The Price Of Scandal(7)
The two blocks to the restaurant were the most interminable of my life. And that’s saying something in Miami. The man dressed like a European playboy and spoke like a valley girl. His bootcut jeans were so tight I wondered if the blood supply to his legs was cut off. And then there was the glossy purple shirt worn so open we could be cleavage twins.
“You’re like super-hot,” he said, grinding the gears and flashing me a smile so white I had to avert my eyes.
A Bentley, tires squealing, pulled out in front of us from an alley.
Merritt slammed on the brakes and stalled the car.
“What are you doing in town?” I asked, craning my neck to peer out the window. The car sat so low I felt like I was laying on the street.
“I have a little business with my bros,” he said cagily. He turned the engine back on, and we lurched forward.
Porn probably, I guessed. No, wait. Maybe a yacht party with underage starlets? Bath salt abuse contest?
I was being uncharitable. And entertaining. It kept my digested food on the inside of my body.
“How do you know my brother?” I asked.
“Trey? Oh, man. Me and him go way back. Prep school. Tahoe. Greece.”
For one out-of-body moment, I wondered what it would be like if my own story hadn’t been limited to classroom, lab, and boardroom. I didn’t have any friends from Tahoe. Or stories from Greece.
Then again, I also didn’t have to pull up to a restaurant in a car that cost more than most people’s lifetime income to get my kicks.
“Here we are,” Merritt sang as he revved the engine up to the valet stand. The photographers stationed outside salivated on cue, and camera flashes blinded me.
“I’ll come around, pretty lady,” he said, wrestling the door up. He tossed the keys to the valet and shot his arms in the air in a V. Passersby stopped to stare.
Maybe I could just stay in the car? This kind of attention couldn’t really be valuable for either one of us. What did it matter who I went to dinner with? Or didn’t go to dinner with.
I thought longingly of my pajamas and leftovers in my fridge.
But my door was lifting like an eagle wing, and there was no longer a barrier between me and the hungry photographers. Someone—Merritt or a valet—reached in and offered me their hand. Thank God I’d worn sensible underwear today. Climbing out of this damn car was like requesting a public gynecological exam.
It was Merritt’s hand, I realized when I gained my feet on the sidewalk.
He tossed his sugary hair out of his eyes and offered me his arm. “Smile big.”
At least that’s what I thought he said. I couldn’t tell for sure over the sound of the sirens. The flashes weren’t just from cameras now. Red and blue lights were painting the outside of the restaurant, bouncing off the glass facade.
“Someone’s in trouble,” Merritt yelled over the noise.
“Is this your car, sir?” a uniformed police officer, hand on her weapon, demanded.
I needed that voice for board meetings.
Merritt’s yellow monstrosity was being swarmed by more police.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
Merritt shrugged but looked uneasy.
“Sir? Is this your car? Don’t make me ask you again!”
“Yes, it’s my car, and you don’t have to have that attitude with me,” he snapped back loud enough for every photographer on the entire block to hear him.
Oh, hell. He was going to say it. He was going to say it, and I was standing right next to him. Words like that splattered on anyone in the vicinity.
“Show me your hands, sir,” the cop yelled. She flicked the snap that holstered her gun. I took a decisive step to the side and kept my hands in plain sight.
“Do you know who I am?” he bellowed.
What a fucking idiot.
“Found something,” one of the officers searching the car called. He held up a baggie of something white and powdery.
Oh, shit. My digestive system gave a warning rumble.
I moved to open my clutch, dial my lawyer.
“Ma’am! Put your hands behind your head,” the first cop yelled.
“That shit’s not mine,” Merritt howled. His tan face was red with entitled rage.
“Everything is fine,” I said calmly to the cop. “I’m just reaching for my phone.”
“Hands behind your head!”
I put my hands in my wasted hair and then schooled my features into a mask of impassiveness while a cop yanked my arms behind my back. As the cuffs snapped into place on my wrists, I spotted Jane jogging up the block, already on the phone. She nodded grimly at me.
At least my legal team was already informed of my very public humiliation.
4
Derek
My date was annoying me on several different fronts, and we hadn’t even made it to the table yet. Over drinks on the restaurant’s patio behind the wall of paparazzi capturing the comings and goings of the city’s celebrities, I discovered she initiated each sentence with a distinct mouth click and ended with a question.
Click. “So I haven’t been here since Hidalgo left to work for that restaurant in Rome? He made my favorite risotto?”
Everything was Alicia’s favorite.
In the fifteen minutes I’d known the woman, she’d introduced me to her favorite lip stain, her favorite designer eyelash extensions, and her favorite member of One Direction.