The Lion's Den(75)
Sweat runs down my back; my sandals chafe. Finally, somewhere in the midst of the maze, I have to stop her. “Amythest,” I pant. “If I could tell you more, I would. Please, please, let it go. Let’s both just keep our heads down and get back to the States without any more drama, okay?”
She must see the desperation in my eyes because she nods, her violet eyes serious. “Okay.”
(twenty-six days ago)
Los Angeles
I was driving home from yoga one sunny morning in July when my phone dinged with a text from Summer.
I’m back, where are you?
I couldn’t remember where she’d gone—it had become hard to keep up with where in the world she and John were hopscotching to. She’d breeze in for a day here or there, dropping nuggets of her new life: a Cartier watch on the bathroom sink, a story about dinner with a famously conservative senator and his “ladyboy” girlfriend in Bangkok, a VIP security pass for the palace of an oil-rich dictator not known for his human rights record. Every time I was tempted to feel envious, I reminded myself of the part of herself she’d traded for a seat on that jet.
I was more than a little vexed that she was yet to officially move out of my apartment, but after what happened with Three—which both of us still felt was at least somewhat my fault—I didn’t feel like I could be too pushy. I’d seen very little of her over the past few months, anyway—and though she still wasn’t paying rent, she was very generous with her loot, gifting me designer clothes John didn’t like and even a little round Gucci bag I absolutely adored. She mostly stayed with John in Beverly Hills when they weren’t jet-setting, and I’d been busy bartending at a new bar and hustling acting jobs—whatever came my way—trying to eke out a living.
I’d met John twice. The first time was just in passing while lying by the pool with Summer at his Beverly Hills mansion, but the second was a month or so ago at an awkward dinner with Summer, Wendy, and Claire that none of us besides Summer knew he’d be attending. He showed up after we’d ordered and sat with us for a torturous thirty minutes, during which he interviewed us like job candidates while one of his goons lingered at the bar behind us, before dropping his card and decamping. When I’d asked Summer about it, she’d demurred. “Oh, he’s heard so much about you guys; he just wanted to meet you.”
The following week she sent the three of us a photo of herself sunning on his yacht:
Who wants to join me here for my birthday?
An official invitation to Summer’s birthday trip arrived a few days later, in the form of an email from John’s travel coordinator, coupled with a request for our passport information. It turned out John actually had been interviewing us at that dinner—apparently we’d passed. “I told him you guys were beautiful and amazing,” Summer confided the next time I saw her, “but he’s super particular about his image, so he had to see for himself. My mom and sis are coming, but between us, I have to buy them all new outfits for the trip.”
Though I was still having trouble getting on board with Summer’s May–December romance, I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t thrilled by the idea of an all-expenses-paid trip to the Mediterranean aboard a yacht. Sure, it was her sugar daddy’s yacht, and I realized the trip wouldn’t likely be exactly what I would imagine for myself…but still, a yacht. The Riviera. Hell yes.
When I got home from yoga, I found my door partially open and Summer in the living room, throwing things into a new, oversize Louis Vuitton suitcase that matched her overnight bag. “Hi!” she said brightly. “I texted you.”
“I was driving. What’s up?”
“John has to work in the Middle East the next few weeks, and I can’t accompany him, so he got me a beach house in Malibu.” Hallelujah, she’d finally gotten her own place. It was all I could do not to break into song. “Wanna come out for the night? Or the weekend?”
A beach house, a yacht trip…I had to admit there were definitely perks to having a rich friend. “You know, I think my schedule just cleared up.” I smiled.
“Great!” She clapped her hands. “Because the house is ridiculous. And it comes with a wine cellar that he had an assistant stock. Only thing is, you’ll have to drive because my car’s at the garage.”
We sped up the coast with the windows down, singing along at top volume to blaring nineties pop songs the entire way. It had been a while since we’d had that much fun together, and it felt good––like old times, almost. When we pulled up to the house, Wendy’s SUV was already parked outside. “What up, sluts?” she said. “This place looks incredible.”
“I thought you had to work tonight,” Summer goaded.
“Yeah, I did until I pulled up pictures of this place,” Wendy divulged. “Also, AssPlay is going to be there, and I really don’t want to see him.”
“Remind me who is AssPlay?” Summer whispered as we pulled into the garage.
“Who do you think? The guy she dated last year that was so into playing with her ass. You met him. She brought him to my birthday party.”
Summer snorted. “Must not have been memorable.”
The house was a large modern affair, made almost completely of glass and situated directly on the beach. Every room had wall-to-wall views of the ocean, and sliding glass doors stretched across the front of the house. We immediately pushed them open, letting in the ocean air and the sound of the crashing waves.