Page 7 of Famous for a Living

“Uncle.” I find my feet and start to move down the spiral staircase, heels clicking on each glassy step. “It’s fine. Really. I’m coming down.”

“Where are you going?” Serena calls from the doorway of the kitchen, all the while holding on to Gabby’s elbow with one hand, the butter knife dripping with icing in the other. “What are you doing?”

“I have a situation downstairs,” I say, and break for the door.

Uncle Terry’s voice is still in my ear. “Catherine, you carry that revolver I got you for Christmas, don’t you? I don’t like the idea of you having to rely on some random doorman— What do you mean you have a no-gun policy in the building? Not even for her? Then how do you expect her to protect herself if she doesn’t have one of these when— Well, of course I do. I’m a United States citizen, aren’t I? UNHAND ME, SIR—”

Several hands are touching me in greeting as I reach the main landing, compliments about my ensemble are flying, but the best I can do is nod and smile overenthusiastically while clutching the phone to my ear and all but elbowing people out of the way for the door.

“Thank you for coming!” I whisper on repeat until I’m finally at the elevator and jam my finger on the button.

The situation must’ve worsened, because as soon as I get into the elevator, the call ends, leaving me staring with one tapping heel at my own impatient reflection on the closed elevator doors.

And while I may have a launch party starting in a matter of minutes, paperwork in another language regarding millions of dollars I have to decide whether to sign, and a best friend trying to shuffle out a party risk carrying a suspicious amount of blood-red cupcakes into a room full of white couches and paparazzi, my chief concern at this moment is Uncle Terry, who with all his cantankerous ways, is about to get himself Tased.

Uncle Terry is my closest kin. Nobody has ever heard me speak a word of my parents, even Serena. But Uncle Terry?

For all his gruffness, he is the one who calls on every one of my birthdays. Checks in at least once a month like clockwork. The conversations rarely go much longer than ten minutes—as though he doesn’t want to intrude too much into my life but wants to make sure I am emotionally, physically, and even financially in check. (He never could wrap his head around my career in content creation and, as such, is convinced I am always one sleep away from complete destitution and in need of the occasional twenty-dollar bill in the mail.)

As though he wants to pick up the torch where my own father, his brother, failed.

“Bernie, it’s okay. This is my uncle.” I raise my hands as I stride across the marble hall to where poor Bernie has one hand hovering over his hip, clearly struggling to decide which is worse: accidentally letting in a criminal or accidentally Tasing a resident’s relative.

Unfortunately, he’s stopped the real thing more than once from trying to enter the building. I can’t blame him for his lack of trust.

“Oooookay.” I take Uncle Terry by the arm, guiding him away. “Thank you so much, Bernie. I’ll take him from here.”

I don’t stop until we are back at the elevators, at which point I swivel him around by the shoulders, grin widely, and take him in. “Well, well, well. And I thought I was the only one pulling birthday surprises today.”

Residue of the unhappy incident still lingers in his expression, but I move in for a hug anyway.

His coat smells of tobacco and pine, and after a moment, he gives my back an awkward pat. I smile at the pat of his grizzly-sized palm—the same calloused, sausage-fingered hands that have always been there.

I didn’t even realize how much I missed him.

“How long has it been?” I step back and cock my head, trying to remember.

“Two years. September fourth,” he replies without hesitation, as though the date is seared in his memory.

“Too long,” I say, quietly pleased he cared so much to remember. “So.” I tug on his forest ranger jacket. “The truth now. What really dragged you here?”

“I already told you. My favorite niece’s birthday.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, but a rueful smile plays at his lips.

“Liar. You don’t love me enough for that.”

His mustache twitches. A unibrow forms from his bushy brows as he creases his forehead. “’Course I do. I’d take a bullet for you.”

“I know you’d take a bullet for me,” I reply, as though that much was obvious. “But voluntarily entering the city? Come now. Let’s be realistic. Plus”—I look down at his olive jacket and pants—“you’re in uniform.”

He frowns, peering down at his uniform as though it gave him away.

“Fine. I’m here for my niece’s—”

“Favorite niece’s,” I interject.

“—birthday,” he continues, then with an agitated undertone adds, “and a conference.”

“Really?” My brow hitches up. Last time he had a conference he had to attend was . . . well . . . never.