“Nah. Too nice,” said Reilly, laughing at the glint of challenge that brightened Sylvie’s eyes at the comment. Sylvie was on the prowl and the woman had been marked. “Seriously. Not her. We can corrupt someone else tonight. Anyway, it’s not that I’m not flattered and it’s not that I don’t like going to all of the parties.” She narrowed her eyes at the unwanted vision that appeared behind the woman who’d sent her the drink. “It’s just that I could do without some of the bullshit.”
Parker stood about ten feet behind the dark-haired woman. Reilly hadn’t talked to Parker since that night when they were supposed to have buried the hatchet and she didn’t remember any of it. She didn’t know how to feel. She couldn’t seem to summon the feelings that a truce should have elicited, let alone anything like the ones she should have for someone she’d had sex with. There was no denying that Parker was gorgeous, but thoughts of exchanging bodily fluids with her made Reilly feel a little sick.
“Like what?” asked Sylvie.
“What?” asked Reilly, confused. She had lost track of the conversation. Parker had stopped to talk to the woman who had sent her the drink. A flare of irritation warmed Reilly, even though she’d never even met the dark-haired beauty. She felt like going over to warn her.
“What bullshit could you do without?” repeated Sylvie, with an impatient sigh.
“Oh… the predators that lurk among us,” responded Reilly, knowing that she sounded vague. She watched Parker flirt with the dark-haired woman across the room.
“That’s rich,” said Sylvie. “Seeing as you like to hunt as much as I do. Come on. I see Parker. Let’s get her and hit the dance floor. It appears that she’s helped us do some of the reconnaissance work with your admirer.”
Reilly finished her drink and signaled for another shot from their waiter as she rose and followed Sylvie to the other side of the bar. All of her dark thoughts were gone by the time they hit the floor and she had the dark-haired cutie pressed against her front and Sylvie draped across her back in a techno grind.
Santa Monica Pier - Take 1
“…THE FUCK OFF ME!” said Reilly, rolling away and slapping at the hands that were grabbing at her. Her head pounded and her back was killing her. Where the fuck was she? And who the fuck was touching her?
The light around her was too bright to open her eyes, but from the noise and scents around her, she thought that she might be outside. That couldn’t be right. She put her hands over her face and peered through the cracks.
She was at the beach.
The sun was just coming up and she was lying on a bench. Ocean air had settled on her in a thin layer of dampness, making her feel heavy. She swung her legs over and sat up. Someone with unfamiliar hands was trying to help her up. She couldn’t focus clearly enough to see who it was and she batted the hands away. A dark blur was all she could take in and she blinked her eyes and tried to get used to the sunlight. Various parts of her body protested the movement. The worst was her pounding head. Whoever was with her finally took a step back. She surveyed the area around her. There, several feet away, was her car, parked across three spaces in the otherwise empty pay lot.
She recognized her surroundings. She was at the Santa Monica Pier. Her hands steadied her on the worn bench beneath her. The grain was smoothed by use and so many seasons in the sun, but she could still see her name, faint but legible, carved by her into the wood more than a decade earlier. Her fingers traced the mark that she had made so long ago. A family outing. Cotton candy. Happy times. It seemed like another person’s memory.
“Ma’am. Are you all right?”
Reilly roused herself from the past. A police officer stood beside the bench, a cautious foot or two away. The officer seemed relaxed, but Reilly noted that her hand rested on the Taser strapped to her belt. Was the cop really afraid of her?
“Just peachy,” mumbled Reilly, having a hard time keeping her eyes open, and not just because of the light. She was tired. She felt it in her bones. The contents of her stomach churned, chasing some of the sleepiness away. She was disoriented and fear started to creep over her. The fact that she had just woken up outside with no memory of getting there sank in.
“That your car over there? The white one?” asked the officer. The officer used her elbow to indicate Reilly’s white BMW with the driver’s side door standing wide open.
It was the only car in the lot.
“Yes,” said Reilly, fighting back the fog that muddled her mind.
“Did you drive it here?”
“Not that I can remember,” replied Reilly. It was the truth.
“Well, it’s parked in a pay lot without a permit, not to mention that the lot is closed from midnight to 5:00 AM.” The officer studied Reilly for a moment, sizing up the situation. “Because I didn’t see you in it, or it parked there before 5:00 AM, I won’t haul you in on a DUI or cite you for being there during the off hours, but I’m going to have to ticket you for not paying for the three spaces you’re taking up.”
“I’ll just move it,” suggested Reilly. She was feeling a little put off by the officer’s attitude. Did she seriously think Reilly would be grateful for the slap on the wrist?
“You get behind that wheel, and I’ll have to take you in for driving under the influence,” replied the officer, shifting her weight across her feet.
Reilly rolled her eyes.
“Could you just move it then?”
Reilly felt in her pocket for her keys.
When the police officer didn’t respond, she glanced up. The stare that met her eyes exuded an air of cold regard, and Reilly knew that she had said the wrong thing. Even though her head hurt like a motherfucker, her stomach was threatening to revolt and she was feeling the spins like she might still be a little drunk, she was smart enough—and scared enough—to know when to kiss a little ass.
“Never mind, officer. That was stupid of me to ask. I’ll be happy to accept the parking tickets.” Reilly leaned back on the bench and closed her eyes. This was so fucked up. And she was so tired. The steady rhythm of the waves rushing up onto the sand was lulling her to…
“You can’t sleep here,” said the officer, cutting through the encroaching velvet that was falling behind Reilly’s eyelids. Reilly sat up with weary deliberation. Tired as she was, she didn’t want to sleep at the beach. “Is there someone you can call?”
She was surprised to find that her cell phone, identification, and cash were still tucked away in the pocket of the light jacket she was wearing. With a great effort toward concentration, she called a cab. She couldn’t call her driver, Alison. She didn’t want anyone she cared about to see her like this.
While the officer finished writing up the tickets, she contemplated her car, which, she realized, was still running. She tried to remember how she had ended up at the beach. Her complete loss of time scared the hell of out of her. A list of terrible things that could have happened streamed through her mind. She scanned her surroundings again. There was no one near, except a motionless mound under an army green sleeping bag that rested in the crease between the sidewalk and a cinderblock wall housing two battered trash bins about fifty yards away. Two shoes were lined up next to the covered head of the bag’s inhabitant.
When the cab arrived, the officer retrieved the keys from the ignition of her car and shut the door. She didn’t say anything to Reilly as she handed her the key ring, but Reilly could see the reproach in the officer’s eyes. Embarrassed and chastised, she talked the cab driver into repositioning her car, which she’d have to arrange to get later on, and then she got into the cab.
Fighting a migraine on her way back to her house, Reilly attempted to focus on the screen of her phone as she checked to see if Sylvie had called her or left any messages. There was nothing. Worried, she dialed Sylvie’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
Her phone signaled a received text message and she squinted to see Hank’s name before she opened it. A photo taken while it was still dark filled her scree
n and she was surprised to see a picture of her sprawled across the bench the night before. It accompanied a short article that she couldn’t read in the taxi without getting even sicker. A cold shiver ran through her, caused only in part by the nausea. She shuddered to think of how long she had been on the bench and who had been skulking around her unconscious form. She was lucky that she hadn’t been robbed… or worse. The vultures in the celebrity press were a secondary thought.
On the verge of vomiting, Reilly paid the cab driver when they got to her house. Her access card let her in through the locked gate and she took a few deep breaths as she walked down the long driveway to her house. The walking helped clear her head a little.
She used her keys to let herself in. Her house was quiet and dark when she entered. The pleasant scent from the giant floral arrangement in the middle of the foyer enfolded her, and some of the rigid stress in her shoulders melted away, though she was still wound up tight. She resolved to tell Camille, her live-in housekeeper, how much she appreciated the flowers. Aside from them, the house lacked life even when she was in it, she realized. It was a sterile monolith without a heart. In some respects, Camille had an easy job, since Reilly was rarely home, but Reilly wasn’t an easy person to live with when she was, so she didn’t envy the woman’s life. She’d tell her thanks for the flowers and give her a bonus.
Clutching her cell phone, she headed to her room. The trip up the stairs took an extreme effort, as weariness settled deep into her bones without warning after the first few steps. At the top, she paused and leaned against the railing to regain her strength, and then dragged herself down the hall to her room where the promise of feather pillows called to her. When she entered the room, the neatly made bed confirmed that Sylvie hadn’t been there the previous night. Irritation clenched Reilly’s jaw.
She had no recollection of the last evening beyond when she and Sylvie had left the first bar, on the way to another party. Parker and Natalie, the dark-haired women from the first bar, had been with them. She had a hazy memory of a short squabble with Sylvie before they got into the car. The others were already waiting inside. It seemed that it had been over Parker and the way she had been hanging all over Natalie. She didn’t know why that would upset her. Maybe it had escalated after she had gone past the point of no return with the drinking, where fights never seem to have a real reason. Had they even gone to the other party? Reilly didn’t remember ever getting into her car. She wondered how she had gotten to the beach and where the others had gone. Sylvie had probably gone back to her own seldom-used apartment.
Her cell phone rang. She answered it without looking at the screen to see who it was. It better be Sylvie and she better have an excellent apology ready.
“Where the fuck did you go last night?”
She leaned her shoulder on the doorjamb and waited for Sylvie to respond.
“Um,” replied a familiar male voice. “You’re okay.”
“Hank?”
“Yeah. You were expecting Sylvie, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re angry about the picture in the trades this morning, aren’t you?”
“Sounds like you saw it,” said Reilly. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“Yep. I gotta say, even for you I’m shocked. I was thumbing through the feeds on my iPad while waiting for my venti, skinny, quad vanilla latte and, bam, there you were. My sleeping beauty. I’m glad that your mouth wasn’t hanging open.”
“God,” moaned Reilly, pressing her forehead to the cool, white wood in the doorframe.
“Is it at least a good story?” asked Hank.
“I wish I could remember.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously. I think I blacked out. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“From your lips to my ears, no farther. You know that.”
Reilly did know that, and it made her feel better to be able to take for granted that at least one constant in her life wasn’t either fucked up or spiraling away from her. She loved her best friend for understanding when she needed him most.
“Why don’t we meet up this afternoon? I’ll tell you everything I can remember. But right now I think I need to lie down.”
“I’ll bring miso to your house at three-ish. How’s that sound?”
“Perfect. You are my prince, you know that, right?”
“I know. I know. You owe me.”
“I’ll do anything for your miso. Later, skater.”
Feeling a little better after talking with Hank, Reilly pushed off from the doorway and unbuttoned her pants with clumsy fingers. She let them slide down her hips, walked out of them, stumbling slightly in an unusual display of clumsiness, and kicked them away as she approached her bed. She was desperate to lie down. The heavy drape of sleep pulled at her. But her irritation at Sylvie—for not being there, for not watching out for her, for letting her pass out on a bench at the end of a night in which they should have gone home together—kept her drooping eyelids from making the final descent, even as she dropped like a rock onto the bed. Her mind was foggy but still racing, refusing to process that for the second time in as many weeks she had blacked out. So, instead of sinking into sleep, her thoughts chewed away at her irritation at Sylvie, and she leaned against the headboard and pounded a pillow into place behind her.
She checked her phone for messages. Still, there were none. She threw her phone down on the bed beside her and reached for the laptop that sat on the bedside table. She rested the computer on her lap and logged on before she picked up her phone again. She hit the speed dial reserved for Sylvie. As her Mac booted up, she listened to the phone at the other end of the call ring into voicemail. She hung up and hit the redial button rather than leaving a message and repeated the action several more times as she browsed the internet. She sighed as the calls she made to Sylvie continued to fall into voicemail, and she found what she was hunting for on her computer.
She could always count on Randy Candy’s celebrity gossip site. There she was, amid the garish gifs and obscene use of too many fonts. In all her glory. Passed out on the bench with the lights of the Santa Monica pier twinkling in the background. The photo had been taken hours earlier, when the moon was still hanging low in the cobalt sky and casting a reflected swath of incandescence across the calm surface of the ocean behind the pier. She looked like she was relaxing. The scene was rather beautiful, if you didn’t know that Reilly was passed out cold. And in case the reader didn’t come to that conclusion on his or her own, Randy had captioned the picture “Reilly Ripped!!!!”
Her head throbbed as Sylvie’s phone rang several more times and then dropped into voicemail again. She still didn’t leave a message. She just ended the call, pushed her laptop onto the bed beside her, and succumbed to the nothingness of sleep.
I’m Not Your Mother
THE NEXT NIGHT, IGNORING HER aching head and roiling stomach, Reilly slid her laptop onto the bed beside her and sat up when Sylvie walked into the bedroom. Exhibiting poise that cost her more than she’d admit, she crossed her arms over her chest and flipped her hair away from her face. She hoped the look on her face told Sylvie that she’d fucked up and had some major explaining to do. Instead, Sylvie exuded her own displeasure, which just made Reilly’s anger over Sylvie’s disappearing act on Friday reassert itself with vigor. It felt like a stand-off and Reilly didn’t know if she had the stamina to withstand it, let alone win.
“So, you’ve been here all weekend?” demanded Sylvie.
“As if you give a shit. Where were you Saturday morning? Where were you when I called? Where do you get off coming in here all pissed off?” Reilly responded. The feeling of abandonment that she had woken with on the bench erupted into a full-blown fury. She’d expected Sylvie to cower under her wrath, not come in spitting fire.
She was wrong.
“After your tantrum outside of the club, I have every reason to be pissed off.”
Sylvie stopped at the side of the bed and regarded Reil
ly with a critical stare. The information was new, but Reilly was still too angry to be intimidated. She waved an impatient hand.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you accusing Parker of being a predatory slut.”
“What? Besides, who cares? She is.” It felt good saying it out loud. She didn’t like Sylvie’s new friendship with Parker and now she was even more pissed off that Sylvie seemed to be aligning with the interloper.
“Oh, you don’t remember the hissy fit that you threw after you found Parker kissing Natalie in the bathroom? You practically chased them out of the club.”
Reilly didn’t want to admit to the total lack of memory she had of the night.
“Who the hell is Natalie and why would I care who Parker fucks?”
“You sure did then. You pulled them apart and told Natalie to escape. Except you kept calling her Drew.”
“I have no memory of this.”
“You were blotto. That’s the only reason I came over here. I turned off my cell and was going to wait for you to come over to my place to apologize. But after not hearing from you for two days, I came over here tonight to make sure that you weren’t dead.”
“Oh, after two fucking days, you decide to check on me? I’m the one who should be waiting for the apology. I was wasted and you let me drive away! For all you know I really was dead.”
“You’re twenty-three. I’m not your mother. When you refused to go to the next club with us, I told the valet not to give you your keys. I called the cab myself.”
“Well, somehow, I ended up driving to Santa Monica that night. Haven’t you seen the papers?”
Reilly saw something pass over Sylvie’s face and she hoped that she had finally succeeded in making her feel bad. The response that came was not what she hoped for.
“I have better things to do than keep up with the banal details of Hollywood’s finest,” said Sylvie dismissively.
Life in High Def Page 6