Free In From the Cold by Meg Adams Page A

festering wound finally lanced—tender and couldn’t take much prodding, but better. I basked in Claire’s warmth, hoping she felt the same, feeling ragged edges close and finally seal under her soothing hands.
    Then I felt Claire’s hands still.
    And Sharon staggered in.

Chapter Nine
    Claire
    I noticed Sharon first. She stood behind the couch, swaying, one light push away from ending sprawled on the floor. She swung her coat and purse toward a chair, and predictably missed. Her face, however, displayed a cocktail of emotions—anger and rejection, a dash of humiliation and a twist of regret—a mix she looked too eager to share.
    “Well, what have we here?” Sharon slurred. “How…cozy.”
    It was obvious that we’d been—intimate? Serious? Like a guilty elephant, it filled the room, but Sharon liked nothing better than elephants. Hell, she cracked the whip and put them on parade.
    I longed to hide, mortified, like a schoolgirl caught in the backseat of some boy’s car, but she blocked the door. Drake’s jaw tightened, whether from embarrassment or anger, I wasn’t sure.
    She tilted her head at me, her eyes fixed on him. “So this is why you ditched the party tonight? Really, Drake. The nanny? How clichéd can you get? Next you’ll tell me you’ve been screwing your receptionist.”
    “That’s enough, Sharon.” He was deadly calm.
    “Oh, not nearly.” She cackled, a mirthless, high-pitched sound that could shatter glass. I felt sorry for her, something she’d hate even more than rejection.
    “What, did you tell her about Wanda and Miles? Sob in her skirts so she’d hoist them for you? Isn’t that how the sympathy pitch works?” She staggered and almost fell against the wall, then pushed herself upright. “Pathetic really. Can’t you do better than that?”
    “Sharon, I’m warning you…” Drake stood, every muscle in his body tense. I placed my palm on his leg, and he looked around at me.
    “Don’t,” I said. “She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
    She snorted. “That’s right. I’m drunk. In fact, I’m very drunk, but I know exactly what I’m saying.” She poured her body head-first over the back of the couch, giggling, then stretched out luxuriously. She laughed up at Drake, his face dark with anger.
    “And you’re warning me? What? Are you going to hit me? Tell on me?” She closed her eyes, flopping her arm across them. “You’re all wet again, lover. You’re too nice to hit me. You’ve always been too nice.” Her words started to fade. “And who would you tell?” She thought a minute, as if trying to puzzle that out. She lifted her arm and squinted at Drake, frowned, then closed her eyes again and waved her hand as if brushing off gnats. “Nobody. I’ve got nobody.”
    Drake reached back and took my hand. “Come on. There’s no talking to her when she’s like this.” He pulled me toward the hall.
    “Don’t leave on my account, chickens. I like a little ménage a trois. Wouldn’t be the first time, would it, Drake?”
    We left her chuckling on the couch.
    “Will she be all right?” I asked in the hall.
    “I think so.” He rolled his neck, trying to calm down. “She’ll probably pass out on the couch, then sleep it off.” He studied my expression, then ran a finger from my eye down my cheek. His touch made me breathless, quivery. “I hope you didn’t pay any attention to her. She’s a mean drunk.”
    “I didn’t. She’s bitter and unhappy.” A wave of empathy swamped me. That human wreck could have been me. If I’d continued the way I’d been going, if my sister hadn’t pulled me out of my room, I might have become like Sharon. A wave of gratitude swept over me. I needed to call Debra, and soon.
    Drake flicked my hair back from my forehead, his brow furrowed, then stroked one hand down my arm. “She is bitter. She really loved Miles, I think, but she knew what he was like when she married him. He’d been the same all through