Thorne Princess(20)

Ransom was sitting at a table next to us outside by the curb, working on his laptop and looking like he wanted to murder everyone on the premises. I was hyperaware of his presence, so I noticed when his fingers stilled over the keyboard. He’d definitely heard the verbal fart NeNe had just let loose.

“Where it is held every year,” I said woodenly. “In Sundance.”

NeNe pouted, swirling the straw inside her iced coffee without drinking it. “I thought it was like the Olympics.”

“It would make sense if the Olympics were only held in Greece,” my other companion, Tara, said. She tugged at her ash-blonde chignon, making it purposefully asunder.

Tara was a leggy supermodel. I could safely say we three had never shared an enlightening or intellectual conversation, but we found ourselves hanging out together more often than not. Advertisers liked our combined market pull. Tara brought the fashion-obsessed audience, Nectarine the makeup buffs, and my specialty was Midwestern women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four.

Despite that, I couldn’t call Tara and NeNe my friends. They knew very little about my life. Not that there was much to know. All I did when we were together was hang out with Keller and post stories of my freebies on Instagram.

Ransom’s nostrils flared as he kept working on his laptop. It was obvious he thought the three of us were a waste of space.

“What else is new with you guys?” I redirected the conversation, taking a sip of my dairy-free cappuccino. I needed to stir the subject to safer territory.

“Well, I think I’m going to stop with the eyelash extensions. I saw this documentary—” NeNe started.

“Oh my gosh, me too!” Tara cut in. “It was so sad. That girl is never going to be able to even put mascara on again.”

“You know what would’ve worked to unglue the eyelashes?” NeNe jumped in passionately. “Acetone. That shit removes anything!”

“Including your eyesight…” I muttered under my breath.

I shot another disgruntled look at Ransom, who glanced at his expensive timepiece. I’d never felt embarrassed about keeping company with Tara and Nectarine before. I did now. I hated that his mere presence was like calling me on my bullshit. Suddenly, my empty existence had a context. I didn’t like it.

All this while, a photographer we’d invited from a medium-sized gossip website had been taking pictures of us enjoying our time at Bakersfield. Or at least pretending to.

“A bit of subtlety, Hal-Pal,” Tara mewed. “We can all see you checking out Mr. Hot Shot at three o’clock.”

She was talking about Ransom. My stomach churned. It was time to fess up. They were going to find out sooner or later.

“Actually.” I cleared my throat. “That’s my bodyguard.”

“Shut the fuck up.” NeNe slapped her chest, like this was national news.

“Gladly.” I sighed. “Everything I say is used against me with this guy.”

I sneaked a peek to see if he found my barb funny. His expression remained blank.

“He is gorgeous,” NeNe gushed. “Where’d you find him? Ford Agency?”

“Is he single?” Tara demanded. “Is he rich? His Rolex says yes, but his job description says no.”

He was listening to the entire exchange. My so-called friends were so used to discussing their staff when they were in the room, they forgot that people could actually hear them. Or that that should matter. My cheeks stung. It was like he’d put a mirror in front of my face, and suddenly I’d realized I was no beauty. I was a beastly creature.

“I don’t know his financial situation, and frankly, I don’t care,” I said, pushing through despite the metallic taste in my mouth. “We’re not exactly thick as thieves. We don’t discuss our finances.”

“Hey! Yoo-hoo! Bodyguard dude!” NeNe leaned over her straw chair, waving at him frantically. She wore a very tiny, very flowery dress and a hot pink smile. “You got a name, or what?”

Ransom completely ignored her. He just continued working on his laptop, refusing to acknowledge our table. What a toolbag.

“Is he deaf?” NeNe turned to me, twisting her mouth.

“He can’t be deaf, stupid.” Tara rolled her eyes. “How would he be able to hear if someone attacks her? He’s just trained. Like…you know, guard dogs.”

I closed my eyes, dropping my face into my palms.

The owner of the bakery, a former reality star who’d made it to the semi-finals of a baking show, trudged out, snapping off her apron. “Can y’all look a smidge less interested in the hottie at table five and be more focused on my pastries?” She pointed at the mouthwatering basket she’d put in front of us, still untouched. “What am I even paying you for?”

“Question of the fucking millennium,” Ransom muttered under his breath, continuing to type.

“I like this guy.” Tara grinned, jerking her finger in his direction. “He’s got sass. Do you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend?”

“Irrelevant,” he said, not tearing his gaze from his screen. “I have standards.”

“Rude.” Tara wrinkled her nose.

“Honest,” he shot back.

“How can you even let him talk to us like this?” NeNe gasped in my direction, offended on Tara’s behalf.