The Someday Girl (The Girl Duet Book 2), page 14
Stripping down to my underwear, I slip the dress over my head and tug it over my curves, wincing slightly when the material flattens my boobs against my ribcage. I stand in front of the mirror and adjust them so they’re slightly less confined — an unfortunate side effect of which is cleavage so deep, it makes the Mariana Trench look insignificant.
“Damn, I have a good eye! That dress is killer on you. Your boobs look humungous!” Harper wolf-whistles. “Seriously. Super hot. You’re on fire, Firestone.”
I roll my eyes. “Never heard that one before.”
Smoothing my hands over my still-flat stomach, I can’t help feeling bloated and paranoid. My body hasn’t changed much, though my jeans are fitting a bit snugger. If I’m honest, though, that’s more likely due to the entire bag of pita chips I consumed while powering through Season 2 of Vampire High at three in the morning.
Harper zips herself into a super-short, devilishly sexy magenta dress the exact shade of her hair. It’s a stunning combination — she looks like some ethereal anime character who’s wandered off the pages of a comic book. When our heels are on and our makeup is applied, we head downstairs, ready to hit the town…
…and find Masters leaning against my kitchen island, arms folded over his chest, regarding us sternly. I don’t ask how he got in — the man designed my security system from the ground up.
“Please tell me you two weren’t planning on going out dressed like that without me.” His eyes narrow. “Because, if that’s the plan, we’re going to have issues.”
Harper scoffs. “Kent, did we or did we not have a discussion about you being an overbearing caveman?”
“We did.”
“And?” Harper plants her hands on her hips. “Do you recall the conclusion of said discussion?”
He shrugs. “You huffed and puffed about me taking care of you. I heard you out, because I think you’re kinda cute when you’re yelling your head off. Then, I decided to keep doing exactly what I’m paid to do, which is protect Miss Firestone and you, by proxy, whenever you’re with her, which is most days because the two of you are a package deal. Though, since you and me are sleeping together every night and I’m practically living at your apartment, from now on I’ll be protecting you wherever you go, regardless of your friends.” He looks at me briefly. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
He swivels his head back to Harper. “Point is, you’re my girl, and I protect what’s mine.”
She actually whimpers a little.
He leans forward. “Was that the conclusion you were talking about? Cause it’s the only one I’ll be reaching anytime soon.”
Harper makes a big show of glowering at him, but we all know she’s not actually mad. “You’re annoying,” she mutters unconvincingly.
He shrugs again, wholly unconcerned by her opinion, and grabs his keys off the counter top. “Where are we going?”
She’s already beaming again. “Wherever the wind takes us.”
Both Masters and I stare blankly at her until the grin falls off her face.
“Oh, fine, apparently being spontaneous is against the law.” She sighs. “We have a table reserved at the Limbo supper club, then we’ll hit their dance floor downstairs. A popular DJ is headlining — they all sound identical to me, if we’re being honest, but supposedly he’s a big deal because tickets have been sold out for weeks. Normally, we’d never get in, but now…” She trails off, staring at me.
“I’m Kat Firestone,” I murmur regretfully.
“Exactly.” Harper’s grin returns. “I’ve been dying to get in there since I first moved to LA, and I finally know someone famous enough to get me through those red velvet ropes without waiting on the curb for six hours in hooker heels and a body-con dress, begging some brutish bouncer to notice me.”
Masters’ eyebrows lift, but he says nothing.
Harper pulls on her jacket. “My point is, we’re obligated to at least test out the power of your new celeb status. It would be a waste, not to. So… I made a call.”
“Shamelessly exploiting me?” I tap my hip against hers.
“Of course.” She taps me back.
“Good. I’d hate to think this friendship was based on anything real, like mutual respect or love.”
“Heaven forbid!”
We both dissolve into laughter.
Harper recovers first. “Did I tell you they actually bumped someone from one of their tables for us? How insane is that?”
“What?! Who?”
“Who cares?”
“Harper!”
“Oh, whatever, I’m nearly positive it was that snooty girl from The Werewolf Chronicles who broke Damian’s heart last season.”
“You do realize she’s playing a character, reading lines she has no control over?”
“Tell that to Damian!” Harper folds her arms across her chest. “He spent six episodes moping.”
“Again… he is a fictional character,” I remind her, to no avail.
A snort echoes from Masters’ direction.
“Oh!” Her eyes are swirling with possibilities. “Maybe I should try to name-drop our way into J-Lo’s fitness class. I’ve wanted to know how she maintains that booty since I was six and she was still Jenny from the Block…”
“First of all, you should be a little embarrassed right now. Secondly, you’re deluded if you think anyone in the industry would believe I’d willingly participate in a fitness class.”
“Fine. No booty-camp.” She pauses. “But what about Gwyneth Paltrow’s ZenCycle class? It’s full at the moment but I have a feeling if I leaned on them, there might be a conscious uncoupling between two current attendees and their reserved bikes…”
“Keep it up and I’ll have to take away your name-dropping privileges. For your own good.”
Harper glares. “You’re dead to me.”
“And you’re drunk on power.”
“So very true.” She double-checks her small clutch purse, making sure she’s got the essentials — ID, petty cash, cellphone, and, naturally, a full makeup kit in miniature. “All right, let’s go make everyone hate us.”
I sigh deeply but don’t argue. When we turn for the door, we find Masters waiting there, staring at us with an indecipherable expression.
“What?” Harper asks.
He stares at us another beat, then turns and walks outside, muttering something that sounds like “batshit crazy” under his breath.
“What was that, honey?” Harper calls after him.
“I said I’ll be in the car!”
“Uh huh.” She catches my eye. “He loves that I’m crazy. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
We both break into giggles. Linking her arm with mine, she tugs me outside.
“Come on. You’ve been suffering all the shitty side effects of fame. I think it’s time you enjoy a few of the perks.”
I spent nearly a year slinging drinks and supplying bottle service to VIPs at an exclusive LA nightclub. It would be an understatement to say being on the opposite side of that equation is extremely strange.
When we get to Limbo, there’s a line wrapping all the way around the block. Girls are shivering in their stilettos and short dresses, excitement palpable; their male companions are standing stoically, waiting to be admitted with all the eagerness of a death row inmate on his way to the chair. I’m not a huge fan of clubs, but even I can’t deny there’s a certain kind of thrill that rushes through me when Masters pulls up to the designated VIP drop-off area, throws his keys to a waiting valet, and pulls open the door for us.
The quiet of the SUV backseat explodes in an instant.
People at the front of the line scream and snap photos on their camera phones.
Look!
That’s Kat Firestone! Did you see her?
Is Grayson with her?
Where is he?
I ignore them as best I can, keeping my eyes straight ahead as I stride for the doors, trying not to trip on the skyscraper heels Harper insisted I wear. The bouncers don’t ask us any questions or check our IDs— they just clear a path and let us walk inside, where a hostess is quick to take our coats and lead us to our table.
The supper club at Limbo is famous, thanks in no small part to a popular rapper who included a line about their cheese puffs in his latest number one hit. The ritzy upstairs restaurant caters to the LA elite, with a wine list longer than my arm and an ever-rotating food menu that even the harshest critics are hard-pressed to find fault with. On the surface, the space is completely refined and romantic — low lighting, marble embellishments, geometric pendant lights suspended from the ceilings at asymmetrical angles.
But then you notice the opaque floor.
See-through and sound-proofed, the dining room offers unobstructed views of the raging club scene directly below us. It’s a jarring juxtaposition — quiet elegance sitting twenty feet atop the writhing sub-level dance floor, where the flashing lights and madly-spinning DJ tracks keep the masses enthralled. I suddenly understand the name Limbo — this place is both Heaven and Hell, contained within a single space.
I imagine the people downstairs can make out our blurred shapes if they squint up at the ceiling.
I think I saw the bottom of Rihanna’s heels! It was amazing!
“How fucking cool is this?” Harper hisses as we settle in at the table.
“Pretty fucking cool,” I concede. “Though I feel bad for Masters.”
“He didn’t have to come.” Harper shrugs. “He’ll be fine at the bar.”
I look for my security guard and find his hulking presence leaning against the sleek bar across the restaurant, his ever-watchful eyes scanning the room, his large hand gripping a glass of ice water. I sigh.
“I’m sure they could add a chair to the table…” My head tilts in thought. “But then he’d have to listen to us gossip about everyone in this restaurant.”
“Did you see Chris Pratt in the corner?” she murmurs, eyes darting surreptitiously at the tables around us. “And I’m almost positive that’s Ashton Kutcher, over there.”
I nod, trying not to let it show that I’m freaking out a bit, just being in such company.
“Admit it,” Harper whispers, leaning toward me. “Your life is pretty damn cool, Kat Firestone.”
She is not wrong.
When the waiter returns, Harper orders a glass of wine. I stick to water, managing to play it off as another attempt at sobriety. We eat a delicious meal — fried zucchini flowers, shrimp risotto, and fresh fruit parfait. It costs a truly outrageous sum, but with a full stomach and a happy heart, I don’t mind a bit as I sign the check. We decide to hit the bathroom before we descend the steps to Hell, knowing the club stalls downstairs will be far more crowded than the ones up here.
Harper turns sideways to examine her body in the mirror. “God, I’m stuffed. Suddenly regretting the skin-tight dress. You can see the outline of my food-baby through the fabric.”
Better than my actual baby, I can’t help thinking, staring at my own stomach.
“I should’ve worn my fat pants with the elastic waistband.” She frowns at her reflection. “Next time.”
“I thought you only broke those out on Thanksgiving?” I roll my eyes. “You look amazing. Relax.”
I’m touching up my lipstick when I hear the sound of the bathroom door swing in. Stiletto heels click irregularly against the tile floor, as though the girl wearing them is having trouble walking a straight line. When she steps into sight, her lips painted the trademark blood-red shade I recognize from a message she once scrawled on my dressing room mirror, I realize two things immediately — she’s highly intoxicated, and she hates me with a vehemence I’ve never before witnessed. I turn slowly to face her.
“Helena.” My voice is soft. Behind Helena, Harper’s eyes dart to mine, a question in their depths. I shake my head slightly, so she doesn’t interfere.
“You,” Helena slurs, stumbling closer. “You are a little bitch.”
“And you’re a little wasted.”
Her perfect features, even prettier in person, contort into a mask of fury. “You stole everything from me. Violet. Grayson. You took it all.”
“I didn’t steal a damn thing from you, Helena. I never would’ve gotten your part, if you hadn’t screwed it up in the first place,” I remind her.
She’s past the point of listening.
“You’ll be sorry,” she promises, leaning closer. I can smell the alcohol on her breath, see the abnormal size of her pupils, refracting the mellow light of the bathroom like dark glassy pools. Clearly, she’s out of rehab — and off the wagon.
She leans even closer, pressing me back into the sink.
“Did you hear me bitch? You’ll be sorry.”
“Oh, Helena. I am sorry,” I tell her, my voice deadly soft. “I’m sorry you got your heart broken. I’m sorry you screwed yourself over. I’m sorry you’re having a rough time. Truly, I am. But hear me when I tell you: if you threaten me again, my sympathies are going to expire faster than the low-carb leftovers in your refrigerator.”
She doesn’t seem to hear me. Not a single word. Standing there swaying uneasily on her heels, she looks almost… manic. It’s frightening to witness. I study her for a moment, taking in the smeared lipstick, the vacant look in her eyes, and realize she has come completely unhinged — a door slammed too many times, no longer able to perform its most basic function. Equal amounts of disquiet and indecision churn through me.
Whoever this girl is, standing in front of me, it is not the Helena Putnam she used to be. It is someone unstable; someone in need of far more help than I know how to give her.
“You’ll be sorry,” she whispers again, like a crazed mantra, the smile on her face promising vengeance even as tears start leaking from her empty eyes. There’s a hysterical edge to her words that sets my teeth on edge.
“You’ll be sorry. You’ll be sorry. You’ll be sorry.”
I look at Harper in alarm, wondering what to do.
She shrugs, at a loss.
Helena doesn’t even seem to see me anymore. She’s retreated inside her head, somewhere unreachable. I sidestep around her and walk to my best friend, ambivalence clawing at my insides.
“What do we do with her?”
“Who, Sylvia Plath over there?” Harper snorts, totally unsympathetic. “Um, how about… nothing.”
“She’s having some kind of breakdown.” I look back at Helena, who hasn’t moved so much as an inch. “We can’t just leave her here.”
“Why not?”
“We’re better than that.”
“Are we, though?” Her nose wrinkles. “This girl has only ever called you names, spread rumors about you in the press, threatened you, and tried to make your life a nightmare. I say… to hell with her, let’s go dancing. If she falls into a toilet and drowns while throwing up all the painkillers she washed down with her vodka soda, well, I for one will not miss her. Karma’s a bitch and so am I.”
“Harper!”
“What? It’s true.”
“It’s awful.”
“Since when are you such a bleeding heart?”
“Since I decided I’m going to try to be a better person.”
Harper blinks at me, as though she can’t wrap her mind around such a concept.
I sigh. “If we call a bouncer, they’ll toss her out on the curb…”
“Sounds like a perfect solution.”
I scowl. “Sounds like throwing her to the wolves. You saw all the paparazzi outside. It would almost be better to let her drown in a toilet.”
“Doesn’t she have a security detail? A driver? A babysitter? A sponsor, who’s supposed to be preventing her from destroying her liver?”
“I don’t know.”
I’m trying desperately to think of a plan when the door starts to swing inward as a gaggle of girls enter the bathroom. Harper shoves it closed before they can get so much as a stiletto inside the frame. They squawk in protest as the panel slams in their faces.
“Out of order!” Harper yells, using her body weight to keep it shut.
I cross to help her hold them off. After a minute of indignant squeals, they give up and stalk away to find a different restroom.
I glance at my best friend. “I’ll bar the door. You go get Masters — tell him what happened. He can stand guard, make sure no one comes in here.”
Harper grimaces, but she doesn’t argue as she steps out into the hallway. While she’s gone, I run through every possibility I can think of… and grimace in frustration at the lack of good options.
If I call an ambulance, they’ll roll up outside, sirens blaring, drawing the attention of everyone in a ten-block radius. Then, in all likelihood, they’ll lock Helena up in a psych ward and throw away the key — which may not be an altogether terrible idea, given her current state, but it definitely isn’t my call to make.
If I leave it to the Limbo staff to handle, it’s only a matter of time before the story spreads to the servers, and then to the patrons, and then to the rest of the world.
If I walk her out the front door and put her in a town car, the paparazzi camped outside will notice… and take about a zillion photographs that will be plastered all over social media tomorrow.
The only viable alternative I can see is one I’d do almost anything to avoid.
Harper slips back inside a few moments later. “Kent is on door duty. Did you come up with a plan?”
“Not really.” I sigh, deeply troubled, and run through the bleak list of options.
Harper’s sigh echoes mine. “Crap.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I hesitate. “There is one person I could possibly call…”
Harper frowns. “If you’re considering who I think you’re considering, that’s your worst idea so far.”
“What choice do I have?”
“See this situation?” She points at Helena, who’s still standing in a drunken daze by the sinks. “This is the definition of a human garbage fire. Adding Grayson to the mix and thinking it’ll help matters is sort of like dousing flames with gasoline and expecting them not to explode.”
“Give me another suggestion then. Tell me one reasonable, responsible alternative.”
