said we're going to buy a house together.”
”Gossip,” she said dismissively.
”Gossip that started somewhere, with somebody.”
She frowned. ”Well, not with me. Who would start that kind of rumor anyway?”
”Guess,” Monica said.
We spun around. Monica had Vanessa by the ear, clearly having dragged her along, and Vanessa didn't look happy about it.
”Let go!” she told Monica. ”That hurts!”
My demon was unsympathetic. ”Don't be a baby. It's your own fault for wearing all those earrings.”
Vanessa wrenched free and retreated a few steps, rubbing her ear. It probably did hurt; she had enough jewelry on that ear to make her list slightly to starboard. But the excess went with her dress, which might have been something Bob Mackie designed for Barbie.
”Why are you both here?” I asked. ”Don't tell me there are no parties in h.e.l.l tonight. I've always thought New Year's Eve was invented in h.e.l.l, as far as that...”
”Save it,” Monica snapped. ”You have bigger problems. Little Miss Disinformation here has been making people think you two are picking out silver patterns.”
”What for? We both have our own silverware.”