Tough Enough(44)

I frown. This isn’t like Mona. Normally all she ever needs is White and she’s happy as a clam. Unless things aren’t going well. “Is something wrong?”

The long pause and her short response say it all. “It’s White.” Her voice is small and wounded, and I can hear the resignation in it.

I don’t have to ask what he’s done. It’s the only thing he ever does to hurt Mona. Unfortunately, he does it with disgusting regularity. “Who is it?”

“Peony,” she answers miserably, bringing to mind the mental image of a trashy, raven-haired beauty. She plays the resident freak on the show and she’s very convincing. Mainly, we suspect, because she’s such a freak in real life. Dark, brooding, daring. Admits to loving sadomasochism. Observes some pretty scary “personal pleasure rituals.” Thinks the devil talks to her. That kind of thing.

“Peony? Ewww. Why?”

“I know, right? White doesn’t even like brunettes. And she’s named after a stinky old flower. I just don’t . . . I can’t . . .” I hear the tremor in her voice and I know she’s about to lose it. Now is definitely not the time to tell her that peonies don’t stink. They actually smell quite good.

I hold back my sigh. My friend needs me. “Of course I’ll wait for you.”

Like a ray of sunshine breaking through thick, ominous clouds, I hear the pleasure and relief in her voice. She needs to be with someone who won’t hurt her. Someone like me. “Really? You will?”

“Really. I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’re the best, Kitty.”

When we hang up I turn back to Ronnie, who is just slurping the last sip from his martini glass and preparing to make another. “Why don’t you make that two?”

Ronnie smiles and whoops enthusiastically. I feel an answering smile curve my own mouth.

An hour later, I’m two drinks in, Ronnie is starting to slur and Mona still hasn’t arrived. I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed a call.

Nope. Nothing.

“Excuse me for just a second,” I tell Ronnie when he pauses in his rambling long enough for me to get a word in.

I get up and walk toward shore, scanning the dark lake horizon for the lights of an approaching yacht. I see nothing except the reflection of the dozens of flaming tiki torches that are burning to illuminate the island setting.

I turn back and slip into one of the cabanas for a little privacy as I tap Mona’s number into my phone. The way she answers, I can picture her with one finger stuffed in her other ear so she can hear me on the phone. “Don’t leave!” she says without preamble, practically screaming. “We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

“It’s getting late. I need to get home.”

“It’s nowhere near late, Katie! Don’t you dare leave yet. I’m coming. I swear.”

“I’ll wait as long as I can, but if you’re not here in another thirty minutes, I’ll have to go.”

She huffs. “Fine. But give me thirty minutes. We aren’t that far away. We’ll be there shortly.”

“That’s what you said an hour ago.”

“Well, that’s what I thought an hour ago. Nautical . . . stuff isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“Okay, okay,” I say in frustration. “Thirty minutes.”

“See you soon.” And then the line goes dead.

I inhale deeply and turn to find my way back to Ronnie. And run right into him. He’s standing behind me in the cabana. I grab my chest to still my runaway heart. “Ronnie! God, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he slurs softly. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say, taking a step back, away from his crowding closeness.

Ronnie takes a step forward. “You look so beautiful tonight. I just can’t get over the way your ass looks in jeans.”

What a crude thing to say, especially from Ronnie, who’s always fairly mild in his appreciation.

A little thread of unease weaves its way down my spine. “Thanks. I think. Let’s go back out to the tent. Mona said they’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”

I start to walk around him, but he winds his fingers around my upper arm to stop me, pulling me against his side. “Sit and talk with me then. Just for a couple of minutes.”

Still gripping my arm, Ronnie pivots slowly, backing toward the day bed–type structure that’s piled with pillows. There’s one in each cabana. As inviting as it looks, I don’t want to sit on it and talk to a drunk Ronnie.

I plant my feet, resisting his guidance.