Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(79)

Kim has followed me. She reaches for my hand. I yank it away.

And I’m done. I’m fucking done with this. With these fake people, who pretend to like you but only care about one-upping each other. If that’s what’s called sophistication and elegance, fuck it. They can keep it all.

She puts her arms around me. “Come on, Jimmy,” she teases with a lilting voice. “I know just how to make you feel better.”

She buries her face in my neck, and before I can think to push her away, I look up as Lizzy walks in from outside, still clutching the bottle of tequila, now half-empty.

She freezes.

And the look she gives me is like the end of the fucking world.

Something I know I will never recover from, so long as I live.

Lizzy

When I went outside with my bottle of Patrón, I thought I couldn’t feel worse.

Then I got corralled by a doorman, who told me I’d better return the bottle to its proper location if I didn’t want him to call the cops. By then, I’d drunk half of it. At first, it’d burned, but as I stood outside, taking a swig in front of the man, it went down like water. Like a total spoiled bitch, I said to him, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Elizabeth Banks. That’s my party you’re hosting in there!”

“All right, Miss Banks,” he said condescendingly, holding my elbow. “Why don’t we get you inside, and you can return the bottle?”

I shook him off. “Why don’t you stay out here and fuck off?”

And I took another swig. That was when I started feeling a little chilly. Chilly and warm, actually, at the exact same time.

I went inside, and it turns out I could feel worse.

Because now I’m looking at Kim, my competition, making out with my . . . whatever he is. My nothing? My nothing that feels like everything?

The second he sees me, James tears out of her embrace and stalks toward me. I drop the bottle on the ground with a terrific crash, glass shards spraying everywhere. He opens his mouth to say something, and I run off toward the back of the hotel. Anywhere. I just need to get away.

Somewhere he can’t follow.

The restroom.

I don’t make it that far, though. He catches up to me before I can slip inside. He grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me into his arms. For three seconds, he’s holding me, repeating my name over and over again, like it means something to him.

It hurts too much.

He’s hurt me. SO much.

“Did you fuck her too?” I ask, blubbering now, struggling to free myself from his hold as I try to stop crying.

“No. NO.”

“Well, why not?” I sound hysterical. Still sobbing as I push myself free. “What was stopping you? What’s stopping you from fucking every woman in the place? They all want you, Mr. Sophistication. Mr. PURRRRFECT!”

He grabs my shoulders again, giving me a squeeze to catch my attention, his fierce blue gaze pinning me down in frustration. “No, Lizzy, something is stopping me. Don’t you get it? It’s—”

“Oh my god, it’s James Rowan!” a middle-aged woman screams across the lobby, barreling toward him. “Everyone! It’s that hot guy on the side of the building in Times Square!”

“Go,” I mutter, pushing at his chest. “Greet your adoring public. Show them what a PURFFFFFECT man you are, James!” I scaldingly grit out.

Suddenly, a slew of women are heading this way. He turns, bracing himself, allowing me just enough time to slip out of his arms and into the restroom.

Maybe he tries to follow, but I don’t care. I slip into a stall and need almost an entire roll of toilet paper to stem the tide of my tears.

I’m too drunk; I can barely stand up straight. The walls of the stall are bending and squeezing in my vision.

Maybe a minute or an hour later, I hear a rap on the door, and someone—I think it’s LB—says, “Lizzy? You’re on in two!”

His voice sounds like he’s underwater. Or speaking through wadded-up cotton.

Two minutes. For what?

Right. I have to give my speech.

I don’t even know how I walk across the room. I push open the door to the stall and blink to focus on my face in the mirror. Everything’s bleary, like I’m looking at myself through a kaleidoscope, but I know I don’t look my best. My hair’s a mess, and my face is red.

But what the fuck. I’m game.

Let’s get this show on the road.

Anger starts replacing my hurt. I blow my nose hard into a paper towel, toss it away, and stalk out of the bathroom. When I get to the ballroom, I trip over my own feet as I make my way to the table. I grab my purse, fumbling with the clasp as LB looks at me. “Are you okay, Lizzy?”

I salute him. “Never better, Little Bitch.”

Whoops. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

Ah, fuck it. He’ll get over it. My daddy pays him enough.

I climb up to the podium. Or stumble is more like it. I don’t care. Suddenly I could laugh at this all, because I don’t care.

My gown suddenly has too much fabric swishing at my calves, and it’s too fucking in my way. I yank it out from between my legs and pile it all on my arm. Grabbing onto the podium for dear life, I signal for the band to cut the music, and stare at the dumbstruck faces in the audience.

“Okay, people!” I scream into the audience. “Let’s get this party started!”