The Lion's Den(39)

“Not the first time,” he said. “Where to?”

“My dad’s place is close if you want to go there,” Dylan offered. “It’s where I’m staying. He’s not there.”

Spending the night with Dylan was certainly tempting, but it wasn’t in the cards tonight. “I think I better take her back to my place,” I said, giving the driver my address.

I rested my head on Dylan’s shoulder while Wendy retched into the bag. When she was finished, I folded up the top of the bag and she lay her head in my lap. “Feeling a little better?” I asked.

She grunted.

“What happened?”

“Dunno,” she slurred. “I’s with Summer and that blond guy; then they lef’ and I din’ feel good, so I call you.”

“Did anyone give you anything? A pill or a mint? Or did you leave your drink unattended?” Dylan asked.

She waggled her finger. “Nope. I’s with Summer, on a tuffet like lil’ Miss Muffet.”

“Was anyone else around? Could someone have passed by and dropped something in your drink?” I pressed.

Again she waggled her finger. “I got up to dance with that guy real quick. Summer din wanna dance.”

“With Eric?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes.

Dylan and I exchanged glances over her head. Could Summer…? Dylan mouthed.

No way, I mouthed back, horrified he’d even suggest it. They’re friends.

He shrugged. “Sorry. Just a thought.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to dislodge the idea he’d planted in my brain. Summer would never.

Surely not.

When we reached my little hillside fourplex, he helped me carry Wendy inside and get her set up on the couch with towels and a bucket while the Suburban idled outside.

I kicked off my heels and gave him a quick tour of my worn but comfortable prewar space, pretending to be a real estate agent. “Built in 1936, this one-bedroom features a living room at the front with French doors leading to a balcony that overlooks the street,” I announced with a flourish. He laughed, trailing behind as I led him down the hallway toward my bedroom. “Off of the hallway you’ll find a lovely original black-and-white-tiled bathroom on one side and an eat-in kitchen on the other, and here at the end of the hall we have the master.”

“I like it,” he said. “It’s bohemian.”

I cast my eyes at the white Christmas lights twinkling in glass jars on either side of the iron bed, the brass Buddha staring down peacefully from atop the dresser, wedged between photos of Bette Davis and Katharine Hepburn.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I wonder how many starlets have lived here, in the shade of the Hollywood sign,” he mused.

He was looking at me like he wanted to kiss me again. I turned my face up to his and let him pull me to him. His lips met mine just as the sound of vomit hitting the bucket erupted from the living room.

“Right on cue.” I sighed. “Sorry. I gotta see about her.”

“I should go anyway,” he said. “I have to leave for the airport in two hours.”

I left him adjusting himself as I padded into the living room, where I found Wendy leaning over the side of the couch, the bucket beneath her. She groaned. “I feel like crap.”

“I know.” I wiped her mouth with a towel. “But you’re gonna be okay.”

Dylan appeared in the doorway, his hard-on still visible through his suit pants. “Wanna come to London tomorrow?”

“I wish.” I smiled, averting my eyes from his protruding pants. But I had a job and was trying to have a career, and I wasn’t about to pin all my hopes and dreams on some guy I met a few hours ago, regardless of how sweet he seemed. “Wanna stay in LA a few days?”

“I wish.”

I walked him to the door, where he kissed me one last time and promised to call next time he was in town. I watched the Suburban drive into the dawn, certain I’d never see him again.





Day 4

Tuesday morning—Cannes, France



The drum of hooves and hot breath as the pack draws near. Dirt clods fly, shadows sharp in the noonday sun, colors so saturated the scene is almost surreal. Green grass, blue sky, blurs of red and white uniforms. Somewhere a stick is raised and a ball flung. Muscles ripple under glossy coats of chestnut, gunmetal, and black, lathering in the heat. Cheers from the small, well-heeled crowd, sipping rosé at picnic tables under the shade trees on the sidelines.

I lean my forearms on the white fence that edges the spectator area and gaze out at the horses, feigning interest in the game to avoid the human buzzards circling our table. Judging by the number of male acquaintances who happened to show up to his match today, word must have gotten out that John is traveling with a harem. I’m reminded that that’s what we’re here for, after all. “Good for business.” I can’t keep my eye on the ball to save my life, but the horses are beautiful, as are many of the men riding them. If only it were the strapping Scandinavian-looking one that caught my eye on his last pass who was coming to lunch with us, and not the two old enough to be his father.

I actually got my hopes up when Summer revealed that a few of the polo players would be joining us after the match. My knowledge of polo is limited, but from what I can tell, there are two groups of players, the paid professionals who look like they belong in a Ralph Lauren ad and the rich guys who play to feel young. John and his friends clearly belong in the latter group.