by Jess Bentley
“What’s it going to be?” The bartender smiles as I take a seat.
“Bourbon, neat,” I shrug.
“Coming right up,” he answers politely.
Facing the bar, I can see the crowd gathered behind me reflected in the mirrors. People are chattering excitedly, craning their necks to see what is going on. There are way too many people here. This is not what I expected.
I knew that people wanted to see us in real life, but I assumed it would be a quieter affair. Maybe a dignified dinner party or some other kind of gathering. This feels like a cross between a museum exhibit and a frat party.
But if this is the normal way her people celebrate a big piece, then I will have to deal with it. Lola explained that the New York Times piece was a hit. They want a book. They are talking about a movie. I guess this is some kind of big deal.
But why all the excitement? I really don’t get it. Because I’m still here, breathing? Because we are all still breathing? How morbid. What’s the big deal if we are alive or not? We didn’t affect anybody’s life at all. It seems to me that if I feel like putting a bag over my head and hiding out in somebody’s basement for the rest of my life, I should be able to do that. And when I take the bag off, it would be nice if everybody would just leave me the hell alone and not make a big deal out of it.
“You’re doing great,” Jake murmurs, coming up close next to me. “We don’t have to do this all night. We certainly don’t have to do it forever. But take a look at her, would you? Look how happy she is.”
Slowly, I scan the crowd until I find her. Lola. She’s surrounded by a dozen women and men, far less beautiful than she is. She glitters. She glows like a flame in that flickering red dress. Everyone’s attention is on her, completely rapt, totally charmed. She is the real star of this event. That is the only thing that makes it tolerable.
And then I hear it, that sound. The last thing I ever wanted to hear. The voice that pushed us into the wilderness.
“Whitney!” someone calls out.
A hush seems to fall over the crowd as people shuffle to either side to make a path. From where I am sitting, I have a direct view of her. Whitney Carruthers. My ex-wife.
Yes, she made sure to divorce me. That way her wealth was walled off. No one could ever get at it. Wishing me dead was not enough.
She locks on me with laser focus, raising one eyebrow. Her hair is still silvery white, framing her face in movie star curls. She stands tall and straight as a splinter in her glittering silver gown before beginning to walk slowly toward me.
I had often asked myself what would happen if I ever saw her again. How would I feel? Would I ache for her? Certainly I adored her. When we first met, I think it’s fair to say that she enchanted me. Barely out of law school, I was supposed to be setting up my own practice. My father expected me to help out with the family business, of course. With a brief background in business management from Wharton, law was the next logical step. I was perfectly poised to take our company into the next century and beyond.
But Whitney took over my life. Every thought was about her from the day that I met her.
Over the years, I’ve considered the possibility that I would step right back into that habit of being in love with her. Old flames never really die, I reasoned. Given a little oxygen, maybe it would set me on fire all over again.
But now, confronted with her, I don’t feel any heat at all. She is a shiver in my soul, a barren landscape of ice.
With one hand on her hip, I know that she is standing there, waiting to be appreciated. A man sidles up slowly behind her, his sneer imperious. His eyebrows are sculpted and his skin is so smooth I can only assume that my wealth has paid for a good deal of cosmetic enhancement to this person.
When he takes her hand as if to assert his privilege over her, this woman I used to call my wife, I still don’t feel anything. Not even a twinge of jealousy.
Out of the corner of my eye, all I can still see is Lola. Whitney might as well be a piece of ice floating in my drink. She’s nothing.
The bartender slides my drink toward me and grimaces sympathetically. I down the bourbon in one burning gulp and turned toward her, standing and straightening my cuffs.
“Well, look at you,” she sighs in a voice that sounds like ice cracking. “You don’t look like you’ve been dead for more than a week!”
“Neither do you, dear,” I smile and then walk away, leaving her standing there.
Chapter 17
Lola
I do not know what I imagined, but this is definitely not it. I mean, I guess I had a picture in my mind’s eye of walking into a party filled with literary agents, celebrities, and paparazzi, surrounded by five of the most handsome men anyone has ever seen. I did imagine that part. But then… What did I think was going to happen next?
Did I imagine Carty sulking at the bar? No. Did I imagine Jake standing over everyone like a sergeant-at-arms or something? No. Did I imagine Liam and Kill immediately drinking shots like a couple of frat boys?
That part, okay, I did imagine that.
But truthfully, I imagined us all together. Like a unified front. Like a force of nature. That’s the way we’ve been for weeks. I hadn’t realized how much I had gotten accustomed to the ebb and flow of their individual moods, their needs, their attitudes. I hadn’t realized just how in sync we had all become until just now, when we got dropped into the middle of this infernal, idiotic party.
“Oh my God, isn’t this amazing,” Nance coos in my ear, grinning maniacally.
“Oh, it is definitely something,” I answer uncertainly.
She grabs a champagne flute off a passing tray and presses it into my hand. Though she is speaking to me, she has not looked at me even once.
“Okay… That is Judd Apatow over there, I am absolutely certain,” she breathes.
“I know who Judd Apatow is," I assure her. “I’ve only been gone for a few weeks, Nance.”
She raises an eyebrow, finally looking at me from top to bottom, as though she has never seen me before. Her eyes narrow as she appraises my dress and obviously understands it’s a custom piece, probably costing more than her car.
“A few weeks? Is that all it was?” she wonders aloud. “It seems longer. You sure got a lot of work done!”
“Yeah, well, I had a really good story,” I answer, unable to keep the sour edge out of my voice.
Some part of me knows that even though the guys came along willingly, I may have done a bad thing. Looking at them trying to mingle in this crowd right now, looking like fish out of water, I feel terrible. Why did I do this to them? Why did I let Nance talk me into this awful party? Couldn’t we have simply arranged some other way?
“This is awful,” I blurt out.
“This is amazing!” Nance objects, letting her voice carry and her mouth fall open. “There are three hundred people here who want to talk to you! Has that ever happened to you in your whole life?”
“Thankfully, no,” I answer sarcastically.
“Yeah, well, maybe you should thank me!” she says meaningfully. “Who do you think arranged all this? Who do you think got your story into the New York Times, Lola?”
“Carty Carruthers, if I’m not mistaken,” I scowl.
Nance rolls her shoulders back, jutting her chin out imperiously. “Absolutely no one would have seen the story if it weren’t for me, Lola. I can’t believe you’re so ungrateful.”
“Fine, fine,” I sigh. “Thank you, Nance.”
“You’re welcome,” she sniffs. “Now why don’t you go talk to Judd? He could turn this into a movie, you know!”
“I don’t think we are ready for a movie, Nance. Let’s just keep that on the back burner for now, okay?”
She sucks her teeth in disgust and continues looking around, raising her champagne flute to various people when they catch her eye.
“Just try to smile, would you?” she says without moving her lips.
“I am smiling.”
“Y
ou smile like a cadaver,” she quips, then turns her body away.
But I do try, so at least later she won’t be able to accuse me of trying to sabotage her big night—and it really seems to be her big night, not just mine. I plaster on a big, movie star grin and try to act like this is just the most wonderful thing I could wish for.
She’s not entirely wrong, either. If you had asked me a year ago what my idea of the perfect night was, or what my idea of my career’s best-case scenario was, this is basically the situation I would have described. Ten thousand words in the New York Times, check. A book deal, check. A handsome man to share it with, check check check check and check.
“So, tell us how you got this story!” Marilyn Finkelstein says, sashaying over with a very handsome man right next to her. He looks rented. “Everyone is just dying to know, Lola. They can’t stop talking about it!”
“Yeah, I bet that’s a really interesting tale,” Nance adds cryptically, because I haven’t told her all the details yet. “How did you get this story, Lola? Did it just fall into your lap?”
“I guess you guys are just going to have to wait and read the book!” I chirp in response, laughing way too loud.
Everybody laughs along with me, and I have to admit that it doesn’t feel bad. I can see the guys out of the corner of my eye, rotating through the crowd. They don’t seem too uncomfortable, all except for Carty at the bar. Maybe this isn’t so bad. At least it’s only temporary.
“Well, I can’t wait,” Marilyn sighs dramatically. “I mean, everybody had heard rumors that they were still alive, but I just assumed that was all nonsense. But here they are! Real and in the flesh!”
“One hundred percent real!” I agree, smiling brightly.
“Like a bunch of fairytale princes, if you ask me,” Nance agrees, winking. “Practically just appeared out of thin air!”
I laugh along, taking careful sips of my champagne. I haven’t had a drink in weeks and I don’t want to get tipsy by mistake and end up falling off my glass slippers, as the fairytale goes. That would be just my luck.
“Oh, I don’t think they’re real,” comes a sneering voice next to me.
It takes me a moment to place the voice, but then I remember. I remember it all, and it makes my stomach lurch.
“Tucker?” I hear myself say as he pushes himself into the middle of the crowd. He licks his upper teeth slowly with his tongue as he stares at me from top to bottom, obviously undressing me with his eyes.
“Man, you are looking good,” he says too loudly. “You want to get out of here? This party is lame.”
“No, I do not want to get out of here,” I say irritably, somehow embarrassed that he is so rude. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. I’m not the one being rude. But I notice people shifting their eyes away uncomfortably.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he says with a half yawn. “But I still don’t think they’re real.”
“You don’t think who is real?” I asked, confused.
He raises a hand with one finger extended and points at my chest, stabbing lasciviously.
“Those tits,” he crows. “No way those tits are real. Right? No way.”
My mouth falls open. Nance laughs too loud and lays a hand on his arm, trying to push him away. But he won’t turn around and leave, just walks closer to me, grinning.
“Why don’t you come upstairs with me?” he says, swaying and drunk. Reaching out, he circles my arm in his fist, tugging me toward him.
“Let go of my arm, Tucker,” I growl. “You’re drunk. You’re acting stupid. Let go.”
“That’s not what you said last time,” he sneers. “Last time, you were begging—”
I do not even see it, that’s how fast it is. I don’t even realize right away whether it’s Liam or Kill until there’s a flash of black tuxedo in front of me, and the sound of Tucker hitting the floor. I yelp as I’m twisted forward, landing painfully on my tender ankle.
Instantly, Jake is magically in front of me, lifting me off my feet and running with me across the ballroom to safety. Timothy and Carty appear right behind, followed closely by Liam and Kill.
“What happened? What just happened?” I babble.
“I knocked that sucker out, hopefully,” Liam announces proudly.
“Oh, I don’t think you knocked him out,” Kill counters. “I would’ve knocked him out, but you got there first. And I’m pretty certain he’s still conscious.”
“Well, shit. I can go back there—”
“You’re going to get us sued. Is that what you want?”
“—nobody is going anywhere!” I exclaim. I try to stand up straight, but my ankle gives out underneath me. “Goddammit! Ow!”
“Lola, just breathe,” Jake insists, and somehow I find myself doing what he is telling me.
“I don’t want to breathe,” I snap for no reason. “You didn’t have to hit him, Liam! Why would you do that?”
Liam shrugs helplessly, his expression honestly confused. “What did I do? You said he was hurting you.”
“He was hurting you? Where did he hurt you?” Carty starts yelling protectively.
“No! He didn’t hurt me, he just grabbed—”
“—is she hurt? Lola?”
“I’m not hurt!” I insist, but nobody is listening to me.
The guys start talking all at once, crowding all around me until I feel like I can’t breathe. Finally I just put my hands up and push, hard, trying to get a whiff of fresh air. I’m unsteady on my feet, and I’m extra pissed that I can’t be angry with a little bit more dignity.
“I’m going to the bathroom!” I announce loudly. “And don’t follow me! I mean it!”
I stomp off as gracefully as I can, favoring my right leg because I know they’re watching. Thankfully, the ladies room is just around the corner and I duck inside, perching on the counter and trying to breathe normally. But I can’t. For some reason my chest keeps quaking, and I want to cry. Not cute cry, but ugly cry. Cry like a toddler.
“Jesus, what the hell was that?” Nance asks, bursting through the door.
“Oh my God, can you please leave me alone?” I bawl. “Really, Nance? Can I just have a little time to myself?”
Nance presses her lips together and leans against the far wall, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn’t say anything for a few minutes while I gather myself, and eventually I make peace with the fact that she is not leaving.
“This night is so fucked up,” I finally sigh, shaking my head. “Why did it have to be this way, Nance? Couldn’t we have just had a dinner? Maybe a couple of photographers for the story?”
Nance shrugs dismissively. “It’s just one night, Lola. It’s not that big of a deal.”
Shaking my head, I try to see this as some kind of small deal. But it’s not. It’s a disaster, and it’s making me sick to my stomach.
“We could have arranged sightings or something… Like Sasquatch. We could have done this a hundred different ways. It didn’t have to be this kind of ambush.”
“Jesus, you’re so dramatic.” She rolls her eyes.
As she saunters to the mirror, I consider kicking her. Me, dramatic? Who is she? Has she always been like this? She seems to really be relishing in my discomfort.
“Are you enjoying this?” I ask her.
“Of course I’m enjoying this,” she snaps. “This is a big story. It’s going to make your career, which means it’s going to make my career. Even if you don’t appreciate it, those are the facts, sweetie.”
“Did you invite Tucker?”
She gasps slightly, then looks at me in the mirror until her expression changes to a guilty smile.
“That worked out better than I thought it would,” she admits. “That’s going to be on the front page of Variety, HuffPo and MSNBC by morning!”
Suddenly I want to ask her if she also tried to set me up with Chad, knowing he was married, but I guess I really don’t have to ask. I guess I already know.
“I wish I had neve
r done this,” I say honestly.
“You say that now, but just wait six months. Or wait three years for the movie to come out. You’ll be thanking me, I promise.”
I slide down from the counter, careful to land on my right foot. For some reason, I don’t want to show her any more signs of weakness.
She leans away, looking me over through narrowed eyes. I try to ignore her until her grin gets too wide. Then I finally glance at her in the mirror. It’s almost like I’ve never seen her before. Like we haven’t been best friends for ten years.
“What are you grinning at?” I ask her.
She shrugs, but she won’t stop smiling.
“Seriously, Nance… I’m not in the mood for any more drama today. What is it you’re smiling about? You think they’re going to give you a part in the movie?”
“Oh, I’m just wondering which one it is,” she singsongs, brushing her perfect eyebrow back with her pinky finger.
“Which one what? What on earth are you talking about?”
She pulls a lipstick from her tiny beaded bag and slowly twists it up, then applies it and pops her lips together for dramatic effect before answering. Finally she raises one eyebrow and stares at me again meaningfully.
“Which one is the father, Lola? Can you just tell me that?”
Chapter 18
Jake
Lucky for us, the hotel suite comprises the entire top floor. No one can get up here, not without going through security, that we’ve already informed hotel management that we will not be allowing any visitors.
The guys all mill around the suites, trying to look nonchalant. But I know that at least Liam and Kill are filled with nervous energy. I know they would rather be changing into club clothes and trying to hit the nightclub across the street. But at this point, it would just be madness. We are too conspicuous.
“Maybe just room service?” Timothy suggests. “Or maybe we could go down to the restaurant one at a time? I mean, everybody will be expecting us to be together, right?”
“Timothy, I’m sorry, man,” I sigh. If there were any way I could say yes to this, I would. “It’s just not going to be possible right now. Once things settle down, we could do it. But not tonight.”
