Wait, did he just run away from me?
The door opened at my back, the cold air sending chills over my exposed skin.
“Terrell, welcome.” Mr. Palmer handed my coat to an attendant and shook Terrell’s hand.
“Thanks for having me.” Terrell smiled warmly.
“Glad you’re here. Now you two get to mingling, and don’t forget to say hello to Judge Lane.” Mr. Palmer winked at us. Was he drunk?
“Yes, sir.” Terrell guided me through the crowd in the same direction Mr. Granade had gone.
I smiled at everyone we passed, trying to give the appearance of confidence while fearing I looked more like the Joker than anything else.
“You’re doing fine. Relax,” Terrell whispered in my ear. He knew several of the people milling around, so we stopped periodically to shake hands and say hello until we finally made it to the kitchen. It was modern to a fault—everything stone and stainless steel. Toward the back, in what looked to be a sunroom, an attendant poured drinks and handed out beers.
“Jackpot.” Terrell beelined for the booze.
I wasn’t opposed. After the awkward moment with Mr. Granade, and how he fled from me afterward, I was in the mood for a little white, a little red, and a lot of alcohol amnesia. I didn’t see him, which only made my alcohol mission more pressing. Had he left the house entirely just to escape me?
I craned my head back to Terrell and whispered, “You sure I look okay?”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?”
Good point. “No.”
“Okay, then. Shut up and go with it.” Terrell moved forward and got two glasses of white. We clinked glasses and downed them just like always. Then he got us more. We had a system. It worked. Who was I to question it?
I wanted to tell him what had happened with Mr. Granade on the front porch, but that was impossible. I hadn’t even told him about the office romp, so it was already a given that he would be pissed I withheld that tidbit. I had to stay the course and keep it secret. I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on between Mr. Granade and me, anyway.
“Come on. I need to show you off in that dress. Make your money, ho.”
Terrell pulled me into his side, and we walked to the nearest group of people chatting. Terrell’s easy charisma had us at the center of attention in short order. We had perfected our comedy act over the years—he would play it straight and I would provide the witty, sarcastic commentary for the punch line. We worked the room, getting names and rubbing elbows with some of the biggest players in New Orleans legal circles.
Still, I kept glancing into the crowd, looking for Mr. Granade. I would know him anywhere, his height and—who was I kidding—his voice, his hair, his scent, his everything. I finished my third glass, and Terrell wasted no time in getting refills for both of us. Whatever the server was pouring was far better than the swill I could afford on my budget. After the next glass, I stopped keeping count.
We continued making our way through judges and lawyers, telling jokes and charming as we went. The booze made our jokes a bit more off color, but they were still well received. We finally arrived in the front parlor, where Judge Lane was holding court. His cheeks were even pinker than mine, alcohol slurring his words as he smiled and laughed a little too loudly.
“Ready for the money shot?” Terrell led me through the crowded room.
“Always.” I gripped his hand and followed, the bodies closer in this room than the others. Bits of conversation drifted in and out of my hearing, and things were more than a little fuzzy.
We arrived in the circle surrounding Judge Lane, and Terrell pushed me forward before situating himself behind me, one hand on my hip.
Judge Lane was early sixties, silver-haired, and from an old-money family in New Orleans. He’d been on the bench for twenty years and would, no doubt, be there until he decided to retire. He was regaling the room with tales of his hunting exploits, mainly trips to Africa or other locales to shoot protected animals.
I nodded along and smiled at all the right times. He took another swig from his monogrammed flask and swung his gaze to me.
“What have we here?”
Mr. Palmer detached himself from his conversation at Judge Lane’s back. “This is Caroline Montreat and Terrell Lynch, associates of mine.”
Judge Lane made no attempt to hide his appraisal of my body, giving me the full once-over before taking another swig. I didn’t let my discomfort show. This wasn’t my first rodeo. Terrell’s fingers pressed into my hip, steadying me.
“Very nice to meet you, Ms. Montreat.”
“You, too, Judge.” I plastered a smile on my face and sipped my wine.
“Since when did you hire such skilled associates, Trent?”