Die Once More by Amy Plum Read Free Book Online Page A

of hair behind her ear. Thank God. My impulse disappears and my finger is safe. But her magnetic pull remains.
    â€œYou’ve got an insider’s view on the early days of the Factory,” I continue. “There aren’t too many people around who can claim to have that.”
    She shakes her head. “Almost everyone’s gone.”
    Now that this door has cracked open, I want to push it further. I want to know this girl. I lean forward, genuinely intrigued. “What were they like? Was it a hotbed of creativity like we had in Paris at the Bateau-Lavoir? Were they as crazy and debauched as the stories say, or was it all a legend to build up the Warhol myth?”
    About halfway through my question, Ava’s face changes. A memory flickers across her features—I see a flash of vulnerability before she turns back to stone. “Crazy. Debauched. Take your pick,” she says, pulling her computer to her and positioning its screen between us like a shield. “Everyone wants to relive the glory days of the Factory. I, for one, am glad they’re over.”
    And that is it. Door shut. End of conversation. End of communication. All the way to Paris.

SEVEN
    THEY ’ RE WAITING FOR US IN THE PRIVATE PLANE terminal: Ambrose is a huge, hulking form coming at me for a crushing embrace, and Charlotte’s a sparkling ball of effervescence, hopping up and down like popcorn and grabbing me around the neck as soon as Ambrose lets go.
    â€œYou’re here!” she squeals, and then does the jumping thing some more, practically dislocating my neck in the process.
    â€œCouldn’t miss the big day,” I say, although that’s exactly what I had been planning to do. I glance over at Ava, and she’s pure cynicism. She knows I’m full of shit. She strides up to Ambrose and holds her hand out.
    â€œAva Whitefoot,” she says.
    Ambrose smiles his million-dollar smile and says, “Damn, I miss that accent. Raised in New York?”
    â€œLong Island,” Ava responds, and matches his smile watt for watt. And I have to admit: It looks truly genuine. Ava is a peopleperson, except, it seems, when it comes to me.
    Charlotte detaches herself from my neck and turns to give Ava the bises , leaning up slightly to reach the taller girl’s cheeks. “I’m Charlotte. I don’t think we’ve met.”
    â€œI don’t go to convocations,” Ava explains. “I’m a bit of a hermit. Prefer not to wander far from home.”
    â€œWell, we’re honored you came all this way for our wedding,” Charlotte says, and sticks out her hand for me to inspect the elaborate emerald-and-diamond ring on her left hand.
    â€œRenaissance?” I ask.
    â€œYes,” she says fondly. “Ambrose chose it from the treasury.”
    â€œIt’s exquisite,” Ava remarks, looking from the ring to Charlotte’s face. “It matches your eyes.” She smiles, and the connection is palpable: A new friendship has been born.
    Meanwhile, Faust has walked up to Ambrose, and they do a testosterone-charged handshake that makes all their arm muscles bulge. “Faustino Molinaro,” Faust says. “Nine eleven.”
    Ambrose whistles, impressed. “Fire, police, EMT?” he asks.
    â€œNew York City Fire Department, Ladder Company Three,” Faust replies.
    Ambrose clasps Faust by the shoulder and says, “Man, we’re honored to have you here. True American hero.”
    â€œNot any more than you, from what I’ve heard,” Faust replies. “World War I, first African-American tank battalion. Took out an entire German guard post single-handedly. Man, you’re legend among the kindred back home.”
    Ambrose laughs. “This is home now. And if I get any timeoff from wedding preparations”—he throws a worried glance at Charlotte, who gives him a happy smile and blows him a kiss—“I’ll be happy to show