I fought a smile and he threw an arm over my shoulder, ignoring my attempt to push him off.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly, steering me around a set stand and toward the catering truck. “All of your problems are solved.”
The chances of Joey solving all of my problems in six hours was highly unlikely. I let him pull me along, my feet weighing twenty pounds, and it had nothing to do with my supercute boots. “I’m not like you Joey. My parents—”
“I know all about your parents,” he interrupted. “My publicist gave me the scoop. And don’t worry about it. Katie in Mixing has already agreed to sleep with me, just to throw the wolves off your scent.”
“What?” I came to a stop, his arm dropping from my shoulder. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t feel sorry for her.” He winked at me. “I’ll make sure she enjoys it.”
Oh, I was sure she’d enjoy it. “And how will that help?”
“We’ll leak some photos, I’ll grope her in public, and our little kiss will be forgotten as quickly as your boss’s embarrassing attempt at a career.” He smiled that famous smile, and my mind stuttered, still stuck on Katie’s involvement in all of this.
“Katie’s going to sleep with you? Just to throw off the press?”
“Uh … yeah. Technically, we’ll be fucking more than sleeping but…” He shrugged. “You get the point. In twenty-four hours, I’ll have solved all your problems.” He stepped toward the truck and urged me forward with his hand. “Come on. You owe me a drink.”
I followed him to the catering truck, unsure if Katie in Mixing was stupid or lucky. Unsure if I was stupid for believing in this plan. Was he right? Would it all go away that easily?
Vic the Dick
Is such a Prick
He took my heart
And stopped its Tick
And to think I got a C in Modern Poetry.
It was hailing. The top of the SUV drummed with the pelts, a soothing beat except that soon Dante would stop and I would have to step out into its fury. I watched hail bounce off the hood of a taxi and hoped it would stop before we got to set.
We were a few hours behind Nicole, a grooming appointment for Chanel taking up the morning. Dante laid on the horn, cursing out a passing car, and I glanced at him. He was being quiet. Extra quiet. I’d tried to chat with him, even poked a few jabs at him, but had gotten nothing. Not a sharp response, not a laugh, not even a smile.
“Everything okay?” A minor in psychology and that was the best I could manage. Pathetic.
“It’s fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
He glanced back at me. “You seem fine.”
“What’s your point?”
“With Paulo.” He sneered the name.
Oh. I swallowed the remaining bit of peppermint in my mouth. “When did you find out?”
“Nicole got out late last night. Mr. B told me to go pick her up. I guess she didn’t get the message. I pulled up and saw them together.”
I didn’t know what to say. My first emotion was relief at finally having someone to talk about it with, to confide in. Except, Dante seemed pissed. At me? At Nicole? At both of us? I couldn’t tell. I studied him, picking up on the tight grip of his hands on the wheel, the hunch of his back.
“So you’re just gonna cover for her? That’s your job now?” His voice was cold, almost mean—a tone I’d never heard him use.
I looked out the window, his words more accurate than he realized. My job was to cover up the affair—and that job was the only thing keeping me fed, keeping my cell phone on, keeping my health insurance active. He was loyal to Clarke … but necessity, right now, was keeping me loyal to my bank account.
I raised my voice to talk over the hail. “It’s not my business. I stay out of it. She wants to have an affair, whatever.” My words came out airy, showing nothing of the way it bothered me. And it did bother me. I had a pit in my stomach half the time I was on set. I worried whenever she disappeared. I felt guilty whenever I thought of Clarke. I wasn’t heartless. I just had to act it, for long enough to get on my feet.
Then again, most downward spirals probably started that way. Small moral adjustments made and justified by income needs. Maybe that was how my parents’ crimes had started. I sucked in a deep breath, startled by the thought.
It was a lot easier to be judgmental and morally sound, back when I didn’t have to worry about money.
40. Codeword: SugarTits
I sat cross-legged on my couch, a bowl of cereal in my lap, and flipped through channels. My cell rang and I glanced at it, Vic’s name on the display. I wavered, a second of indecision before I picked up the damn thing and answered it.
“Hello?”
His voice whipped in and out, bursts of static hitting the receiver. “Hey babe.”
“Hey Vic.” I gave a convincingly aggravated sigh and then mentally high-fived myself.
“You dating movie stars now?” Ah. There was the reason for his call. Jealousy had always been Vic’s weakness, possessiveness his calling card.
I looked at my half-eaten bowl of Lucky Charms. “Seriously? I don’t have time to talk about this.”
“Joey Plazen is a piece of shit, Chloe. He’s stuck his dick in half of LA.”
There were so many immature comments I could make in response to that but I shut my mouth and managed, for once, to not sound like the jilted ex. “Shocker. You don’t like him. I do.”
I hung up quickly, before he could say something that stung. My chances of dating Joey were slimmer than Nicole Ritchie, but the chances of falling back into Vic? That was a real danger. I shouldn’t have answered the phone, shouldn’t have fanned his fire. I stared at the phone and wondered if he’d call back, then scooped out a handful of Lucky Charm marshmallows. I shouldn’t have egged him on, especially since Joey’s photos with the girl from Mixing had already hit the Internet, his quest to distract the press through sex completed. Using Joey to make Vic jealous was a lost cause.
I had a moment of weakness and pulled up Vic’s Instagram, scrolling through his recent posts, all from Dubai where forty-six minutes ago he’d posted a pic of some brunette lying back on a bar with champagne in her belly button, hashtag cheers. I threw my phone back down and flipped channels for another twenty minutes. Called Benta, who sent me to voicemail. Called Cammie, who answered, mid-movie. I whispered an apology, then scrolled through numbers, my list of friends significantly reduced after graduation.
I stopped on Joey Plazen’s name and considered it. Moved on. Made it all the way through the alphabet and back. Then, his sexual sacrifice still fresh on my mind, I texted him.
hey
It took him five minutes to respond—hey
what r u doing?
—bored?
YES
—I’m on a date. Want to join us?
WHY did you respond if you’re on a date?! I inserted an angry face emoticon.
—shut up and come out with us. No paps in sight.
OK
The polite thing to do would have been to leave Joey and his date alone. My boredom, though, trumped social etiquette. Joey sent me the name of the pub and I threw a leather jacket on over my top, traded my Toms for heels, then grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
My spirits had almost lifted, my steps light, my push on the elevator button cheerful. The doors opened, and Carter stood there, our heads lifting and eyes meeting in awkward and perfect unison.
Almost three weeks since we’d hooked up. Two weeks since I resolved to forget that mistake and return to the world of Successful Men. That plan took a nosedive the moment Carter opened his gorgeous mouth. “Hey.” He smiled and I was done for, my girl parts beginning to pant inside my La Perla panties.
“Hey.”
“Going down?” His grin widened, and I laughed.
“Yeah.” I stepped on, my eyes lingering over his dark jeans and worn black V-neck. “Where are you headin
g?”
“Grabbing something to eat.” He leaned against the side of the elevator and crossed his arms. “You?”
“Just meeting up with some friends.” I fiddled nervously with my phone. “They’re at an oyster bar a few blocks over. If you want, you can join us.” I shrugged, like I didn’t care either way.
He scratched the back of his head. “I don’t want to interrupt a girls’ night or anything…”
I had to laugh at that, the elevator doors opening. “No. Please. You’ll save me from being an awkward third wheel. I was bored, my friend Joey is out on a date, and now I’m about to crash it.” I stepped off the elevator. “You’d be doing me a favor,” I added.
He opened the door for me. “If you’re sure. Is it Kumamoto?”
I nodded. “Yeah, you know it?”
“Yep.” He steered me right and pointed ahead. “This way.”
I followed his lead, stepping over the curb and crossing a side street. While we moved, I pulled out my phone and texted Joey.
I’m bringing someone. Behave.
—ooh, fun. Is she hot?
I rolled my eyes. Yes, he’s super hot.
—I only misbehave with women.
I stuck my phone in my back pocket and smiled over at Carter. “Just wanted to give them the heads up.”
“So we’re good?”
I didn’t know if “good” could ever describe this situation, but it was the only adjective I had. “Yeah. We’re good.” I stepped over a crack, and he moved closer, offering his arm. “Don’t let me forget,” I said. “I have your spare key.”
He looked down. “You ever find your set?”
“No. But I had a copy made of yours, so I’m good.” I smiled up at him. “I’ll hide it so I don’t have to bother you next time.”
“I didn’t exactly mind.”
I blushed, glancing down at my heels. “I should warn you about Joey, my friend we’re meeting.” I rushed into the subject change before it went from slightly awkward to full-out weird. “He’s an actor. Joey Plazen. That’s … that’s who he is. My friend.” I looked up at him nervously, not sure of his reaction. I shouldn’t have mentioned it in advance, should have just casually introduced them like Joey wasn’t the Movie Star of the Century.
“Joey Plazen?” His steps slowed. “That’s who we’re meeting?”
“Yeah. We work together.”
He shrugged. Chuckled a little and kept walking. “Okay.”
I let go of his arm when we got to the place. “Joey says they’re on the back deck,” I murmured to him as we moved through the crowd, which seemed thick for a weekday. I understood why when we got to the deck’s entrance, two security guards blocking the door. “Deck’s closed,” one said curtly.
I glanced down at Joey’s text and inwardly groaned. The password is Sugartits. I rolled my eyes and held up the screen, showing it to the guard.
We were waved through, and wove around and through empty tables, spying Joey before he saw us, his hand on a redhead’s ass, his mouth at her ear and I coughed loudly as we approached. He turned, raising a beer. “Chloe!” he cheered, stepping forward and hugging me. When he turned to Carter, his hand froze, his face tightening, first in recognition, then in anger. “Carter.” He dropped his hand. “You fucking prick.”
My introduction to the redhead stopped, my head turning, and I stared at Joey, then at Carter, in shock.
My eyes darted from Joey to Carter, whose mouth was a tight, straight line. A tight line that broke into a wide grin, and he held out his arms, walking into Joey’s chest and clapping him on the back. Joey shoved him off with a scoff.
“Get off me, man. You move back to New York and drop off the grid. Can’t return a phone call for shit.”
“I had stuff to deal with. You had Hollywood.”
“Wait,” I interrupted their reunion. “How do you guys know each other?”
Carter slid a hand around my waist, his fingers sliding under the bottom hem of my sweater, each digit a sly reach further into my heart, and he pulled me against him. “Fraternity brothers, believe it or not.”
“Phi Iota for life,” Joey mocked, reaching out and slapping palms with Carter.
I watched the exchange, more confused than before. First off, I didn’t even know Carter had gone to college. Second, what were the chances that, in this huge city, they knew each other? “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Joey?” I turned to Carter with an accusatory stare.
The corner of his mouth crooked up and he leaned forward, putting his lips against my ear. “You mean … in our many conversations?” he murmured.
“Talking about me?” Joey drawled and I rolled my eyes.
“It’s not all about you,” I snapped, taking a beer from the counter and taking a sip.
“So … you two know each other.” Joey’s gaze dropped to Carter’s arm around me, then back to my face. His eyes held mischief and he practically beamed at me, the way I looked at Chanel when she performed a new trick. I shifted uncomfortably.
“Yep.” Carter drawled, his fingers running along my skin. “You okay with that, Plazen?”
A waitress appeared with a tray full of beers and Joey snagged two, holding them out to us. “Hey, I’m all about that. Though Chloe, you should know you can do better than this loser.”
Carter didn’t seem insulted, taking the beer with a laugh and I took mine and latched onto Joey’s girl, effectively ending the awkward group conversation about Carter and me. The girl turned out to be really nice, and we perched at a table next to the guys, our conversations each taking their own directions, lines occasionally floating from table to table as the night passed. It was nice, seeing Joey with Carter. It was the first time I’d seen Joey relax with someone, and the most I’d seen of Carter outside of the bedroom. I sat back in my chair and drank in the opportunity to watch him, the way his dimple appeared when he laughed, the run of his hand through his hair, the way his mouth held the edge of the beer, the way his eyes would darken, just a hint, when he glanced at me. By the time we stood and said our goodbyes, I wanted him so badly it hurt.
When we left the restaurant, the streets were in fog, the city quiet.
“This is my favorite time in New York.” I tilted back my head and looked at the sky, the moon illuminated the clouds, just a sliver of it all seen through the frame of skyscrapers.
“August?” He reached out, taking ahold of my hand, his fingers linking loosely through mine.
“No.” I smiled. “This time of night. Anywhere else in the country, everyone would be asleep. And a lot of New Yorkers are.” I gestured to the closed storefronts we passed, the dark apartment windows. “There’s this hush over everything, but there’s still the energy…” I tried to think of how to describe it, my words failing me.
“I know.” He smiled. “It’s like a secret world, hidden in the city. The night owls.”
I glanced at him. “Yeah. I like that. A secret city of night owls.”
He pulled gently on my hand and I stopped next to him, his head turning up to the sky next to me. “Hear it?”
I closed my eyes and tilted my face up, turning into all of the sounds that my city ears tuned out. The muted beat of someone’s bass. The splash of a puddle as a taxi drove by. The rumble of the subway underneath our feet. The soft music of an open window, a dozen stories up. Somewhere, a dog barked. “Yeah.”
“You know, you’re different than I expected.”
I stopped listening to the sounds of the city and turned to him, our hands still linked. “In what way?”
“I don’t know.” He looked away, back up at the sky. “I’m still figuring that out.”
“Good luck.” I let out a soft laugh. “I’m still figuring that out too.”
That couldn’t have made sense to him, it didn’t make much sense to me, but he said nothing, just stepped forward, toward our building. I followed, us moving quietly through the fog, my face damp by the time we took the steps to
our building.
The elevator stopped and I was surprised when he held open the door of the elevator and didn’t get off on my floor.
“I had a great time tonight.” He leaned against the elevator door, keeping it open.
“Me too. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for inviting me.” Great. We had manners down pat.
“Have a good night.” He reached forward and pulled gently at my jeans. Dragged me close enough for one short kiss. Way too short of a kiss. I almost frowned when it ended but saved face, flashing him a parting smile and turning away. I walked toward my door and said a silent curse when I heard the elevator door close.
Damn the man. When I wanted him, he left me hanging. When I didn’t want him, he wormed his way into my thoughts and stayed there. I stepped into my apartment and shut the door. I never remembered to bitch at him about his three weeks of silence after our hookup. I’d had plans, concocted during our walk to the bar, to politely tell him off. Let him know that three weeks of silence after going down on a girl could give her a complex. It wasn’t too late. I could still go up and put him in his place. Straighten him out.
I sat on the couch and pulled my shoes off, pushing aside any excuses to go upstairs. One side effect of starting to find myself? I could decipher my own bullshit.
New York City loved its parties. And the rich of the city loved to throw them, each soiree an excuse to flaunt their wealth while exhausting their staff. As an NYU student, I was all for a good party. As Nicole Brantley’s personal bitch, I was learning to hate them. Chanel’s birthday, I thought I’d be able to manage, had actually gotten excited by the thought, envisioning a party so perfectly executed that puppy attendees would leave with their minds permanently blown.
I forgot this was upper crust New York.
I forgot this was Nicole Brantley.
I forgot that I had absolutely no party experience in anything other than looking hot and slinging back expensive champagne.
Love, Chloe Page 11
