Page 4 of Song Bird Hearts (Green River Hearts #4)

Valerie

I have to give it to the rich and famous.

They know how to party. And by party, I mean they know how to dive into debauchery the likes I’d never seen before I entered the scene.

I’m anything but vanilla. I thought I was kinky until I started being forced to attend these parties.

Turns out, I don’t know anything about kink. Go figure.

At first, these kinds of parties had held an appeal.

When people were fawning over me and trying to get me to partake—I never did—it had almost been flattering.

Now, it just feels like a desperate way to feel alive by people who lost their high.

I feel like one of those cliches, about how money doesn’t make you happy.

You won’t ever catch me saying something like that, because money certainly makes things more comfortable.

Anyone who came from anything less than upper class would agree.

But. . . there is a desensitizing that happens when you make lots of money.

I’m at the beginning stages of the fame money, but even now, some things have lost their sparkle.

Like this party. I’m surrounded by excess, by luxury, and it means nothing.

When it’s all new, you love it. It’s different.

It’s fun. But the moment that wears off, you start searching for the next high, the next new.

The more money you make, the more power you grab, the worse it gets.

I realized quickly it’s why so many people give into drugs.

It’s why I’ve even considered it. Sighing, I know the reason I’m on the straight and narrow is because of my mama.

She sacrificed everything to get me here.

Hell, I’d given up my last moments with her for a show that led to this.

So, I can’t squander it. I ain’t gonna ruin that sacrifice by fucking up, or worse, by overdosing on some bad poison-laced drug.

Trailing around the party, I take note of the variety of people attending.

The famous are here in abundance of course, those I rubbed elbows with at the CMAs.

There are plenty of people I don’t know but who look rich and powerful threaded throughout, most of their suits looking like something I would never buy, even if I had plenty of money.

There are a few regular people, too, those pretty enough to be let in or be brought by those in attendance.

There are far too many young faces, too, and I hate that they feel like prey in the room.

Too many of the men look at those young girls in a way that shouldn’t be appropriate, men who could be their fathers.

I’ve stopped trying to convince the girls this ain’t the place for them though.

After a few of them told me to fuck off and to stop ruining their vibe, I’d backed off.

Unless someone looks like they’re in trouble, I don’t step in.

There’s too much shit that comes with it otherwise.

Besides, I remember being young and thinking I knew best, too.

I just wish it didn’t have to be like this.

I get an eyeful of what’s going down at this party.

Kelly had been right. This house is nice, clearly someone’s property investment.

The décor is plain and bland like most rich people’s tastes.

Another thing I don’t understand. You have all that money and still pick white walls?

Make it make sense. My house back home in Wyoming is a bright splash of color with murals my mama had painted on the walls.

The more money I make, the more eccentric I wanna be.

Full on dinosaur statues in the front yard, cow print walls, the whole nine yards.

Among the white walls and modern paintings, people get up to no good.

Too many are just out in the open, practically fucking each other for everyone to see.

There are a lot of rooms I get peeks inside of when the doors open, where there are clearly orgies going down.

I don’t pretend to know everything that goes on at these parties.

I stay away from anything that seems too intense, which is most of it if I’m being honest. And honestly, just because these people have money don’t make them better people.

I don’t dare take drinks from anyone other than the bartender.

I don’t touch the food. Kelly thinks I’m paranoid, but I always remember Hank telling me to be careful around the rich.

He’d called them sharks, said they’re just waiting for the scent of blood. I took his warning to heart.

Especially when there are rumors of the 27 Foundation around every corner.

The 27 Foundation is one of those conspiracy theories akin to the rich people who worship an owl out in the California forests.

There isn’t much known about them, and yet everyone seems to know who they are.

A collective of the most rich and powerful who play with people like chess pieces.

That’s what they claim anyways. There’s always the rumor that they’re at these parties, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they were, but I have no idea how to pick them out.

Maybe it’s that guy over in the corner watching everyone over his whiskey glass, his suit barely wrinkled, an expensive Rolex on his wrist. Maybe it’s the older lady currently stripping off her dress and jumping in the pool.

I couldn’t tell you. The shadow organization that seems to run Hollywood and fame in general have their hands in everything, and also don’t seem to exist as far as I can tell.

No one is talking about them at least. I didn’t even know their name before I went viral and had my big break.

I’m curious about who they are, about how much they seem to control according to everyone who whispers about them, but I’m not curious enough to go snooping.

Snooping gets you arrested back home, or at the worst of times, killed.

Hell, the old Sheriff in Steele used to have my mama on speed dial, usually because of snooping.

Best to mind my business out here where I don’t really understand the dynamics.

I make my way to the bar and ask the bartender for a beer.

Despite the brand I like being a more obscure IPA from Wyoming, the bartender has it.

They always have it. I assume there’s some sort of survey that goes out to managers to make sure the alcohol of choice is on hand.

I gotta hand it to Kelly. She does seem to know my preferences, even if she ignores them most of the time.

Taking a sip of the strong IPA, I lean back against the bar and simply watch the party, happy to watch everyone else make fools of themselves.

None of the people wears masks, happy to be identified as they snort cocaine off of asses and get drunk on expensive liquor. That’s why he stands out immediately.

The man is across the room, his suit black and pristine as everyone else’s.

A golden wolf mask covers his face, making him feel even more intense as his eyes meet mine from across the room.

I have my bottle halfway to my lips when we lock eyes, frozen in place as if he did the freezing.

He’s tall, taller than me, and that’s saying something considering I’m six-foot-two.

There aren’t very many people taller than I am.

As I stare at him, he starts to cut through the crowd, making his way toward me.

Despite most of the people being lost in their vices, they move out of his way like water, as if he’s someone I should know.

When he gets closer, I force myself to take a drink of my beer to seem nonchalant.

Men like this, you can’t let them know they’ve made you stumble.

Though I’m sure this man already knows. I’d remained frozen for far too long.

He takes a seat on the stool next to me and gestures at the bartender.

No words. The bartender sets a glass on the bar for him as if he knows exactly what he needs.

I watch him carefully, raising a brow at the slight show of power.

When he looks back at me, I’m surprised to see eyes so golden, they damn near look like the animal he wears a mask of.

“Did I miss the masquerade memo?” I ask, watching him carefully.

He smirks. His mask hides half of his face, but it doesn’t hide his salt and pepper hair, or the very clearly fit body his suit is perfectly tailored to. I can tell he’s bearded, the short salt and pepper beard as perfectly trimmed as his hair is styled.

“No memo,” he answers, and I have to visibly force myself not to react. His voice is deep and sensual, naturally so. Who the fuck is this guy? “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Valerie Decatur.”

I take a sip of my beer. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” he reassures me. “But you will.”

I study him. “That seems an awfully big threat for a man hiding behind a mask.”

His chuckle is as warm as his voice, like the most expensive whiskey burning down your throat.

Slowly, he reaches for his mask and pulls it from his face, somehow avoiding messing up his hair.

The face he reveals is just as fucking attractive as the rest of him.

I can’t peg how old he is. While his hair is salt and pepper, he looks like he’s in his early forties maybe at most. And that’s a stretch.

The richer you are, the harder it is to figure out age.

I’ve learned that. Money buys you youth.

“Is this better?” he asks, his eyes tracing my face.

Something inside me coils and wants to strike. “You have such a handsome face, Seems a shame to hide it behind a mask,” I tease. “Does it get you everything you want?”

He smirks at me, and it makes that face even more ridiculously handsome. “Almost,” he replies, and there’s weight in that single word that makes my chest ache.