by Max Monroe
I grin. “I think the only thing that got him off the hook tonight is because Billie has reached the point in her pregnancy where anything but sweatpants sounds miserable.”
“Unless she’s working,” Serena chimes in. “I tell ya, that girl’s work ethic is insane.”
Serena is the one who gave Billie her start. She hired her as a PA, and eventually, my sister more than proved that she deserved to be hired on as a producer in Serena’s company.
“Well, in less than three months, she’s going to have to slow way, way down.”
“Amen, sister,” Serena responds, even raising a slightly tipsy hand in the air. “I told her the earliest I’d let her come back to work was sixteen weeks after the baby was born.”
“Wait…” Johnny pauses and looks toward me. “Billie Harris is your sister?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Wow. I bet your parents are proud.”
“Actually, our parents passed away when we were really young,” I say, and Johnny instantly cringes.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine. No need to apologize.” I shake my head. “But I do like to believe that our parents are still looking down on us and are happy with the women we’ve become.”
Tears start to fill Serena’s eyes. “Ah hell, that’s beautiful. And I’ve had too much alcohol to hear this conversation.”
A soft laugh escapes my lips, and I reach out to hug her with one arm. “No tears tonight,” I say, squeezing her tightly before letting go. “Just laughs and lots of booze.”
She raises her glass and clinks it with mine, then with Johnny’s, then Howie’s. “Cheers to that!”
We all take a drink, amused smiles etching all our faces.
“While I’d love to stay around and chat, I need to resume my hosting duties,” Howie says, an apologetic grin on his lips. “But please make yourselves at home and stay as late as you want.” He proceeds on the host path, excusing himself from our little circle and continuing to make his way through the party.
And the night moves on from there.
I chat with Johnny, laugh with Serena’s tipsy antics, and even find the courage to make my way around the party and introduce myself to familiar faces I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting in person.
Besides the cast and crew and studio heads attached to Grass Roots, I meet Fortune 500 CEOs, reality stars, fashion designers, famous TV personalities, uber-famous Hollywood actors, and the list goes on and on.
The attendee list is a hodgepodge of the rich and famous.
And I’m certain my sister is probably slightly annoyed that she and Luca didn’t make it out here tonight. So much so that I decide to take the time to text her about it.
Me: You’ll never believe who I just met.
Billie: It’s almost one in the morning, Birdie. Where in the hell are you?
Shit. It’s already that late?
I guess Samantha was right. I did need a night out to let loose and have fun.
Me: I’m at Howie King’s house. Tonight was his party for Grass Roots.
Billie: Oh shit, I almost forgot about that. If I weren’t so damn pregnant, I would’ve made Luca go with me.
Obviously, I know her well.
Me: That’s exactly what I told Howie. And, any guesses???
Billie: Just freaking tell me already.
I send her the discreet picture I took a few minutes ago.
Billie: Is that Timothée Carver???
Timothée Carver is an up-and-coming early twentysomething actor who is entirely too adorable to miss.
Me: It sure is. And I also met this guy, too. ;)
I send her another picture. This time, it’s of another famous—and incredibly sexy—actor by the name of Zack Hallows. He’s shirtless and just about to jump into Howie’s pool with a bunch of other partygoers.
Billie: Oh, what the forking forklifts. Consider me jealous right now. I also vote for you to bring Zack Hallows back to your place and bang his brains out.
Me: I’m pretty sure he’s dating some model.
Billie: Model, schmodel. Who cares. Go bag Hallows.
Me: LOL. Okay, crazy lady. I think all those pregnancy hormones are starting to go to your brain.
Billie: You texted me at 1 a.m. I’m practically 8 months pregnant and fall asleep before the freaking sun goes down every damn night. You should expect nothing less than crazy talk after 9 p.m.
Me: Go back to sleep. I love you.
Billie: What about Andrew? Is he there tonight?
Me: Of course he’s here. Mr. Attention Whore wouldn’t miss this kind of party.
Billie: Well, if you can’t convince Hallows to break up with his girlfriend, just take Andrew home and angry-fuck him.
I roll my eyes. Andrew Watson is the last person on the planet I’d take home tonight—or any night, for that matter. Not to mention, all freaking evening he’s been surrounded by his harem of fangirls, fawning over his every word.
Not that I’m paying attention or anything.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Okay, fine, so maybe I’ve been paying a little attention. But it’s more out of amusement than anything else. I’m simply entertained by how easily he can be so fucking charming, when I know that underneath that megawatt smile is a certified asshole.
Me: Jesus Christ. What is with everyone thinking I need to screw someone tonight? Samantha was encouraging the same ridiculousness.
Billie: Because it’s been like five years since you’ve had sex. We’re all worried for your vagina. Hell, I think I might start a prayer chain or a GoFundMe in her honor.
Me: Ha-ha. Very funny. And it’s been like a year, you psycho.
Billie: 5 years…1 year…it’s all the same. A really LONG time. Anyway, I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you at lunch with Rocky tomorrow. Love youuuuuuu.
Since Rocky is back in LA for Harrison’s business trip, we’ve already made plans to meet back at Frankie’s at noon tomorrow. Truthfully, I’m excited to have a few hours to gab with the girls. Especially since I have a whole bunch of crazy Tawny Rose shit to gossip about it.
Me: Yeah, yeah, see you then.
I slip my phone back into my small clutch and head back into the house in search of some food. The fact that I’m a few glasses of champagne deep and the last time I ate was the burger and fries Samantha brought back for lunch means I need to find sustenance soon or else I’ll be feeling hella hungover tomorrow.
But when I step into the dining area where the tables upon tables of food were set out earlier, I realize I’ve officially missed the window of dinner opportunity.
Shit.
I head into the spacious living room and glance around for, like, a bowl of nuts or something, but I come up empty-handed.
No nuts. No candy. No little mints. Nada.
I know Howie told us to make ourselves at home, but I feel a little weird just heading into his kitchen—well, one of his kitchens—and rummaging in his cabinets for a bag of Doritos.
I’m seconds away from texting my driver Bill and letting him know I’m ready to head home—and also letting him know I need to make a Taco Bell run—when I spot a guy with what looks to be a plate of food sitting beside him.
In a pair of worn jeans, a wrinkled red T-shirt, and mussed-up hair, he looks to be early twenties as he sits on one of the sectional sofas in Howie’s living room and chats with another guy about his age while watching reruns of South Park on the flat-screen TV.
I step closer and realize the illustrious plate of food in his possession is brownies.
A big, glorious plate of brownies.
Eureka! Maybe there’s a dessert table or something that I missed?
“Excuse me,” I interrupt their conversation. “Do you mind if I ask where you guys got the brownies?”
They both look up at me in confusion.
I nod toward the plate sitting on the table beside them. “The brownies,” I repeat. “Where did you ge
t them?”
“Oh, the brownies,” Red T-shirt responds in understanding. “I thought you said mounties, and I was crazy confused.”
Guy Two snorts. “Dude. I heard counties.”
“You want a brownie?” Red T-shirt asks, and my stomach growls its excitement.
“You don’t mind?” I question, glancing between the two of them. “I forgot to grab some dinner earlier, and all the food is gone now.”
“Consider them communal brownies.” Guy Two holds the plate of treats toward me. “Help yourself to a chocolatey-delicious trip.”
“Com-munal.” Red T-shirt chuckles.
“Strange word, right?” Guy Two agrees with a grin, but I’m too focused on the plate of goodness stretched out toward me to take in the weirdness of their conversation.
Without hesitation, I snag one delectable brownie off the plate and take a bite. Once the chocolate goodness hits my lips, a small moan escapes my throat.
“Damn, this so good. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Red T-shirt responds, and once Guy Two sets the plate back on the table, they simply go back to watching South Park.
While someone kills Kenny in the background, I eat the damn brownie faster than I’ve ever eaten anything in my whole freaking life.
Literally, no shame in my food game. Hell, once I make my goodbye rounds around this party, I’m going to text Bill to come get me and still have him stop by Taco Bell.
Cheesy Gordita Crunch, here I come, baby!
Andrew
Birdie is certainly flying high tonight.
Once the clock strikes two, I find myself growing bored with the party—with the women I’ve been talking to at the party—and decide to head home. Normally, I’d make a point to lay a bit of groundwork and bring some beautiful company home with me, but nothing has caught my interest.
Maybe my overbearing team is right? I need to start getting more sleep.
I think my current insane schedule might be affecting my sex drive.
More than ready to call it a night, I head into the house to find Howie and tell him I’m heading out, but I’m stopped in my tracks when I spot her.
Birdie.
Standing in the middle of How’s first-floor hallway, looking at a painting.
I can’t deny that I’ve kept an eye on her whereabouts for most of the evening, just discreetly watching her chat with Serena and Howie and that idiot Johnny Johnston, among many other people at the party tonight.
Well, everyone but me. It was almost like she was avoiding me at all costs.
If I walked out onto the terrace, she walked inside. And vice versa.
Looks like now is my chance to chat it up with my favorite little angry birdie…
But as I get closer to her, I realize she’s not so much looking at the painting as staring at the painting. Just straight up, zoned out on this random landscape painting in the middle of Howie’s hallway.
“Birdie?” I call out her name, but she doesn’t respond.
So, I step closer and put a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Birdie, sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“Shh,” she whispers toward me but doesn’t avert her eyes from the wall. “Be quiet and just watch.”
I tilt my head to the side, glancing between her and the painting.
“Do you see it?” she asks, her voice still quiet. “When you’re really quiet, the trees move.”
I’m sorry…what?
I have to blink three times to process her words.
“The trees move?”
“Yeah,” she keeps whispering. “They move. If it’s quiet enough, they move.”
“Uh…okay… That’s cool, I guess…”
What in the hell is she talking about right now?
“Do you like trees, Andrew?” she asks and finally pulls her eyes away from the painting to look at my face.
“Uh, trees are cool…” I pause, searching her face closely. Her mouth is set in a permanent half smile, and her normally big, brown, observant eyes are a little out of focus. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
“I’m as good as good, Andrew. I’m so good, I’m like double good. If you had to order me at Starbucks, you’d have to order a double shot of good.” She nods. Once. Twice. Three times. Then giggles.
Jesus. How much did she drink tonight?
I spotted her with an occasional glass of champagne, but that was it.
Did she manage to sneak off and down a bunch of liquor when I wasn’t looking?
I narrow my eyes and search her face again. “Did you drive here, Birdie?”
“No sirree Bob.” She shakes her head. Snorts. “I mean, no sirree Bill. That’s my driver. Bill. But he’s a human driver. He’s not a bill. That you pay. Just a driver. Who also gets paid for driving. Ha!” She reaches out and smacks her hand on my chest. “How crazy is that? Bill drives for bills. Cash money bills. That’s Bill.”
Holy fucking shit.
I can’t stop myself from reaching out and placing a gentle hand to her cheek. “Birdie, honey, how much did you have to drink tonight?”
“Not much. Like, three glasses of champagne, I think?” She shrugs one lazy shoulder and leans her cheek into my hand at the same time. She shuts her eyes and nuzzles her cheek against my palm before she decides to put the entire weight of her head in my hand. “This feels nice.”
Nice? Birdie is rubbing her cheek into my hand and saying it feels nice?
I think I’ve officially entered the twilight zone.
“Oh!” she exclaims, and her eyes pop open as she lifts her head off my hand. “And a brownie! I had a brownie!”
“That’s nice, Birdie.”
“It was the nicest brownie I’ve ever met in my whole life,” she rambles on. “And I ate it. Which maybe wasn’t such a nice thing to do, but holy macaroni salad, it was delicious.”
I’m about two seconds away from trying to figure out if some fuckface roofied her drinks when the word brownie finally registers in my mind.
Oh fuck.
Birdie takes it upon herself to wrap her arms around my shoulders and rest her head on my chest.
“Birdie?” I question, and she nuzzles her face against me.
“Mmhmm?”
“Where did you get your brownie from?”
“A guy.”
Oh, that’s helpful.
“Did you happen to get his name?”
“Nope,” she says, her voice vibrating against my chest. “But he was with another guy and they were watching TV and they had a whole bunch of brownies on a plate. They gave me one, and I ate the whole thing because it was delicious… Wait… Oh no…” She pauses and looks up at me with a big pout on her lips. “Do you think the brownie is mad at me for eating it? God, I hope it’s not.”
Son of a bitch.
Instantly, I know who gave her the brownie. Fucking Howie’s stoner nephew Larry and his loser friend Carl.
Those two bastards have been living with Howie for the past year because my best friend is way too nice of a guy and likes to give people way too many fucking second chances.
But that’s the least of my concerns.
Right now, my priorities revolve around the fact that Birdie Harris is high as a kite, and I don’t think she realizes the brownie she ate was a fucking pot brownie.
“Funny question, Birdie,” I say quietly, more than thankful the party has wound down so much that most of the crowd has left, but also mindful that you never know whose ears are listening. “Have you ever tried pot?”
“Pot?” Her pout morphs into confusion. “Like pot roast?”
“No, sweetheart, like marijuana.”
“The drug?”
“Yeah, the drug.”
“Nope. I don’t like drugs. Just brownies.”
Man, oh man, this is quite the fucked-up situation right here.
“So, you’ve never tried any drugs?”
“Not once in my whole life!” she exclaims. “I’m drug freeeeeee!”
The irony
isn’t lost on me.
While Birdie rests the majority of her body weight on my shoulders and against my chest, I lean my head back and try like hell to figure out the best way to handle this situation.
I feel weird putting her in the car with some random guy named Bill and trusting him to get her home safely.
And when I think about calling Luca and Billie, I decide it’s all kinds of cruel to call a pregnant woman at nearly three in the morning to tell her that her sister ate a pot brownie.
I also have the odd inkling of guilt for not keeping a better eye on Birdie tonight.
“I’m so sleepy, Andrew,” she whispers, her face now pressed into my chest. “And I wanna take these shoes off so bad. I feel like I’m walking on pencils.” She giggles. “Pencils. P-E-N-C-I-L-S. If you take off the C and the L, it spells penis. It’s like we first learn how to write with penises.” She giggles again.
I can’t help but grin.
Dear God, she’s pretty damn adorable right now.
Really fucking high, but adorable, nonetheless.
“I need to go to bed,” she whispers once she stops giggling. And she starts to remove her arms from my shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just gonna find a place to sleep.”
“Here? At Howie’s?”
Ignoring me completely, she glances up and down the hallway, and before I know it, she’s kicking off her shoes, dropping her purse to the floor, and starting to kneel on the marble floor.
“Birdie?”
“I’ll just sleep right here.”
Fucking hell.
“No,” I say, reaching out to pull her back to her feet. “You can’t sleep on the floor, sweetheart. Come on,” I say once I pick up her shoes and purse, my hand a gentle guide on her elbow. “Follow me.”