The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020

by Katherine St. John

  They both wipe away tears and sit as Brittani stands and looks around. This should be good. “My big sister. She’s always been the smart one.” No one says anything. “Shit, don’t everybody protest at once.” She guffaws. “For real, though, good thing I could borrow from her book reports. My teachers always thought it was weird that my book reports were so good but I couldn’t actually talk about the book in class. I’m kidding. I would never steal her book reports.”

  She clearly wants a laugh here, and everyone obliges (though it’s hardly a joke: Brittani can’t stand to read and would always get Summer to do her homework).

  “She’s the best sister ever and has been helping me out her whole life. And now, because of her and John, I get to go to an awesome college. So, John, thank you so much for getting me in, and, Summer, thank you for making me go to junior college so that I could ‘better myself.’ Now I just have to find a husband before I graduate so I don’t have to work. I’m just kidding. But not really. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” Summer says, and blows her a kiss across the table. “And you’re smarter than you think you are.”

  This is sweet but completely untrue. Brittani, God bless her, doesn’t have the sense she was born with, and that speech proves it.

  John gestures to Vinny, down at the other end of the table. He stands and raises his glass. “To Summer, the most beautiful young woman. Happy birthday.”

  Now it’s my turn. I stand and smile at Summer. “I met Summer when we were freshmen in high school and she moved in next door to me, way down south in Georgia.”

  “Oh my God.” Summer laughs. “Don’t remind me.”

  I ignore this response. “We were best friends from the moment we met, but what I remember the most was the summer before our junior year. We did a lot of trading novels, watching French movies, playing tennis . . . and sneaking Rhonda’s wine coolers that summer.”

  “I wondered how I was drinking them so fast!” Rhonda exclaims.

  Everyone laughs. I take a deep breath and continue. “Summer was truly there for me when I needed her that year, and I’ll never forget it. Even after she moved two thousand miles away, we talked as much as if we still lived next door to each other.” I don’t mention the reason I needed her was that I’d nearly been raped while escorting her to our teacher’s apartment, against my better judgment. Nor do I mention that I was a virgin until I was twenty as a result, or that though I’ve gotten past the fear of sex, the smell of Drakkar Noir can still provoke a panic attack in me. “We’ve been through lots of ups and downs together, and I look forward to many more years of friendship. Happy birthday!”

  “Thank you,” Summer says, her hand over her heart. I search her face as I take my seat, trying to see how sincere she is, how sincere she thinks I am. But her eyes are nothing but a shimmering, shallow pool.

  Bernard stands and raises his glass. “People think men rule the world, but a beautiful woman can have all those men in the palm of her hand, and you, my dear, deserve it. The smile, the eyes, the body, you have it all. Happy birthday!”

  Lecherous old fart. We raise our glasses nonetheless and once again drink to Summer. “That’s so sweet. Thank you, Bernie.” She bats her eyes. “I’m glad my Spin classes are paying off.”

  Amythest is next. I wonder what she can possibly say about Summer, having met her yesterday, and I can tell from the slightly amused look on Summer’s face that she’s thinking the same thing. All eyes turn to Amythest expectantly as she stands, spinning her already empty wineglass between her fingers. “Well, I met Summer yesterday,” she starts, “through her awesome little sister, of course.” She smiles at Summer. “I always hear such awesome things about you from Brittani, and I can tell they’re totally true.”

  Summer returns her smile. “Aw, thank you.”

  Amythest continues. “You’re someone I totally look up to. I hope I’m just like you when I’m older.”

  The smile on Summer’s face evaporates as Amythest finishes. “Thanks for letting Brittani bring me on this awesome trip. Happy birthday!”

  John nods to Claire, who stands nervously and speaks in a rushed, soft voice. “I met Summer through Wendy. You guys have such a wonderful friendship, and I know we don’t know each other that well, but you’re so sweet, and I’m just so glad to be included, and so happy to be here. Happy birthday.”

  She raises her glass and sits in one motion, out of breath.

  “You’re the sweet one, Claire,” Summer says. “I’m glad you could come.”

  Wendy stands and looks around at the table with a smile. “I’m going to break things up a little, and before I give my toast to my best friend, give one to her wonderful boyfriend, John, without whom none of us would be here. John, thank you for being so great to Summer and for taking us all on this fantastic trip.”

  She raises her glass and everyone chimes in, “Thank you, John!”

  John throws Wendy a wide smile, pleased. Wendy’s good like that. She always knows when to stroke whose ego and how to strike just the right note so that she doesn’t come off as obsequious.

  “Now . . .” Her gaze lands on Summer. “I met Summer through Belle, who I met in college.”

  “We were all at UCLA together,” Summer says.

  Not true.

  Recognizing the danger in that direction, Wendy seamlessly changes course. “I’ll never forget how Summer took care of me after my accident. I broke my leg last year jumping,” she explains. “Horses. My parents couldn’t come out for my surgery because my father’s a senator, and it was right before the election—which he won, thank God.” I notice she’s failed to mention he’s a state senator, but no matter. “Summer was there for me, though. She was right beside me in the hospital when I had the pins put in my ankle, holding my hand.”

  Okay, no, that was me. Missed a callback for a guest-star role on a network show to be there. Summer was supposed to be there, too, but at the last minute she got a date with some guy she was into and bailed.

  Wendy casts a glance about the table. Am I imagining it, or is she avoiding my eyes? “She got me such a big arrangement of sunflowers—my favorite—that it barely fit through the door.”

  I scrutinize Wendy’s countenance, looking for any sign as to whether she’s totally lost her memory or is intentionally spinning lies. Surely she hasn’t forgotten I sent those flowers. She was so overwhelmed she actually sent me a snail-mail thank-you note.

  But she has not finished assigning my kindnesses to Summer. “Then, afterward,” Wendy rattles on, “Summer was there every night, bringing me home-cooked meals, driving me around to doctor’s appointments. I saw what it means to be a real friend during that time, and I’ll never forget it.”

  Okay. Summer has never made a “home-cooked meal” in her life, and she didn’t even have a car at that time. She was sleeping on my couch (or rather, in my bed) while she got her life together after the guy she was living with kicked her out when he found out she was cheating on him. Admittedly, I was far from the only one who drove Wendy to doctors’ appointments—she has a plethora of friends—but if Summer ever did, in fact, drive her anywhere, which I highly doubt, it was in my car, which she borrowed.

  Wendy’s poker face is so strong, I can’t tell whether she believes her own story or has related it to ingratiate herself with Summer and John, but regardless, it’s worked. John pats Summer’s hand as she beams at Wendy, saying, “Oh, it was nothing. That’s what friends are for!”

  I manage to maintain a pleasant demeanor but am quiet the rest of dinner, still flabbergasted by Wendy’s convoluted version of events. No one notices my silence, though, as John and his men dominate the conversation with a discussion about the best strategy for convincing some Chinese investors to partner with John’s company on what sounds like an incredibly complicated development project. I try to follow along, but all I can gather is that John seems bent on meeting with the men before showing them the property, and Bernard and Vince disagree. John, of co
urse, wins.

  When dinner is over, John presents Summer with an emerald set: a necklace, bracelet, and earrings to match. It’s gorgeous, if your tastes run toward “Russian matron at the opera.”

  Afterward, I head to the upper deck and log in to my email on one of the computers under the watchful eye of John’s portrait. I send a quick message to Lauren_Carter812:

  Hi sis,

  Made it to the boat! It’s ridiculous. We’re somewhere near the border of France and Italy, headed toward Saint-Tropez. Summer’s a little removed from all of us, attached to John at the hip, but is at least being nice to me. I’m rooming with a girl named Amythest (yep, you read that right) that Brittani brought. She has eyes to match her name, in case you were wondering. Rhonda’s here too . . . hasn’t changed. John has two of his men with him, Bernard and Vinny, who are everything you would imagine in a billionaire’s henchmen. There’s no cell service and no Wi-Fi on the boat (writing from one of their hardwired computers, remember those?), so tell Mom and Dad not to worry if they can’t reach me immediately.

  Weather’s beautiful, and I’m feeling good, regardless of not sleeping much on the plane. Nothing else to report for now.

  Will keep you posted.

  Love,

  Belle

  It’s hard to feel totally relaxed sending messages I’m sure are being read, but I remind myself that no matter how creepy his painting, John has no reason to care what’s in my emails. No more reason than he does anyone else’s, anyway. Given John’s concerns about privacy, the hardwired system is probably mainly for his own protection, to prevent hackers from being able to access his servers without physically being on board. Still, it makes me uncomfortable, so I log off without checking social media. A shame, because I bet the pic I posted from the tender got a boatload of likes.

  I despise social media, but the sad truth is that it’s necessary for my career these days. Some actors even put their followers on the top of their résumé. That would make me Isabelle Carter: 21.5K Insta, 34K Twitter, 6K YouTube. Not great, but not horrible. Most of my followers are fans of a cheesy sitcom on the Family Channel that I had a supporting role in a few years ago. I know I should work on growing my following—I could get free stuff for posts, or money. And I need money. But I’m a terrible millennial. I just feel so gross being all, “Hey, look at me!” I didn’t get into acting for the fame. I got into it for the art.

  I know, what a loser.

  I count seven surveillance cameras on the path from the upper deck to my room. Nearly the entire yacht is covered, save the bathrooms and bedrooms. Unless there are hidden cameras . . . The thought makes me shiver. I wonder who’s monitoring them, the little tech guy?

  I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. No one’s watching me pee.

  Back in the room, I’m more tired than I expected after my earlier nap. Definitely too tired to engage with Amythest, who prattles on excitedly about the boat and who we might meet and how awesome it all is. I try to hold my eyes open and nod politely, but they keep closing involuntarily, and after a while she gives up and reads a magazine.

  I guess walls on yachts aren’t that thick, because as I fall asleep I can hear Rhonda and Brittani talking through the partition between our rooms. It’s muffled, but the gist is something about trying to get John to marry Summer so that all their problems will be solved.

  I wake in the middle of the night to a pounding headache and a burning thirst. How much wine did I drink? I’ve got to be better about hydrating.

  I reach for the water bottle on the bedside table, but it’s empty. Damn it. Amythest’s is empty, too. Going upstairs is the last thing I want to do right now, and I’m tired enough I could probably ignore my thirst and get back to sleep, but I know this will only make my headache worse. I swing my feet off the bed and push myself to standing.

  I grip the doorknob and attempt to turn it, but it moves only a fraction of an inch before sticking. I jiggle it and push the door. It doesn’t budge. What the . . . ? I throw my shoulder into it, to no avail.

  We’re locked in.

  Amythest stirs, woken by my beating on the door. She looks at me, confused. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say, not wanting to worry her. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

  We’re fucking locked in.

  I refill my water bottle with water from the tap and lie staring at the ceiling. But this time it takes me hours to finally fall asleep.

  (two years ago)

  Los Angeles

  Welcome to Heaven. I’m Belle. I’ll be your angel.”

  Behind my sunglasses I clocked a group of ten in the cabana with a view of Hollywood, seven guys and three girls. They were in their twenties, tanned, and from what I could tell, already well lubricated.

  “Our angel!” A bouncy blonde clapped. “I love your wings. I want some!”

  I forced a smile. “They’re for sale in the gift store.” I hated the stupid wings almost as much as I hated the iridescent white bikini top and barely there skirt that made up the rest of my angel uniform. But the money was good and I got to wear sneakers, so I swallowed my pride.

  “Just bring her a pair of the damn wings and put it on my tab,” instructed a buff guy with mirrored sunglasses, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. His damp underarm hair tickled my skin; I did my best not to recoil.

  “Okay.” This was a huge pain in the ass, as the gift store was in the lobby and I was working a crowded rooftop pool, but we weren’t allowed to say no to the guests. Buff guy’s arm slipped from my shoulders to my waist, replacing the tickle of his underarm hair with the feeling of his clammy hand on my stomach. I wasn’t sure which was worse. In any other situation, I would’ve slapped him. But we both knew I needed his tip.

  “I’ll take a Pilsner,” he said. “And a shot of Jack.”

  “I want a strawberry daiquiri,” one of the girls chimed in. “And a chicken salad.”

  “Cadillac margarita with salt,” said another.

  “Red Bull vodka,” a guy demanded as he pushed past me toward the pool.

  “Me too,” added another, following him. “And guac and chips.”

  “Make that three. And a cheeseburger.”

  “Okay.” I maintained my smile. “Is this all on one tab?”

  Buff Guy mindlessly stroked my back with his thumb. “I’ll take the girls, but the rest of these guys are on their own.”

  God, I hated my job. “Okay.” I wriggled out of his grasp. “Lemme just get this started, and I’ll be back for the rest.”

  I punched in their order on the computer and hefted a tray of draft beers for another table. As I carefully threaded my way through the crowd of wet revelers, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Summer, her hair swept up in a messy bun, her hot-pink bikini doing an insufficient job of containing her new boobs.

  “Hey!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just lying out. Take a break for a sec. Come hang with me.”

  “We’re not allowed to sit. Or fraternize with guests.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So stupid. What time are you off?”

  “Five.”

  “Oh good! You have to come with me to this art show. I met the most amazing guy. He’s supersmart and so talented, and crazy hot. . . .”

  I shifted the tray of beers onto a cocktail table. “Did you break up with Brian?”

  “No. I live there! I can’t break up with him. But he’s barely in town, so it’s no big deal. He’ll never find out.” This seemed like terrible reasoning to me, but Summer’s dating habits were so far removed from my own that I knew nothing I could say would matter. “Anyway, I’m meeting the hot guy at this art show, and his brother’s gonna be in town for the night, so I thought we should all go out together.”

  “What’s the brother like?”

  “I don’t know, but I saw a picture and he was hot, too. Just come be my wingman. Please? If you don’t like him, you don’t have to stay.”

&nbs
p; I shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Thank you! Thank you!” She hopped up and down, her bouncing boobs drawing stares from every guy in eyeshot. “I swear it’s gonna be fun.”

  Over Summer’s shoulder, I spied my boss watching me from the deck. I slid my tray off the cocktail table. “I gotta get back to work.”

  I’d not taken two steps when a bear of a guy abruptly backed out of the conversation he was having to plow directly into me, drenching us both in Heineken.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he reprimanded me.

  I looked up to where my boss stood on the deck to see her shaking her head, her mouth in a hard line. Great. So on top of having to pay for the spilled drinks out of my tips, I was obviously going to be chastised by her as well, if not fired. At least I’d ostensibly be meeting a hot guy later. Good thing. By the end of this day, I was gonna need a diversion.

  At six thirty sharp I descended the stairs to the subway, freshly showered and clad in a black dress that I hoped straddled the line between sexy and hip, perfect for an art show. I settled into a window seat as the nearly empty train hurtled into the tunnel, turning my attention to my phone.

  It connected to the train’s Wi-Fi, and a text from Wendy popped up:

  Hey lady do u have that pic of us & Summer from Coachella 2 years ago where we’re sitting on a stage? I wanna frame it for her birthday but I can’t find it.

  I opened the photos app and used the map feature to scroll past this year’s Coachella pictures––neither Summer nor I were there; I’d had to work and she’d been in Hawaii with Brian—but Wendy had kept us more than updated with photos of her and the ever-rotating gaggle of gorgeous girls she always traveled with, all hats and feathers and bare midriffs, glazed eyes hidden by sunglasses. Claire was the only one I knew by name, always hovering on the edge of the group looking less like trouble than the other girls. Wendy was invariably at the center, of course, impeccably dressed and perfectly poised, flashing her sparkling smile.

  I had to stifle a laugh when I landed on the previous year’s Coachella pics—none of which were actually taken at Coachella. Wendy had been working for an event planner in charge of Coachella-adjacent private parties at homes with pools and DJs and had hired Summer and me to sling drinks for inebriated celebrities and their entourages. Wendy’s boss ran her ragged while Summer and I were on our feet noon to midnight for a measly three hundred dollars per day (no tips allowed!), wearing see-through burnout crop tops emblazoned with BARTENDER BABES. There was a priceless selfie of the three of us hiding behind the bushes on the side of the party house eating leftover canapés and guzzling vodka Red Bulls in the dark and another of us giggling maniacally while squeezed into a double bed in a house rented by some guy who had a crush on Wendy and let us crash for free.