People literally part for him to walk through. It's like he's Moses. They're more than willing to be led through the Red Sea, divided by his power and influence, and into the Promised Land.
I’m off in space about what precisely that land might entail, when my shoulder is bumped, rustling me out of my Landry-induced haze.
"Excuse me," I say. When I realize who I've just ignored, my cheeks heat in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," I stutter, handing Camilla Landry, one of the Landry sisters, a glass of champagne.
She’s even more beautiful in person, a textbook example of poise and sophistication. In the media a lot for charity work with her mother, her face is easily identifiable with her high cheekbones and sparkling smile.
"Don't worry about it," she breathes, waving me off. "I can't take my brothers anywhere without women getting all mesmerized. Especially that one," she laughs, nodding to the doorway Barrett just went through. "Although, between me and you, I don't get it."
Her grin is infectious, and I can't help but return it.
"I'm Camilla," she says, extending her long, well-manicured hand like I don’t already know.
I balance the tray on one side and take her hand in mine. "I'm Alison. Alison Baker."
"You helped clean up a sauce spill earlier. You put the lady that had the accident at ease when you took the blame and kept the attention off her. I wanted you to know I saw and respected that."
"It really was no big deal.”
"In this world, everything can be a big deal. Trust me. You probably just saved my brother a couple of votes."
"Just doing my part," I laugh.
She smiles again, her chic sky-blue dress matching her eyes and heels. "Well, on behalf of the mayor, thank you. He seems . . . occupied, at the moment."
I wink. "I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn't see a thing."
She nods, looking a touch relieved, and thanks me again before turning away and greeting the older lady from earlier, the one that spilled her dinner all over me. Camilla takes her hand and helps her into a chair.
Her elegance is breathtaking and she has a charm about her, an easiness even though she’s clearly blue-blood, that I’ve never seen before. It’s exactly what the kitchen is buzzing about with Barrett—a charisma you can’t quite put your finger on.
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The slush crunches beneath my boots, my breath billowing away from my body.
I bow my head deeper, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt out from under my jacket to cover more of my face. I toggle the paper sack in my other arm, hoping nothing spills out on the wet asphalt. Remnants of the last snow are piled beneath the trees and mound in the shadows of the large apartment complexes looming above.
The neighborhood is alive despite the bitter cold. People sit on the porches of their apartments and duplexes, some toking shit that sure as fuck isn’t tobacco. Smoke rolls from the chimneys of the few single family houses in the area. Most of them are dilapidated, nearly rotting to the ground.
I grit my teeth.
I hate that they live here.
The apartment comes into view. A wooden chair is placed at the right of the door, a faded red and yellow striped pillow sitting on it. The steps of the porch are piss-poor and I have to sidestep the second one. The right side has a gash splitting the wood and I’m pretty certain if I stepped on it, I would fall through. I grimace and make a note to call her landlord. Piece of shit might not give two fucks about this place now, but he will.
I’ll make sure of it.
I bang against the door with my knuckle. It is a cold fucking day, even for Boston at the end of February. It made for a long day unloading cargo at the shipyard. The afternoon warmed a little, but now that the sun is going down, the chill is biting through my Carhartt jacket. I bring my hands to my mouth and rub them together, blowing on them to warm them up.
I knock again, getting impatient. I hear music playing on the other side of the wood, the John Mayer stuff she’s always loved.
A loud commotion, something like a piece of wood smashing something followed by a scream, comes from the apartment next door. Cold and irritated, I turn the handle to give it a flick, thinking the jingle will make her give in and open it. My jaw tenses when it begins to swing free. A chip of paint from the door falls to the tile below.
What the hell is she thinking?