The Lion's Den(22)

I step into the bathroom and rummage in my toiletries bag for my Dramamine. I’m already starting to feel woozy. I should’ve taken it before I set foot on the boat, but we never got to lay hands on our luggage.

I down the pill with an entire bottle of water.

“You okay?” Amythest asks.

I nod. “I get motion sick. As you know. But I should be fine in an hour.”

“Awesome. You’re seasick and I’m scared of water. So a week on a boat should be fun.”

I laugh, casting a glance around at our tiny room. “I’m claustrophobic, too.”

“Wow. What are you doing here?”

I shrug. “Too good to pass up, right? So how do you and Brittani know each other?”

“She was fucking a guy in my acting class.”

“You’re in acting class?” I shouldn’t be surprised. Every other girl in Los Angeles is an actress.

“Yeah. Check this out.”

She rolls onto her side and lifts her shirt, displaying a comedy-tragedy mask tattoo on the side of her rib cage.

“Cool,” I say. “What have you been working on?”

I usually avoid asking this question due to my own demons, but I can’t help myself. I’m genuinely interested.

“Horror stuff, mostly. I usually play the slutty girl that gets killed. It’s hella fun. I’ve done a bunch of movies.” She counts off on her fingers. “Slasher Hotel 5, Revenge of the Teenage Sluts, Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, Vampire Girls of Cell Block Six…”

I get the picture. “You’ve been busy. How long have you been in LA?”

“Oh, I moved down from Oakland as soon as I turned eighteen, like, two years ago? And I’ve just been working as much as I can ever since.” Two years ago––that would make her only twenty. Wow. She pops up to standing, stripping off her clothes. She’s not wearing anything underneath. “I’m gonna hop in the shower.”

She traipses into the bathroom and plops down on the toilet without closing the door behind her—a level of intimacy I’m not sure we’ve quite reached.

I lie down on my bed. It’s much softer than it looks. My limbs feel like they weigh a million pounds and my brain is cotton candy, the cocktail of jet lag and champagne too strong to resist. I close my eyes.



At 7:00 p.m. sharp, I follow Amythest up the stairs to the upper deck. She’s wearing a backless black dress that showcases the intricately shaded angel wings unfurled across the top of her back. I’m still clearing cobwebs from my head, having slept until she woke me ten minutes ago, but I took the fastest shower in the history of showers and somehow managed to pull it together. My wet hair is brushed back in a low ponytail, my face clean of makeup save lipstick in a bright-pink hue to match my pink maxi dress. I won’t be nearly as chic as Summer and Wendy, I’m sure, but what else is new? Anyway, I have to stop comparing myself with them. We have different strengths, I remind myself. And weaknesses.

Dre greets us at the landing with a gilded tray of pink champagne. The crew has changed into black for the evening, the women in cocktail dresses and the men in tuxedos, and he looks even better in a tuxedo. He meets my eye with a sexy smile as I take a glass. I would much rather get to know him than one of John’s friends.

Stop it, Belle. Bad idea.

But really, how would anyone know?

I focus on the camera staring at me from behind Dre’s head. Right. No hanky-panky with the crew.

Amythest and I join the other girls in the lounge, where golden rays of the setting sun mingle with the chandelier to splinter into a thousand shards of light around us. Everyone looks refreshed. Claire and Wendy have on maxi dresses similar to mine, Brittani wears a surprisingly stylish sundress that I’m guessing was selected by her sister, and Rhonda is in some kind of (also surprisingly stylish) sparkly silver top and white pants. The goons are in suits, their backs to us, looking out over the water in deep conversation, and Summer has not yet appeared.

“I feel like we’re inside a disco ball,” I say to Wendy as we air-kiss.

She laughs. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks.” I see no reason to mention I got it for twenty-nine dollars at Target. “Yours is pretty, too.”

She tilts her head and assesses me, then unclasps one of her many layered gold necklaces and fastens it around my neck. “There,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”

“Thank you.” I finger the necklace, convincing myself to be grateful for her generosity instead of nettled by her need to fix me.

“You girls aren’t the only ones who are gonna find boyfriends on this trip,” Rhonda announces to all of us with a wink.

“Mom, that’s gross. You’re, like, a million years old,” Brittani protests.

“She is not!” Wendy says. “And anyway, she looks amazing for her age.”

“Thank you, honey,” Rhonda says. She leans in and whispers, “I’m actually ten years younger than John. So is Summer’s dad.”

“Yeah, but these guys date girls that are, like, our age, obviously.” Brittani rolls her eyes. “And even Summer’s dad’s wife is, like, ten years younger than he is. And he’s not even rich.”

“Who do you think taught Summer everything she knows?” Rhonda retorts.