Page 100 of Lucky Puck

“I know what you mean, but I can’t do that. Everyone’s worked so hard on this, and the money we raise is for a good cause.”

He swipes his hands through his hair, and I know he’s not telling me something. I’m about to ask when I remember I have no right and close my mouth, flattening it to a thin line.

Backstage is a whirlwind of activity, laughing women, and clothes. So many beautiful clothes. I’m dressed and ready to go when Marie and Cherry find me watching from my stool set in the corner, makeup all done so I look like a touched-up photograph of myself, far more polished and perfect than I’ve ever looked. And with the heavy-duty Spanx, I’m a full dress size smaller. Too bad I can’t take a deep breath and feel far too much like an over-stuffed sausage, or I might invest in one for future use.

“You look gorgeous. You ready to take the stage?” Cherry’s smile is broad and infectious.

“You have five minutes,” Marie says. “Let’s go.” She takes my arm, and they walk me to the wings of the runway.

It’s odd that my nerves have nothing to do with walking down the fashion show runway wearing a sexy designer dress while hundreds of people watch me. But I know the angry bubbling in my gut is all about Brody. Maybe that’s why I’m confused when the audience stirs and I notice they’re not watching me, not smiling.

When I look out over the nearing end of the runway and see Bigelow, my confusion grows, and I slow down. Then I notice the trail of people behind him, some with cameras—official paparazzi-type cameras, large and intimidating.

“Hello, Bianca.” His smile isn’t right.

“Bigelow?” I stumble to a stop on the runway, feeling the quiet buzz of the crowd around me grow while flashes pop from the oversized cameras. Trying to make sense of his presence here, I automatically search the crowd for Brody. Before I find him and before I can work out exactly what the heck Bigelow is doing here, a sense of dread overwhelms me.

I almost fall, but arms surround me from behind, and I recognize Brody’s scent and the feel of his solid body behind me. The crowd is loud now, some laughing, some chattering excitedly, and Bigelow walks right up to the end of the runway.

“Look who I’ve run into,” he says, staring at us and then looking around. “You getting all this, guys?” he says to his minions. There are half a dozen of them aiming cameras at us.

“Back off, Bigelow,” Brody shouts as he pulls me against him and tries to move me backward toward the curtains and backstage. But I’m frozen in place.

“What do you want, Bigelow?” I shout.

Brody whispers, “Never mind him. Let’s get you out of here.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he shouts back, quieting the crowd, coming closer. “How about the truth, Ms. Brooks? Tell everyone all about your hoax. All about the fact that⁠—”

“Shut up, Bigelow,” Brody grits out. Shock makes me speechless.

The crowd is pin-drop silent now and riveted, sensing this isn’t part of the show, but something else entirely.

Brody lifts me off my feet then, while Bigelow continues to shout.

“You’re not married. You never were. You two are nothing but a pair of con artists perpetrating a hoax on the public and your sponsors.”

Others around him start shouting, and security guards rally to action. Brody carries me back down the runway at a near run, past the stage curtains to the dressing area. He’s behaving as if Bigelow were wielding a gun. But come to think of it, he was wielding a phone. With a video. He was shouting something about people needing to see the video as the security guards reached him.

The rush of the crowd’s confusion fills the air, reaching us backstage, and I can feel and hear the pandemonium even as I stand in the circle of Brody’s arms as he lowers me to a stand.

“What’s going on?” I ask him the stupidest question I’ve ever uttered.

“It’s blackmail by Bigelow gone wrong.”

“The video?”

He shakes his head and pulls me against him. “No. It’s not the one Tammi took. She tried calling me to warn me about Bigelow. I finally spoke to her after Bigelow called to shake me down for ten large.”

“What?” I push back from him to look at his face, to see if he really is as impossibly calm as he sounds and feels. The beating of his heart against his chest feels normal while mine is beating up my ribs like a wild banshee wrongly imprisoned.

His mouth quirks into a sad half-smile, no dimple, no spark of mischief. “Never mind. The worst has happened and it’s not so bad. The truth about our non-marriage is out. We’re free from our lie.” I hear the words he doesn’t say. From each other.

Tears immediately well in my eyes, and I can’t hold them back as I turn away, trying to swipe at them, which is useless.

“Don’t be sad, Bianca. I still…” He trails off, and I get it.

He has no idea how he feels. Still.