His hands drift to my waist. I tilt my face up to his. I look into his eyes. They’re filled with questions, but I just answer the one. I reach up and loop my hands around his neck and then… we’re kissing.
His lips land hard on my mouth, and I open them to him. My hands find his hair—they thread through. I want to touch him everywhere. I want to run my fingertips down his face. I want to memorize the milliseconds between the pulses in his neck. I want to be so close to him that even when this moment is over there will be enough to last.
I’m never allowed this, and the sheer torture of want—of being so close but not being able to simply reach up and lay my lips on his—bursts through the surface. Every impulse I’ve hidden. Every time I’ve wanted to put my head on his shoulder. To put my hand on his cheek. Every intimate gesture that’s been pushed down, banished to where it came from, roars back with something close to vengeance. It feels like the world is going to break open from the sheer relief I feel at being able to kiss him. I’m never going to be able to stop.
I feel myself reach for him, to pull him down even closer. To press my chest up against his and fit our bodies together so there is no space, not even an inch, but he pulls back and releases me.
The lack of contact makes me grope forward, but he has his hands on my shoulders and his eyes carry a warning—no.
I see his chest rise and fall. He holds my gaze for a beat, and then he’s turning back to the crowd. The noise comes back all at once, like taking a blaring television off mute. People whoop, scream. Jordan speaks. “Er, hopefully that’s what you were after. Thanks again.”
Then his hand is on my arm, and he’s steering me backstage.
Four different people descend on us when we get there, but I shake my head, pushing past them. Just one minute. Not now. I follow Jordan into a corner.
“Christ,” he says, under his breath. “What the hell was that?”
I know there are a million people around, some of them hovering, waiting to move us like little chess pieces to our next location.
“What was what?” I say. “YOU kissed me.”
He shakes his head. “We won Best Kiss—we kiss. It’s a tradition. I wasn’t trying to make out with you in front of America. You—” He looks at me. Puts a fist to his forehead and holds it there.
“Then why did you do it?” I cross my arms. I suddenly feel naked in this dress. Anger flares up in my chest. “Why didn’t you just say sorry and thank them and walk off the goddamn stage, Jordan?”
He drops his fist. His eyes find mine. He doesn’t say anything, but I see it there, right beneath the surface. He looks about as miserable as I feel.
“Jordan…,” I start, gentler this time, but a girl with a headset is pointing to us and Rainer is walking over. He comes up behind Jordan and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You guys make good TV.”
“Tradition,” Jordan mumbles.
Rainer reaches and pulls me toward him, planting a quick kiss on my cheek. “Congrats,” he says.
There is no bitterness in his tone, no sarcasm, and for a minute this pisses me off more than Jordan yelling at me for kissing him back. Does Rainer not even care? Did he even notice?
“Hey,” Rainer says. He cocks his head in the direction of the door. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Don’t you think we should get back to our seats?” I ask. I realize my voice is shaking. If that kiss looked like nothing to Rainer, then maybe it looked like nothing to the audience, too. I remember the bloopers reel from Hawaii. How they played an extended scene of Jordan and my on-screen kiss and how Rainer immediately picked up on the fact that something was going on. How pissed he was. But now—nothing.
I still feel the champagne swirling around my head, but I try to let the rational thoughts march through, gather some order. One: I should be happy that I’m not dating a crazy, jealous sociopath. Two: Rainer let all that Jordan stuff go for us. Why would I want to dredge it up again? Why would I want to hurt him? This kiss was just part of the job.
I glance at Jordan, but he’s not looking at me. He’s watching someone coming toward us. I follow his gaze to see a girl about my height. Dark skin, jet-black hair, and razor-sharp green eyes. She’s wearing a neon-blue leather dress and her heels are sky-high, but she walks with confidence. Totally assured, like she could run a marathon in them. Like maybe she will.
She reaches us, and her eyes land on me. Her gaze is halting as she takes me in—down to the feet and then slow pan—up, up, up. I know who she is immediately. It makes me take a step back. The force of her: the girl who came before me. She drove Rainer and Jordan to hate each other. She commanded intense, limitless loyalty. She was the start of so much.
“Paige,” Rainer says, his hand waving from her to me. “This is Britney Drake.”
CHAPTER 7
Britney smiles with her mouth, but her eyes are too busy for emotion. She’s studying me. And she doesn’t put out her hand.
“Quite a performance out there,” she says, her gaze flitting to Jordan. “I was impressed, Wilder.”
Her voice is low, throaty. When she speaks, it’s like she’s playing an instrument—I can feel the sound waves cut through me.
I clear my throat. I can see where this interaction is going, and I won’t let it. I’m not here to compete. “Britney,” I say, mustering all the genuineness I can. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Right. Anybody want a sip?” she says, turning her attention to the group and shaking a little bedazzled flask. Her smile has turned to a smirk. I instantly feel like she’s patronizing me.
Her eyes take in Rainer standing next to me, and instinctively I snuggle closer to him. He looks down at me and smiles. If he’s feeling awkward, he’s not showing it. I know he’s seen Britney before tonight. I know he did while we were apart, too. Not romantically. At least, that’s what he said, and I believe him. Rainer wouldn’t lie to me.
“This thing is winding down. Let’s stay back here for Best Movie and then take off. I’m throwing an after-party at the Roosevelt,” Britney says, before looking back at me. “You’re welcome to come, too, Paige, of course.”
I barely register her dig at me before my thoughts all jumble together. What I want to do is go home and sleep. Be with Rainer. Have a little time to just be.
“Wilder?” Britney asks. “You in?”
“Nah, I’m gonna take off, actually.”
Britney sticks out her bottom lip. “Boo.”
“Tend to the beautiful Alexis’s sickbed?” Rainer says.
Jordan laughs. “Something like that.”
I keep my eyes focused on Britney. I’m distinctly aware of her watching me. I have no idea what Jordan’s relationship is like with Britney now. Are they still close friends? Do they talk? Has he told her about Alexis? Has he told her about me?
“Bye, Brit,” Jordan says. He half waves at the group of us.
Rainer turns to me. “Roosevelt?” he asks.
“Rain,” Britney coos, before I can respond. “You promised.”
Rainer keeps looking at me. I reach down and take his hand. I make sure she sees. “Sure,” I say, my eyes on hers. “Whatever you want.”
An hour later Rainer and I are pulling up to the Roosevelt Hotel. I crouch down in the seat as we make a sharp left, avoiding the front, paparazzi-packed entrance, and swing down an alley. We get taken into the private, underground garage, and then we’re led by two big bodyguards through a secret door hidden inside a library bookcase and down a hallway of old Hollywood photographs into a huge vaudeville theater. Red-velvet benches, dim chandelier lighting, jumbo screens, and a stage in the center where women are dancing with monkeys. And to top it all off, waitresses are delivering bottles to people’s tables—by flying through the air.
“This is insane,” I say.
“It’s pretty crazy, huh?” Rainer says. “But kinda fun. It’s Britney’s favorite place.”
“How is she doing, by the w
ay?”
Rainer shakes his head. “It’s worse for her,” he says. “She’s in the press constantly, and it’s all about Greg.”
“Have you guys talked about it?”
“A little,” he says. “She has a tendency to go off the rails a bit when things get rough.”
I think about Britney and her little flask of happy juice backstage at the Awards. The more unscrupulous tabloids have run a few stories about her drinking habit, her partying ways… but I just assumed they were exaggerations. Like Rainer and my movie-theater date or “promise” ring. But weren’t there seeds of truth in those stories, too? Maybe Britney is in trouble.
“She wants us to be friends,” Rainer says. I think about Britney’s eyes on me backstage. Friends. Right. That’s exactly what she wants from Rainer.
“What do you want?” I ask.
Rainer starts walking forward, dragging me by the hand. “To stop talking about this,” he says.
I spot Britney dancing in the VIP section, front and center. She’s moving her hips slowly, and leaning over the shoulder of Ryan, one of the hosts. His hand is pressed into the small of her back, and every once in a while his lips land on her neck. She’s got a drink in her hand.
Rainer lets go of me. I look at him and see that he’s watching her. “Hey,” I say, touching his shoulder. “Dance with me.”
I’m thinking about my birthday. How we collided together on the dance floor. How close I felt to him. I want us to get back there. It wasn’t that long ago.
“Let’s get a drink,” he says, like he hasn’t heard me.
“Okay.”
He leads me over to the VIP section. Immediately, a waitress appears. “Can we get bottles of Moët and Ketel One?” Rainer asks.
I sit down on a love seat, and Rainer sits next to me. It reminds me of the way they had us during the London press junket—I half expect someone to hop underneath the rope and start interviewing us.
I pick at the hem of my dress. I feel uncomfortable being alone with him right now. Earlier, in front of everyone, we were fine. But now that we’re alone—sorta—I can feel the whole night swelling around us: Britney and Jordan and the Awards. The last few days of silence. Right now, I feel like a stranger in his world. Not his girlfriend.
“She’s pretty,” I say, watching Britney move.
“Are you jealous?”
I look at him. His eyes are blank, unreadable. I don’t know whether he’s challenging or consoling me.
“No,” I lie. It’s not just jealousy, but something else, too. I don’t trust her.
“Good.”
He turns just as the waitress flies in with our bottles. Crazy. He takes the vodka and pours himself a large glass with a splash of soda. Then he pops the champagne cork. “Here,” he says. He hands me a full glass, and I down it in three gulps.
“Easy,” he says.
I turn to him. “Why?”
He runs a hand over his chin. “Okay. You’re obviously pissed about something.” He seems tired, annoyed. I suddenly have the intense desire to not be anywhere near him.
“Look who’s talking.” I shake my head.
“Is that your way of asking if I’m angry that you sucked face with Jordan in front of the world?”
“Clearly, you are.”
“Why should I be?” He’s challenging me. “It was just a gimmick, right? An act?”
“Jesus, Rainer, yes. You acted fine about it before.”
Rainer takes another swig of his drink. “Sorry if, unlike you two, I’m not much into making a scene.”
I blink at him. I can feel the anger boiling inside me and I know if I stay, I’ll say something I regret. “Forget it,” I say. “Forget the whole thing.”
I pour myself another glass and then stand up. When he reaches for my arm, I shake him off. “Go talk to Britney,” I say. I know it’s stupid, and childish, but I feel stupid, and childish. I take off.
I spot Georgina at another banquet bench. She’s talking to two girls I don’t recognize, but she waves me over.
“Congrats,” she says. Wasn’t she just devastated over Blake? She doesn’t look it. “Did you win, like, every award tonight?”
I hold up my empty glass. “Could you?”
She looks me up and down, impressed. “Slide in.” She introduces me as she pours. “This is Christina Hayden and Tailor Coolridge.”
“Hi,” I say, taking back my glass.
I have no idea who they are, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to know what network they’re on or who their agent is or whether they’re getting the role of Juliet. Everyone is up for the goddamn role of Juliet. I just want to forget tonight: Rainer’s resistance and Britney’s judgmental smirk and most of all—Jordan’s lips.
“You look like you’re having a shit night,” Georgina says.
“Could be because I am,” I say, downing another glass.
The room starts to spin a little. The edges get softer, worn down, so that it’s hard for me to see where things end. Georgina is studying me like she’s not sure how to handle the situation.
“My boyfriend is mad at me,” I say. “And possibly obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. That part is less clear.”
Christina snorts. Georgina elbows her. “Should we call Alexis?” she asks.
“Why?” I say. I suppress a hiccup. “She’s probably in her sickbed with Jordan.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I’m about to totally blow it. Get it together, Paige. “Don’t listen to me,” I say. “I think I’m drunk.”
“Think?” Georgina laughs. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s dance.”
Tailor takes me by the elbow, and we follow Georgina out in front of the stage.
I haven’t had dinner, and I feel the champagne in my stomach like liquid gold. It flows through my veins, warming my blood. It makes everything feel softer. Like the world has less impact.
Georgina is gyrating like the girls onstage, and I start to move, too—the champagne making my arms feel long and fluid.
I know people are watching us—let them. Tawny would probably warn me about camera phones, and my dress riding up, too short on my thighs, and the clearly alcoholic beverage in my hand—whatever. This isn’t her life. It’s not Rainer’s, either. I don’t actually care what anyone says about me. Let them write that I’m a wild child. Maybe I should be.
I’m moving to the music, letting it spin the frustration right out of me. I keep my eyes closed, and in the fluttering darkness all I feel is the spreading bliss of numbness. My body has been on hyperalert for weeks, and now it has just stopped caring. The tension flows outward, right along with the music. I’m spinning, lost in the sweat and rhythm and pounding bass of my heartbeat when I feel a hand grabbing at my wrist.
My eyes snap open. Rainer is standing in front of me, a look on his face I’ve only ever seen him use with his father at the premiere. He’s angry. More than angry.
“We’re leaving,” he says. He has to scream it right into my ear. “Now.”
I snatch my hand away. “No,” I say. “I’m having fun.” I turn back to Georgina, but she’s on the other side of the stage, surrounded by people. How did I get this far away on my own?
Rainer pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re drunk,” he says. He looks around to see if anyone is watching us. It makes me even angrier.
“So?”
“I have to get you home,” he says into my ear, his tone low and dry.
I pull away from him. “You have to get me home? I’m not your charge, Rainer.”
His eyes go wide. “I know that,” he says. “You’re my girlfriend.”
I make a noise somewhere between a cough and a snort.
“You can act out all you want,” Rainer says. “But you’re not doing it here. Not where anyone can see. If you want to yell at me at home, fine, but we’re going home.”
He reaches for me again, and this time I take a giant step back, knocking into someo
ne. A few people turn around. I feel the air around us heavy with eyes.
“Stop telling me what to do.”
Rainer shakes his head. “PG…”
“No,” I say. “I’m not going.”
He exhales. Lowers his voice. “I can’t leave you here, babe.”
I’m opening my mouth to protest when Georgina sticks her chin on my shoulder. When did she get here? “I’ll look after her, lover boy,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
I see Rainer look from Georgina to me. “I’d rather you come now,” he says.
“Stop being so protective,” Georgina teases. I feel her arms slip around my middle. “I won’t hurt her.”
Rainer’s eyes find mine. They pierce. “Fine,” he says. He takes out his wallet and shoves a bill into my hand. Then he turns and leaves.
“Daddy is pissed,” Georgina says, twirling me around. “You’re in trouble.”
I try to roll my eyes, but my lids are so low, I’m not sure they’re getting anywhere.
“Is he always so protective?”
I nod. But I feel a scraping in my stomach—like some key rib has come unhinged. I used to love that about Rainer. That used to be the thing that drew us together. That he wanted to make me feel safe and looked out for me in this strange, new world.
I don’t see Britney anywhere. I’m aware of the fact that maybe they’ve left together, but I can’t quite grasp what that would mean. I’m too high—on champagne and music and the whirling of Georgina on the dance floor. Forget it. Forget him. Forget it all.
I’m not sure how I find myself on the floor of the lobby bathroom. It seems to happen quickly, but it could be hours later. I’m in a stall, my knees drawn up to my chest. I’ve thrown up whatever meager thing we ate—a cupcake? I don’t even know.
I take my phone out of my clutch with shaking fingers. It bounces out of my grasp and slides across the stall floor. I grope to take it back. I stare at the screen. I won’t call Rainer. I know I should; I know he would come. He might not even give me grief about it. Definitely not until tomorrow, anyway. He’d put me in bed and tell me everything is going to be okay. But I’m not ready to face him. And Alexis is sick. Instead I scroll to J and let my phone dial the one number I know it definitely shouldn’t.
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