Positively Pricked

by Sabrina Stark

We all looked. For once, I was actually sort of interested in what the guy might say.

  Finally, he said, "I refuse to dignify that with a response."

  Paisley's mouth fell open. "So you're not gonna stick up for me?"

  The guy settled deeper into the couch. "You're a strong, independent woman. You shouldn't need me to defend your honor."

  From the armchair, Charlotte said, "That's because she doesn't have any."

  Paisley turned to Charlotte and yelled, "You take that back!"

  Charlotte stood. "Make me."

  I yelled, "Shut up! All of you!"

  Surprisingly, they did.

  I pointed to the TV screen, where the flash of a familiar face had just claimed all of my attention. I said, "I wanna see this."

  Paisley frowned toward the screen. "But you hate this show."

  She was right. I did. And I hated the guy whose face had just appeared on the show. But I was also dying of curiosity.

  They were introducing a new segment. It was about who else, but Zane "the Prick" Bennington. Of course, the gossip reporter didn't call him that. No, she preferred to use nicer words, like "sudden sensation" and "reclusive mystery man."

  I muttered, "How about arrogant ass?"

  Paisley, who'd already plopped back down onto the couch, said, "Shut up. I'm trying to watch."

  I gave her an annoyed look. That was supposed to be my line.

  Still, I watched in silence as the segment began by explaining that just last month, Zane Bennington had arrived seemingly out of nowhere to claim the massive Bennington fortune and assume control of the family's vast hotel empire.

  This all happened, she explained, on the heels of Zane's grandfather, Lloyd Bennington, dying of a sudden stroke.

  The story itself might've been pretty standard, except for the fact that Zane had been completely out of the family picture – unlike the other Benningtons, who'd been household names forever.

  I watched in grim fascination as the show detailed how Zane's two uncles – both notorious, aging playboys – had died earlier this year in two separate incidents within hours of each other.

  One had died in a freak boating accident on the French Riviera, while the other had died when his private helicopter crashed in the Mojave Desert.

  The reporter went on to say, "Sources close to the family tell us that Lloyd Bennington was heartbroken at the loss of his two favorite sons. According to these sources, this double tragedy, along with ongoing upheavals in his business empire, almost surely contributed to his death."

  The reporter briefly mentioned a third son, the youngest, who happened to be Zane's father. Without elaborating, she quickly moved on to Zane himself.

  This only piqued my curiosity. Was Zane's father still alive? And if so, why didn't he inherit?

  I leaned forward, dying to hear what she'd say next. But already, the program was going to a commercial. Damn it. This was part of the reason I hated this show. It always left me hanging just as things were getting interesting.

  As the commercial droned on, Charlotte said, "Maybe Zane did it."

  "Did what?" I asked.

  "You know. Offed his uncles."

  From the sofa, Paisley said, "Offed?"

  "Yeah," Charlotte said. "Like, he killed them so he could inherit." She looked to me and asked, "What do you think?"

  Paisley said, "How would she know?" She gave Charlotte a smug smile. "You should've asked me. I know way more about celebrities than she does."

  Charlotte said, "Oh yeah? Have you met him?"

  "No," Paisley grudgingly admitted. "But she hasn't either."

  "Hah!" Charlotte said. "That's what you think."

  "Oh, get real." Paisley turned to me and said, "You have not met him." When I made no response, she frowned. "Have you?"

  The way I saw it, it wasn't anything to brag about. Still, I said, "Actually, I worked at one of his houses last night." Under my breath, I added, "…back when I had a catering job."

  Paisley brightened. "Oh, is that all? Gee, I could've done that."

  I gave her a dubious look. Catering jobs were hard work. Paisley was on some sort of work-study program as part of a financial-aid package. From what I'd seen over the last few months, it involved very little work or study.

  I couldn’t resist telling her, "I think they're hiring. Maybe, you should apply."

  She drew back. "What? You mean work in…" She made a face. "…food service?"

  I gave an enthusiastic nod. "Yeah, and think of the glamor." My tone grew sarcastic. "You could meet rich, famous guys."

  Next to her, the professor announced, "I just had a paper published."

  We all turned to look. When no one said anything, he mumbled, "I'm just saying, I'm kinda well-known myself."

  It suddenly struck me that I had no idea what subject the guy even taught. Cripes, I didn't even know his name – mostly because Paisley always referred to him simply as the professor.

  I briefly considered asking for more details, but quickly thought better of it. When it came to Paisley and the professor, I knew far too much already.

  Charlotte pointed to the TV. "Shhh! It's back on."

  I looked to the screen, and there he was, Zane Bennington. It was a live-action shot of him entering the Bennington's flagship hotel, located in downtown Indianapolis, where the company was also headquartered.

  In the news footage, Zane looked obnoxiously rich and successful, just like any other hotshot business mogul, well, except for the fact he was a few decades younger and a whole lot sexier.

  The bastard.

  And yet, as the segment continued, I couldn’t help but lean forward, more curious than ever.

  Who was this guy, anyway?

  Chapter 17

  Silently, we all watched as the reporter gave us a virtual tour of some of the most famous Bennington properties.

  This included a stunning parade of hotels, along with restaurants, mansions, a horse farm in Kentucky, plus a ranch out West, along with a villa in Tuscany, and a penthouse suite in New York.

  The whirlwind tour ended with some exterior shots of the estate right here in Indianapolis, where Zane's grandfather had apparently been living until he died.

  It was strange to think I'd just been there, chewing out the property's new owner, for all the good that did.

  When the show ended, I hated Zane even more – not because I was jealous, but because the guy was such an ass. In fact, the show's final scene was a long slow-motion shot of Zane, flipping the camera the double-bird.

  He'd been standing on the same front porch where I'd visited him today. But unlike earlier, he'd been perfectly groomed and dressed in a pricey suit and tie. He would've looked every inch the billionaire, if only he weren't making such an immature, obscene gesture.

  The thought had barely crossed my mind when I recalled something that made me a teeny bit uncomfortable. I'd been making that same gesture at him, less than two hours ago.

  But that was totally different, I reasoned, because in my case, Zane totally had it coming.

  To no one in particular, I said, "You know, he's gonna run that company straight into the ground."

  Charlotte said, "I dunno. They went through a really rough patch a couple years ago, but the company's doing great now."

  I turned and gave her a perplexed look. "How do you know?"

  She glanced toward her cell phone, sitting on a side table. "I had to do something while you were gone."

  I couldn’t resist asking, "So, did you learn anything else? Like about his dad?"

  "Oh yeah," Charlotte said. "Get this. The guy's like some mountain man or something."

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. "Mountain man?"

  Charlotte nodded. "Totally. He lives in a cabin in the U.P."

  I asked, "What's the U.P.?"

  "The upper peninsula of Michigan. Didn't you know?"

  I wasn't familiar with the abbreviation, but I did know that northern Michigan was sparsely populated and known f
or producing people a lot tougher than I was.

  I said, "So the U.P. has mountains?"

  Charlotte gave it some thought. "I dunno. Maybe. But you don't need a mountain to be a mountain man."

  On this, I decided she had a point. I asked, "What about his Mom?"

  "Oh, she died forever ago."

  For the first time, I felt a twinge of sympathy for the horrible Zane Bennington. "Really? How?"

  "A car accident," she said. "The way it sounds, Zane was just a baby."

  And there it was – another annoying twinge of sympathy. The guy hadn't even known his mom? Was that why he was such a jackass? It didn't excuse his behavior, but it might explain some of it, if only a little.

  Damn it. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. After all, plenty of people had horrible things happen to them, and they didn't all turn into raging jackasses. And besides, Zane was loaded. On top of that, he had a job, with the best job title of all – C.E.O. It didn't get any better than that.

  In contrast, I had no job, no title, and no idea how I'd be paying the rent.

  With that in mind, I followed after Paisley when she stood and began heading alone toward the kitchen.

  I was hoping that if it was just the two of us, maybe we could discuss the rent situation like two reasonable adults.

  Those hopes were squashed like a bug on a windshield.

  In less than two minutes, our so-called discussion devolved into a whole lot of name-calling – from Paisley, mostly – which caused Charlotte to barge in and return the favor by calling Paisley, among other things, a deadbeat cake-hog.

  From there, it went decidedly downhill.

  The confrontation finally ended with Paisley marching back to the living room and yanking the professor off the sofa. As Charlotte and I watched, she dragged him out the front door, hollering over her shoulder that she was tired of living with a total nag.

  By then, I was so spent that I had nothing left to say.

  As for Charlotte, she had plenty. "Oh yeah?" she hollered back. "Well, maybe she's tired of living with a pink-haired lumberjack fucker!"

  Oh yeah. It was totally one of those days.

  After Paisley squealed out of the driveway, I shut the front door and shuffled silently to the sofa. With a sigh, I sank down where the professor had been lounging just a few moments earlier. If nothing else, he'd kept the spot warm. That was something to be thankful for, right?

  I reached up to rub my temples. Who was I kidding?

  It was sad day when you had to be thankful for the second-hand warmth of your roommate's married boyfriend.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, wondering what on Earth I was going to do now. I still had five months left on my lease, and that wasn't even the worst of it. I had plenty of other expenses, too – student loans, an outstanding car repair bill, and cripes, even a cell phone contract, which really sucked, considering that I had no phone.

  For what felt like the millionth time, I heard myself murmur, "It'll eventually turn up, right?"

  From somewhere in the living room, Charlotte said, "If you're talking about your phone, the answer is no."

  I sighed. "No?"

  "Sorry," Charlotte said. "It's time to accept it and move on."

  Stupidly, I repeated, "Move on?"

  "Yeah. Buy a new one."

  Like that was so easy. I opened my eyes to look at her. She'd reclaimed her spot in the armchair, and was scrolling through her own cell phone.

  It must be nice.

  I just had to ask, "And how am I supposed to buy anything without a job?"

  "Don't worry," Charlotte assured me, "you'll find one."

  I gave her a dubious look. "Just like I found my phone?"

  "That's totally different," she said. "Your phone's been missing for what? A week?"

  "More or less." I was still convinced that it wasn't truly lost. After all, I was pretty sure I'd misplaced it right here, in this house, on a day I hadn't gone anywhere.

  Damn it. The phone might still turn up. It had to.

  Back when money hadn't been quite so tight, I'd splurged on the latest model, and there was no way on Earth that I could afford to replace it now.

  Charlotte said, "And besides, you'll have a new job before you know it."

  I tried to smile. "You really think so?"

  "Definitely."

  But Charlotte was wrong. Nearly a month later, I was still very much unemployed and getting more desperate with every passing day.

  In fact, one Tuesday afternoon, I got so desperate that I sold my integrity for pasta primavera and a basket of bread sticks.

  Chapter 18

  Tiffany was all smiles as she scurried toward me in the department store. "Oh, my God!" she squealed. "It's been ages. How are you?"

  I glanced around. "Me?"

  But already, Tiffany had barreled into me and wrapped me up in a hug so tight that I could barely breathe. She laughed like I'd just said something funny. "You are such a kidder."

  I wasn't a kidder. I was confused as hell. The last time I'd seen Tiffany had been at that disastrous catering gig, when she'd acted like we were practically strangers. That had been nearly a month ago, and I hadn't forgotten, even if she had.

  I pulled away and eyed her with suspicion. "What are you doing?"

  She lifted both arms, showing off a colorful array of festive shopping bags. "Shopping, what else?"

  I recognized the bags, and not only because they'd just been poking me in the sides. Every single bag sported the name or logo of some upscale shop that was well beyond my price range.

  Of course, everything was beyond my current range, considering that I had no money and none coming in any time soon.

  Unlike Tiffany, I wasn't here to shop. I was looking for a job.

  Already, I'd hit dozens of stores, in hopes that someone was hiring.

  No such luck.

  Tiffany gave me a sunny smile. "So, you wanna grab some lunch and catch up?"

  At the mere mention of lunch, my stomach gave a traitorous grumble. Looking to conserve my money, I'd been living on rice and Ramen noodles for the past couple of weeks. By now, I was so hungry for something different that even food court nachos sounded sinfully delicious.

  Still, I shook my head. "I can't."

  Tiffany frowned. "Why not?"

  Because I can't afford it.

  But I'd die before admitting such a thing.

  And besides, that wasn't the only reason for declining Tiffany's invitation. My empty wallet aside, it was because Tiffany and I weren't on speaking terms, as she'd so nicely informed me at Zane's place, back when I'd been plucking crab cakes off the carpet.

  I told her, "Because we're not friends, remember?"

  Tiffany blinked. "What? Why not?"

  "Oh, for God's sake," I said. "Don't act like you forgot."

  "Forgot what?"

  As if she didn't know. I crossed my arms and waited.

  "Oh, all right," she finally said. "But what did you expect? There are protocols, you know."

  I felt my gaze narrow. "What kind of protocols?"

  "Well…" She glanced away. "Like chatting with the help. It's like a huge faux-pas."

  I stiffened. The help? "Hey," I said, "I was a catering assistant, not a leper."

  Tiffany sighed. "I know. Honest. But the senator, he's so image-conscious. Do you know, he got all mad at me yesterday when I started chatting with some parking valet?" Tiffany gave a sad shake of her head. "Which totally sucked, because he was super-cute, too."

  Obviously, she wasn't talking about her fiancé. Still, I couldn’t resist tweaking her at least a little. "Sorry, who's cute?" I put on my clueless face. "The Senator?"

  "Oh, him?" She sagged a little. "Not really. I mean, he's a little too hairy to be cute-cute." She brightened. "But he was a big football star. So that's good."

  I had no idea what to say. The senator was clean shaven and nearly bald. This posed a rather disturbing question. Hairy where? But I didn'
t ask, because I was pretty darn sure that I didn't want to know.

  Tiffany leaned a fraction closer and whispered, "But can I be honest?"

  "Uh, well…" In truth, I wasn't sure how much more honesty I could take. And yet, I gave a short, jerky nod.

  What was I? A masochist or something?

  Tiffany glanced around before saying in a hushed voice, "Just between us, I'm thinking of trading up."

  Curiosity got the best of me. "Really? To who?"

  Tiffany's gaze grew dreamy. "Zane Bennington."

  I froze. Just the mere mention of that dreaded name was enough to make me want to break something, like an arm – his preferably.

  My mouth tightened. "So are you two a thing now?"

  "I wouldn't go that far," she said. "But we could be, right?"

  What could I say to that? "Sure, why not?"

  Once again, Tiffany was all smiles. "And I was thinking that maybe you and I could chat about it over lunch."

  She was thinking wrong. The last thing I wanted now was to hear anyone gush about Zane "the Prick" Bennington. Already, I'd been hearing that name far too often. It seemed like every time I turned on the news, there he was, pissing someone off – or, on the flipside, doing a new business deal or schmoozing with some actress or runway model.

  And, if that weren't bad enough, he was doing most of these things right here in Indianapolis, as opposed to the usual places, like New York or L.A.

  By now, I had a theory. All those jet-setters were coming to him, because he wouldn't go to them.

  I just knew it.

  In front of me, Tiffany asked, "So, do you like sushi?"

  Seafood? Immediately, I thought of those stupid crab-cakes and how awful she'd treated me the last time I'd seen her.

  I shook my head. "No. Sorry." I made a move to step past her. "I've gotta go."

  "Wait!" Tiffany sidestepped to block my path. "It doesn't have to be sushi. We can go anywhere you want." She gave me a pleading look. "The truth is, I could really use someone to talk to."

  I almost didn't know what to say. Even in college, Tiffany and I hadn't been more than casual friends. Why would she confide in me of all people?

  As if reading something in my expression, she said, "Do you remember that time you caught me with Buster Hogan in the stall?"