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7

Ready For Battle

T he door to the vanity room closed with a click. Annie broke from Marisol’s grasp. “Are you going to be like this all night?”

“Everyone here gives me the creeps,” Marisol said.

“They’re harmless. I invited you because I thought you’d have a good time.”

Marisol crossed her arms. “I didn’t think I’d spend the night watching you yukking it up with every Ph.D. and M.D. in the room.” She looked down at her feet, sinking from her loose-button shame that melted into the root cause: the shame of quitting. “I’m sorry I’m not good enough for your little club.”

“You are good enough, Marisol, damn it! Just because you don’t have a doctorate, doesn’t mean you’re not twice as smart as those people out there.” Annie put a hand on each of Marisol’s shoulders. “ But you can’t turn your nose up at them and expect them to include you.”

Marisol pursed her lips together. She didn’t come with a crank for a reason. She shouldn’t have to wind herself up and perform to matter.

“If it bothers you so much, you should go back to med school,” Annie said.

“I can’t.” Marisol could taste the quickly forming tears. She sat on a padded bench in front of a vanity mirror.

Annie sat next to Marisol and nudged her. “Why? You’re Miss Shark, always swimming forward, never looking back?” Annie’s laughing face met Marisol’s somber face in the mirror. Her expression changed to match Marisol’s, and she sighed.

“Who is going to waste another chance on someone who already had one?” The jagged edges of Marisol worry lodged inside her throat.

“You left for good reasons,” Annie mumbled.

“I’m not going back to med school.”

“Then relax. Grab a glass of champagne. You seem like you could use one.” Annie patted Marisol’s back as she stood.

Marisol, stuck in a powder room licking her pride wounds, ensured she would not relax. “I won’t,” she warned in a bratty singsong.

Annie threw her head back. “Ugh.” She opened the door to go back to the ballroom. “Stay in here the entire night for all I care, Novotny. ”

Marisol turned to the bathroom mirror and touched away the tears in her eyes with a tissue, careful not to smudge her mascara. In the mirror, she noticed Vincent’s date stretched out on a lounger, clicking through her phone in a drone-like fashion.

Marisol turned to his date and swallowed back her tears. “I know you from somewhere.”

The all-blue woman rolled her eyes and set down her phone. “Whit DeWinter, content creator and influencer.”

“Marisol Novotny, nurse. So, you’re dating Vincent Varian?”

“Dating is such an antiquated term. We are consciously intertwining lifestyles.”

Hearing the ridiculous phrase lifted Marisol’s spirits. She smirked. “What’s that like?”

“We met last summer taking ‘shrooms and dancing at that one desert musical festival. So much fun. Highly recommend. I heard all the colors of the rainbow.” Whit held her phone to her heart, snorted, and looked back at her phone. “But tonight...”

Morbidly curious, Marisol asked, “What’s wrong tonight?”

“The last I saw him we were smoking peyote in his air-conditioned tent. Tonight, he’s so boring.” Whit stopped scanning her phone and furrowed her eyebrows. “I think he’s a little sad. It must be all the old people here. Their idea of a party is eating something gross that costs a lot. I’m telling you, knowing Vincent Varian is a head trip. It’s like meeting two different people.”

Marisol nodded. The Patron Saint awakened every one of her nerves. One set tingled with admiration, another with fear. As Tobias, she felt the admiration and fear at the quietest volume level. It was as if the costume brought out the alluring element—the part that she desired.

“Who are you avoiding here?” Whit asked.

Marisol grimaced, unsure of how to answer the question because her answer could’ve been “Everyone” or “Vincent Varian.” She chose the safe answer. “Not avoiding. I’m just touching up my makeup.”

Marisol needed out. She hurried through the ballroom. Her heels unfortunately clomped as she escaped through the French doors and onto the empty terrace. As she leaned against the balustrade, she focused on the lights of Shadowhaven. That’s where she belonged, and the terrace was the closest thing to home in Varian’s estate. Although she shivered, the cold equally invigorated her compared to the inside’s stuffiness. Marisol could stay out here forever, admiring the city lights from afar.

The hair on her arms stood on end. She touched her cheek, reliving her tear being wiped away by his hand. She closed her eyes. He’d hold her against his body, a solid wall of warmth .

A voice shattered Marisol’s dream. “It’s too cold of a night to be standing out here alone.” A familiar voice. Vincent Varian.

She hiked up her shoulders to protect her ears. “Sorry. I came out here to be alone. I don’t think I’ll make good small talk.”

“No small talk? Big talk it is then. The meaning of life, geopolitics... that dress.”

Marisol looked over her shoulder. The light from the ballroom highlighted half of his mischievous, cat-like grin. She bit her cheek to stop her smile from forming. She appreciated a smart aleck retort but not from him.

“That dress fits you well,” he said.

She turned back to face the skyline and sighed. The muscles in her back tensed, preparing for a cheesy come-on.

He added, “It looks like chain mail. Like you’re ready for battle. Fitting for a bold risk-taker like yourself, Nurse Novotny.”

The fancy-tissue and hangover incident must’ve left an impression. She released the inside of her cheek, and the tiny smile she had held back crept across her face. “You remembered my name.”

“I saw it on the guest list.”

Her name wasn’t there. He must have asked about her. Marisol played into the ruse. Let this playboy think he made a slam dunk before he fell flat on his back. “Not many nurses on your guest list. For a hospital ball. ”

“And not too many bold risk-takers. For being Shadowhaven’s finer people.”

“Maybe you should invite more nurses.”

“If they look like you, I’ll consider it.”

Marisol scowled, skin burning from Vincent’s caustic irritation. “Why should someone’s appearance tell you their worth?”

Vincent dumped his champagne over the balustrade. “We choose how the world sees us.”

“Like how you want the world to see you in your tuxedo and ballroom when you could easily donate a hundred times the amount this party could raise and wouldn’t look twice at your bank statement? It’s almost like this ball isn’t for saving sick children but for everyone’s ego.”

“If our egos offend you so, why are you here?”

“Good question.” Marisol turned around. “Good night, Mr. Varian.” She headed toward the door.

“Please don’t go.” Vincent followed her. “I’m enjoying the conversation.”

He had a funny view of enjoyable conversation. Fine. She needed a verbal punching bag, and Vincent seemed up for the challenge. “You don’t understand. If you walked a mile on the Westside—or hell, a block—in your dress shoes that haven’t seen the crease of a day’s work, you wouldn’t be among the elites, congratulating yourselves on a job well done. You’d hang your head in shame because there are plenty of children left behind in my city. Left behind by a system that leaves them fighting for scraps and rewards you with obscene wealth.”

Vincent put his hand on the door handle. “Long live the revolution. Give me a moment to lock up the silverware.” His tone oozed with sarcasm.

If he went inside, she was definitely staying outside. She stomped back to the edge of the terrace. “That’s what you all think. We point out injustice, and you think we’re going to storm your palace with pitchforks.”

“Pitchfork doesn’t seem your style. Your dress suggests that you’d lure me with your beauty and stab me in the back.”

Oh please. She narrowed her eyes.

“Stab me in the front?”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Marisol had been particularly prickly to him, but then, had she been prickly to everyone tonight? She toyed with Abuelita’s cross necklace to chase away her discomfort. Any second now, he would leave, and she’d return to normal—alone on a terrace in the dead of winter. She whispered, “Si no puedes decir nada bueno, no digas nada en absoluto.”

Vincent walked back to her at the balustrade. “You were saying?”

“Something my abuelita would say to me. Sort of like if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

“Which is why you’re out here alone at a party. ”

“Something like that.” Marisol looked up from her necklace.

He looked down at his empty glass. “Tenía que ser dicho y tu lo dijiste.”

It needed to be said, and you said it. Marisol straightened. Despite the gossip noise, she knew nothing about Vincent Varian. “My friend and I talked about you. You don’t make a lick of sense to us. How could someone from such a line of scientists and doctors become... you?” Vincent’s expression seemed to relish the implied insult. However, Marisol’s gaze focused back on the city lights above the trees, toward home. “If I had what you had, I’d want to change the world.” Marisol faced Vincent, who looked at her as if a defensive layer had shed away, from sparring to surrendering. Did she wound him? “I’ll take that as my cue to shut up.”

He chortled and smoothed his hands over the top of the balustrade. “I don’t mind. Keeps my ego in check.”

Marisol looked back inside the ballroom. Whit DeWinter played around with the DJ’s headphones and turntable. She laughed, and the DJ seemed happy, too. “Seems like your date is accomplishing that just as well.”

Vincent shook his head. “Ah yes. A match made in PR Heaven.”

“She’s making you look like a chump.”

His expression turned steely. “I can handle it. ”

His sonorous voice rattled her nerves. A shiver traveled through her body and ended in a tight sensation below her belly. The cold must be getting to her, not Vincent’s voice. She squeezed her thighs together. Please, not that voice.

Annie stumbled onto the terrace. “There you are.” She sounded joyous. Perhaps the champagne killed enough brain cells to forget their argument. “And I see you’ve found—Holy Mother of God—Mr. Varian.”

Thank the Lord. Drunk Annie offered the escape she needed from the siren allure of Vincent. “C’mon Annie. We should get you home.” Marisol grabbed Annie by the arm and pulled her toward the door.

Annie finagled away from Marisol and staggered toward Vincent. “Mr. Varian, I would like a sample of your DNA.”

“Annie, we’re leaving!” Marisol had to stop Annie before she further embarrassed herself.

“I’d be interested in replicating an experiment of your father’s. With your DNA.”

“For what ends?” Vincent laughed, but the tremor in it signaled that he might call security.

“For scientific progress!” Annie raised her arms to the sky, and her declaration echoed through the night.

Marisol turned to Vincent, apologizing. “Did I mention we’re leaving? ”

“Stop by my lab, anytime. If I need to twist your arm, I’m sure I could get Marisol to come along. Make it a date.” Annie snorted with laughter.

Marisol struggled to maneuver Annie through the party, but she gathered their belongings in the foyer and dragged her drunken companion inside the car home.

And safe from Vincent Varian.