Chapter 59
“Fawn?” Mark had tugged his arm and leaned closer. “Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine,” Gerry had said. He’d pasted on a smile and turned back to Mark. “Totally fine.”
That was where he sat: at the bar, with his third, fourth, or fifth drink, watching the rain and thinking about London. There was enough light on the windows that he could watch the activity behind him without appearing interested. So while Sheryl—or was it Deegan?—rattled off his opinions about the demise of free thinking and how that could be attributed to the greed of industry and the consumerism of America’s people, Gerry could pretend he hadn’t heard. He could sit back and save himself the trouble of pointing out the hypocrisy of making such a statement in a hotel that cost more per night than most folk’s mortgage payments, drinking champagne by the bucketful and snorting drugs by the shovelful.