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“Oh does she?”
“She does not,” says the subject huffily. “A woman, Suze, contrary to your outmoded opinion, doesn’t need a man.”
“It’s not about need. It’s about want.”
“Come on, Magnus, let’s get a drink. And you…” She pins her friend with a hard stare, “aren’t making me come out again.”
“Spoilsport. Bye, Magnus…” And she makes a beeline for a hot guy.
The drinks that are lined up in the vast open living room, all decked out in white with touches of silver, are top shelf. At least, the kind of top shelf this lot cares about. It’s not my kind of party and judging from the misery edging into the corners of Zoey, it’s not her place either.
These people are moneyed. They most likely have high-powered, flashy jobs and they like to show it.
But I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in Zoey. The more I know the more I’m armed against her with my next move. I’m thinking multiple attacks, but my diabolical plan is still front and center in my head.
There’s a set of stairs through the kitchen area, and as it’s the penthouse and a quick glance outside shows another structure above the deck—New York law means a penthouse must have a certain amount of space given over to roof top access—I’m guessing there’s another level.
I grab the bottle of wine Zoey went for earlier that no one else has touched and gesture with my chin to the stairs. “Wanna get some air?”
“Yeah.”
The stairs are dusty and gloomy as we climb, and the door heavy that I push open at the top. But as we step out onto the empty, bare bones space, it’s worth it, because Zoey unfurls.
She lifts her face to the Manhattan sultry night air and breathes in, letting it out with a sigh and a smile. “Thanks.”
“For dragging you off?”
She shakes her head and moves to the railing. We’re about the equivalent of nine floors up now, but all around us the city glows and sparkles, the noise of life wafting up and making us both part and apart from it all.
“I’m more comfortable in a bookstore or a dive than here. This isn’t my world.”
“Then why come?”
She leans forward on the rail, then lifts her glass and takes a deep swallow. “Honestly?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s the best way to keep Suzanne quiet for a while. We met in college and she’s a good friend, don’t let her flirting fool you, but we’re very different.”
“Wait, you studied and she partied?” I top up her drink and add a little to mine.
“No. She partied and studied. But she comes from money and she loves this world. She thinks that I’ve been single too long and I spend too much time with books over people and I sink my money into a failing project.”
Oh, Suzanne, you just might be my new best friend. I make a noncommittal noise.
“I know my store sucks up money, but not everything is about being rich. It’s home, and it brings pleasure. It’s its own thing, and people like Edward Sinclair could never understand that. Not everything is cookie cutter—”
“Says the woman who owns a lot of cookie cutters.”
“I do not. I hand roll them. Unless it’s Christmas, and it’s not the same thing.” Zoey wrapped her hands around her glass as a siren’s scream rose up from the streets below. “People like that ugly, fat bully—whom I hate, by the way—”
“Really? I had no idea.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all.” I top up our glasses and take a sip. The wine’s okay for warming wine, I suppose, but I’m more interested in what Zoey has to say to me in our tiny corner of the world up here.
“It’s just people like him don’t get it. They have no heart. They want uniform things. It’s like all those big box stores. There’s a reason New York keeps a lot of them out. They kill the small little neighborhood businesses. They steal.”
