Echelon

Chapter Six

By the time the clock neared midnight, Carrie had been in Elysium for three hours. They arrived at nine, when the night was still young and the champagne still crisp. Now, her patience was fraying like silk pulled too tight.

She had downed four glasses already, each one meant to calm her nerves but instead leaving her more restless. The music pounded, the lights strobed, bodies pressed together on the dance floor. But she hadn't spotted Anita Sandoval. Not once.

Joan had already abandoned their table twice to dance, her stilettos carrying her into the mass of writhing energy as if she belonged there. Each time she returned, she nagged Carrie to join her.

"Come on, just one song," Joan teased earlier, tugging her hand.

Carrie shook her head. "You know I don't dance."

"Exactly why you should try."

But Carrie stayed rooted to her seat, her arms crossed, her gaze sharp as she scanned the room again and again. Anxiety simmered under her skin. Frustration gnawed at her composure. She would not lose it in front of this crowd, but inside she was unraveling.

Not long after, Joan's two friends slid into their booth. Bev, short for Beverly, was the one who had secured their tickets. She was tall, with striking cheekbones and a no-nonsense voice softened by her easy laugh. Lucille, on the other hand, was petite and wide-eyed, always the one to throw in a funny aside that cut through tension.

"This is the editor-in-chief I've been hearing about," Bev said warmly, raising her glass toward Carrie. "Joan wasn't kidding, you do look like you'd rather be editing copy than drinking champagne."

Lucille giggled. "We're going to fix that tonight."

Carrie managed a polite smile, but her mind was elsewhere.

The three of them, Joan, Bev, and Lucille, were quickly swept back onto the dance floor, their laughter carrying over the thump of bass. Every so often they returned, flushed and glittering, begging Carrie to join them.

"Live a little," Joan urged again, tugging at her arm.

Bev chimed in, "One dance won't kill you."

Lucille leaned over dramatically. "Darling, if you don't move at least once, I'll personally drag you out there."

Carrie waved them off, lifting her glass again. "Not tonight."

The truth was, she couldn't focus on fun. Her thoughts kept circling back to Anita and to Andrew.

He was the reason she was here, the reason her feature was collapsing. Everywhere Carrie turned, whispers followed. Rumors of Andrew and Anita's affair, talk that Anita had been waiting for him to propose. She had pinned her heart on him like a fool. She wanted the perfect love story, and he made her believe it could happen. Then it all went to hell.

The story had bled out from their circle into every socialite's lips. Anita had walked into a restaurant in the Bahamas, ready to meet Andrew for dinner, and instead caught him in the back with another woman. Not just flirting. Not just kissing. He was literally inside her when Anita opened the door. Pants down, moaning, f*****g like an animal while the rest of the world dined on seafood and champagne a few feet away.

The image stuck. Anita running out in tears. Andrew not even ashamed. And Carrie now left holding the scraps of a story that had gone from empowerment to public humiliation.

When Joan returned just before midnight, her hair tousled and eyes sparkling, she dropped into the booth beside Carrie with a mischievous grin.

"It's midnight," she announced, still catching her breath. "And I just overheard something."

Carrie's heart tightened. "What?"

Joan's grin faded. "Two women on the dance floor were talking. Anita isn't coming tonight."

The words sliced through Carrie's chest. Hours wasted. Hope wasted. And for what?

Her jaw set as she exhaled slowly. "Then we're leaving."

Joan leaned closer, voice firm. "No. Don't you dare waste this night. Forget Anita. Forget work. For once in your life, Carrie, stop being boring and let go."

Bev slid back into the booth, fanning herself. "She's right. You've been sitting here all night like the principal waiting for students to confess. You need to relax."

Lucille plopped down next to Carrie, eyes bright. "Come with us next round. Dance a little. Or at least take a shot."

Carrie shot Joan a glare, irritation bubbling hot in her chest. "I'm not boring."

Joan slid a shot glass toward her, filled to the brim. "Prove it."

Carrie lifted it, the sharp scent of vodka hitting her nose. She hesitated, then tipped it back. The liquid burned down her throat, harsh and fiery, and she coughed hard enough to make Lucille laugh.

"See?" Joan crowed. "Not so bad."

Carrie wiped her mouth, grimacing. "I'm not a big drinker."

"You are tonight," Bev teased, raising her glass. "Welcome to the club."

Carrie could already feel the vodka clawing at her composure, loosening the edges of her thoughts. Against her better judgment, she ordered more, stronger, darker. Rum this time. If she was going to endure this night, she wasn't going to do it sober.

The featured DJ took over the booth, and the crowd roared as the first beat dropped. The bass shook the floor. Carrie leaned back, her vision swaying slightly, and that was when she saw him.

A familiar frame emerged from the upstairs suite. Broad shoulders, tall stride, the unmistakable aura that had unsettled her all night. Andrew Lorenzo.

Her pulse lurched.

He descended the stairs, lights spilling over his features, and before she could blink, a woman was moving toward him. Pretty. Too pretty. Carrie recognized her instantly, an up-and-coming actress from one of the country's biggest television networks.

The actress leaned in, her lips pressing against his. And Andrew, visibly tipsy, obliged. Right there on the dance floor, in the middle of Elysium's roaring crowd, they locked into a hungry kiss that deepened into a shameless tangle of mouths and hands. Frenzied. Unaware.

Carrie's blood boiled.

Heat shot through her chest, anger laced with something sharper, something she refused to name. He wasn't just reckless. He wasn't just careless. He was the reason Anita's empire was wobbling, the reason her feature was crumbling, the reason she was drowning in champagne and neon light.

She slammed back another rum, the liquid scorching all the way down. Then another. And another.

Her vision blurred, the lights bending and stretching, but she caught one last sight of Andrew as he broke away from the actress and headed back upstairs with his friends. He disappeared into the shadows of the second floor, the entrance to his suite invisible to everyone else.

Carrie swayed as she stood, intending to head for the washroom. Her balance tipped, but she steadied herself enough to approach one of the attendants.

"Where's the ladies' room?" she asked, her words heavy with drink.

The attendant gave her a polite smile, gesturing. "Straight and right, Ma'am."

But Carrie's drunken eyes followed the wrong motion. To her, the signal looked like up. Up toward the private suites.

She nodded as if she understood, then turned, her heels unsteady, her body swaying. Her gaze flicked toward the stairs.

And before she realized it, she was moving.