The Lion's Den(67)

“His lifestyle isn’t really what I see for myself long-term,” she was saying.

“He’s broke,” Hunter recalled. “I remember. I think we had this conversation last time I was in town.”

“He’s not, though,” I objected. “His…” I was about to say something about his loft being gorgeous, but mercifully stopped myself in time, finishing, “…art sells for a lot.”

“It’s like he wants to be broke, though,” Summer insisted. “It’s so weird. You know he has a stake in his family’s company he won’t even acknowledge?”

“A steak?” I asked.

“I love steak,” Hunter said.

We snickered, and she ignored us. “A board seat, tons of stock, his name on trusts, buildings…and he wears T-shirts with holes in them and gives all his money to his skeezy Burning Man friends. He’s got some Turkish hacktivist staying with him right now.”

Travis. And he was Syrian. So she did see Eric after all, and he didn’t mention it to me. The snake of disappointment uncoiled inside me. No. This snake wasn’t disappointment; it was jealousy—and that pang I felt was its fangs, sunk into my heart. Oh dear. If Summer didn’t go downstairs soon, this trip was going to take a dark turn.

“Did he tell you all this?” Hunter asked.

“God no,” she said. “He won’t talk about it, won’t so much as mention his family’s name, and the Internet gives me nothing but puff pieces on his art and pictures of models hanging all over him. I found mail on his desk months ago, asking for his signature to increase shares in a holding company, a trust deed to a building in Manhattan with his name on it—all just buried under sketches and junk mail. I asked him about it, and he lost it. He has such a big chip on his shoulder, it’s ridiculous.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons,” I said, thinking of what he’d told me about his father that afternoon in his loft.

“Yeah.” Summer scoffed. “Anyway, Hunter, I heard your song at a party this weekend. People were really loving it.”

Hunter and I went to give each other a high five and totally missed, then crumpled into a heap of giggles. With a sigh, Summer got up to leave. “Wait!” I called out. “I need you to order pizza from my phone. We can’t see the buttons.”

She held her hand out, and I gave her my phone.

“The code is, uh…It’s—”

“I know your code,” Summer said as she typed it into the phone. “It’s the same for everything.”



Two weeks later, I pulled into the driveway of my fourplex to find a white Mercedes with dealer tags in my parking spot. It was past midnight, and I was worn out from a fourteen-hour day being chased barefoot through a scalding parking lot on an ultra-low-budget movie that paid pennies. But the money from the commercial I’d had running over the holidays was drying up, leaving me desperate for acting work so that I wouldn’t have to go back to slinging drinks. I was already seriously doubting my life choices; the Mercedes was the last straw.

Street parking in my neighborhood was a nightmare, so I drove in circles for a full twenty minutes, cursing the asshole driver of the Mercedes, before I finally found a spot. It was only when I got out of the car that I saw the sign that read NO PARKING SATURDAY 8A.M. TO 10A.M. Street cleaning on a Saturday? Seriously? It was all I could do not to scream.

I pushed open the front door to find all the lights on and Summer’s suitcase open in the middle of the living room. So I guessed she’d made it home from her big trip to Asia. “Summer?” I called out.

No answer. I opened the bedroom door to find her sprawled across my bed, snoring. I shoved her over and crawled into bed. I clearly needed to talk to her again about finding her own apartment.

But when my alarm went off at the ungodly hour of seven so that I could move my car, Summer was gone. Thankfully, so was the white Mercedes. I parked my car where it belonged, making a mental note to put up a RESERVED sign. But as I turned toward the apartment, I spied the Mercedes coming up the driveway.

I stood there in my glasses and pajamas with my hands on my hips, an intimidating presence I was sure, staring at the car as it slowly pulled toward me. I prepared to give the driver a piece of my mind as the window rolled down.

A manicured hand emerged holding a Starbucks latte, and then I recognized the blond hair. “Hey,” Summer said brightly. “I was up early so I picked up coffee.”

I stared at her. “Whose car is that?”

“It’s mine!” She beamed. “John got it for me as a signing bonus. He knew I didn’t have a car. Wasn’t that sweet? I have so much to tell you. But can you move your car so I can park in the spot? I don’t wanna leave it on the street. It’s brand-new.”

I grabbed the coffee and walked toward the door. “I’m sure it’s insured.” The door slammed behind me.

I’d finished my coffee and gotten ahold of myself by the time she entered ten minutes later, carrying a bag of croissants. “God, parking in this neighborhood is a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “It took me half an hour to find parking at midnight.”

“Oh, sorry about that. I figured you were gone for the night.” She put the croissants in the oven to heat and sat across from me at the breakfast table. “So. I have to tell you about my trip.”