“What are you downloading?”
I jump about a foot in the air and spin to see Bernard hovering over my shoulder, squinting at my screen. I’ve been staring so intently at the computer that I didn’t notice him enter the room.
“You surprised me,” I stammer. “I didn’t hear you come in. It’s just a link from my sister. We always send each other funny links. It’s—why?”
“Let’s see it,” he says.
I rise to face him, blocking the computer with my body. “I don’t—I’m sorry, I’m not comfortable with that.” I stumble over my words, my heart racing. “I don’t know what it is. It could be personal.” He’s staring at me like I’m a criminal. “Last week she sent me a pic of an ingrown hair on her bikini line—she would be mortified if you saw something like that,” I blurt.
“We don’t allow downloads to these computers,” he says.
“Okay,” I sputter. “I didn’t know. I won’t do it again.”
And with that, he turns on his heel and exits.
Turns out I’m not so paranoid after all. I sink into the chair, my heart hammering, and look up at the computer screen. The pop-up window is gone, and in its place is a GIF showing feather-clad 1920s showgirls dancing in a line, and these words:
All that glitters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
The Merchant of Venice, of course. I have to laugh, but . . . much ado about nothing. I don’t know what I expected, but if I’d known it was just a silly GIF, I wouldn’t have risked angering Bernard to hide it. Too shaken by my interaction with him to reply, I log out of my account, turn the computer back to its original position, and descend the stairs to my room, where I lie down on the bed and breathe, begging my heart to slow down.
(two years ago)
Los Angeles
The crowd in the gallery had dissipated when I returned from the roof, and the band had finished. I found Summer swigging champagne in front of a picture of a burning house about to be crushed by an ocean wave. I shifted my gaze to the small white placard underneath. FIRE AND WATER, ERIC THOMAS. Eric Thomas. I tasted the name on my tongue.
“I don’t get it,” Summer whispered. “None of these pictures makes any sense.”
“It’s about opposites,” I explained. “Like yin and yang. A little bit of white in the black and black in the white.”
“Huh. Sorry I was late.” She sighed. “After I saw you at the pool, I had to drive all the way to Pomona to give Rhonda money for rent so she and Brittani don’t get evicted, then when I was finally ready Brian called and I had to pretend I was staying in.”
“Damn. Sorry.”
“Yeah, and it’s BS because I need to be saving my allowance or I’m never going to be able to move out of Brian’s, but I keep having to give it to her.”
“Your allowance?”
“He puts money in an account for me, for spending cash when he’s out of town or whatever.”
So that was how she had money. “I could get you a job at Heaven,” I suggested.
“No way.” She waved the idea away. “I just got out of that world, and I hated it as much as you do. Oh! There he is.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me across the room, straight toward where Eric was midconversation with a good-looking guy in a suit.
Oh God. Please let it be the guy in the suit, I prayed.
“Eric,” Summer purred as we approached.
Shit. But then again: of course. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t the first time Summer had staked a claim on a guy I would’ve liked for myself, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. She invariably got her pick of the litter, regardless of whether she was already committed to someone else.
But I wasn’t being fair: this time at least, she had seen him first.
“Beautiful work,” she murmured, draping her arms around his neck and planting a sensuous kiss on his mouth. He tried to catch my eye over her shoulder, but I avoided his gaze. She turned to me. “This is my friend Belle.”
His eyes searched mine as we pretended to meet for the first time, but I kept my expression intentionally blank. What else could I do? Regardless of my petty grievances with Summer, it’s not like I was gonna choose some guy I just met over our friendship. I watched as he processed my reaction and matched it, finally extending his hand. “Eric.” I shook it politely, like the mannered Southern girl I was. “This is my brother, Dylan.”
Yep. Summer always got who she wanted, and I always got . . . the brother. I switched my focus to the brother, taking him in for the first time.
Oh. Perhaps I objected too soon.
They looked nothing, and yet everything, alike. Dylan’s hair and eyes were dark where Eric’s were light, and he was a little taller and more muscular, but they both had the same square jaw, the same aquiline nose and glint in their eyes. As I took Dylan’s hand, I felt as though I’d been struck twice by lightning in the same evening. “Nice to meet you, Belle,” he said.
“My brother’s only in town for the night,” Eric expounded. “And don’t be fooled; it’s a coincidence he’s here for my show.”
“Luck,” Dylan corrected.
“Where are you in from?” I inquired, ignoring Eric.
“I was in China, but I’m headed back to London tomorrow.”
“China, wow. What were you doing over there?”
“Trading his soul for gold,” Eric answered.
“That about sums it up,” Dylan agreed gamely.
Eric eyed Dylan’s dark-gray suit with a smirk. “Nice suit.”
“I just had a meeting with the LA arm of the Chinese company we’re working with. They’re into decorum,” Dylan explained.
“That what you’re wearing tonight?” Eric prodded.
“I don’t have much of a choice. All my stuff’s across town at Dad’s.”
“Let’s not call him that,” Eric snapped.
“What would you like me to call him, Eric?”
“That Asshole, Monster, Satan . . . I can think of lots of things.” Eric snatched his brother’s glass of champagne and knocked it back as Dylan looked on, bemused. “Let’s get outa here.”
“But it’s your party.” Summer cast a glance about the room, her gaze landing on a group of girls whispering together, eyeing her and Eric. Pleased, she slid her arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder. I bit my lip to contain a smile; the girl relished nothing more than a healthy dose of envy directed her way, but Eric was noncompliant.
“I’ve stayed long enough. My dealer can handle it from here.” He dismissed the party with a wave of his hand and strode out the door, Summer trailing behind.
Outside, the wind had kicked up and the sky was losing color. Summer leaned into Eric as we waited for the car. “I’m glad I finally got to see your work,” she murmured. “I love the way you play with opposites. It’s like yin and yang.”
“Thanks,” he said. I pretended not to see the look he cast in my direction. “That’s exactly it, the play of opposites. Most people don’t get it.”
I wondered how many girls he’d used that line on. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen for it—almost fallen for him. Summer could have him. He was exactly what I had initially assumed: a total player, obviously. At least my instincts hadn’t failed me. Next time I would listen to my gut. I just hoped he wouldn’t say anything about our encounter to Summer.
A black Suburban pulled up to the curb, and the driver opened the door.
“A cab would have been fine,” Eric commented as we climbed into the car.
“There are four of us,” Dylan replied evenly. “And it’s free.”
“Nothing in life is free, bro,” Eric returned.
Their manner was easygoing, but the barbs were sharp. I was glad Summer was the one who’d get to deal with the dark cloud that had settled over Eric.
In t
he car, Dylan shed his jacket and tie, loosened his collar, and rolled up his sleeves. “Better?” he asked me with a sly smile.
“Truth be told, I kinda love a man in a suit,” I confided.
His laugh was easy, as was our conversation as the Suburban raced down the 10, only to stall on the 405.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“A party in Bel Air,” Dylan replied. “It’s hosted by a guy I grew up with—well, I grew up with his little brother, but he would buy us booze and nudie mags when we were in junior high. Now he’s some studio bigwig and throws these crazy midsummer’s eve parties every year. I’ve never been able to go, so I wanted to check it out.”
“Did you know him, too?” Summer asked Eric.
“No,” Eric said. “We didn’t exactly grow up together.”
“Different moms, same dad,” Dylan explained.
“There’s that word again,” Eric said.
“Who’s older?” Summer asked.
Dylan raised his hand.
“By four months.” Eric snorted. “Our sperm donor was a stellar guy.”
The Suburban rolled through the gates of Bel Air and up the winding streets, coming to a stop in front of an estate hidden by a conflation of trees, shrubbery, and walls. A line of exotic cars waiting for valet service snaked down the long driveway and spilled into the street.
“Probably easier to walk from here if you girls don’t mind,” Dylan recommended.
“That’s fine,” I agreed, glad my heels were short. I glanced down at Summer’s glitter-covered four-inch stilettos, sparkling in the dark. She wouldn’t be happy, but she wouldn’t complain, either.
I could hear the music thumping the moment we stepped out of the car. Dylan offered his arm, and I took it as we made our way up the driveway in the glow of the purple lights that illuminated the trees. Around a bend, the house came into view—though “house” was the wrong word. It was a Spanish hacienda the size of a hotel, perched on a hill with a view of all of Los Angeles.
At the gate, a girl dressed in black with a clipboard and headset stood sentry. “Dylan Ross,” Dylan said. “Plus three.”
The girl checked his name off, then ushered us through a gate made of flowers. “Welcome to Fairyland.”
We threaded our way through an enchanted garden lit with twinkling lights and huge animatronic flowers, past a fairy in a swing and nymphs splashing in a fountain that changed colors with the beat of the otherworldly music. Under a rose-covered canopy, a sprite handed us each some kind of glowing purple drink decorated with orchid blooms and tapped our heads with a wand before opening a door in an oversize glimmering tree trunk.
The tree door opened onto the main lawn, where a couple hundred pixies, fairies, and sprites swilled champagne and danced to throbbing house music. China balls made to look like flowers swung from strands of flickering colored lights, fairies in body paint grooved on glowing mushrooms the size of cars, and naked women performed some kind of synchronized swimming in the pool. A number of tents made of patterned and textured fabrics dotted the lawn, each with a different theme.
I stared in wonder at the spectacle. “This is incredible.”
“Wish I’d worn my Tinker Bell costume,” Summer added.
“Sorry,” Dylan said. “Didn’t know it was a costume party. At least you’re not in a suit.”
Eric set his empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and squatted down next to a rosebush, looking up at me with the first smile I’d seen since we left the roof. “Osiria roses.”
“They’re beautiful,” Summer said, leaning between us to smell the blooms.
“White on the inside with colored tips,” he explained. “Very rare.” He shifted his gaze back to me. “I grow red ones on the roof, but I’ve never seen purple.”
Straightening up, Summer looked from him to me with a flicker of a frown, then took his hand. “Shall we explore?”
“I wanna hit the smoking lounge,” Eric said. “I forgot my weed.” Again he looked at me. “Anyone wanna come?”
“I’m gonna try to find our host,” Dylan said.
I jumped at the opportunity to escape Eric and Summer. “I’ll come with you. I wanna check the place out.”
As soon as we were out of earshot, Dylan turned to me. “Sorry about my brother. He kinda has a chip on his shoulder about our dad.”
“You don’t say.”
“I try to stay out of it, but he’s pissed at me because I just started working for him. Thinks I sold out.”
“Ah. Did you?”
“Yes.” He thought for a minute. “I just don’t have the same need for the world to be a perfect place that Eric does. I’m more of a pragmatist.”
“And he’s an idealist.”
“Yeah.”
“Belle!” A high voice cut through the noise of the party, and fingernails lightly scratched my arm.
I turned to see Wendy in full iridescent fairy regalia, her dark skin shimmering with purple glitter. So this must be the party she’d mentioned her old boss was throwing. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were going to that art show with Summer.”
“It’s over,” I said.
“Hi. I’m Wendy.” She extended her hand to Dylan. “Who are you?”
He took her hand with a smile. “Dylan.”
“Just when I thought I knew everyone in LA . . .”
“I’m only in for the night. My brother’s with a friend of hers,” Dylan explained.
“Summer,” I clarified.
She looked confused for a minute, then widened her eyes in recognition. “Ooooh. You’re the brother that’s in town for the night.”
Dylan laughed. “Yep, that’s me.”
“Welcome. Come dance,” she said. “The DJ’s amazing.”
“So is your outfit,” I complimented her. “You’re, like, glowing.”
“Literally—watch . . .” She pressed what must have been a switch hidden in her bodice, and her entire outfit lit up with twinkling violet lights. I finished my drink as the three of us threaded our way through the crowd toward the dance floor. “He’s hot,” Wendy whispered in my ear. “I figured he’d be a troll. Now I’m pissed I couldn’t be his date. Get it, girl.”
I laughed and swatted at her as Dylan took my hand and led me onto the pulsating dance floor. Interlocking tiles glowed, emitting colored ripples with every step as the DJ controlled the flow, bringing it up and down deftly while he seamlessly combined songs. The beat was infectious, and before long Dylan and I were moving in sync, dancing like we were part of the music, our bodies an expression of every nuance in the rhythm. Wendy gave me a wink and a thumbs-up over Dylan’s shoulder before we lost sight of her.
We danced under the stars until our brows glistened, then hit the bar for another drink before making our way through the crowd, past the pool, and under a tunnel of twinkling lights, emerging at the edge of the lawn, where a series of fountains were lit different colors. A few people were doing key bumps of cocaine around one of the fountains; perched on another was a couple making out. Upon closer inspection, we could see the couple was Summer and Eric.
Dylan took my hand and pulled me toward a path lit with glowing purple tulips that led into what appeared to be a manicured garden forest. A sign nailed to a tree read ENCHANTED FOREST, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. We started down a trail that followed a gurgling brook I suspected was man-made. Tiny lights gleamed in the branches of the trees; the sweet smell of jasmine hung in the air.
“So, what do you do for your dad?” I asked.
“I do mostly future site research and development—figuring out where to build what and the best way to do it.”
I nodded as if I understood what that meant. “And what did you do before you started working for your dad?”
“I was a journalist. Spent three years in the Middle East, trying to change the world.”
“Ah, so you used to be an idealist,” I said.
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth turned down.
“Let’s just say I learned my lesson.” He shrugged it off. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m an actress,” I admitted. “Just like half the other girls at this party.”
“Oh. Am I an idiot for not knowing who you are?”
I laughed. “Not unless you watch the Family Channel or have a knack for remembering one-liners and girls who get killed on TV. I’m currently slinging drinks at a pool bar in Hollywood, if you must know.”
“Sounds glamorous. So what’s your favorite role that you’ve played?”
“Hmmm . . . that’s a hard one. I’ve done a couple of guest-star roles on TV that were great experiences. I mean, those sets run so smoothly, they pay well, and you’re working with seasoned actors. . . . But I think my favorite thing is a web series I’m working on right now, playing a medical school student who gets into heroin and is trying to overcome her addiction while going to school.”
“Heavy.”
“It’s not a big-budget project or anything,” I conceded, “but it’s my first real lead role, and it’s a good one. I can’t tell you how sick I am of playing the sidekick, trying to make my handful of expository lines interesting.”
“I admire you,” he said. “It takes a lot of bravery to put yourself out there like that.”
“I love it.” I laughed. “When I was a kid I used to make up these extremely complicated and long plays where I would be every character, then perform them in the living room for my poor parents.”
“It’s funny.” He smiles. “I guess when you have a talent for something, you just know. Eric and I used to spend summers with our grandmother in France, and at the end of the summer he’d put on an elaborate art show with all the art he’d made that summer. Had the staff serve canapés and sparkling apple cider in champagne glasses and everything.”
“You had a staff?”
“He’d always try to get me to participate, but I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.”
I couldn’t tell if he didn’t hear my question or he was ignoring it. Either way, I didn’t press. “But you were a journalist. Writing is artistic,” I pointed out.
The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020 Page 11