The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella Page 6

  “If I bend over, my ass is going to fall out.”

  Vera’s grin is wicked. “Exactly. You smudged the shit out of your eyeliner. Get in here and let me fix it.”

  There isn’t a damn thing wrong with my eyeliner. Vera merely wants an excuse to glob dark eyeshadow all over my lids. I let her do it, but only because she has a magic touch with makeup brushes.

  When she’s done applying two more coats of mascara to my lashes, she tackles my hair. Two minutes later she sighs in defeat—it’s ramrod straight and has never held a curl longer than ten minutes.

  “Why do I bother? At least it’s thick and shiny.”

  “Are we done yet?” I gripe, but actually don’t mind playing dress up. Growing up with brothers, I missed out on moments like this.

  Vera primps for a few more minutes, altering absolutely nothing of her physical perfection. On looks alone she could probably walk right into the club sans me. Well, sans my name.

  “I look like a vampire hooker next to a Brazilian supermodel,” I grumble as I step into my stilettos, which are thankfully black and go with the alien-repellant dress. I still barely come up to Vera’s shoulder.

  She winks. “If that’s the role you want, play your little heart out.”

  Ignoring her, I glance at my watch. “Now can we go?”

  I offer to drive but Vera insists we take a cab. And that I do two shots of Jameson before we leave. Whether it’s the burn of whiskey, giddiness from lack of oxygen, or the fact that Vera’s ADD keeps my brain flipping from topic to topic, I finally begin to loosen up.

  She’s right—my head has been in a bad place for a week straight. I have been feeling trapped by Robert. Again, not his fault. I’d rather eat dirt than admit it, but my brothers are right, too. I’m afraid of commitment. The idea of getting serious about someone or—God forbid—falling in love, scares the bejeezus out of me.

  Strangely, admitting it—even if only to myself—takes a weight off. More worry releases as I realize that this fact about me probably isn’t news to Robert. But for some reason, he’s sticking around. I like him sticking around. In fact, when I’m not sabotaging our relationship in my head, being with him is wonderful. He makes me feel good.

  Hopeful, even.

  12

  When we step out of the cab, it’s instant pandemonium. At least half a dozen paparazzi are between us and the entrance of the club. Neither Vera nor I are recognized, but they snap pictures anyway on the off chance of scoring a sale. I cross my fingers that none of them end up within a mile of the internet or trashy magazines. My brothers would have conniption fits seeing me in this dress.

  At the door, a mountainous bouncer asks for our names.

  “Candace Hughes, plus one,” I tell him. He begins scanning down tonight’s guest list, so I add, “Check the back page.”

  He glances up curiously, then flips to the other list—the one with names of people who could show up in a garbage bag and probably still get in. After a moment, a pen taps the clipboard decisively and he lifts the velvet rope.

  “Go on in, ladies,” he says cheerily.

  “I could seriously get used to that,” Vera says breathily.

  “Not gonna lie, it’s—” I don’t bother finishing, as we’ve stepped through the inner doors and been assaulted with bone-grinding techno beats.

  Vera squeals and squeezes my arm. Or, I think she squeals. I can’t hear anything besides my eardrums dying. Ahead of us is a huge pit of writhing bodies, elevated from darker wings with bars and seating.

  “Bar!” I yell, pointing.

  “Dance!” she yells back, pointing toward the pit.

  Neither of us are surprised. We yell at the same time, “Have fun!” Then we laugh and walk in opposite directions. Co-dependent we are not.

  I make it to a bar mostly unscathed and find a space to lean. There are no less than six bartenders behind the modern, chrome counter. One of them swiftly approaches.

  “What’ll ya have?” he yells.

  “Whiskey sour!”

  It’s in front of me within thirty seconds. Impressed, I give him a wide smile. He winks. “Tab?”

  I shake my head and slide him a twenty. “No change.”

  He blows me a kiss and disappears.

  I take a few sips of my cocktail, which I realize now probably wasn’t a good choice. I should be drinking something frilly with a low alcohol content. I’m already tingly from the earlier shots. Or it could be from the bass rattling every hair on my body.

  After a few minutes of people-watching at the bar, I wander toward the dance party in the middle of the club. From the outskirts, it looks like a giant orgy. I scan the writhing masses for Vera, my gaze passing over a plethora of familiar faces.

  Hollywood’s young, famous, rich, and drunk.

  I finally spot Vera, mainly because she’s jumping up and down with her arms in the air. She’s at the very front, right beneath the DJ. The girl has a serious love of electronic music. Even I can appreciate the talent of the DJ, who’s no doubt famous in his own right. Almost without conscious effort, my hips twitch to the beat.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” shouts a voice near my ear. I don’t bother turning. Shaking my head, I hold up my cocktail and point at it. “Refill, then?”

  Sigh. I turn to shut him down but suddenly freeze, my gaze caught by a man on the dance floor. He’s about fifteen feet away, his back to me. The wheeling and flashing lights make it impossible to determine the color of his hair; the crowd is too dense to see much of his body. Regardless, a weird wiggle of recognition settles in my gut. It isn’t a good feeling.

  My breath flutters out in sudden panic as he turns. He can’t see me—I’m standing against a wall concealed by shadows. My scalp prickles. My eyes ache from staring unblinking through the frenetic light show. But I can’t blink. Can barely breathe. He’s with a woman. Jessica, the blonde from the museum.

  “What are you and Vera doing tonight, darling?”

  “Secret girl stuff. What about you?”

  “Poker with the guys, probably. Something low key.”

  I didn’t tell him we were coming here because he’s been wanting to check the place out for weeks and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  I should have told him.

  Why the fuck do I feel guilty?

  Nausea touches the back of my throat. I had him there this morning. Now his tongue is in the back of Jessica’s.

  Still watching them, the oddest childhood memory arises. Lying on my side in a field of grass on a beautiful summer’s day, my attention riveted by the ant making its way down my pale arm. I’d fiercely wanted to brush it off; the little jerking legs and antenna freaked me out. But I couldn’t—I was too sickly fascinated by his efforts to find the ground.

  Right now, I feel the same morbid curiosity. I can’t see what their bodies are doing, but from the way Robert is kissing her, I’m confident Jessica is rubbing against something hard.

  “I need some air,” I say to absolutely no one.

  I set my empty drink down on the nearest table, ignoring annoyed glances from its occupants. Spying an Exit sign, I move toward it. Slowly. One foot in front of the other, until I emerge on a crowded, smoke-clouded patio. I don’t smoke, but a cigarette sounds fantastic right now.

  Halfway across the patio, I see Sebastian.

  Naturally.

  He’s relaxed and laughing, sitting with a mixed group—actors, models, and musicians. His hair is shorter, almost buzzed. For an upcoming role? No leather and jeans tonight. He’s dressed in black from head to toe. Clean-shaven. He looks like a harder, more dangerous version of himself.

  I don’t realize I’m staring until his gaze finds mine. His smile changes. The mask. I am dismissed. Of no interest to him. As I watch, he draws a leggy model into his lap. She giggles, melting into him with her arms around his neck.

  I’m disgusted. Fascinated. Is it a full moon? I’m caught in a whirlpool, while everything I thought I knew floats furthe
r and further away.

  Sebastian’s date squirms in his lap as he nips along her bare shoulder and neck. When I feel phantom pulses on my own skin, I finally snap out of it. Shuddering, I look skyward.

  Yep, there she is. Full fucking moon.

  I approach the bar, maneuvering between groups to reach the counter. After six failed attempts to gain the attention of a bartender, the man beside me comes to my rescue, lifting his drink and shouting, “Over here!” A woman scurries our way and I quickly order.

  “Thanks,” I say, glancing briefly at him.

  He nods, smiling slightly. “You’re too short. Where’s your wingman?”

  “Dancing. Where’s yours?”

  His eyes narrow appraisingly; a teasing smile tilts his lips. “Are you hitting on me?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. I’m bored.”

  He laughs. It’s a nice sound, genuine and unoffended. He’s good-looking in a hipster way, slender and tattooed. A little rough around the edges. Vintage t-shirt, jeans, and messy light brown hair. I can’t tell what color his eyes are—blue or green.

  My drink arrives, and I take a long swallow.

  “What do you do?” he asks.

  “This and that,” I reply. “You?”

  His smile widens. “Screenwriter.”

  “Ah.”

  He chuckles. “There’s a lot of opinion in that little word.”

  I shrug again. “Can’t throw a rock in L.A…”

  “…without hitting someone in the industry,” he finishes with a grin. “You’re really not going to tell me what you do?”

  “Nope.”

  He shifts until we’re face to face. “Can I guess?”

  “Fire away,” I say, smirking.

  “Voiceovers.”

  I snort. “What the hell?”

  “You’ve got a great voice. Silk and smoke.”

  I laugh. “I bet that line works on all the girls, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never said it before. Did it work on you?”

  There’s attraction in his eyes, and I briefly wonder why it isn’t affecting me. I look at my drink, which is empty again.

  I’m suddenly tired.

  “Candace!” Vera’s screech from right behind me almost causes me to throw my glass.

  I spin. “Jesus, woman! My heart just exploded!”

  My neighbor laughs, eyeing six feet of sweaty, sexy Vera. “This your wingman?”

  Vera ignores him, and I finally realize her eyes are burning with anger. “What?” I ask quickly. “What’s wrong?”

  “You need to come with me, right now,” she snaps, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the bar. I wave goodbye to my mildly disappointed screenwriter.

  Vera drags me halfway to the door leading into the club before I dig in my heels. She turns fast, gripping my shoulders. “Sweets, you’ve got to see something. I’m sorry, but you have to come inside.”

  I lift a hand. “I already saw it, Vera. Robert and the blonde. It’s all good.”

  Her flushed face pales a little. “You saw them? Oh God. Are you okay? What can I do?”

  “Nothing. Do you want to hang here with me for a bit, or are you going back inside?”

  Her eyes track over my face, searching for emotion. There isn’t any to see. I’m a pool of still, clear water. Moonlit numbness. The storm rages somewhere beyond this quiet space, but for now, I’m insulated.

  “I’ll stay with you,” she says firmly. Taking my hand, she glances around the crowded patio. “It’s a madhouse out here. Oh, I know those girls. There’s a few empty seats. Do you mind if we join them?”

  “Whatever.”

  She guides me across the patio. By the time I recognize the group, it’s too late to back away. Introductions are made. Air kisses and insincere compliments. We squeeze onto a chaise.

  Sebastian and his date, at least, are nowhere to be seen.

  There’s bottle service. Vera hands me a glass of amber liquid, which I throw back. Ah, more whiskey. After tonight, I seriously doubt I’ll drink the stuff again.

  My ingrained social training allows me to chat, laugh, and pretend I’m interested in meaningless conversations.

  When the group goes strangely quiet, it takes me a few seconds to catch up. I look curiously for the source of everyone’s attention.

  Sebastian.

  13

  Sebastian stands alone several feet away. Midnight eyes burn with unbridled rage, which happens to be directed exclusively at me. Pebbles begin raining onto the surface of my still pool.

  I stand up, wobbling a bit. No more whiskey. Vera grabs my hand to steady me.

  “Bast?” I ask, and my voice sounds strange. Young and scared.

  The rage is gone in a blink. “Do you know where your boyfriend is right now?” He might as well be asking for a check on the weather.

  I nod, forcing my mouth into a smile. “Sure do. Thanks.”

  Sebastian glances at Vera; I can’t see her face, but when he looks back at me, there’s a hard glint in his eyes. He reaches out his hand.

  “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

  “What? No! I’m having fun.”

  “You’re slurring, your tits are spilling out of that ridiculous dress, and from the lack of underwear lines, you’ve probably given half these people a peepshow. Get your ass over here or I’m dragging you out.”

  I flinch, and keep flinching, as his words penetrate my drunken fog. Aghast, I tug on Vera’s hand until she looks up at me. From her expression, I surmise he’s exaggerating. But then I’m not so sure. Her eyes are worried, yet oddly resigned.

  In moments such as this, a part of me wishes we were more enabling in our friendship. Less respectful of each other’s emotional boundaries. I need someone to save me right now—someone who isn’t Sebastian.

  “I’m counting to three,” he growls. “One. Two—”

  “Fine,” I snap, and Vera releases my hand.

  I make it through the cluster of patio furniture without falling. When Sebastian is before me, I plant my hands on my hips and glare up at him. “I get it. I’m going home. You can cut the protective big brother crap. And for your information, I’m wearing fucking underwear!”

  His eyes flash. I jerk back but he grabs my arm, pulling me forward and against his side. By the time I start struggling, he’s already walking us toward an exit at the back of the patio. To the wandering eye, nothing looks amiss. His arm is around my shoulders, his face masked with indifference.

  I consider screaming, but training overrides the impulse. Sebastian Bellizzi dragging a screaming, drunk me across a nightclub’s patio wouldn’t be good press for either of us.

  A bouncer opens the gate for us, revealing a private parking lot behind the club. When I see where Sebastian’s taking me, I try to pull away. He just holds me tighter.

  “Bast, no fucking way. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He keeps a hand on my arm, holding me in place, while he lifts his motorcycle jacket from the back of his Harley. It comes around my shoulders, and he stuffs my arms into the sleeves. I shiver, only cold now that warmth surrounds me.

  A helmet is tugged onto my head and snapped into place. I seem to have lost the ability to resist. The surface of the pool inside me is now dangerously choppy. When Sebastian swings his leg over the back and sits, I do the same. My arms come dutifully around his middle. So warm.

  The bike roars to life beneath us.

  “Hold on,” he says.

  I nod against his muscled back and close my eyes tightly. The trip to Malibu is an unpleasant blur. All my focus is on not throwing up every turn we make.

  Just as my body’s demand reaches critical level, Sebastian pulls into my driveway. The Harley rolls to a stop and I lurch off, tearing off the helmet. I make it to the grass before collapsing to my hands and knees. Shaking my head like a dog, I fight the urge to expel my guts.

  “I stand corrected,” he says from behind me. “Nice thong.”

&n
bsp; Groaning in misery, I lift a middle finger over my head. He chuckles, his footsteps crunching over the grass. Lowering to a squat beside me, he strokes a warm, soothing hand down my back.

  “Just breathe,” he murmurs. “It’ll pass. You’re good Irish stock. Iron stomach.”

  I spit on the ground. “You can go now.”

  “Not until you’re safely inside.”

  I stagger to my feet and stumble toward the planter box beside the front door. Digging through the loose soil, I unearth a small box. It takes a few tries to get the combination right, but I finally free my backup house key.

  I make it inside, turn off the alarm, and navigate a dark hallway to my bedroom. I only run into the wall twice. Three more steps. You can make it. Yes!

  I flop with relief onto my bed. My next indrawn breath brings Robert’s cologne into my nostrils. The urge to puke returns a thousandfold. Bile rises to the back of my throat.

  I jump up, run for the bathroom, and almost make it to the toilet. Almost. At the last second, I veer toward the sink and lose dinner, drinks, and the remains of my dignity.

  “Motherfucker,” I wheeze.

  I’m still wearing Sebastian’s jacket, the cuff of which is now decorated with the contents of my stomach. Collapsing like my strings have been cut, I crawl the rest of the way to the toilet as another wave of nausea roars over me. At least this time I make it.

  When there’s nothing left in me, I fall onto my side and close my eyes. Gentle waves rock me. The tide pulls in, pulls out…

  I come to as I’m being lifted by Sebastian. Too hammered to be surprised, I merely groan in feeble protest. He sets me on my feet and pulls off the jacket, tossing it on the floor. I belatedly notice that the shower is running.

  “Your jacket,” I croak. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck the jacket,” he says softly, then frowns. His hands turn my shoulders right, then left. “How the hell does this dress come off?” I turn around so he can see the zipper. He snorts. “That’s subtle.”

  “It’s not mine,” I mumble.

  He drags the zipper down until it stops just above the curve of my ass. Holding my arms to my bare chest, I turn and look up at him. He gazes back at me, no discernible expression on his face. His eyes are equally hard to read.