Page 49 of Mine

Her eyes moved slowly over my body as she looked me up and down. “You first. Where did you come from?”

I squinted at her as a man joined us.

“Evie, please. Don’t make a scene.”

“Fuck you, Marc,” she told the man behind her, tipping her head sideways. “I’m talking to the boy toy here.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.

“Oh,” she said with a low chuckle, hand over her heart. “I’m Evelyn Tate, sweetheart, and this is my husband, Marc Tate, and this”—she pointed at Jocelyn—“is the woman he fucks around on me with, one of his reps, Jocelyn Collins. And you are?”

I squinted at her. “You should leave.”

“I was invited.”

“This is a party for Jocelyn’s mother and her brother. Do not drag your bullshit in here. This isn’t the time or the place.” I tipped my head at her husband. “Take your wife home.”

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but—”

“Please,” I asked her nicely.

“I—”

“Take her out of here,” I ordered Marc.

“Evie, please.”

“What the hell is going on?” Hugh shouted, charging up beside me, grabbing Jocelyn and whirling her around. “You couldn’t even deal with this shit for one fucking night?”

“Don’t manhandle her,” Marc barked at him, wrenching Hugh’s hand away from Jocelyn.

“Oh God.” Evelyn broke down, and I got why; it had to be hard to watch your husband defend his mistress right there in front of you.

Jocelyn’s friends came back, and I could tell right then and there that I was smack dab in the middle of a situation that had been simmering for God knew how long. Tempers flared. Words were spoken under breath and then erupted.

Evelyn started crying, Daria started yelling, Jocelyn tried to get everyone to calm down, and one of Evelyn’s friends called Jocelyn a whore. And then it got loud, at which point Hugh balled up his fist and hit Marc in the face really hard. I had to reassess my first impression of the man. He had looked like a GQ model to me, vapid, dull, with only plastic pretty going for him. But he was certainly possessive of his wife, as was evident from the way he picked Marc up off the floor and started pounding on him.

I had no idea rich people had Jerry Springer moments. It was illuminating.

No one was coming to break it up since it was supposed to be a very exclusive and elegant affair, so I ended up having to separate the two men. Getting in the middle of any fight is painful, so I was not surprised when Marc caught me in the face and split my lip. It was an accident. Hugh got me in the ribs, but that, too, was unintentional. It stung for a minute, but I’d been hit much harder before. What was problematic was the beer that got spilled on me, on my shirt, soaking through to my skin with all the jostling. I got pissed and grabbed Marc’s bicep and shoved him down into the closest chair.

“Do not get up,” I warned him.

He glowered at me but stayed there, and I shoved Hugh toward the cabanas and ordered Jocelyn to go with him.

“Who do you—”

“Shut up,” I told Evelyn, yanking her forward, my finger in her face. “I told you this was neither the time nor the place. So sit the fuck down and don’t move.”

She sat, silently.

I sent Daria to the bar for ice, sent another of the women for bottled water, and used one of the dinner napkins to stem the blood flowing from my lip. When Daria returned with an icepack and a bucket of ice, I sent her with the latter to Jocelyn and Hugh, and I made Marc lean back as I placed the pack on his face.

“Shit,” he groaned.

“Just don’t move,” I grumbled at him.

I went to check on Hugh, put some of the ice cubes in a napkin, and had him press it to his knuckles. Pushing back his head, I checked his eyes and his nose.