The Edge

Chapter 14

What have you done

Wes's message coaxes forth an evil smirk. I can't help it. Picturing the scene taking shape at home makes me cackle internally. I needed a better sycophant, I tap out in reply. You weren't cutting it, Sib.

Not what I'm referring to, comes the cryptic response. But on that note, at least I didn't shed. Now there's fur all over the house. (Not true, by the way. We both know that he frequently leaves a disgusting array of hair on and within every available surface or crevice).

News people came a'callin, blares his next message. Channel 3. Robin Ruby wants interview! Lucky you

I grimace, thoroughly regretting my part in the Bloody Boot Debacle. Where are you? he demands. When are you coming back? I ignore the missive, just as I ignored an earlier message from Luke telling me he hadn't followed though with his stunt.

Fairchild interrupts my self-absorption by smacking his fragile wine glass against the tabletop. Although we've snagged a patio-side seat at the best steakhouse in town, he isn't taking much advantage of the food. I get the impression that liquid dinner is a steadily recurring event in his life.

"Keep the libations flowing, honey."

"I prefer the endearment 'bee-processed nectar' if you don't mind. Although considering that bees create honey through a process of repeated regurgitation - "

"Shhh."

"I'm simply making the point that the term-"

He sprawls across the table to paste a finger against my lips. "Just...shhh. Let me enjoy the evening."

Grudgingly, I offer up the dregs of the cabernet. "I feel like maybe I'm encouraging a case of alcoholism here."

"No, no. Funding it. Speaking of which, let's get another bottle over here. You really should try it."

Tempted though I am by the offer (and after the week I've had, why wouldn't I be?), I hesitantly refrain. Fairchild might not be a murderer, but he's still a tedious lech. Better to have one's wits intact when faced with such a lascivious adversary.

"You and Willoughby, huh?" I prompt, thoroughly tired of the small talk and 'pleasantries' we'd exchanged since meeting up for the night.

"For many years," he agrees without hesitation. "Ever since childhood, in fact. We grew up as neighbors. As the kids these days would say, I hearted her."

Ridicule rises up my gorge as easily as my next breath, but I stifle the urge to mock. I'm increasingly realizing that it's one of my worst traits. Tapping my fingers against the tabletop, I ponder over the best way to broach a prickly subject. Smooth-talk and subtlety have never be my forte. It's unfortunate since, as you may have noted by now, I'm an all-up-in-your-business type of gal. Still, I attemp to mitigate the directness with some level of tact, whenever possible. "So, if Paige Willoughby is the Buttercup to your Westley, the Belle to your Beast, why aren't you still together?"

His expression tells me I've failed at tactfulness yet again and I feel myself reddening alarmingly. "Alright, that was..that was a lame way to frame the question. I'm a square, as the kids would say."

"Undoubtedly."

"Please don't call me a pretentious bitch again."

"I'll try my best. No promises." He beams me a wicked smile. "But surely you're aware that, when dating, it's generally frowned upon to discuss the ex-wife?"

"Good thing we're not on a date, then."

"Mmmm. Good thing." His face is the very picture of the Cheshire Cat.