Thorn City: A Novel

By Pamela Statz

Suspected murder, eclectic food trucks, and artisanal cocaine: just another day in Thorn City.

It’s the night of the Rose City Ripe for Disruption gala—a gathering of Portland’s elite. Dressed to kill in sparkling minidresses, best friends Lisa and Jamie attend as “paid to party” girls. They plan an evening of fake flirtations, karaoke playlists, and of course, grazing the catering.

Past and present collide when Lisa stumbles across Ellen, a ruthless politician who also happens to be Lisa’s estranged mother. Awkward . . . When Lisa was sixteen, Ellen had her kidnapped and taken to the Lost Lake Academy—a notorious boarding school for troubled youth.

To make matters worse, Lisa’s boyfriend Patrick crashes the party to meet his new boss—Portland's food cart drug kingpin.

These unfortunate encounters spur Lisa into making a fateful choice that traps her, Jamie, and Patrick in Ellen’s web.

As earth-shattering secrets are revealed, will they survive Ellen’s schemes or be sacrificed to her blind ambition?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ooligan Press
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781947845503

Pamela Statz

Pamela Statz grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin, the twelfth of thirteen children. She attended UW Madison earning degrees in Journalism and History. With four duffel bags and her goldfish Lucrezia swimming in a mason jar, Pamela flew to the West Coast at the cusp of the dot-com boom and never left. She’s worked in media and advertising in San Francisco and Portland for Lucasfilm, WIRED, Nike, and Wieden+Kennedy. She currently splits her time between Portland and Manzanita, Oregon, with her husband Justin Graham and their giant dog Hooper. Thorn City is her first novel.

Book preview

Praise for Thorn City

"Delightful and heartfelt, Thorn City whisked me through the streets of Portland and twist after twist of a perfectly plotted thriller! This debut delivers a satisfying meal better than any Michelin-starred food truck." —Elle Marr, Amazon Charts bestselling author of The Family Bones and The Alone Time

The rich backstories of these wealthy characters make them come alive. Come to the party for the secrets and gossip. Stay to see if they survive the mayhem. —Cate Holahan, USA Today bestselling author of The Widower’s Wife

"Pamela Statz simultaneously celebrates and gleefully skewers her hometown of Portland, Oregon, in a delightful, madcap thriller with enough punchlines and plot twists for half a dozen novels. Thorn City's larger-than-life cast—from ambitious, amoral city executives to sweet but wayward twenty-somethings, from a struggling ad man to a chameleon-like tattoo artist—keeps the comedy and tension unwaveringly high, against a backdrop of hipster food cart pods, boutique ad agencies, and the hallowed corridors of City Hall itself. Portland truly is weird, and every page of this fast-paced, hilarious debut sparkles." —Emily Raymond, bestselling co-author, with James Patterson, of Expelled, The Girl in the Castle, and Tell Me Your Best Story

With an insider’s eye, Statz takes the reader through the nuanced underbelly of the City of Roses. This debut page-turner is a terrific addition to your crime fiction shelf. —Suzy Vitello, author of Faultland and Bitterroot

"Thorn City captures exactly what's special about Portland, from the ubiquity of our food carts to the ever-present undercurrents of social and geological upheaval. Still, the characters and their struggles are universally relatable—and so realistically written that I wouldn't be surprised to run into them one day at a mayoral event, kebab stand or local emergency room!" —Jennifer Hanlon Wilde, author of Finding the Vein

"A page-turning romp with Portland at its center, Thorn City is part who-dunnit/part coming-of-age saga with city politics, tech bro culture, economic disparities, and drug dealing thrown in to round out the experience. A fast-moving, thoroughly enjoyable read." —Margaret Juhae Lee, author of Starry Field: A Memoir of Lost History

"Pamela Statz has weaved an intriguing novel with a cast of characters to love and root for, and those to love to hate! A complete immersion into the Portland culture, Thorn City, is a complex, and twisty ride that unveils its multiple layers of lies and secrets at a perfect pace, not letting go until the very last page. Bravo!" —Mary Keliikoa, author of the award-winning Hidden Pieces and Deadly Tides

"Statz delivers a sneaky and addictive gem by captivating readers in this cleverly written thriller. In Thorn City, appearances are not what they seem. Those holding corrupt power will kill to keep their secrets safe and maintain status in Portland’s high society." —Erica Blaque, author of Among Wolves

Thorn City: A Novel

© 2024 Pamela Statz

ISBN13: 978-1-947845-49-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Ooligan Press

Portland State University

Post Office Box 751, Portland, Oregon 97207

503.725.9748

[e-mail]

www.ooliganpress.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Statz, Pamela, author.

Title: Thorn city : a novel / Pamela Statz.

Description: Portland, Oregon : Ooligan Press, [2024]

Identifiers: LCCN 2023027542 | ISBN 9781947845497 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781947845503 (ebook)

Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3619.T3827 T46 2024 | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20230613

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023027542

Cover design by Isabel Zerr

Interior design by Savannah Lyda

References to website URLs were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Ooligan Press is responsible for URLs that have changed or expired since the manuscript was prepared.

Printed in the United States of America

THORN CITY

A NOVEL

PAMELA STATZ

Ooligan Press | Portland, Oregon

For Justin

Prologue

He stood vigil, watching and waiting. A van pulled into the driveway, and two men emerged dressed in black, their faces concealed by ski masks. They approached the house with dark intent, their breath visible in the chill morning air.

He had to stop them.

Rushing to the front door, he reached out to turn the lock, but he was too late. The door opened, and the men entered. They motioned for him to stay silent. One pointed toward a staircase leading to the second floor and waited for an answer.

He lowered his eyes and nodded. Ashamed, he retreated to the kitchen.

He listened. Low voices, then a cry of protest followed by piercing screams. Almost as startling came silence, then heavy footsteps on the stairs. Was it over? No.

She burst into the kitchen, her face shifting from fear, to confusion, then rage as she realized the truth.

Already knowing he’d fail, he made a final protest. He would have fought to the death if he’d known it was the last time he’d ever see her.

Chapter 1

The Gala

The city bus lurched to a stop and coolly exhaled two twenty-

somethings clad in sequined mini-dresses. As the pair stepped onto the pavement, the summer heat rose in waves around them, and the air had the unpleasant odor of a city street gone too long without rain. Jamie flipped back her hair, squared her shoulders, and started down the sidewalk at a quick clip. Lisa followed, her ponytail wilting in the humidity.

How much farther is it? Lisa asked. I can barely walk in these heels.

Then take them off, said Jamie over her shoulder.

Go barefoot? Lisa scowled at the grimy sidewalk. A homeless man catcalled her from a partially collapsed tent. She hurried to catch up with Jamie. I thought this was supposed to be a fancy party. Why hold it in the Park Blocks?

Because it’s very Portland chic to have fancy parties in shitty parts of town.

Did you bring band aids? Lisa asked hopefully. I think I’m getting a blister.

Of course, said Jamie, as though offended Lisa had to ask. Still walking at a rapid pace, Jamie opened her purse, rooted around, and handed Lisa two bandages. One for the back of each foot. I also have mints, antacids, aspirin, tampons, lip balm, tissues, sunglasses, gum, lipstick, condoms, concealer, a flashlight, and an emergency candy bar.

You’re a mobile drug store, said Lisa, reaching for the chocolate.

Jamie slapped Lisa’s hand away. Does this look like an emergency?

Yes, Jamie. Yes, it does.

Jamie snapped her purse shut and glanced at her watch. He’s expecting us at seven.

Lisa rolled her eyes. Nigel’s parties suck whether or not we show up.

True, but fuck Nigel, I’m doing this for the money, said Jamie. I want to find him before the party starts so we can get paid.

The light changed at the corner of Burnside Street and Eighth Avenue, but Lisa didn’t budge. Can’t we just rob a liquor store, then go home and binge watch something on Netflix?

That’s a super fun idea, Lisa, but no. We can’t afford Netflix. Jamie grabbed Lisa’s hand and pulled her across the street. I know we promised ourselves we’d never work another party, but rent’s due. I don’t want to have to ask my parents again.

I know, said Lisa with a pang of guilt. The money she had inherited from her father covered her tuition and most of the rent, but not much else. A girl had to eat. She could ask her mother, but that option was infinitely worse than working at one of Nigel’s parties.

Lisa followed Jamie toward the stretch of green that made up the North Park Blocks. Usually the domain of homeless and meth heads, tonight the park had been transformed with white party tents, flower-laden tables, and thousands of tiny lights strung across towering Dutch elms.

Jamie made a beeline for a slim man in a pale blue linen suit, who stood talking with a bouncer near a silver and white balloon arch.

Hey, Nigel. We made it, said Jamie breathlessly.

It’s about time, Nigel said as he motioned to the bouncer to let Jamie and Lisa through. He looked them over with a critical eye. What on earth are you wearing? he asked Jamie.

Jamie was encased in a ridiculously short, shimmering green cocktail dress. She twirled, almost tripping in her strappy sandals. It’s new. I ordered it on Bimbos-R-Us.

Wherever you got it, it’s perfect. Nigel turned to Lisa and motioned for her to spin as well, but Lisa just crossed her arms over her gold sequined number and shook her head no. Nigel didn’t press the matter. Now, girls, you both know the drill. It’s not about just standing around looking pretty.

We know, said Jamie. Be the first to dance, the first to karaoke, and don’t forget to talk to the socially inept about their hopes and dreams for the future.

And no drinking. If someone offers you one, dump it discreetly. Nigel mimicked pouring out an imaginary cocktail behind his back. Like so.

Jamie groaned. How are we supposed to tolerate this if we can’t drink?

If this is because I vomited on that guy’s shoes . . . Lisa said, glaring at Nigel.

He glared back. I’m not paying to replace another pair of suede wingtips.

Fine. No drinking, said Jamie, giving Lisa a warning look.

Nigel smiled. Thank you. And next time catch a ride over, and make sure it’s a car with air conditioning. You’re both all shiny. Go powder your noses.

He tried to shoo them away, but Jamie stood her ground and held out her hand. There’s still the matter of payment.

Of course, how could I forget? He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and counted out six one-hundred-dollar bills. He handed three to Jamie and three to Lisa. Now go pretend to have fun, he said, waving them off.

Lisa and Jamie headed across the party grounds, following signs for the ladies’ room. Other than staff, they appeared to be the only attendees.

Where is everyone? Lisa asked.

The party is for some tech conference. Guests should start showing up soon. I assume it’ll be the usual bullshit, said Jamie.

Totes, agreed Lisa.

They walked past waiters prepping hors d’oeuvres and stocking bars with liquor, beer, and wine. In tandem, tattooed hipsters readied trendy food trucks that would give the party that signature Portlandia vibe. Signs advertised culinary mash ups like the Korean Kabab, the Prussian Pierogi, and Double D Donuts.

Under the trees, the summer air felt cooler. The sky was still bright, just hinting toward twilight. For a moment, Lisa let herself pretend that she was an actual guest at the party, that she could relax and have fun.

Does Patrick know where you are tonight? asked Jamie.

The spell broke.

Nope. And he’s not going to. He hates it when I work parties. Lisa pulled her phone from her purse. There were three new messages, each with a tiny photo of Patrick’s face. She clicked. Oh no.

Has he been arrested? Tell him we can’t cover his bail.

It’s so much worse, Lisa said, handing Jamie her phone. He got a tattoo.

Jamie squinted at the photo, a close up of Patrick’s arm. Does that say, ‘Lisa Forever’?

Lisa nodded vigorously.

That is amazing, said Jamie. She started laughing, almost losing her breath. This dress is too tight.

You’re not helping, Lisa said. Maybe it’s a joke. She took the phone back and zoomed in on the photo. The tattoo looked fresh, the skin angry and sore. She suddenly felt nauseous. Tapping quickly, she texted back, ‘WOW’ with a red heart emoji, hoping it would be vague enough until she had a chance to fully absorb the latest expression of her boyfriend’s devotion.

Lisa Forever, sang Jamie, still laughing. Lisa Forrreeeverrrrr.

Shut up, Lisa said. Anyway, he loves me. What’s wrong with that?

Maybe it’s time to look for some friends who aren’t from a school for troubled teens.

Um, hello, Lisa said.

My situation is completely different, said Jamie. I chose to attend the Lost Lake Academy.

After your juvenile court judge strongly suggested it, Lisa said.

Jamie shrugged. Regardless, I’m here to act as your emotional support animal. Whereas Patrick is a little bit confused and a lot fixated on you.

He’s not fixated, Lisa said, her hands on her hips. He’s just stuck. Anyway, you introduced us.

Sorry.

And maybe it really will be Lisa and Patrick forever, Lisa said with a shrug. Even as she spoke the words aloud, she wanted to snatch them back. Patrick and Jamie had pulled her through some dark times at the Academy, but they were years beyond that now. Lisa and Jamie were in school, Lisa was working on a degree from the College of Art and Jamie studied political science at Portland State University. They had plans. But Patrick liked his job at the bike shop, and he seemed perfectly content sharing a dumpy apartment with three other guys. Lisa figured he would grow up someday, but she was losing patience with his inability to commit to anything other than her. She couldn’t solve all his problems. She had too many of her own.

And if not forever, there’s always laser tattoo removal, said Jamie with a smile.

As they walked past the row of food trucks, Lisa spotted the ladies’ room—a massive trailer that looked distinctly portable. A port-a-potty? You have to be kidding.

Oh no, this is a Presidential Potty, said Jamie with reverence.

A what?

Presidential. My cousin rented one of these for her wedding. They’re super nice.

Whatever. Careful in her high heels, Lisa followed Jamie up three steep steps to a steel door marked Ladies.

The interior was sparkling clean and quite luxurious with four bathroom stalls, all empty. Lisa shrugged and made herself comfortable in front of a large mirror. She’d overdone her makeup. Her eyes were lined with black pencil, and her sparkly gold eyeshadow matched the color of her strapless dress. Her lashes held a thick layer of mascara, and her pert lips were a deep pink. She should have plucked her eyebrows before leaving the apartment, and that blemish hadn’t quite cleared up, but it was nothing Jamie’s bag of tricks couldn’t fix. She picked through her friend’s purse and pulled out a stick of concealer.

Jamie stepped into a toilet stall and returned with two disposable seat covers. She handed one to Lisa.

What am I supposed to do with this? asked Lisa, holding the thin tissue with the tips of her fingers.

Blot.

No.

Yes. See? Jamie started patting the tissue against her skin, and like magic, her face went from shiny to matte. Better than those fancy-ass blotters from Sephora. And they’re free.

I like free, said Lisa, following her friend’s lead and pressing the tissue to her face. So, what’s the plan? she said, her voice slightly muffled.

A few rounds of mingling, then assess the catering options.

What about the food trucks? Korean Kabab’s here, said Lisa. She crumpled up her toilet seat cover and tossed it into the trash. You know how much I love their kimchi burritos.

Your obsession with fermented vegetables is disturbing, said Jamie.

I blame your grandmother.

Grandma Kim does make the best Bibimbap this side of the Pacific, said Jamie. Okay, Korean Kabab it is. We need to keep up our strength. At nine, we hit the karaoke stage. We’ll do one together. I’m thinking we start strong with . . .

Not Journey, interrupted Lisa, as she touched up her lipstick.

You’re so good, though. You sound just like Steve Perry.

No. I’m singing ‘Rebel Girl.’ I don’t care if Nigel complains.

Are you sure we shouldn’t stick with something a little more conventional? You know, like the B-52s, Britney, even Bon Jovi.

It’s our duty to musically educate these tech bros.

Fine. Are you ready?

As I’ll ever be.

They looked at each other’s reflections in the big mirror and practiced their smiles. Don’t let me do anything stupid, they said in unison, and laughed.

Chapter 2

George Gets His Fix

George Green arrived at the party dressed in his signature look—a light wool navy blazer, ironic T-shirt, distressed designer jeans, and vintage Nike Cortez sneakers in black with a white swoosh. The touch of gray at his temples lent him gravitas, but his face retained a youthful vigor that, from a distance at least, still read hipster.

Tonight’s party was the culmination of a conference sponsored by the city and various local pillars of industry, George’s company included. Advertising agency Burnam & Green occupied a full block of prime real estate in Portland’s trendy Pearl District and had satellite offices in the usual hotspots of Beijing, London, Rio, and Tokyo. The company’s Portland-based mothership was an architectural marvel of reclaimed Douglas fir, raw steel beams, and open workspaces outfitted with the finest furniture Design Within Reach had to offer.

Earlier that evening George had delivered the conference’s keynote speech to thunderous applause. A quick scan of social media assured him that the crowd had found it brilliant despite its notable absence of original content. His delivery was outstanding, his voice deep and soothing with a touch of grit, the residue of a youthful smoking habit. Though his words lacked real substance, twenty years of ad campaigns had polished them to a fine and appealing gloss.

Now, with the party at full tilt, George held court with a glass of Kentucky bourbon in his left hand, his smart phone in his right. He was flanked by groupies: eager young men—and a token woman—all pitching ideas, grasping for opportunity, desperately hoping George would help launch their careers.

George should have been in his element. The chance to flaunt one’s power in Portland was rare, but a restless unease deflated his mood. The reality was that Burnam & Green was poised on a knife-edge. The company had been hemorrhaging clients since the retirement of George’s older and wiser partner, Henry Burnam. Fortunately, no one but George and his CFO knew how bad things were.

For the moment, George tried to push aside his worries and do his best to pontificate. You need to get to the sharp point, he said. George’s admirers absorbed his words as eagerly as their watered-down gin and tonics. Break down the silos and focus on the north star of your creative ideations. The sea of heads bobbed. Even with this show of adulation, George felt his anxiety grow. At any moment he could pass into obscurity and irrelevance. He was forty-five after all, and admittedly in the full flush of a midlife crisis. Right now, he needed something stronger than bourbon to take the edge off. Across the crowd, he saw the woman who could give him that something—Sheila.

George excused himself and started to wade through the throng. He was greeted on all sides by associates known and unknown. No one let him pass without enjoying a moment in his orbit. Some merited a handshake, others an air kiss, a few received a hearty pat on the back, and he always replied with a modest thank you to their words of praise for his excellent speech. As he advanced, he kept a close eye on his target.

Finally, George shook off the last hanger-on, only to face disappointment. Sheila was deep in conversation. He couldn’t see her expression, but he recognized the man with whom she spoke. Unlike the rest of the attendees, who shared the damp, flushed cheeks of their second or third drink, Victor Smith was sober and angry.

Victor had a lean and handsome face, framed with a full head of deep gray hair that must have been black when he was young. Dark rimmed glasses gave him a slightly professorial look, and people were easily taken in by his natural charm, only to be later stunned by his complete lack of empathy. One of Portland’s most notorious slum lords, Victor had started his career tearing down historic buildings and replacing them with cheap apartments, parking garages, and strip malls. In the last few years, Victor’s company, Victor Smith Construction, had shifted focus. VSC cranes and work crews hovered over the Portland skyline, building high-end condos and shopping complexes. Victor had approached Burnam & Green about a rebrand, but George had laughed it off. If a company wasn’t in the Fortune 500 with a valuation equal to the net worth of a small European country, George wasn’t interested. Not worth the effort.

In truth, George was scared of Victor. Most people with any sense were. Victor was rumored in his youth to have killed a man with only a fountain pen—the same pen now affixed to the jacket pocket of his well-cut suit.

George watched as Victor gripped Sheila’s bare arm tightly. As she tried to pull away, George saw that her eyes were bright with fear under her thin, arched brows.

Where is it? Victor demanded.

Sheila answered, her voice shrill, Your goons will never find it.

Victor’s face darkened. Maybe they can’t find it because it’s always on you. Still grasping Sheila’s arm, he reached for her purse, but she held it just out of reach.

Do you really think I’m that stupid? she hissed.

Thought I might get lucky.

Victor. I’m not being unreasonable. I’ll hand it over when you agree to my terms, she said.

You’re a power-hungry bitch, Sheila. I’ve always liked that about you, but you’re pushing it too far. Almost four years I’ve been dealing with your bullshit. My patience has worn thin.

Sheila’s eyes glanced toward George. We have company, she said.

Victor released his grip and turned, seeing George. In an instant, his threatening look was replaced with a warm smile. He held out his hand. George reciprocated in spite of the jolt of unease he felt at Victor’s abrupt change of mood.

George, said Victor heartily. Great to see you.

I hope I’m not interrupting anything, George said, pulling his hand away and resisting the urge to wipe it on his jacket. He glanced at Sheila, who was lighting a cigarette. Her hands trembled. Everything all right here? he asked.

Grand, just grand, Victor said. His eyes left George’s and scanned the crowd. I see that son of a bitch the chief of police. She owes me C-note from our last poker game. When you’re ready to sell me your building, George, you let me know. It’s the perfect spot for a two-hundred-unit condo complex. I’ll even throw a penthouse suite into the deal. Without another word, Victor made his exit.

George stepped closer to Sheila. What was that all about? he asked.

Sheila rubbed her arm where the pink imprint of Victor’s fingertips lingered. That was nothing.

Didn’t look like nothing. How do you know him anyway? Is he a customer?

Victor Smith? She laughed bitterly. Never. Listen, George, do me a favor and forget you saw that. It was just a little misunderstanding.

Consider it forgotten, George said. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in his drug dealer’s drama. You have something for me?

She smiled. Always right to the point. That’s what I like about you, George. This way. She led him through the crowd, past the pod of food trucks to a vintage Airstream trailer. Unlocking the metal door, she motioned for George to enter, then followed him inside, securing the door behind her. Wouldn’t want anyone barging in on us.

Speaking of, I’m surprised you’re here tonight, said George. Pretty ballsy to deal coke at the mayor’s big event.

Consider it a fuck you to Mayor Law and Order, Sheila said. She crushed out her cigarette in a clean ashtray, then opened a small cabinet and set out a mirror, a packet of white powder, and a razor blade. Here, give it a try. It’s organic coke from Peru.

Organic, really? Sue keeps telling me to watch my health.

Is your lovely wife here tonight?

God no, she hates these things. She’s been at a silent yoga retreat all week. I expect her back on Sunday.

So that’s why I haven’t seen her at the gym lately. Please tell her I said hello.

Of course, said George, knowing he’d do no such thing. He didn’t approve of the friendship between Sheila and his wife, even if Sue was unaware of Sheila’s side gig as drug dealer to Portland’s elite. He cut a line, took a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, rolled it up, and held it out to Sheila. Ladies first.

Sheila shook her head no. You know I never touch the stuff. Another client assures me this is the best he’s had since the eighties. I call it ‘Like a Virgin.’ High for the very first time.

George laughed and bent to snort a line. He straightened and paused for a moment. Incredible, he whispered. The rush of the drug was immediate and thrilling. He was ready to give another keynote speech, do a thousand push-ups, fuck a beautiful girl. He took another hit. I’ll take a gram now and send one of your boys over with an eight ball tomorrow.

Always a pleasure doing business with you, George.

He smiled and handed her a few bills from his wallet. Likewise, Sheila.

Sheila gave him an appraising look. Listen George, could you do me a favor? I’ll make it worth your while. She pressed the money back into his hand.

What is it? he asked. He was suddenly eager to get back to the party.

Could you hold onto something for me? Just for a day or so. She opened her leather handbag and pulled out a thin, square DVD case.

"You want me to hold on to your copy of Die Hard?"

That’s just a case I had handy. She opened his suit jacket and slid the case into the inside breast pocket. A perfect fit. You won’t even know it’s there. And George, don’t watch it. It’s a private video.

George gave her a knowing smile and patted his lapel. An odd request, but it seemed harmless enough. He unlocked the Airstream’s door and rejoined the party. Either it had picked up considerably in the brief time he’d been conducting his transaction, or the coke was really doing its job. He felt fantastic.

And then he saw her. She was blond, with a great figure, wearing a tight sequined dress that picked up the last of the evening’s light and the unusual golden shade of her eyes.

It was clear to him what she was doing here. Same as Sheila, making a living. Sheila with her drugs, this girl with her body.

A pudgy young man eagerly handed the girl a drink, spilling a few drops in his haste. She smiled at something he said, then discreetly poured the drink out behind her back. George laughed at her artifice. Then, he remembered his empty house and smiled. He may as well enjoy the weekend with someone young, hot, and for sale.

Chapter 3

Straight Up

with a Twist

Lisa made the rounds. She flirted shamelessly with bland,

overly-confident men. Listened attentively to lame jokes and laughed at punchlines on cue. She feigned interest in tales of economic pursuits and exaggerated successes. Already, a margarita, two cosmopolitans, and a gin and tonic had watered the lawn of the party.

All in a night’s work, she thought. Lisa glanced at her phone, checking the time. She was due at the Karaoke tent in ten minutes. Don’t Stop Believin’ was already stuck in her head. Maybe she’d just bite the bullet and sing the damn song.

Then Lisa saw her. Mother . . .

Her heart pounding, Lisa quickly excused herself from her third Jeff of the evening, and looked desperately for Jamie, knowing her friend would act as a willing shield. As she searched the crowd, she caught the eye of a man walking toward her from the food truck pod.

He was tall, fit, a bit on the older side, but still the most handsome man at the party. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair