Unleash Me, Vol. 2 (Unleash Me, Annihilate Me Series)

by Ross, Christina

  When we arrived at the Frick, which was a museum located on Fifth and Seventieth Street that once had been a mansion owned by the late Henry Clay Frick, the crowds waiting to get inside were longer than I’d expected.

  Was this event really that big of a deal? I had no idea. In fact, I knew next to nothing about what I was in for. But if the lines were any indication, hundreds had been invited.

  “That’s quite a line,” I said while I looked out the window. We all had gathered in one of Wenn’s largest limousines. Tank was next to me. Blackwell, Jennifer and Alex were on the bench of seats across from us.

  “It is,” Blackwell said. “And one we don’t have to stand in.” She looked at Tank. “I assume you have security detail for how we exit?”

  “I do.” He pointed out a window while the limousine came to a stop just outside the entrance on Seventieth Street. “See those two men there—they’re ours. They’ve been there for much of the day to make certain that the place is tight. Other men are inside the building, watching over everything. When we leave the car, Cutter will exit the driver’s seat first, and will escort us out. Then, the two men standing at the entrance will usher us inside, our coats will be taken, we’ll head to the Garden Court, and the party will begin. Sound good?”

  “Thank you, Tank,” Alex said.

  “Shall we go?” Blackwell asked.

  “Just get me to the bar,” I said. “I need to settle my nerves.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Jennifer said. “And guess what? Julian West is coming tonight.”

  “He is?”

  “I’ve been dying to tell you all day, but I wanted to surprise you when we got here. He flew in from L.A. yesterday so he could be here.”

  “That’s so great of him. OK—now I’m excited.”

  Tank took my hand and squeezed it. “I think we’re all excited for you. Ready?”

  I kissed his cheek and then used my thumb to rub away the lipstick I’d left behind. “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  I’d never been to the Frick before, but it didn’t disappoint. The lobby was large and beautifully appointed, with tall ceilings and towering vases filled with fresh flowers on low tables placed along the walls, and the lighting was so subtle that the place seemed to glow as if lit from within.

  After we removed our coats and gave them over to the coat check, we followed scores of people dressed in black tie into the Garden Court, which was so stunning, it took my breath away.

  In the center of the room was a long, narrow pool divided by an ornate, intricately carved fountain that bubbled with the soothing sounds of falling water. The pool itself was lit by dozens of floating votive candles and was surrounded by plantings, flowers, and bronze sculptures. In the arcade, was a string quartet playing an Albinoni adagio that made the space seem more magical than it already was. But what struck me most was something I never expected.

  Between the tall Ionic columns that encompassed the room and soared toward the arched glass ceiling thirty feet above us, hung eighteen massive photographs of all of the authors being recognized tonight.

  I looked around the room—and in an instant, saw mine straight across from me in what had to be the most coveted and prominent position any writer could have hoped for. As you entered the Garden Court, it was straight ahead at the opposite end of the room—dead center, just beyond and above the fountain. You couldn’t miss it. It was the photo they’d used for the billboard in Times Square and the ad in the Times—the one where I had diamonds on my lips. Just below my face was my name in bold red letters, and in the lower left corner was an image of my book cover. What I was looking at had to be at least ten feet tall, if not more.

  Blackwell stepped beside me and lifted her chin as she studied the photograph. “Well,” she said. “So it turns out that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, after all. What do you think?”

  “You put that in that spot, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I had something to do with it. After all, how does that line go? ‘Nobody puts baby in the corner’? Something like that?”

  I placed my hand on her arm. “Thank you for all that you’ve done.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Lisa. You’re a good girl. You’ve worked hard for this. So, enjoy tonight. Be with Tank. Be with Jennifer, Alex, and me. And with all of your present and future admirers. Just please don’t get sloppy drunk at the bar because of your nerves. That I can’t have.”

  “I’m on a one martini maximum.”

  “Well, don’t be that cruel to yourself. We’ll be here for at least three hours, so if you decide that you want another cocktail, just make sure that two hours have passed between drinks. Hors d’oeuvres will be passed around. Be smart and make sure you indulge in a few of them. If you do that, there won’t be any potential for a booze-fueled faux pas landing you on Page Six tomorrow morning.”

  Jennifer came up beside me. “I can’t believe this,” she said, looking across the room at my photograph. “And yet I can. I’m so proud of you, Lisa.”

  I gave her a lingering hug that was filled with so much love and appreciation that I knew she could feel it pass between us. “Only you know what this moment really means to me,” I said. “Only you can fully understand what I’m feeling right now. My God. How long have I dreamed of this?”

  “Since you were writing about your father’s affair when you were six.”

  “She was writing about her father’s what at what?” Blackwell said.

  “My father’s affair. I wrote about it when I was six. It was epic, and let’s just say that it got the juices flowing, even though I didn’t really know what I had witnessed. I think I wrote about their arms and legs kicking and thrashing in the afternoon light—you know, before my mother got home and caught them in the bed she shared with my father. And then there was my father’s naked butt—”

  “Enough!”

  “Well, you asked.”

  Blackwell blinked at us. “Who are you girls? Do I know you? Where am I? Why do I feel deceived?”

  “We’re your surrogate daughters,” Jennifer said.

  “Then act like it.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see Alex, whom I quickly hugged. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it,” I said in his ear. “Thank you. None of this would be possible without you. Don’t say differently. We both know better. Just please accept my heart-felt thanks for all that you’ve done.”

  Typical of Alex, who was nothing if not a gentleman, he kissed me on the cheek and said, “Tonight is your night. Your friends just get to celebrate it with you. Remember, Wenn didn’t write your book—you did. We just saw its potential and acquired it.”

  At that moment, I felt a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist, and by the masculine scent of his subtle cologne alone, I knew it was my man before he said a word to me. “Those are some lips you’ve got there, babe.”

  “Be happy I don’t have those lips on me tonight—if I did, I’d probably cut you with them if I kissed you.”

  “But you don’t have them on now….”

  “So, I don’t.” I turned to Tank, held his face in my palms, and met his eyes with mine. He smiled down at me when my lips pressed against his. We were in public, so I kept it brief. Still, I whispered in his ear, “If we were alone, who knows where my lips would be?”

  “Maybe we can figure that out later.”

  “Maybe we can.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When all of us got to the bar, which was located just beneath my photograph, Alex asked all of us what we wanted and then leaned in toward the bartenders. He was recognized on sight, and within moments, we had our cocktails.

  “You’re the man,” Jennifer said, lifting her martini to his so their glasses touched.

  “Soon, you’ll be the woman,” he responded.

  “Where is Iris?” I asked. “I’ve been looking around for her everywhere, but I haven’t seen her.”

  “She might still b
e stuck out in the cold,” Blackwell said. “Pity about that….”

  “Really, Barbara? Really? You’d do that to her?”

  “I’m just saying that it’s a possibility. I told her to come early to beat the lines. It’s not my fault if she can’t follow a simple directive.”

  “We could have picked her up and driven together.”

  “So why didn’t you mention that earlier?”

  Oh, that woman! “Probably because I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Perhaps. As for poor, dear, shivering Iris? Don’t worry about her. She’ll survive. I’ll just tell her that you were so anxious to get here, we didn’t have time to pick her up.”

  “Don’t you dare make me out to be a monster.”

  “Actually, my dear, I think one is coming our way now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Tootie Staunton-Miller and her gay husband, Addy, just caught sight of us. Patrons of the arts. Philanthropists. Big money. And they’re in the book. We all love Addy, who is a sweetheart, but Tootie? She’s a miserable snob. If I were a shrink, I’d say that she was a sociopath. Something isn’t right about her. Her eyes look dead to me. Unseeing.”

  “I’d agree with you,” Jennifer said. “I’ve gone toe-to-toe with her a few times.”

  “Did you win?”

  “They’re coming this way,” I interrupted.

  “What do you think, Alex?” Jennifer said. “Did I hold my ground against her?”

  “I think you pulled it out from under her.”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “Old money,” Blackwell said. “At least Addy’s side of the family is. Addy’s family’s money began in New York before it pushed its roots down deep into Philadelphia—and then everything exploded. Everyone here knows that Tootie is Addy’s well-compensated beard. Their sham of a marriage began decades ago in a mutually beneficial celebration that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with concealment. Tootie would marry into one of the country’s most prominent families and enjoy all that offered, including secretive affairs on the side with a host of Italians—her favorite—while Addy would save face for his family by tucking his true sexuality into Tootie’s ever-loving arms.”

  “They’re halfway here,” Alex said.

  “So they are.”

  “I want to write a book about them now,” I said.

  “You haven’t even heard the half of it,” Blackwell said. “The men Addy has gone through is legendary, but nobody says anything about his dalliances because every major family has their Addy, that one person who has brought them shame and humiliation and had to be ‘dealt’ with, so nothing spoiled the family name or the illusion that the family itself was nothing less than perfect. For that reason, few dare to throw the first stone at the Miller family lest a stone be thrown at one of their own. But I love Addy,” she said. “You will too.”

  “OK,” Alex said. “That’s enough. All smiles. They’re fifteen feet away and closing. Here we go. And we’re smiling. Right? Everyone? Smile, Barbara. Come on. Help me out here.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Hello, Tootie,” he said when the couple arrived. He bent down and gave her a peck on each cheek. “It’s good to see you.” He straightened and shook Addy’s hand. “You know I’m always happy to see you, Addy.”

  “My goodness,” Tootie said. “I hope we aren’t interrupting anything. All of you looked so candid a moment ago. So in cahoots. Now, it’s as if rigor mortis has settled in. I hope we didn’t interrupt any kind of scandalous conversation….”

  “What does that even mean?” Blackwell said.

  Tootie looked at her with arched eyebrows. “Barbara. I didn’t even see you there. What a surprise. It’s been so long. Hellohoware?”

  Tootie, who was fiftyish, though her face had been molded and pulled into something that stretched toward fortyish, smiled tightly at Blackwell. Her blonde hair just touched her shoulders. She wore diamonds at her throat, wrists and fingers, and a dark blue gown that I had to admit was sublime. I knew enough about fashion to know that a dress like the one she was wearing could betray more mature curves, but Tootie Staunton-Miller nevertheless looked trim and terrific.

  “I’m the same as always, Tootie—fabulous. On trend. In the groove. And beyond happy. It’s good to see you. And especially Addy.” Blackwell took his hands in her own. “Do you even age?” she said to him. “Is it ever going to happen? I think not. You’re beginning to look younger than our dear Tootie….”

  That comment was enough to send Tootie beyond the universe and back again. Her eyes narrowed slightly at Blackwell. “Lovely pearls, Barbara. But nothing else? Je suis désolé. I have to admit that I’m a bit disappointed. At the very least, I thought you’d bring out the big guns tonight. Diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. Not mere pearls, as pretty as they are. When I was getting ready for tonight, I naturally thought, given the nature of the event, that one should go out of their way to shine.”

  Blackwell lifted a finger to her lips. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, my word.” She dropped her hand to her strand of pearls. “These were a gift from Alex. He gave them to me just two years ago. I wore them tonight for him and in support of Wenn. I hope your comment doesn’t insult him. You know, the insinuation that they’re somehow lesser in importance because they aren’t diamonds….”

  “Well, I didn’t mean—”

  “Because they were a lovely gift, Tootie. They mean a great deal to me, as does Alex. For some of us, tonight isn’t about putting on a show. Tonight is about celebrating Alex and what he has done for literature.”

  She looked at Alex. “I hope you know—”

  “It’s fine, Tootie,” he said.

  “It’s just that—”

  “Really. No harm done.”

  “But wasn’t there?” Blackwell said. “I mean, these pearls aren’t exactly bringing down the room, for God’s sake.”

  “I love them,” Jennifer said.

  Tootie glanced at Jennifer, and I saw her gaze sweep over her dress. “It’s good to see you alive, Jennifer.”

  “As opposed to seeing me dead?”

  She gave a little laugh that sounded almost too light. “Why do I feel as if all of my comments are being misconstrued? I was just referring to what happened to you a few months ago. How awful that must have been. Someone out to kill you. It was in all the papers.”

  “It’s also all in the past, Tootie.”

  “So it is.” Again, she looked at Jennifer’s dress. “Is that Valentino?” she asked.

  “Marc Jacobs.”

  “No, no. Valentino.”

  “Sorry. Marc Jacobs.”

  “Anyway, it’s so form-fitting, don’t you think? It leaves nothing to the imagination. Goodness!”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Alex said.

  “Hear, hear,” Addy said.

  “Maybe my set is just a bit more conservative than yours,” Tootie said. “We always have been. We tend to err on the side of caution when it comes to fashion.”

  “Just fashion?” I asked.

  “Oh, probably other things as well. We never want to be viewed as gauche.”

  “What a shame,” I said. “So many limitations, Tootie. So much holding you back. All of that weight must show on a scale.”

  “It must show on a what?”

  “A scale, but only figuratively. Your set misses out on so much. Fashion is one of the great liberators of our time. You should embrace it. Take risks with it. Let the devil inside you expose itself in Prada, for instance. I think you’d be perfect for that.” She shook her head. “But enough about fashion. Tonight is about literature.”

  “Literature,” Tootie said. “Perhaps that I can talk about without stepping onto some concealed land mine. With those horrid electronic books on the rise, Addy and I thought we should come tonight to support traditional publishing because we prefer physical books to those awful, bright, blinking books. It’s through my master’s in English, af
ter all, that I met so many of the greats.”

  I looked at her. “May I ask whom you consider among the greats?”

  “First of all, may I ask who you are? We haven’t met.”

  “Look above you,” Jennifer said. “See that large photograph there? Just above your head? Yes, that one. That’s Lisa Ward. The one you haven’t met. She’s among the eighteen authors being recognized tonight.”

  Tootie and Addy looked up. Addy was the first to look down.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ward,” he said. He took my hand in his and kissed the back of it.

  “It’s a pleasure. Please call me Lisa.”

  “Lisa it is. You look lovely, my dear. Ravishing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

  “It’s Addy. Always Addy. None of this ‘Mr. Miller’ stuff.”

  He really was kind. Better yet, he seemed unaffected—unlike his wife, who now was giving me the once over.

  “Is that Prada?” she asked.

  “So, it’s back to fashion….” Blackwell sighed.

  “It is Prada,” I said.

  “I saw it on the runway.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Paris. That plunging neckline of yours will certainly turn heads tonight.”

  “I would imagine that the designer intended for that.”

  “It seems so aggressive for an event such as this. So much flesh on display at a benefit to support books. Goodness!”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Tank said.

  Tootie looked up and blinked at Tank. “Oh. Well, of course, it is. Prada and everything. You can’t go wrong. Well, not really.”

  “As you know, Tootie, when my mother was alive, she adored Prada,” Alex said. “She especially loved their dresses. You remember mother in Prada, don’t you?”

  “What I remember is her in Dior. But, yes, also Prada. And Karl, of course. She loved Karl. Such style your mother had. Such panache. Did she ever go wrong? No. Fashion was just an extension of her. We miss her so much, Alex. Even after all these years.”

  “Thank you, Tootie.”

  Addy looked up again at my photograph. “I have to say, Lisa—I love your lips.”