Free Hardass (Bad Bitch) by Christina Saunders Page B

painting him golden.
    He spread his fingers along the small of my back, pressing through the thick wool coat and the thin fabric of my dress.
    “It’s beautiful, is what I meant to say.” His voice seemed an octave lower.
    My skin tingled under his hand despite the layers between us. I leaned toward him, my heels giving me more height than usual. His hand moved around to my side and pulled me close enough that his scent became a heady delight.
    His gaze darted to my lips and stayed there. We were close and moved closer still, his warm breath tickling my cheek, my lips. My heart hammered as if I were running a footrace.
    The door opened and the moment was broken. We stepped away from each other. Mr. Palmer was speaking to someone in the house and turned his head only after Mr. Granade and I had separated. He smiled warmly and ushered us inside.
    “Ms. Montreat, welcome to my home. Wash, come on in.”
    The house was even more beautiful inside than out. The floors were a dark, polished wood, and the walls were covered with a variety of art. Chandeliers and sconces bathed everything in warm light, and several people milled around in the foyer, the adjacent living room, and deeper in the house.
    “Let me take your coat.” Mr. Palmer held out his hands.
    I hesitated, but another glance around the crowd showed several women wearing cocktail dresses, some of which were far more risqué than mine.
    “Thank you.” I undid the oversized buttons up the front and shed the coat, handing it to Mr. Palmer.
    “Wash, you want me to get yours?”
    “No. I’m good.” His voice was anything but “good.” It was tight, strained. I glanced at him, but he was looking through the crowd. “Beer in the kitchen?”
    “Anything you want. Got a bar set up in there.”
    “Great.” Without so much as a “see ya,” Mr. Granade prowled through the crowd and disappeared.
    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