Perky Read online

  Parker's appearance is upsetting the order of things with this pre-wedding ritual, and probably messing up the feng shui or flower essence or whatever the hell Mallory's into now when it comes to holding space and using design to build a Perfect Life.

  “I would never hurt her,” Parker says, offended without blustering.

  “You're stalking her!” Mallory argues. “Crashing our wedding rehearsal rehearsal!”

  “I'm here under slightly exaggerated pretenses.”

  “FALSE,” Will barks at him, crossing his arms over his chest in a bid to hold off from hitting Parker.

  “Fine. False pretenses. But only after I arrived here, and even then, I made a split-second decision. I wanted Persephone's friends to surround her when I first saw her, and this was a perfect chance.”

  Will just glares.

  “Besides, Will–you know how your father and my mother are working on that literacy program together? There's a funding opportunity coming up. I wanted to talk to him about it.”

  “You're dangling my father's pet project in front of my face in an effort to get me to forgive you?” Will asks. Mallory's face turns pink in outrage.

  “Yes,” Parker says, brazen and bold.

  Direct.

  “He’s in Florida right now,” Will grumbles, but the gesture softens him.

  “Please play nice?” Mallory says to everyone and no one at the same time, as if she's simply letting an intention out into the universe, hoping it will magically manifest.

  Shaking his head, Will gives a reluctant half grin. Oh, no. Parker's doing it again.

  “Don't let him get away with it!” I shout.

  “Get away with what?” Fiona asks, clearly just rubbernecking.

  “He's making Will smile!”

  “And that's... bad?” Her face screws up in confusion.

  “It means Parker is smoothing everything over!”

  “Why shouldn't he?”

  “Because I still love him,” I hiss through the corner of my mouth.

  “We know,” she and Mallory whisper in unison.

  “And I don't want to love him! When he finds a way to make conflicts okay, it makes me fall deeper for him!”

  “IS THERE A DOCTOR OR A NURSE IN THE RESTAURANT?” someone shouts from inside, the sound followed by a very harried-looking chef bursting through the door, white hat askew. “Are any of you nurses or doctors?” he demands of us.

  I mentally check and no–not a single one of us is.

  “No, sorry!” we all answer, befuddled.

  The guy retreats, but we all look at each other, attention now diverted.

  “But I don't understand–” Mallory starts to say before screams inside the restaurant make Will and Parker look at each other, then sprint through the open door, Mallory, Fiona, and I on their heels.

  “HELP!” a woman shrieks. “PARKER! WILL! COME HELP! HE'S DYING!”

  4

  It's a short run. The small room where our party of ten was to be seated is empty, one of the dudebros at the table where I was recognized is now bellowing for help, and Hasty is next to him shouting for Will and Parker, her phone in her hand.

  “Ambulance on the way!” Hasty hollers as restaurant staff race through the place, calling out for nurses and doctors. Fellow diners are watching the choking man in horror, hands on phones, hesitation and fear rippling through the crowd. Everyone wants to do something, but no one’s trained.

  “He's choking! I tried the Heimlich!” Dudebro points to his friend, who is slumped over the table. One of the other men is pounding furiously on his back, but all he’s accomplishing is to shove the poor choking man's face into the tablecloth.

  Parker jumps forward and grabs the guy, fists positioned just so under his diaphragm.

  “I TRIED THAT!” his friend booms, but Parker ignores him, Will at his side, shoving his fingers in the guy's mouth in a sweeping motion.

  “Nothing,” Will says. Parker nods once and, as if they choreographed it, Will steps back, Parker holding the man from behind. He's gone rag-doll limp, his face an unnatural purple, eyes wild.

  Like Chris Hemsworth playing a superhero, Parker lifts the guy a few feet off the ground and bends back, then pulls his arms up, one thumb joint curling in as he heaves-ho, and out comes a hockey puck from the poor guy's mouth. It flies across the room and nails poor Mallory right between the eyes before plunking into her blood orange martini, which sloshes up in an impressive, artistic splash, a demented melting orchid on a canvas.

  Did I mention she's wearing a white dress?

  A whoop of painful air, like a pressure hose being used in a tunnel, fills the space. Collective breath from witnesses holding theirs is let out, the effect like a concert where all the musicians are using lungs as instruments.

  Uniformed paramedics rush in.

  Fiona begins blotting Mallory's breasts with her cocktail napkin.

  “I'm sure some club soda will fix that,” she says unconvincingly, while Mallory's eyes bug out of her head.

  Phones, some with flashes engaged, continue filming Parker, Will, and the poor man, who is taking in ragged, pain-filled breaths.

  “Holy shit!” Will hisses to Parker. “You did it, man.”

  “We did it.”

  “Congressman Campbell!” A woman in a tight, red dress scooches through the crowd, her phone held out like a microphone. “I'm Saoirse Cannon, from the–” As she names a local newspaper, a big one, then a cable news channel, too, my body flushes.

  Saoirse Cannon.

  No way. That can't be Parker's ex-girlfriend, can it? The one he dated right before me? The one who dumped him when he decided to become an assistant district attorney instead of working for Big Law and going for the bucks and fame?

  The one with the name no one can pronounce? SAIR-sha? Then again, my name is Persephone. Most of Fiona's preschool class (and half of my high school enemies) call me Purple Stephanie, so people who live in glass houses and all that.

  The smile on her face is intimate. Knowing.

  And makes me want to peel it off and turn it into a Halloween mask.

  Then shred it with some shattered glass.

  “Congressman Campbell, you've just engaged in an incredible act of heroism. Could you comment on–”

  Parker holds up a palm and says, with a charming smile, “Ms. Cannon, good to see you again.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. Again?

  She really is his old college girlfriend. What's she doing here? Last time I saw her, she worked for a Texas affiliate doing man-in-the-street interviews about town festivals and construction detours.

  And now she's here in Boston? Working for the biggest newspaper and cable news channel in town?

  “But no comment right now. The priority is him.” He points to the gasping man, who currently has a clear oxygen mask being held over his face, the paramedics doing their job. “Not me.”

  “But after what you did for Congressman O'Rollins last year, it seems you have a penchant for rescuing people.”

  The look she gives him makes it clear she'd like to be rescued. Mouth-to-mouth. Hands on her chest.

  In bed.

  “Just doing what any other decent fellow human being would do in a crisis.” Parker grabs Will in a bro-hug, pulling him into the pictures all the patrons are now taking. “My good friend, Will Lotham, jumped right in with me to help.”

  Fiona appears, her cold fingers on my upper arm making me jump. “Here.” She hands me a fresh blood orange martini, reminding me of poor Mallory.

  I look down into the drink. “No chunk of steak as garnish?”

  She snickers, collecting glares of disapproval from spectators. “Mal is changing into a new dress. Raye is helping her with her hair.”

  “She brought a spare?”

  “Of course she did. You know Mallory. Always prepared.”

  “I thought that was the Boy Scout motto. And besides, Mallory lets her phone battery die all the time. How can you call someone li
ke that 'always prepared'?”

  “We're allowed to have one weakness, Perk.”

  I point to Parker. “Not him.”

  “That was incredible.”

  “Yep. He's incredible.”

  “You still love him.”

  “As if I ever stopped.”

  Hasty appears, wedging herself between Parker and Will, grinning like a Victoria's Secret model on a runway. “Saoirse writes articles that read like they wrote themselves,” she says loudly as Will's right eyebrow cranks up, held in place by a heaping dose of skepticism for his future sister-in-law.

  Will peels himself away, giving Hasty exactly what she wants:

  Unfettered access to power.

  Parker Campbell is power. I've known it for years. He's alluring in an undefined way, in a space you don't know is wide open, where trying to explain why you're drawn to him is as foolish as trying to define what makes a kiss so special. It's intuitive, felt before it's understood.

  I get why Hasty can't leave him alone.

  And I hate him for it.

  That's right. Him. Not her.

  Because Parker can't help himself. This is who he is. Nothing in the way he looks at people with his whole, entire self is about artifice. No wrinkle of his brow in empathy or nodding in understanding as someone tells him a story is fake. Parker was built like this, his double strand of DNA encoded with some unique residue that makes him seem so casual, so connected, so deeply invested in you when he speaks that you feel uplifted.

  And if a single conversation with the man can have that impact, can you imagine what making love with him was like?

  Not just sex–lovemaking. The kind that comes from having another person give over their whole self to you, and demand that you do the same.

  Being loved like that by Parker was an impossible dream.

  Which makes his betrayal so much harder to accept.

  Heat blasts through me, a mixture of lust and disgust. I chug the entire martini in one burning swallow, as if that will teach Parker some kind of lesson.

  “Pace yourself,” Fi murmurs.

  “Since when do I do that? Ever?”

  “Can you try? Just for tonight? I think we've all had enough drama. And you're not a drinker.”

  “I'm not the one choking to death.”

  “No, but you look like you want to put your hands around Parker's neck and squeeze.”

  “More like my thighs,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Turns out I said that a wee bit loud.

  Will clears his throat. I don't look up. “Where's Mallory?” he asks.

  “Changing her dress.” Fiona points to the hallway of the women's restroom just as Mallory emerges, wearing a gorgeous green peplum frock, Raye behind her, chatting on her phone.

  Deep concern flits across Will's face, emotion he's not afraid to show as he gathers Mal in his arms, his head dipped down as they murmur. Most of their words are punctuated by glances at me and Parker, to the point of eyeball ping-pong.

  “This isn't going as Mallory planned,” Fi says dryly, looking around.

  “Nothing ever does.” I stare at the bar. “Think I can get another drink before the rehearsal rehearsal dinner starts?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? The bar doesn't seem too busy, and the crowd is settling down now that the ambulance has taken that guy away. It's just down to the world ooohing and ahhhing over Parker.”

  “Because you can't improve this situation by getting drunk.”

  “I can't? Watch me.”

  “I won't let you.”

  “Who put you in charge of me?”

  “Mallory.”

  “That was a rhetorical question.”

  “My answer was not rhetorical.”

  “Mallory assigned you to babysit me?” I peer at her. “Before or after Parker appeared?”

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “This isn't a trial!”

  “You've definitely turned it into one.”

  “Excuse me,” Parker interrupts, nodding at Fiona with a gesture that says hello and also we know each other.

  The look she gives back says, I hope your dick gets caught in a door hinge while you scratch yourself to death from scabies.

  “There is no excuse for you,” Fiona says with a sniff that reminds me a wee bit of Parker's mother, Jennifer.

  “I would like a moment alone with Persephone.”

  Fiona holds out her flat, empty palm. “Then give me your phone.”

  Recoiling, Parker stares at her like she's an exotic insect that just crept out of his jacket pocket. “My what?”

  “Your phone. You long ago lost the privilege of being alone with Perky while possessing any device with a camera.”

  Instantly, his phone is in her palm.

  And his hand is on my waist, steering me away. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, but I don't resist. Something about the way he's touching my body tells me I need to wait until we're away from the crowd. Charged with an energy I don't understand, that simple point of contact carries more meaning than I expect.

  We find a small alcove near the bathrooms, where I realize his grip is tight on my hip, his hand bones rigid, muscles tense.

  His face is the same.

  “Parker?” I whisper, compassion in my tone. Worry floods me, because I've never seen him so serious, so drawn.

  So somber.

  His spare hand reaches up to his face, the palm making a brushing sound against his chin as he rubs it, eyes closing, shoulders dropping. “Persephone,” he says, his voice low, almost choked.

  I touch him, sure and bold, because it's dawning on me that he's not trying to corner me to be a stalking asshole.

  He's pulled me aside because he needs me.

  “Are you okay, Parker?”

  “I just–what if he'd died? Back there?” Panicked eyes meet mine, pale irises with flashes of pastels and browns, pupils the size of quarters. Cool and calm in a crisis, Parker falls apart afterwards. Always did.

  Apparently still does.

  “He didn't,” I assure him, completely flummoxed by the emotional change between us. How did I become his source of comfort?

  And why do I get such a thrill out of being in this role?

  “He could have. O'Rollins did.”

  “He–but you saved him.”

  “I gave him five extra days of life.” The sound he makes after that flat statement is one of self-directed loathing.

  “Five days his wife and kids will appreciate forever.” I grasp his shoulders, the feel of expensive wool against my fingertips one that makes me greedy for more. I remember tying his tie for him before a high-stakes trial. Picking up his dry cleaning when he worked long hours on a big case.

  Unwrapping his taut, tanned body as that suit became a discarded mess on the floor, found later over takeout Chinese in the afterglow of hurried sex, the food our intermission between acts.

  All that is conjured by the sweep of my fingers against his broad shoulders.

  How much memory do we pack into our skin?

  More than I realized.

  He leans into me, one hand moving up to my waist, the other cupping my jaw. “You always knew how to make me feel better. Always said just the right words.”

  “I'm not saying this to make you feel better. I'm speaking the truth. I'm not doing anything special.”

  “That's just it, Persephone. Telling the truth is special.”

  “That's because you're in politics.”

  “No. That's because you have a unique ability to see me for who I really am.”

  “Who are you, Parker?”

  “Right now, I'm a man who just held another man's life in my hands. My brain and my body haven't quite gotten over the sheer terror of that kind of responsibility.”

  “You're an elected official. You have plenty of responsibility.”

  “Not in the form of a heart inside a chest I had to compress. Or an airway I had to clear.”

&nb
sp; “And now you've done it twice. Saved two men during their near-fatal moments. It's becoming a hobby for you, Parker. Or maybe a vocation.”

  Light laughter comes out of him, almost profane. “Only you could make a joke after something like that.” He thumbs down the hall toward the dining room. “And make me feel better.”

  “No. Plenty of people make sick jokes after a crisis.” I let the feel better comment slide.

  “But none of them look as beautiful doing it as you.”

  Under my touch, his shoulders lose some of their tension.

  “And only you would hit on me while I'm giving you a pep talk after you saved a guy's life.”

  “Plenty of men would do the same.”

  Daring doesn't come easily when I'm staring into the eyes of the rat bastard who took my soul and shredded it into a thousand pieces five years ago. The world doesn't move forward in a straight line, though.

  And emotions have their own drunken-line algorithm.

  “Parker. It's okay to fall apart. You just went through something intense. Remember when you first saw me?”

  “In the back of a paddy wagon with your wrists zip tied in front of you?” His mouth goes up, dimples showing, in a tight but wistful smile. Blinking rapidly, he stares over my shoulder, retrieving the visual of that.

  “Yeah.”

  “You were screaming at the top of your lungs. Something about the dual indignity of the maquiladoras factories making women produce sex toys made of carcinogenic materials.”

  “I believe I was screaming, 'Their orgasms give us cancer!'”

  “I was being tactful.”

  “You never have to be tactful with me.”

  “Why did you bring up how we met?”

  “Because it was what happened after that. It was how I started trembling.”

  He nods. “I happened to be at the police station that day, when they hauled all of you in from the protest. A wave of educated, extremely articulate, really pissed-off women. It was exciting and exhausting at the same time. You were my very first case.”

  You were my first and only love, I want to say, but don't.