Justice(50)
I stop walking. “What? Did he say where he was going?”
“No. Sorry.”
Huh. I check my cell phone, but there are no new messages. Maybe he’s going to meet me there, but he can’t get in without an invitation which I have. “Thanks, Bruce,” I say as I return to the cab. I call Harry on the way to the hotel, but he doesn’t pick up. “Hey, it’s me. I just went by your apartment. Where the hell are you? I’m on my way to the party. I hope you’re not there already. Just call me, okay?”
The line of cars to the Galilee Grand Intercontinental is ridiculous. Limos for over half a mile. I wait in the cab, literally watching my money tick away for fifteen minutes. I’d get out and walk, but I’m in three inch heels. I’ll be lucky to make it through the night without twisting my ankle. It’s happened more than once before.
The Galilee Grand is the premier hotel in the city and looks it. Twenty stories with three pools, one with a wave machine, two night clubs, the It spa, and the biggest ballroom within a thousand miles complete with two story waterfall. As my meager transport pulls up to its grandness, I’m bombarded with flashing lights that would bother the blind. The security guard, who wears sunglasses even though it’s night, opens the door and helps me out.
I’m not even fully upright when the questions start. I totter down the red carpet with a smile plastered on. Some of the others on the carpet pose and speak to the press, showing off their designer gowns and designer breasts. Every socialite, athlete, politician, and captain of industry is here. I pass Lorcan Betts, running back for the Galilee Angels and his hoochie of the week. We hooked up once four years ago after Justin’s birthday party. He was more interested in my panties than the sex. The reporters shout their questions, but I ignore them and don’t pose. Never have, never will.
The lobby is quieter. Tourists and upper echelon meander around, separated by the red carpet and velvet rope. Security guards line the rope, keeping the gawking have-nots from the haves. A teenage girl even takes my picture. I scan the room for Harry, but no joy. His phone switches straight to voice mail again. “Harry, where the hell are you? I’m at the hotel already. I have to go in, but I have the invitation. You can’t get in without it. Please call me when you get here.”
If he thinks he’s getting any tonight after all this trouble, he’s nuts. Now I have to go in there alone. Except on rare occasions I always come alone, unless Justin escorts me. It should be old hat by now, but tonight I’m almost afraid to walk in there. The looks. The questions. The playing nice. I just don’t want to do it alone.
“Joanna!” Brittney “Bitsy” Armstrong calls to me as she drags her husband Thayer from the entrance. Both are thin and tan, but so is everyone in this set. She wears a pink floral gown, her signature. Bitsy air kisses me. “You look fabulous.”
“You, too. Love the necklace.”
She touches the pink diamond the size of a gumball. “Thank you. Thayer got it for our ten year anniversary. He has such good taste.”
Thayer isn’t paying attention. His fingers dance over his Blackberry. They come up with a new way to be rude every year.
“Isn’t this wonderful? Justin finally tying the knot? You can hear the sound of a thousand hearts breaking. Though I absolutely adore Rebecca. And that little girl! So cute. We had them over for dinner last month and our Preston just fell madly in love with little Daisy.”
“It must be genetic,” I say with a smile. Might as well get this thing plastered on right now. It won’t be coming off until I get home tonight and put it back into my medicine chest.
“Are you going in yet or are you waiting for someone?” Bitsy asks.
“Um…no. I think I may have been stood up.”
“Oh, you poor thing. Well, whoever he is, he’s an idiot.” She locks her elbow in her husband’s, who doesn’t even notice and starts walking. He’s probably e-mailing Giselle Larkin. Everyone knows they’re having an affair, maybe even Bitsy. The criminals I chase have more morals than most of these people.
Time to face the music. I follow a few feet behind the Armstrong’s toward the ballroom. A security guard checks the invitations of the guests before allowing them to pass. I pull out mine and he nods. Welcome to the lion’s den.
There have to be two hundred people here, all dressed to the nines and swilling champagne as if it was the elixir of life. An orchestra plays big band music near the waterfall while guests shake and shimmy on the dance floor. Silver and black balloons are scattered around along with lit-up crystals that match the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. Simple, tasteful, and elegant, just like the happy couple. Almost the moment I step in, I grab a passing champagne glass and down it.