A few years ago, I wouldn’t have been let in. Now I get invitations all the time, and file them away. Once you’re in, you’re in. I give my (fake) name to the fellow at the door who’s part bouncer, part list checker. He just nods and a girl in a skintight gold dress offers me a glass of champagne. Damn, drinks at the door. If there is one thing they take seriously, it’s booze. Always flowing.

I accept a glass from her and head into the foyer. Since it’s nearly summer the doors and windows have been thrown open and sweet breezes drift in from the gardens on either side of the house.

My eyes scan the room, noting the dripping chandeliers brought in from Italy, the paintings on the walls, the Tiffany lamps and the custom marble floors. And then there are the people. I recognize many of the faces. This is the one percent, and it’s a relatively small club. Fortunately, none of my past conquests are here. I’d made sure of that. I run into them occasionally, but I have their hands tied behind their backs, so there’s nothing they can do to me. Not that they haven’t tried. They’re good, but my team is better.

I bump into a few of my colleagues from the office, as well as a few customers. I laugh and drink and talk business and golf and flirt with their wives. Internally, I roll my eyes at myself, but it’s all part of what I do. I’m on the clock.

I make a few inquiries about Mr. Beaumont, but no one seems to know if he’s attending. Moving from group to group, I get the same answer. His name is on the list, but he isn’t here. Damn.

I search for him, but I also look for a mane of red hair. I see one woman, but her color is artificial and looks cheap and fake in the light. After a futile search and too much schmoozing, I walk outside to get some air. The gardens are like a maze and I let myself get lost in the hedges and bushes for a little while as I sip another flute of champagne. A firefly flits in front of me and I remember my childhood spent trying to capture them in jars.

I have to shake myself. No, now is not the time to be thinking of the past. My past doesn’t exist. Tonight I’m Mr. Brand.

“What are you doing here?” A drunken male voice slurs at me. I whip around to find myself face-to-face with one of the men I’d taken down just recently. Shit. This isn’t good and most of the reason I move around the country so much.

“Hello, Mr. Chambers,” I say, tipping my glass at him. He isn’t looking very good and if the garden wasn’t illuminated, he might not ever have found me. Swaying on his feet, he nearly topples over into a hedge. I can abandon him here, or I’m going to have to help the poor bastard.

Fuck me.

I didn’t sign up for this.

He glares at me, his eyes having difficulty focusing.

“You fucked me over, you little fuck.” Nice choice of words. And I hadn’t fucked him over. He’d fucked himself over by paying off politicians to get around EPA regulations, among other things.

I don’t respond, but he stumbles toward me and jabs his finger in my chest.

“Fuck you, fucker.” Fuck, he likes that word. I reach for his arm to steady him, but he lunges away.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Unfortunately, that throws him off-balance and he goes over, spilling the rest of his drink all over himself. He doesn’t make a sound for a moment, and I wonder if he’s knocked himself out, but a moan emerges from his mouth, so I know he’s conscious.

What to do now? I look around, but no one else is in the garden, so I head back into the house and find the master of ceremonies, Mr. Hudson, having a good laugh, his arm around a woman who’s young enough to be his daughter. She seems uninterested in the proceedings and keeps flinching whenever he laughs too loudly. You’ve made your bed, sweetheart, I wanted to say to her. Make the best of it. I’ve met the party host several times and am on friendly terms with him, so I don’t feel awkward going up to him and interrupting his conversation.

“Sorry to interrupt, but may I speak with you for a moment?” I give Mr. Hudson a significant look and he extricates himself and leans close to me.

“I just wanted to let you know that Donald Chambers is in the garden. I think he’s had a few too many and should be escorted home.” I keep my voice low. Mr. Hudson nods and pats me on the shoulder.

“Thank you for letting me know,” he says before he motions to one of the servers, who’s more than just a server. Mr. Hudson lives by my rule of “you can’t ever be too careful.” I have to respect that. As far as I know, his money is all legit, some inherited from his grandparents who’d made it during the railway boom, and increased by his father and now him, who has his fingers in plenty of technology and transportation pies. His personal life aside (he’s on wife number four), he seems like a genuine person. What you see is what you get.

I don’t stick around to see if Mr. Chambers is taken care of. Clearly, she isn’t here, and her father isn’t either. I make one last sweep, avoiding the garden area, and decide it’s time to take my leave. I’ll have to catch her next time. Besides, it wasn’t a totally wasted evening. I’d scoped out some new potential targets. Gotta love new money. I send their names to Cash to start gathering intel and head outside to wait for my car.

This far outside from the city, you can actually see the stars. I gaze upward at them, wishing I had a cigarette. I quit last year, but times like this have me itching for a smoke again. I glance back at the glowing house as the polite laughter and clink of glasses flows outside and washes over me. I close my eyes and turn back around. This isn’t my world.

Four

Two weeks pass before another event pops up that Saige and her father are on the guest list for. This time it’s a charity dinner, where the plates are ten grand each. Luckily, I have the funds at my disposal.

“Do you think she’ll be there this time?” Cash says as I put on one of my other suits. It isn’t as nice as the Brioni, but it fits me well and is tinted toward a blue shade rather than black. It makes me stand out, and Track says it makes the blue flecks in my eyes pop. Whatever that means.

I adjust my tie and check my hair again. For some reason, I’m a little nervous. I feel… unprepared.

“Hopefully. If not, then I’ll have to try something else.” I have plenty of options. This is just easier and potentially less messy.

This time Track is on call and I’ve already texted him to let him know all systems are go. The event’s being held at one of the most lavish hotels in the city. I consider getting a room for the night but decide it isn’t worth the bitching I’ll get from the guys if I do.

Cash drops me off and it’s the same-old, same-old. Only it isn’t. Something keeps prickling at the back of my neck. Like I’m being watched. I always trust my instincts, so I glance around, as if I’m looking for something, or simply surveying the street. Nothing.

At least not anything I can see with my eyes.

The feeling doesn’t go away, not even when I go inside and am greeted enthusiastically by the wife of the host. She pulls me into her recently-enhanced chest and smacks a kiss on my cheek. It’s impossible to tell how old she is because her skin has been lifted so many times. She might as well be a silicone sex doll.

After making my escape, I grab a drink and weave through the crowd, saying hello and making small talk. The tables have labels on them, so I search for mine and then for Mr. Beaumont’s. They’re all the way across the room, but with a simple swap, I’m sitting right next to him.

Beaumont is elusive again. I search for a while, but then things get started, so I make my way back to my chair. The master of ceremonies takes the stage (some washed-up comedian-turned-host) and we’re all ordered to take our seats. I sink into mine, introducing myself to the lady on my left who has to be at least eighty years old, but has kindness in her smile as she shakes my hand. She and her husband hold hands on top of the table, and he keeps smiling at her. That’s pure love right there. They ask me if I have a wife and I smile back and say I haven’t met the right woman yet. That opens me up to a barrage of marriage and dating advice.