by JD Hawkins
“Old money, huh?” he says as he ties a ribbon around the box with a dexterity that’s almost arousing. “I love rich girls.”
“Of course you do—they tend to lean a little on the gullible side.”
He shrugs. “I am getting a little bored of sweaty nightclubs and dive bars…”
I grin. “Are you angling for an invite?”
Toby finishes the wrapping, then slides the box across the counter to me.
“Depends whether you’re angling for a date. A platonic one, of course.”
Cocking a brow at him, I give it a think. Being within a ten foot radius of Toby is like playing with fire, especially when Mia isn’t around to keep us on our best behavior…but he’s on the rebound, per usual, and there will be plenty of single women for him to choose from tonight. Women who aren’t me.
In fact, that must be the whole reason he wants to go to the party—to pick up his latest victim. It has nothing to do with me. Which is why it’s completely safe for us to be there together. Completely.
“All right,” I reply, looking him up and down. “It’s a date. A not-date. As long as you wear that gray Tom Ford suit you have—and anything but black shoes with it.”
Toby grins as he takes my card from me and charges it.
“I forgot how much you like to give orders.”
“And I remember how ghastly some of your sartorial choices are,” I say as I take my card back, already stepping away. “Nine p.m. The house just to the south of mine.”
His assistant calls his name again and Toby finally rushes away. I take a few steps to the door but then turn and move to the other side of the shop to appreciate a pair of earrings that catch my eye. Toby’s obscured by the growing crowd at the counters now, but I can hear his confidently loud voice cut through the hubbub.
“Ah! Greg Miller—that was quick… Good decision. I knew you’d see sense, buddy… Her? Ha ha! No…not my wife—never will be anyone’s wife, buddy. That one’s not marriage material…she’s a tiger.”
I smile to myself, holding back a laugh, and then move toward the exit feeling inexplicably fantastic.
3
Toby
It’s been a while since I wore that gray suit, but when I dig it out and put it on, I remember how good it looks, how good I feel in it. No surprise Maeve remembered and gave the advice—she works in fashion. A designer… Or no, was it a buyer? Something in management? I don’t remember. Strangely, or perhaps not, my immediate instinct is to wear black shoes with it, but her words echo in my mind like a warning and I resist. Going for brown leather just as instructed.
I wasn’t lying when I said I hadn’t been anywhere fancy for a while, and she wasn’t wrong about me falling for that pop star five minutes away from becoming famous. Tara—an all-American blonde singer-songwriter from Texas. How could I not, when I saw her in those cut-off jean shorts and cowboy boots? At a gig in a dive bar, I spent the whole evening working my magic on her as she worked some kinda magic on me, but as usual, just before I made a move she told me she was taken. Story of my life. It’s happened so many times to me that my first reaction was to laugh.
Mia once told me that it’s not bad luck. She said a part of me enjoys falling for women I can’t have. Like I enjoy being some kind of lovesick loser, or I’m so used to getting what I want I’ve become obsessed with the things I can’t have. I told her she was being overanalytical again; being complicated when it’s actually pretty simple—the best girls are all taken.
I’m just about getting Tara out of my system now, thanks to about fifty nights out at the hottest events, about a dozen one-night stands, and a couple of girls who are still sending me nudes and asking for another round. Even the fact that Tara’s been getting progressively more famous isn’t fazing me much anymore.
The last time I saw her, I was turning the TV on to some morning show she was being interviewed on. A pang of painful regret in my chest made me have to click it off immediately, though those jean shorts made it a little tough. I guess I’m still healing. But surely someone at the party tonight will catch my eye. Give me the distraction I so desperately need. Though it’s Maeve that’s got me distracted, if I’m honest with myself. Still, I’ll be on my best behavior. As my sister’s best friend, Maeve is firmly in the no-fly-zone.
The suit’s got me feeling classy for the first time in such a long time that I decide to drive my classic Ferrari to the party. Only five hundred were ever made, and the only way to one-up a rich dude is find something he can’t buy even if he wanted to. But first I need to get it back from a film director who’s been desperate to buy it from me for years now.
He’s a quiet guy, obsessed with his craft, but when I get to his home I find it full of glamorous stars and their entourages, all taking a break from a script reading, enjoying the sunset by the pool. I manage to turn down his insistence on having a drink with them, but not the introductions. I take a few numbers, leave a few cards (including one to a Spanish actress whose incredibly erotic eyes seemed to already be looking at me whenever I turned to her) and manage to get out with the car despite the director insisting we make a deal right there and then for it.
I take a quick detour into the hills to drop off a pair of earrings to one of my oldest clients, spend the next twenty minutes politely declining the offer of dinner, and then get back to my car. When I check my phone, it’s filled with the usual Saturday night offers to come to this rave or go to that bar or check out this gig. I ignore them all apart from the girl who sends me a hot selfie of her in the bathroom somewhere, her name a mystery to me, though I have her down as “the all-nighter” in my phone.
What time did Maeve say again? Ten? Eleven? Either way, I’m late by the time I’m done with all that, and I still have to make a stop since the director gave me the car with hardly any gas in it.
Pumping gas at the quiet, empty gas station, I suddenly feel reflective and content. The smell of the fuel mixes with my cologne. Far off in the distance there are sirens, the occasional sound of drunk laughter. Lit-up billboards reflecting across the Ferrari’s feminine contours. From the open space of the gas station you can look off far into the streets beyond, catch the dark silhouettes of the mountains, and it feels like the city of L.A. goes on forever, that the joy of its million parties is somehow being carried on the air. Nights out always give you these strange moments of quiet in the midst of the madness. Or maybe I’ve just been smelling too much gas…
A laugh from somewhere behind me breaks my mood and makes me realize the gas station isn’t as empty as I thought. I turn around to see two women by an SUV—both of them looking at me. They laugh again and it sounds like the sparkle of champagne.
Both of them are tall brunettes in minidresses so tight you can count their ribs, high heels they probably needed stepladders to wear. I smile back at them as the pump clicks and I put it back into place. I keep my eyes on them as I move toward them, grabbing the receipt that’s printing out.
“Nice car,” one of them says through a pouted smile.
“It’s as fast as it looks,” I reply without breaking stride.
The girls seem to find this hilarious, hands to their mouths as they laugh, leaning on each other so they don’t topple off those heels. It brings a smile to my face as I step inside the station to get an energy drink.
I find myself behind a blonde just as tall as the other girls—no minidress, but her leather pants leave even less to the imagination, and the white blouse above them accentuates a rack I feel like I should be paying to see. Just beyond her, the attendants are changing shifts, counting out the register, and the blonde’s looking wistfully outside. She glances at me. A hard, serious face; I’d guess Scandinavian. A flash of green eyes that catch the light like a cat’s. A glance is all she needs to imprint the memory of them on me.
As I thumb my wallet counting bills I say, “So you’re the designated driver, huh?”
She flashes those emeralds at me again, her hard lips in a tiny smil
e.
“I don’t drink anyway.”
I look out of the window to see the minidresses throw another champagne laugh into the sky.
“Looks like they’re not letting your share go to waste,” I say.
That thin smile again, green eyes lingering on me a little longer. She turns back to look at her friends, and after a little too long says, “To tell you the truth, I’d rather be at home with a book.”
I forget counting dollars and consider her a little more thoughtfully now.
“You’re in the wrong city for that.”
That thin smile again. “Maybe,” she says.
“No,” I say, a little more loudly, as if we’ve gone beyond idle chitchat to a proper conversation. “You know what I think? I think you just need a different kind of Saturday night.”
Now she lets those green eyes rest on me.
“Is that so?”
I nod and look out at her friends, who are still staggering just to stay upright.
“Yeah. I’m guessing your friends drag you out regularly, right? They like the bars where it’s too loud to talk, and the guys are too dumb to say anything interesting anyway.”
The blonde breaks into a small laugh, looking down at her chest as if feeling guilty for it.
“They seem like nice girls,” I continue, “but they can’t resist getting smashed while you have to watch from the bar with your orange juice, fending off guys while you make sure they don’t do anything they’ll regret too much.”
“Something like that,” she says, looking away again.
“And there’s no chance of you convincing them to spend an evening at the theatre—you’re outvoted two-to-one.” Those eyes soften a little on me now. “But that’s no reason to make the weekend as boring as a weekday.”
She lets out a gentle sigh. Eyes not quite rolling, but her expression says it all. She knows I’m hitting on her, and I’m probably the twelfth guy to do so this night.
“And you’re the guy who can show me how to, I suppose?”
“Something like that,” I say, mimicking her words and her tone. “An hours-long drive across the coast, at night with the windows down, neither of us saying a word until I drop you off and you tell me what a good time you had.”
That thin smile again, but the eyes are squinting at me a little, half confused at the idea of me taking her out and saying nothing, doing nothing.
“Ma’am,” the attendant calls, snapping her away from scrutinizing me. I wait behind her as she pays and a minute later she turns back to me.
“Annika,” she says, holding out her hand.
I take it and say, “Toby,” then reach into my pocket and give her my card.
She looks at it for a moment.
“A jeweler…” she murmurs.
“I’m all about beautiful things,” I say. I step closer to her, intimately close, as I move past her to the attendant. “Any time you want something different.”
I move past her to the counter and pay for my drink, pretending to be done with Annika as I pull out my wallet and pay, though I look back out the gas station window when she leaves. Legs incredible in those leather pants, a posture as gracefully composed as her expression. When she pushes my business card into her bra, I can’t help smiling. I turn back to the attendant to see that he’s as impressed as I am pleased.
“How the hell did you do that, man?”
I laugh when he says it.
“Is it the clothes? The car?” he asks, his curiosity intense.
I look at him with a smile—a slightly chubby guy in his early twenties.
“You just got to offer women what they don’t have.”
He screws up his face, glancing outside where the girls are bundling into the car, then back at me. “What? A silent drive?”
“She’s the quiet type,” I say, nodding outside to where the SUV is pulling out. “Likes to keep her thoughts to herself. But unfortunately she was born in the body of a goddess. Imagine looking like that. Every day guys from eighteen to eighty try to get inside her head and inside her pants. She probably can’t look outside the window without getting hit on. And then on the weekend she has to be the responsible one while her friends have a good time.
“So yeah…a silent drive—the chance to spend time with a man who isn’t trying to get her to ‘open up’ or ‘give in’ is the one thing she doesn’t have.”
I tap the counter to say goodbye, then turn and leave the station, checking the time and wincing a little when I realize how late I’m going to be to the party.
Maeve lives in Beverly Grove, a pretty upscale part of L.A. that’s south of the Sunset Strip in Hollywood and north of all the businesses on Wilshire in Miracle Mile. A big house on a street of big houses. The kind of place where you could knock on any door and be answered by a household name. There’s a lot of money in fashion, but it helps when there’s a line of men begging to buy you dinners and fund any side projects you come up with.
Finding the place is easy—I just follow the trail of expensive cars. At this time of night, the party’s already spilling out onto the street. Luckily, finding a parking spot isn’t too hard either. Most guests are probably neighbors, or too determined to drink not to Uber.
I guide the Ferrari through the wrought iron gates, past the appreciative gazes of a few stragglers, then swing it into a gap under a manicured oak tree, right beside a Rolls Royce. I get out and take everything in with a low whistle. The place is twice as big as Maeve’s, and I take my time moving toward the Tudor-style house, soaking in the vibe and getting a good look at the people there.
It’s old money, for sure. The men look pampered and the women look bored. Tuxedos and gowns. The music not too loud. Laughter that sounds restrained. I pass a waiter carrying a tray of drinks and grab myself a glass of champagne, then decide to round the building and head for the heart of the party at the pool to the back.
It takes me about five minutes of strolling around the pool area to get the lay of the land, and eventually I remember why I haven’t been to this kind of party in a while. Nearly midnight and nobody’s been shoved into the pool. Nobody dancing, as if their greatest fear is creasing their clothes. Most of the people here already know each other—hence the bored looks. Worst of all, there are about five guys to every girl.
This doesn’t look like it’ll be a night to remember, but still, I might be able to find a few potentially big clients for the shop. I continue stalking the crowds, throwing out a few smiles, standing around to listen in on a few dull conversations about property and politics. Eventually a young guy whose easygoing manner looks out of place comes up to me to talk about the Ferrari. We chat a while and I eventually ask him if he knows where Maeve is.
“Maeve?” he says, looking around the pool. “You might wanna ask Chad there. He works with her.”
The kid points out a tall guy with tanned skin that’s so deep it looks like he uses furniture polish on it. Hair with so much product, he could probably take it off like a hat. He looks like a knock-off Ken doll. He’s talking to a woman and clearly not doing a good job of it. I catch a slightly repulsed look on her face as she walks away.
“Thanks,” I say, handing the kid my card and setting off to engage the waxwork.
“Chad?” I say holding my hand out. “Toby. You work with Maeve, right? Any idea where she is?”
He grabs my hand and smiles like he’s up to no good.
“She’s probably in the bathroom getting railed by the third guy this night.” He laughs too much at his own joke, and I find myself mimicking the same look as the girl he repelled. “How do you know her?”
“I’m an old friend,” I say, already looking around to extricate myself from him.
“There’s a lie,” he says, laughing again. “She might have friends, but not old ones. They turn into enemies pretty quick.”
I frown at the guy, but he’s so dense he doesn’t pick up on any of my irritation with him. “You sound like you don’t like her.”
“Oh, I like her,” he says, lowering his voice like a schoolboy about to tell a secret. “I’d like her to sit on my—”
“You sure you don’t know where she is?” I interrupt, before the guy angers me enough to make a scene.
He shrugs and takes a long sip of his drink. “Try inside. The birthday girl’s been in the living room all night. Maeve’s probably with her.”
“Here, hold this a second,” I say, handing him my empty champagne glass and heading into the crowd.
The house seems almost bigger on the inside, but after weaving through partygoers like one of the waiters, I find myself in the living room. It’s furnished with the over-exuberance you would expect. All old antiques and a huge stone fireplace that probably never gets used, a bunch of framed large paintings alongside a gigantic TV, and speakers big enough for a block party. The anxiety of old money trying to distinguish itself from the new.
And then I see Maeve. I didn’t need to look for her—she attracts the eye anyway. In a little purple dress, not tight enough to kill any mystery, but hugging her waist enough to beg the question. Short blonde hair slicked back, a few strands loose, framing her face. She’s in a group of about four men and two women, all of them looking at her even when she doesn’t speak. Even money can’t change the fact that she looks a cut above.
I sidle toward a wall and lean against it so I can look at her a little while. The party might be disappointing, but Maeve never is. Maybe it’s the lingering lust from Annika at the gas station, maybe it’s the drabness of everyone else here, or maybe it’s the way those strands of hair dance and touch her face in a manner so tender, I forget for half a second all the reasons nothing can happen between us.
She looks like a prize. Like a mountain to conquer. More than a woman. The kind of challenge that ancient Greek men would have fallen to in droves. Untamable but irresistible with it. Enough to make a married man doubt his life choices, and a single man wonder why the hell he’d chase anyone else.
