Claim Me(64)

“Well, you’re going anyway. This is our night to have fun, remember?”

I glance at the television. I was totally looking forward to the airplane version of Die Hard next, but I have to admit it does sound like fun. I’ve never been to a Hollywood party, and just because I haven’t got a clue who the latest stars are doesn’t mean that the glitz and glam won’t be a hoot. Then again, stars mean paparazzi, and that sounds decidedly less fun.

“Won’t the press be there? I’m really not in the mood to deal with them.”

“Nah, Raine explained how it works. They’ll be hanging around the entrance probably, but since they don’t expect you, just wear a hat and keep your head down. Ollie and I can flank you. It’s totally no big. And once we’re at the party, the only photographers are part of Garreth’s PR corp. So it’ll be a vulture-free night. Swear to God.”

My phone rings, and I realize it’s Ollie, who apparently decided he’d been on hold for long enough and hung up. “Sorry,” I say, then explain the whole Garreth Todd–Hollywood party thing. Unlike me, he doesn’t live in a cultural bubble, and he knows exactly who Garreth is, and he’s keen to do the party thing. As it turns out, I’m right about Courtney, but wrong about the reason. I’d assumed she was away on business, but Ollie tells me that she’s flown to San Francisco to look at wedding dresses with her mother.

He says he’ll be over in less than an hour, and we’ll all go together. And even though I’m a little nervous about the three of us hanging together for the first time since Jamie and Ollie screwed around, I’m also looking forward to it. These two are my best friends, after all. And, yeah, I miss them.

I pick up my phone to call Damien and tell him I’ve had a change of plans. If he’s not deep into work stuff already, maybe he can even join us. But my finger hesitates over his name. Damien doesn’t want to spend time with Ollie. For that matter, while he was fine with me hanging with Jamie, I have a feeling he’d be less than thrilled if Ollie had been part of that mix. And besides, nothing of what I told him has changed—I am still with Jamie. We’ve just added another person, too.

I drop my phone back onto the bed, then get up and head to my room to find an outfit for tonight. The glow I was feeling earlier, however, has faded a bit, and that frustrates me.

I’m not doing anything wrong. So why do I feel so guilty?


A woman wearing nothing but a bikini and down-covered wings brushes by me carrying a tray of rainbow-colored champagne. As far as I can tell, the champagne has been dyed to match the pool, which is changing color every thirty seconds as the lights rotate through the spectrum.

If I had been held at gunpoint and forced to come up with the most ostentatious Hollywood party imaginable, I do not think I could have conjured anything even close to what now surrounds me. The waiters and waitresses wear tiny gold bathing suits that leave nothing to the imagination and decorative wings that make it difficult to maneuver through the crowd. We are on the roof of one of downtown Los Angeles’s tallest buildings, and I can only presume the unstated message is that we, the guests, hold such a prominent spot in heaven that the angels themselves must serve us.

Jamie bounces up to me and presses a glass of bright red champagne into my hand. She’s wearing an extremely short red skirt paired with a black lace blouse over a red bra. As always, she looks amazing. I’m wearing a black sarong skirt and matching black tank, the only color provided by a pink scarf that I have draped around my neck. Considering the outfits that I see walking past us, on the whole Jamie is dressed at least as conservatively as I am.