The Lion's Den(48)
One Saturday evening I arrived home bone-tired from a long day slinging drinks at the pool to find the door to my bedroom closed. I’d had to get up at the crack of dawn to drive Wendy to a physical therapy session for her broken leg, and was badly in need of a nap. But I didn’t want to nap with Summer. I wanted to nap alone.
Annoyed, I pushed the door open to find Summer fully nude on my white down comforter, posing seductively while Eric snapped pictures. I froze, rooted in place.
Making no attempt to cover herself, she calmly rolled onto her side. “Hey. We’re just doing a photo shoot. We’ll be finished soon.”
I blinked. Eric lowered the camera. “I’m doing a series on female erotica.”
“On my bed.” My voice sounded high and strange.
“It’s a good bed,” Eric said. “I like the iron; it photographs well.”
How the hell did neither of them realize this was totally weird? Having no idea what else to say, I backed out of the room, avoiding looking at Summer as I shut the door behind me, and walked blindly into the kitchen, where I poured myself a shot of tequila. I knocked it back, the booze burning my throat.
Had they fucked in my bed?
I knew I shouldn’t care. I’d stayed in hotel beds a million times, where God only knows how many people had done God only knows what. But it was my bed.
And why was I so turned on by the idea of Eric fucking in my bed?
Aaaah! I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to erase the thought, and when I opened them, Eric was standing in the doorway, gazing at me. “I like your garden.”
“Thanks,” I managed.
“Have you heard from my brother?”
“He invited me to London,” I said.
This wasn’t exactly true, of course. He’d thrown it out there the night I met him, a full year ago, but he hadn’t mentioned it the handful of times we’d emailed since, and if he had, it was doubtful I would have gone.
“Are you going to go?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I’d love to shoot you sometime,” he said.
I pictured Summer nude on my bed. “No thanks.”
He glanced toward my bedroom. “Not like that. I’ve been looking for a queen for a series I’m doing. Your face, your attitude—you’d be perfect.”
Over his shoulder, I noticed Summer lingering in the hallway, now wearing a sundress. She draped her arms around him from behind and nuzzled his ear. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Belle modeling for me,” Eric said, not taking his eyes off mine.
I wanted to slap some sense into him, but all I could do was stand there gaping like an idiot.
Summer slipped past him and slid her arm around me, giving me a little squeeze. “She is pretty, isn’t she?” she asked, stroking my hair. And then lightly: “But you lay a hand on her and I’ll fucking kill you.”
Day 5
Wednesday morning—Saint-Tropez, France
John’s portrait looms above me, dark despite the bright day. Uncomfortable under his shifting gaze, I once again angle the computer screen away from the unblinking eye of the security camera and type quickly:
Hey Sis,
Sorry for the delayed response, we’ve been kept busy helping John entertain some foreign executives he’s trying to get to invest in a resort on the Italian coast. It’s a gorgeous day here and we’re on the boat near Saint-Tropez, going for lunch somewhere fancy with some rich people later.
In other news, Summer got one of the crew girls fired last night because she didn’t like the way the poor girl looked. So that was dramatic. Meanwhile I’m trying to just be nice and get along, as you suggested. Hoping I can make it through the trip without being fired myself, haha.
How are you? Everything good?
Love,
Sis
I realize I’ll come off as ungrateful if anyone is monitoring my emails, but at this point I just don’t care. I grab my latte and laptop and pad over to one of the couches looking out toward the shining sea.
The entire back of the boat is open to the morning light reflecting off the water, and the other girls are splayed out in the sun on loungers, half reading beauty and gossip magazines as the boat rocks gently back and forth. We’ve been given a blissful break from our packed schedule by John’s urgent need to see some land he intends to buy, and Summer has gone with him, leaving the rest of us to our own devices. This, at last, feels like paradise.
I open my computer and pop in my earbuds, then pump up some Jimmy Buffett. We are at the beach, after all.
After the drama with Emmanuelle, last night’s dinner on the boat was mostly uneventful, largely because the combination of jet lag, sun, and alcohol had left us all so tired we could hardly see straight. Even Brittani was subdued. The investors from China joined us again, and the ladies were expected to keep quiet so that the men could discuss matters Summer assured us were of the utmost importance.
Though once again they mentioned nothing exactly illegal in range of our delicate lady ears, at this point it’s clear that John pairs a take-no-prisoners approach to enterprise with a practice of doing everything as cheaply as humanly possible, regardless of pesky rules or environmental ramifications. To summarize: no surprise, he’s a real motherfucker and it’s made him very, very rich.