The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,52
erased.
“Okay,” Fleur said, still trying to understand. “So what do you know about the woman in question?”
Evelyn Shaw had been beautiful. She’d been a perfect siren. She’d been married to the man Kit loved.
And he dreamed of her still.
“I know she’s been dead for years,” Kit said, “but he thinks of her every single day of his life. What more do I need to know?”
Fleur slapped the tabletop with her palm, causing Kit to jolt and the couple next to them to stare. “Every. Damned. Thing.”
“What?” Kit asked, drawing back.
Not breaking her stare, Fleur grabbed Kit’s hands. “Learn all you can about that woman. Research her the same way you do your stories. Pretend you’re going to put a byline beneath anything you find. Look into this . . . what was her name?”
“Evelyn,” Kit answered, though that wasn’t what Grif called her. Evie.
“So research this Evelyn and learn about her—what she did, where she worked, who her family and friends were. Learn her secrets.” Fleur’s eyes narrowed as she jerked her chin. “I bet if you look close enough, you’ll find she wasn’t so damned perfect. Even if she did have the advantage of being alive in Elvis’s golden years.”
Kit’s sigh lifted the bangs from her forehead. “Yeah, but I can’t go to Grif and say, ‘Look what I found out! This woman you were obsessed with gossiped with the neighbors, carried a canteen of gin around in her handbag, and flirted shamelessly with the milkman!’ That’ll only reflect badly on me.”
“So don’t go to him.” Fleur shrugged. “That’s not the point anyway.”
It wasn’t?
Fleur patted her hand, and smiled. “You need to know she wasn’t perfect. I see the way he looks at you, Kit. You two were destined for each other. But if you need more security in your relationship, then you gotta create it yourself. Dig for it. I mean, that’s what you do, right?”
That was what she did, Kit realized, straightening. Why, she investigated stories like this all the time in order to give her subjects the truth and, whenever possible, solace. Why wouldn’t she do the same for herself?
Glancing up at the next performer, a woman with glitter on her eyelids and in her left glove, Kit nodded. She was the one who was warm and alive and real and here on the Surface. She was the one who held Grif when he awoke gasping from nightmares. And she would continue to do so, because she was his soul mate . . . and not by default.
Fleur was right. Why not dig a little deeper on the beloved, doomed Evelyn Shaw? Kit sipped at her drink, and watched tassels begin to swing. Find out a little something that would allow both Grif and her to shake off Evie’s ghost once and for all. Then Grif could remain present during both his waking and sleeping hours. Then he’d dream of Kit and no one else. And maybe then, she thought, Griffin Shaw would be as alive in her arms as she was in his. And the saintly, perfect, haunting Evelyn Shaw could stay tucked in the past.
Right where she belonged.
Chapter Twelve
If Ray DiMartino were a zoo animal, he’d be a meerkat—slender, with a tapered face and dark, shining eyes. And the Masquerade Gentlemen’s Club, Grif decided, as he sat with Ray in the owner’s booth, would be his natural habitat. Music and lights pulsed, no matter the time of day, and female dancers—made up, dolled up, trussed up—flirted boldly, sliding and gliding to show off every curve of flesh, no imagination necessary.
Yet despite the club’s sweaty, red-faced, sexual pulse, it still felt lifeless to Grif. It was as if everyone knew they were just acting, desperation pulling each of them back into a twisted childhood where pretend was the only thing that was real.
Grif supposed that’s why Kit didn’t mind when he came here alone. She called the place dull, uninspired, and sexually jejune. Whatever that meant. She’d been here once, wearing a dress that’d completely covered yet accentuated her femininity and managing to simultaneously blend in and stand out. Grif recalled her looking like an exotic bird amid a forest of green foliage.
Ray remembered, too.
“How’s that pretty lady of yours doin’, Shaw?” the man said, sprawling in the red leather booth like he was wearing it. He didn’t wait for Grif to answer. “Shoulda brought her in. She was going to talk to me about incorporating some new moves into some of the girls’ routines.”