by Staci Hart
“Dick,” Natasha shot, slithering up next to Brock again.
“Nice to meet you too, Miss Felix.” When I turned, I caught Lila’s gaze.
Fuck them. Don’t let them get to you, I told her without speaking. I’m here.
The tension in her eased, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
And with every ounce of my power, I left her there with those sharks, knowing she could hold her own and hating that she had to do it alone all the same.
My mind whirred with fury and spite as I worked on the table. The only way I survived was a continuous reminder that I wasn’t going to make this table look spectacular for Natasha Felix. But for Lila, I’d do anything. Even make that eel’s birthday look good.
I watched her move around the room, never still for longer than necessary. She greeted the Felix Femmes as they arrived with entourages in tow, directed her interns, fielded interruptions from the caterer, the DJ, hotel employees. And she did it all with that cool confidence, the control and command she ruled her environment with.
When the banquet table was set up and the garlands hung, I made my way around the room under the guise of double-checking the centerpieces. With Lila directing her interns, I had no doubt that they’d been done to the letter. But it gave me the opportunity to get closer to the Felixes and that fucking asshole Natasha had brought to parade in front of Lila like a prized pony.
I hated him, deeply and unreasonably. I didn’t even know the guy, and the honest truth was that I had no place to call him an asshole. All he’d ever done was hurt her.
But by that measure, he was irredeemable.
The Felix women quieted when I neared, shifting things on a nearby table without purpose. The men excused themselves for the bar, and the second they were gone, rustling whispers fluttered at my back.
“Excuse me,” one of them said. “I think this one’s wrong.”
When I turned, three-fourths of the Felix sisters eyed me hungrily, along with their mother, who I’d been sure I was going to marry when I was a kid, and I had a stack of Sports Illustrated with a bikini-clad Sorina Felix on the cover to prove it. The men of the pack gathered near the bar, sipping amber liquid from crystal glasses with flat, bored faces that said nothing short of, If we’re here, we might as well drink.
Sure enough, it looked like the centerpiece was missing one of its candles.
“I see,” I said with the smile I used to get women to smile back, belying my annoyance. No way had that candle not made it onto the table. Which meant one of the Femmes had taken it.
“I wonder if it’s back there,” Sofia said with a flick of her hand. “Maybe one of those interns lost it in the green stuff.”
The “green stuff” was fern, a spray of it large enough to hide a candle, it was true. Nestled in its fronds were three lanterns—one of them devoid of its lighting—filled with flowers and moss.
“Mind if I have a look?” I asked.
“Be my guest,” Angelika answered, recrossing her legs too widely to be considered modest by even the loosest definition.
Natasha glared, folding her arms as I tried to approach the tabletop. I say tried because Sofia and Alexandra didn’t budge, blocking my path with their crossed legs, elbows propped on the table in identical poses.
“Go ahead,” Alexandra said with a devil’s smile that made me regret my cheek in coming over here.
I’d thought I’d get some gossip. Instead, I had a feeling I was about to get my ass grabbed.
Sorina, their mother, leaned on the table with hot eyes and a salacious smile. “These are just so beautiful. You did a wonderful job.”
“Oh, I can’t take credit,” I said lightly, leaning over their laps to delve my hands into the fern, rooting around for the rogue candle. “I just grow them.”
“He works with his hands, Alex,” Sofia said.
“I’ll bet he does,” Alexandra agreed. “Bet he plants his seeds all over the place too.”
One of my brows rose, and I gave her a look. She returned it with an expression that belonged in a porno.
“God, it’s like no one has standards anymore,” Natasha barked.
Alexandra snapped back, “Fucking a doctor instead of a DJ doesn’t make you suddenly enlightened. You’re the same old slut you always were. Only difference is that now you’re with a guy who can prescribe you penicillin for your STDs.”
“Girls,” Sorina said apathetically.
“You’re the worst, you know that?” Natasha asked, standing in a huff, the action punctuated by a stamp of her foot and a bounce of her perfectly coiffed hair. “You’d think you’d at least be nice to me on my birthday.”
But Alexandra laughed. “I’m sorry. I love you even though you’re a desperate hag.”
Natasha’s cheeks flushed, her face screwed up with rage. “Whatever. I’m going to find Brock.”
This time, all of them chuckled.
“She’s so cute when she’s mad,” Sofia said.
“I hate you,” Natasha shot over her shoulder as she strutted away in a glide that defied physics, given the height of her heels.
“But we love you,” her sisters sang in unison, as if they’d had this exchange a thousand times.
She flipped them off without breaking her stride.
With a sigh, Alexandra stood. “I’ll go get her.”
“She’ll feel better once she opens the Chanel ring I got her,” Angelika said.
“Ugh, you bitch. I was going to get that for her too, but I wanted it for myself.” Sofia pouted. “I got her Gucci instead.”
Angelika perked up. “The sunglasses or the watch?”
“Both,” Sofia answered with a smirk.
Angelika’s eyes widened, her mouth opening up in wonder. “She’s going to die.”
“I know!” Sofia said on a giggle.
I’d moved out of the way a few minutes before, not wanting—or able—to interrupt as I waited to probe them for clues as to where the candle had gone. Their dynamic was as uncomfortable as it was understandable—if anyone got the sibling relationship and all its vicious colors, it was a Bennet. But they were spiteful and venomous while somehow also seeming to care for each other very much. It was astonishing really, just how godawful they were to each other by typical standards. And yet, they somehow kept on loving each other, despite their outbursts and jealously and general dreadful behavior.
I cleared my throat, and their attention swiveled to me again. “Any idea what could have happened to it?”
Sofia batted her lashes, playing at coy. “Have you checked under the table?”
“Oh, good idea,” Alexandra added.
Sorina just smiled, her blank eyes locked on a patch of nothing in the distance. I wondered how often she ran away to some sanctuary in her mind, going vacant just to endure the snipes she’d bred.
I reached for the tablecloth, gathering it up to check the very edge, taking the bait. But I found nothing.
“You should get under there,” Sofia insisted. “I’m sure it just fell, rolled underneath. I’d do it myself but …” She laughed rather than finish as if I could deduce the reasons myself.
“You know what?” I started, dropping the tablecloth and backing away. “I’ve got extras. I’ll grab one.”
Their faces fell into petulance.
“You’re no fun,” Alexandra said.
“No, he’s just banging Lila,” Sofia corrected. “Can you imagine what she’d do to him if he fucked around on her?”
“Well, all she did to Brock was leave him to Natasha. She didn’t even put up a fight. Tash can’t even get a reaction out of her. Doesn’t matter what she does—cake to the face, insults … nothing. She’s unflappable. If Natasha doesn’t break her, this whole subplot for the show is going to be so boring.”
At that, my jaw clamped shut. “She didn’t put up a fight because she realized he was an asshole. And Natasha won’t ever break her. I’m surprised you haven’t already figured out she’s indestructible.”
“Be right back with that candle,” I said, smiling amiably before turning on my heels. That smile melted into a scowl the second I gave them my back.
Of course I knew she was anything but indestructible. Underneath her armor, she was soft and forgiving, easily bruised. But how could they know? To discover what was underneath, her trust had to be earned.
And once lost, I didn’t think it could be regained.
I scanned the room for her, finding her next to the bar with a wax smile on her face, clipboard hooked in her elbow. And in front of her was Natasha in that ridiculous sparkly minidress, knife smile on her face as she fondled Brock’s tie. A cameraman flanked them silently.
I made a hard turn, weaving around tables with a single objective—save her from whatever torture Natasha had devised.
“And if the scallops are cold, I swear to God, I’m going to be pissed,” Natasha said as I approached. “Brock’s a vegetarian, and if his favorite food isn’t perfect, I’m holding you responsible.”
“I’ll double-check them myself,” was Lila’s answer.
Brock watched her with an intensity that had me fantasizing about how well my fist would fit into his eye socket.
“Good,” she snapped. “How many cars do you have coming after dinner?”
“Twenty, as requested.”
Her smile twisted. “Twenty? We’ll need at least thirty.”
Lila’s smile didn’t waver, but I saw the almost imperceptible tightening of her posture and eyes. “Are more guests coming to the club than originally planned?”
“I sent you a list,” Natasha said, her innocent tone more bait than concealment. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”
“It’s no problem,” Lila answered lightly. “I’ll have them waiting for you at ten.”
Natasha apparently didn’t possess much of a poker face. Or at least no ability to put it on when she was disappointed. “You’d better.”
“Excuse me,” I interjected, saying to Lila. “I need you to sign off on a few things, and I had a question for you.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling genuinely even if it was schooled for the sake of our audience. “If you’ll excuse me,” she addressed Natasha before turning without waiting for her response.
And together, we trucked away from them.
Once out of earshot, she let out a breath. “Thank you. I was imagining I was in Bora-Bora or London or Tokyo. Even an iron maiden. Honestly, I’d prefer an iron maiden to that, whatever it was.”
“Fuck them,” I said, gesturing to the service door in the same motion I laid a hand on the small of her back. “The sisters just admitted in front of me that Natasha’s trying to get you to break on camera. She said you were a … subplot?”
“Oh, I know.”
I frowned, reaching out to hold the swinging door open for her. “You do?”
“Of course I do,” she said as I followed. “You see, this is where my extraordinary stubbornness comes in handy. She wants me to cry and thrash and get mad, on camera if she can manage it. Or worse—she wants me to grovel. It’s driving her nuts that I won’t give her what she wants.”
“The audacity,” I said with a sideways smile touched with admiration.
“She’s not going to goad me, no matter how painful it is to endure. The only thing I want to come of this is my complete ownership of my reactions, so at the end of the day, my job will be safe, along with my dignity.”
I watched her as we wound our way past workers against the stream and into the kitchen. “You’re no match for them.”
She tossed me a smile over her shoulder. “I know. I only have a second, what did you need me to sign off on?”
I snagged her hand, towing her into a dark inlet packed with racks that would be filled with food any minute.
Lila gasped, laughing as I pulled her into my chest, one arm around her waist like a vise, the other steering my hand to her face.
“Just this,” I said against her lips before I took them.
Too brief was the kiss, edged with the distance of her distraction. But still, she sighed happily when I let her lips go.
“You,” she started, “are truly the best distraction a girl could ever ask for.”
My heart flinched at the word, the one we brandished like cold steel to defend against the truth.
“I know.” I smiled down at her. “And tonight, when this is all over, I’m gonna distract you again. And again. And again.”
“I hope so,” she said before kissing me again, this time with heat that betrayed her agenda for the promise of me. When she leaned back, she asked, “Did you have a question for me? Or was that a lie too?”
“I did need you to sign something, just not with a pen.”
A chuckle, a fond slide of her hand from my neck to my chest. “What’s the question?”
Without warning, questions rose in my mind, commandeered my heart. Can we be more? Will you be mine? If I promise you something, will you do the same? If I fall in love with you, could you love me too?
But I flashed that smile again, brandished it as I did that cursed word. “Are you wearing panties?”
She laughed from deep in her belly, her teeth bright and perfect, framed by crimson lips. “Are you?” she countered.
“Never,” I answered, my hand moving to cup her ass, testing its weight and shape with my palm. “And I don’t have underwear on either.”
With a laugh and the swiftest of kisses, she backed away. And with a suggestive smile, she said, “Neither am I.”
Two steps, and she disappeared around the corner, leaving me panting in the dark.
And for new and happy reasons, I couldn’t wait for this night to end.
19
Heartless
LILA
The second Natasha’s guests began to arrive in earnest, the night got easier by half.
I wasn’t sure how I survived seeing Brock, here, with her. He watched me all night from her side, face unreadable, drink in one hand, the other on her waist as she flitted around the ballroom. It was almost unbearable to watch, a shocking alternate universe—or universal joke—that I had to witness my ex on the arm of the biggest client of my career.
And I couldn’t get mad. I couldn’t be sad. I couldn’t be bitter, and I couldn’t be petty. So I packed each emotion in its own little box and stuffed it in the basement of my heart so I could do my job.
And I did the shit out of my job.
Every course was perfectly timed, flawlessly cooked, and the exact temperature it was supposed to be, which I was sure Natasha triple-checked. The DJ’s set went off without a hitch or a hiccup. The speeches were made in her honor, and the champagne flowed with effervescent ease. And by the end of dinner, Natasha seemed to have forgotten all about me.
My only respite was Kash.
He’d changed into slacks and a button-down, both straining to contain his massive form. His tie was perfectly knotted, which I’d never realized was a turn on. But it was. I imagined his big, rough hands tying that knot and decided I’d have him put it back on after he tied me up with it.
As reassuring as I’d been about the hired cars, I’d immediately known it was going to be a problem, and it was. Saturday night in Manhattan was the first strike. I’d booked the cars months ago in order to reserve enough to cart every person she knew—and their agents, producers, or groupies—to the club. As predicted, they had no extra cars, but somehow, we found a fleet in New Jersey, thanks to some strong words, a few phone calls, and the promise of an inflated rate.
With the chaos of the cars, I wouldn’t get to the club in advance of the caravan to make sure everything was ready. So I sent my best intern to make sure Noir was in place, as nervous as that made me.
And so at two-after-ten, I found myself waiting at the curb under the awning, staring down Fifth, looking for thirty Escalades, ten of which were, by my estimat
ion, going to be late.
I heard the birthday crowd before the doors opened, and people flooded out. Drunken, obscenely rich people led by none other than Natasha Felix.
“I knew she wouldn’t get the cars,” she said too loudly. Her toadies laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day that Lila Parker actually fucked up.”
As if on cue, the first of a line of black SUVs rolled up.
“Aw, man,” Natasha whined when she saw them.
Smile firmly in place, I breathed my relief and walked down the line, counting. My phone, which was clutched in my fist, vibrated with an alert that the other cars were three minutes away. And then my smile was genuine.
Guests filed into car after car, taking their drunken time, and by the time the first twenty had made their way around the block, filled up with people like clown cars, the final ten had arrived.
Sorina and her husband, Adrien, were last to leave, having waited to say goodbye to their guests.
Adrien climbed in with nothing more than a sullen nod in my direction, but Sorina stopped, smiling that dazzling smile of hers, to take my hands.
“You were wonderful, Lila. Thank you for making my baby’s birthday party so utterly flawless.”
“It was my pleasure,” I lied.
“We never could tell her no,” she said fondly. “I’m afraid to her detriment.”
Unsure how to respond, I landed on, “I’m sure she’s perfectly lovely. Just not to me.”
“That’s kind of you to lie, Lila. You might know,” she started, stilling and softening with the remembrance I’d read of in a dozen magazines, “when I was a girl, we had nothing. We were refugees, hungry and running from war and into France. When I was discovered in Paris, it was more than a job I was given. It was a way to save my family, save myself.”
A pause, pregnant with memories before she continued, “I shouldn’t spoil the girls as I do, but I never … I never wanted them to know what it was like. To be without.” With a breath, she straightened up, smiling. “Plus, with three older, ambitious sisters, Natasha has to fight for attention. Good attention or bad, it doesn’t matter. The show doesn’t help—so much of their behavior is for the cameras, for the drama of it all. But my girls have always been very”—she hesitated, searching for the word—“emotional and opinionated. They rarely make it easy, but you have managed them exquisitely.”
