Page 103 of Emmett
We make it maybe twenty feet into the party before his child-stepmother - I really have got to stop calling her that. He hates it – before hisfriendfinds us. She hurries toward us with the handle of a cane in one hand and the skirt of her dress in another, the tip of her nose reddening as she approaches.
“Happy birthday!” She shouts, and even from here, the tears lining her eyes are visible.
“Stop, idiot,” Emmett laughs as he pulls her into his arms. “This is gonna be the car incident all over again.”
“No,” she says with a tearful shake of her head, “I wore waterproof this time.”
Emmett lets out a deep belly laugh as he holds his friend close to his heart, rubbing a hand along her back.
I understand the way that she feels; he’s twenty-six today. It could have been any regular Friday night, any other less-than-newsworthy trip around the sun, but this feels like a miracle. With a kiss to Emmett’s head and a gentle pat to his friend’s shoulder, I excuse myself and head through the club toward the VIP area. As much as I’d like to keep my pretty boy all to myself, tonight isn’t about me and what I want.
As I approach the stanchion that separates the club from the public access area to the VIP-only space, I’m stopped by a loudly-clearing throat behind me.
“Nash.” I turn to face Colt Fowler, extending his hand to me. “It seems I owe you my thanks.”
“What might that be for?”
“Nothing surfaced about Emmett being hospitalized,” he explains. “I’d asked Davis if that was his doing, and he told me that it wasn’t. Neither of us were behind his drinking being kept quiet, either. That leaves one other person who knew of both events and had the power to keep them quiet.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Fowler,” I tell him, raising my glass to my lips. “And neither does Emmett.”
With a subtle nod of understanding, he tells me, “Whoever is responsible for keeping it out of the press, I’m grateful to him for protecting my son when I couldn’t.”
“I’m sure he would tell you that it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t to me.” With a nod and a clap to my shoulder, he excuses himself, more than likely to find and greet his son.
I don’t expect that Colt Fowler and I will ever be friends, and that’s something that I’m okay with. I’ve said it time and time again: I don’t need friends. I’ve gone most of my life without them and I’ve been fine. The only thing that I need from him is to show Emmett that he accepts us.
More eyes glue themselves to me as I move through the building, one pair of which belong to the Texan, who seems to be purposely using his body as a wall between myself and his girlfriend. It’s slightly irritating, but it’s also to be expected of him. The others are more benign; people who want to take a photo with me but are too afraid to ask, people who want to take photos from inside the event to sell to a tabloid, and to no surprise, some who simply don’t like me.
“Nash!” Someone shouts. “Mr. Montgomery, over here!”
A woman flags me down, standing next to a man holding a large camera which isn’t supposed to be in here, but the red light flashing above the lens tells me that this is likely a live show. I reach deep inside to find the appropriate mask, dropping it into place with a cool smile as I approach her.
“Mr. Montgomery,” she says again, “I’d love the chance to talk to you about tonight’s event, if you have a minute.”
“I would be happy to give you an interview,” I tell her, “but unfortunately this is a closed event. We aren’t allowing press inside, so I’ll have to ask you to leave, but you can contact my assistant to set something up.”
“It’ll only take a minute!”
“I’m sorry,” I smile, hoping that it doesn’t look as fake as it is, “the camera should have been stopped at the door. Please contact my office for a piece.”
“We were guaranteed an exclusive with youtonight,” she tells me.
“By whom?”
“Your father.”
My mask clatters to the proverbial ground and a laugh escapes me as amusement etches itself into every corner of my mind. My father has tried for years to contact me, to throw wrenches into my businesses, to do anything that it might take to crack the armor that I’ve built for myself – the armor thathehelped to make necessary. I didn’t think that the old man would have it in him to trythis.
“Actually, sweetheart,” I tell her, taking a sip from my drink, “Iwillgive you an exclusive comment. Jefferson Montgomery is a bigot. His only interest in having you here tonight was because one of our beneficiaries is a charity working to prevent queer suicide and homelessness – aprogram whichIwould have needed, had I not had grandparents to take me in when Jefferson kicked me out of my home because I was gay. He’ll want to buy your footage and use it for hateful propaganda.” Dropping a hand onto her shoulder, I say, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a check to write and a partner to celebrate with.”
“Your partner is Emmett Fowler?” She clarifies, positioning herself in front of the camera as if we’re now in an interview. “He’s considerably younger than you. Do you worry that—”
“No, I don’t,” I stop her. “My parents promised me Hellfire and God’s wrath, and instead, He gave me Emmett. I worry about plenty of things, but our relationship and peoples’ opinions about it aren’t on that list.”
I push past her before she can ask me any further questions, and I pull my crucifix from it’s tucked-in position behind my shirt collar as I let out an anxious breath. The day that I finally hear of my father’s death will be a day that I celebrate.