The Lion's Den(55)
“Girls.” He beckons to us. We scuttle over to him like well-trained dogs. “No more taking off.”
Summer’s unsmiling eyes track us as he guides us to the table with a hand on each of our backs.
I take my seat, ignoring the fish on my plate, staring up at me with empty eyes. Brittani, Rhonda, and Amythest are tittering somewhat quietly together while Summer, Wendy, Claire, and the rest of the table listen with rapt attention to the rich woman we’re dining with prattling on about a castle they’ve bought for the rock-bottom price of twenty-five million. It’s uninhabitable, of course. They’re going to have to put another twenty in to make it livable.
I let my gaze wander about the restaurant, scanning in vain for Dylan and his grandmother. As I survey the tables, I realize that my earlier assessment was incorrect: not all of the patrons are titans and celebrities. There’s the security guard seated across from me, and at the table next door, an au pair trying to gently maintain control of a wound-up toddler. Various assistants and entourage members are scattered about the tables, often indistinguishable from their hosts until they hop to do whatever is asked of them. And then there are the few tourists lucky enough to secure a reservation, overdressed and sneaking vertical videos with their cell phones despite the signs indicating that cameras aren’t allowed, before flipping over their menus in search of the unlisted prices.
The restaurant is its own ecosystem, really, with its own food chain.
My mouth is dry as the desert, and I feel a headache coming on. I’m probably dehydrated from all the puking. I flag a passing waiter. “Excusez moi, un verre d’eau, s’il vous pla?t?”
He nods and scurries away. When I look up, I find Summer inexplicably staring daggers at me. She whispers something to Bernard, who gets up and makes his way down to my end of the table, sitting heavily into the chair vacated by the teenage son of the rich people. “John does the ordering,” he growls into my ear.
“It’s okay. I just needed a glass of water.” My voice sounds maddeningly meek to my own ear, but I want him to know that I am trying to play by the rules.
“Don’t be disrespectful,” he spits just as the waiter appears with my glass of water.
Bernard shakes his head at him before he can place it before me, and to my disbelief, the waiter whisks it away. My blood boils. I want to wrap my hands around Summer’s neck and squeeze until her eyes bulge. But I simply nod and fix my gaze on the ocean, ever placid beyond the chaos of the restaurant.
How quickly the line between guest and prisoner crumbles, like a sand castle swept away by the sea. But the tide always turns.
(nine months ago)
Los Angeles
On a particularly gloomy morning in November, I emerged from an audition at an office downtown to find the temperature had plummeted and rain was pouring down in sheets. Of course I was dressed as a homewrecker at eleven in the morning, wearing my most expensive four-inch stilettos and a slinky green silk cocktail dress, and my car was parked three blocks away in the cheapest lot I could find.
I had no umbrella and the building had no lobby—only a small vestibule with banks of elevators—so I stood looking out at the rain, willing it to stop. The street outside was industrial, no shops or restaurants, but a few doors down I recognized the back entrance to the flower market I’d visited a few months ago to buy Wendy sunflowers after her horse-jumping accident. Though it was in the opposite direction from my car, I figured anything was better than standing where I was, so I made a mad dash for it, holding the script from my audition over my head as a makeshift umbrella.
Ten steps outside I knew it had been a terrible idea, but I was drenched already, so I kept running. I burst through the entrance to the flower market looking like a drowned cat, my shoes and dress ruined. The polished concrete floor inside the door was so slick with rain that I immediately lost my footing in my stupidly high heels, and arms flailing, landed hard on my ass, flashing everyone in the checkout line my fuchsia panties.
Awesome.
The cashiers and patrons looked on with concern as the security guard rushed over to help me to my feet, lifting me by my elbow. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, mortified. At least I’d never see any of these people again. I looked down at my dress and noticed I’d split the hem on the left side clear up to my hip. Fantastic.
“Belle,” said a deep voice.
Oh God. Who was this going to be?
I turned to see Eric, a large bunch of pale-pink roses in his arms, his brow wrinkled with worry. Great. Exactly who I wanted to see me like this.
“Are you okay?” Eric asked. “This floor is unforgiving. You hit your tailbone pretty hard.”
“Oh, hi.” I tried to shrug it off like I was cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
The security guard nodded to Eric and walked away, leaving me with him. I rubbed my throbbing ass. “I live in the next building. You want to come up and dry off?” he offered. “Maybe borrow some pants?”
I cinched the side of my dress together in my fist. Considering that Summer, whose jealous streak had been particularly pronounced of late, was still living with me and seeing Eric, I knew going home with him was a terrible idea. Not to mention my hurt pride and ass. But it was still pouring rain outside, my dress was ruined, and one of my heels was broken. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”