Dirty Headlines(30)
Seeing as I’d kept mum about my situation with my dad and my debt, they both bought into my migraines excuse. Watching them get drunk and talk about their weekend plans—all of them involving spending money—sent jealousy nibbling at the corners of my gut.
“I want Grayson to stop singing 50 Cent. Can you make that happen?” I took a small drink of my water.
“Unfortunately, no.” Ava shook her head. “But I can tell you he’s one drink away from passing out, so the singing will be over soon. Are you coming with us to The Met tomorrow? We’re going to check out the Indonesian restaurant they wrote about in Timeout afterwards.”
I wish I could, but I’m probably going to help my father crawl into the shower, then argue with service providers on the phone to try to get them to give me more time to pay.
“Got plans with my dad. Maybe next time.”
Jesus had probably kept good on his word to keep God updated about all of my sins, because, of all the songs in the world, “Promiscuous” by Nelly Furtado and Timbaland blasted through the room. The place was bustling, and the scent of stale tap beer, deep-fried everything, and urban stench clung to our clothes.
Grayson was hiccupping and talking at the same time, and I tuned him out to people-watch, until he said, “Oops, Jude, yorbassazarr.”
“What?” I shouted over the music.
“Your. Boss. Is. Here!” He yelled into my ear. “And he is looking fifty shades of great.”
Grayson, I’d discovered, had the tendency to be cheesier than a Taco Bell enchilada when he was drunk.
“Where?” Ava looked around.
“Three stools down.”
I craned my neck, my face heating before I’d even spotted his broad back, still clad in the ink black textured wool YSL jacket he’d had on in the office. There was nothing saint-like about what this Laurent was doing, though. Even with his back to me, I could see the woman he was talking to clearly. She ran a pale-pink clawed finger down her neck, giggling like a schoolgirl, and purred at something he had said. Célian must have been in top form, because whatever came out of his mouth next caused her to have to right herself by clinging to his shoulders, she laughed so hard. They shared a quick, intimate hug, and I was a witch, burning at the stake from the inside, wanting to break free from whatever spell he’d put over me that made me feel so completely and unbelievably miserable.
Beautiful. She was beautiful, with hair a shade darker than his, sapphire-blue eyes, and a sunkissed tan. Célian obviously had a type, and it wasn’t a dirty blond, hazel-eyed woman who dressed like a headmistress in a British movie from the fifties, except with Chucks. Purple today, by the way. Dignity and pride. But I had a feeling I was about to lose both.
“Earth to Jude?” Grayson slurred, elbowing me in the chest.
Ouch. I shot him a dirty look. “Yeah?”
“Is it just me, or does it look like he’s flirting with another woman?”
“I don’t care.” I jutted my chin out.
“Yeah, we didn’t think you would. But his fiancée might.” Ava blinked, staring at me like I was a weirdo.
Which I was. Of course they’d meant Lily and not me. Suddenly, I felt very tired and very hungry—like the air was dense with misery, soaked with toxins. Every breath was lethal. I grabbed Gray’s Bacardi and tossed it back in one gulp, then slammed it against the bar. “My headache is getting out of control. I’m going to the restroom to wash my face and pop some Advils. Be right back.”
I wobbled my way on a path to the ladies room, which took me by Célian and the mystery brunette. Once I was close enough to them, I slowed my pace, hearing them speak in French. The words rolled off of their tongues, and my vindictive heart nearly burst into flames. Here he was, pulling the same old trick he’d used on me while his fiancée was sitting at home, making plans, dreaming about their future. Fake or not, he was still in a relationship. Parading with women in bars was in bad taste.
Since I didn’t actually need to pee, I settled for pacing in the bathroom, stewing in my own anger.
Did I need my job?
Yes.
Was I excited to be working in a newsroom?
More than anything else in the world.
I still hadn’t told my college friends, but I knew they were going to go crazy when they heard the job I’d snagged at LBC. None of that mattered right now, though, and maybe it was the Bacardi I’d gulped on an empty stomach, but confronting him seemed like a terribly good idea.
Emphasis on the word terribly.
I darted out of the bathroom and pushed through the crowd. Once I got to Célian, I tapped his shoulder. He turned around in slow motion, his smug smile undeterred, even when he saw my face, charred with agony. The woman next to him shot me an interested look, but didn’t say a word, cradling her glass of white wine.
“Humphry,” he said.
“Laurent,” I quipped, feeling bold. “Does she know?”
“Know what?” His lips broadened into an even wider grin, but that meant nothing. Célian was always nonchalant. A meteor could be speeding toward Earth at the speed of light, crashing and killing all of us in exactly two hours, and he still wouldn’t skip the foreplay when he took this girl to his presidential suite for their sexcapade.
“Any of the following things, really. One—” I jerked my thumb up. “That it’s your thing. You pretend to be a French tourist and take women to a hotel suite for the night, even though you’re American, born and bred. Two—” I pointed my forefinger at him. “That you have a fiancée waiting back home, and three—”