23 Shelby, Avery, Ruby, Savannah, and I sprawl like housecats around Ryder’s office at Altitude, sipping expensive whiskey and trying not to laugh too noticeably at how horrible Savannah’s date was last night, the success of the coral bandage dress notwithstanding. “He ate nothing,” she says about Paul, a successful but apparently socially nervous defense attorney. “Not the fried risotto balls, which were his idea to order, by the way. Not the salad. Not a bite of salmon or trout or whatever the fuck fish it was.” She leans forward in Ryder’s desk chair, extends her empty glass to me. “Hit me, Cass.” I pour her a refill of Highland Park single malt scotch, a five-hundred-dollar bottle in Jackson and Ryder’s secret stash of expensive alcohol, though not such a secret from Shelby apparently, who thought the only way to salve Savannah’s bad date blues was with the highest of high-class liquor. “You’re not the only good stuff Ryder has back here,” Shelby said to me, swatting me on the butt as we snuck down the hallway to the office.
