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ALSO BY SARAH K. STEPHENS
It Was Always You
The Anniversary
Isolation
The Good Life
To my grandfathers, Charles and John
CHAPTER ONE TRINA
She spotted him across the crowded room and knew instantly he was her mark for the night. The music vibrated through her body and mixed with the top-shelf gin they were serving to create a special kind of alchemy. Under the right circumstances, it translated into what for Trina served as courage. Under the wrong circumstances, it ruined lives—mainly hers, but other people’s too.
Tonight, she wasn’t sure yet which it would be.
He was different from her type. Trina usually liked them with a whiff of post-football fraternity brother, thick and meaty like a lamb chop. But this guy was long and lean, with a half-finished tattoo sleeve of roses and skulls on his right forearm and a glittery pink bow tie. In the dark of the banquet hall, his attempt at a beard read as a meager scrubby patch under his chin.
The DJ cued up “Dancing Queen” by ABBA, and Trina was almost swept into a swirl of pink organza as the bridesmaids swarmed the dance floor and made a circle around the bride.
He stayed at the bar, sipping on what looked like a vodka tonic, but turned to watch the gaggle of women link hands and belt out the chorus. Trina pulled at the tight fabric of her dress and smoothed it over her thighs. It was a royal blue that brought out the rich black of her hair, which she’d had blown out yesterday. She knew she looked good tonight. Under the kaleidoscope lights of the dance floor maybe she could even pass for vibrant. That’s why she loved weddings. Mood lighting and free booze and happy dreams rattling around everyone’s heads, if only for the day.
Hard living was forgiven with the temporary suspension of reality.
She finished her drink, set it on a nearby table, and made her way over to the bar. As she got closer, she realized he was younger than she’d originally thought. Probably ten years younger than her, maybe fifteen. Not that it mattered. She’d never see him after tonight.
She took the spot next to him, shifting her hip over to his side and purposefully making contact with his leg. Trina noticed he’d sweat through the armpits of his plaid shirt.
“Vodka tonic.” She leaned over the bar, pushing her cleavage together, and flipped out a hand to catch the bartender’s attention.
“Bride or groom?” he asked. She’d been expecting some kind of lame opener, and he didn’t disappoint.
Trina snatched the drink that appeared in front of her, turned around and leaned her elbows against the bar. In her head she tossed a coin.
“Groom,” she told him. “Old family friend. And you?”
He smiled, and Trina couldn’t deny how handsome he was despite the hipster vibe. “Bride. Childhood friend.”
Trina took another sip. She hated vodka—would have preferred gin—but this point in the evening depended on some basic mirroring.
“Enjoying your drink?” she asked.
“I am now.” Ick, she thought. She took another sip.
It was easy to get him dancing. She moved to the music, grinding against his leg while the DJ played Today’s Top Hits. His hands left wet smears on the fabric of her dress, and when he nuzzled up to her ear and asked if she wanted to get out of there, the sweat from his face left drops of moisture on her cheek.
She still told him yes.
