The P.U.R.E. Read Online Free Page B

hurried, because I threw up as soon as the lock clicked.

4
    Throwing up was a good news/bad news proposition. On the down side, death did a jig in my gut, its aftertaste wicked foul. It also, however, brought instant relief.
    Someone tapped on the door. “Gayle? You okay?” Jon asked.
    I hoped he hadn’t heard me retching. “Yeah. Just give me another minute.” I rinsed my mouth with a dab of toothpaste I had in my purse. A splash of cold water to my face, a fresh coat of lip gloss, and I appeared about ninety percent sober. Inside, I barely nudged the fifty percent mark.
    I emerged but avoided eye contact.
    “I’ll say our goodbyes and tell them you’re not feeling so hot,” he whispered as he took my arm. “Wait here … no, sit on this bench. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t go anywhere.”
    I looked up at him and nodded like a penitent child in a time out.
    • • •
    Jon was gone for an eternity, and I worried Nicky had snapped him up. Nothing I could do given my challenge to remain vertical and a fermented cesspool in my belly threatening to make another appearance.
    He chuckled and shook his head as he returned. “Come on, you lush. I can’t take you anywhere.”
    Leslie rushed over with a cunning smile on her face. “I hope your illness is short-lived, Gayle. Thank you for coming, Jon .”
    Wasn’t she the perfect hostess? No doubt she’d tell Bob all about my ignoble escape. He’d add drunkard to my growing list of vices.
    Kenneth and Darla Petrovich claimed the large black Mercedes parked next to Jon’s Porsche, their hostile voices ripping the fabric of an otherwise peaceful autumn evening even before they shut the doors. Clearly, trouble had checked in to the Petrovich hotel.
    While Jon drove me home, I vowed to make casual conversation, to prove my sobriety, and regain some normalcy. “Do you think Leslie and Darla are friends?”
    “Kenneth and Bob’s wives? Not at all.”
    “That’s what I thought, too. Hmm.”
    “What does your ‘hmm’ mean?”
    “Nothing.” I wasn’t in the mood to explain myself.
    “Do you know why Marilyn left so early?” Jon asked.
    “No. Did you know she and Libby lived together for four years when they went to SMU? And did you know Marilyn has a law degree from Harvard and interned at the White House?”
    “How did Marilyn end up at Anderson-Blakely?”
    “She said she needed a slower pace and was homesick,” I said.
    “Marilyn doesn’t strike me as a slow down, homesick kind of person.”
    “Me neither. Oh, and Marilyn and Leslie don’t get along at all.”
    “You were busy being nosy, weren’t you?” He lobbed a grin my way, cushioning the blow of his jab—a good sign. Perhaps if we kept our topics lighthearted, he’d overlook my drunken lapse.
    “Somebody had to, since you took on entertaining Miss Nicky Sanchez to keep her our helpful Aphrodite ally.” I gently punched his arm and immediately regretted touching him. “Way to take one for the team, Jon.”
    “You threw me defenseless into her clutches for the first half hour and at dinner too. I had no intentions of being selfless; you sacrificed me for the team.” He turned his head and smiled.
    “Poor Jon. Death by adoration. I did get you out early, so that’s good. You have to admit that. Where was my help sitting between Doug and Darla?”
    “Impulse challenged?”
    I filled in the holes to Jon’s swiss cheese–like question. “A few deliberate leg grazes, but otherwise he was tolerable.” Doug had behaved better than I had.
    “His mind must have been on something else,” Jon said before falling silent.
    Lit billboards flashed by as we drove, and I tried to steel my nerve as the silence stretched out. The elephant in the room trumpeted for attention. The kiss. My lips on his. Did I use my tongue? Oh God, I don’t even want to think about it.
    I shrank in my seat as fresh brain cells replaced their fallen comrades, the memories coming into sharper focus.
    He hadn’t