“It’s not the same.” He shrugged it off. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.”
I wanted to know more, but we were interrupted by a loud moan coming from the forest. I quickly spotted the source: a couple in flagrante against a tree just off the path. They were hard not to spot, with the lights of her fairy wings twinkling in the dark and her legs wrapped around him while he plowed her, his pants around his ankles. Dylan noticed them at the same time as me, and the couple clearly saw us but didn’t seem to care. If anything, they were only encouraged by our presence, turning the volume on their moans up a notch. Dylan and I hurried down the trail giggling.
“Enchanted Forest—try Fornication Forest,” I whispered.
“Show-offs,” he agreed with a laugh.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me up an offshoot of the path that led past a view of the shimmering lights of the city into a grotto lit only with floating candles. It was covered in flowering jasmine, and surprisingly deserted.
His hand lingered on my back as we walked along the water’s edge in the flickering darkness. “So I’ve met a girl who’s beautiful and smart,” he said. “Not to mention a great dancer. And I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow. How’s that for luck?”
“Now you’re just trying to get in my pants,” I teased.
He caught and held my gaze. “Would that be such a bad thing?” His fingertips lightly touched my thigh, lifting my skirt ever so slightly. I looked down at his hand resting on my leg and without warning I was in the elevator again, Eric’s breath on my neck.
No, no, no, not Eric. Dylan. Just as hot and not involved with Summer. I looked up to meet his dark eyes, unflinching as his fingers traveled farther up my skirt. What the hell, I figured. He was leaving tomorrow. This was the only chance we’d get. I let him kiss me.
His kiss was surprisingly fervent, his scruff rough against my skin. It was sexy, but I was a little caught off guard by the intensity of his ardor, my heel catching on a stone as he backed me toward the wall, leaving me off balance. He caught me without missing a beat, his biceps hard beneath his shirt, and cradled the back of my head with his hand as he pressed me into the stone. It was the kind of scene that would play as steamy in a movie, but this wasn’t a movie, and all of a sudden I was sixteen again, pushed into the corner of a dirty couch by an overgrown frat boy.
Come on, Belle, get it together! You like this guy. Just enjoy it!
I forced the memory back down deep into my psyche, doing my damnedest to stay in the moment. A rock pressed into my spine. I tried to move over, but he was too heavy against me. I gently pushed him back with my hands, and he stopped abruptly. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve just got a rock in my back.”
He moved us over, feeling the wall for any rogue stones, then went in again for the kiss. His stubble was like sandpaper against my already raw chin. He must’ve felt me slightly backing away as I tried to reposition my face, because he stopped again, holding my gaze. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yes!” I laughed. “It’s just your stubble.”
“I’m sorry. I’m like a Chia Pet. I swear I shaved this morning.”
“Let’s just take it a little slower,” I suggested.
I leaned in and kissed him slowly, determined not to let my mind get in the way of this lovely evening with an ideal guy. My phone vibrated in my purse, but I ignored it, enjoying the feel of his lips on mine, more relaxed now that he was letting me lead. Before long our bodies were pressed together, our breathing heavy. I could feel him getting hard against my pelvis, but he kept his hands respectfully above my waist and didn’t push. I wasn’t a sixteen-year-old on a couch. I was twenty-four and turned on. I liked the feeling of being in control, thrilled my mind was finally keeping up with my body.
My phone buzzed again.
“Do you need to get that?” he asked.
“It can wait.”
The buzzing stopped as I moved his hand to my thigh and up my dress.
My phone buzzed again.
The sound of laughter and chattering as a group of partiers tripped down the path. Dylan and I froze, waiting for them to pass.
“Look, it’s a grotto,” one of them called.
“Shit,” Dylan muttered.
Footsteps on the path. We quickly readjusted our clothes and leaned against the stone as casually as possible as the group that had been doing cocaine by the fountains stumbled into the cave.
“Wow, this is so cool,” a scantily clad chick cooed, her voice echoing.
“Dude, I heard this property was listed at seventy-five million,” one of the guys added.
“Is it on the market?” asked another one.
“Properties like this are traded off market, fucktard.” The first guy laughed.
Their eyes lit on us. “Hi, guys!” one of the girls said. “Isn’t this beautiful? What a beautiful night. It’s just magical.”
She grabbed another one of the girls by the hand, and they spun around dangerously close to the water’s edge until one of them lost her balance and crashed into Dylan. He helped her to her feet and she snuggled up to him, rubbing against him like a cat. “Oh, hey, handsome.”
He gave her a perfunctory smile and leaned her against her friend. “We were just headed out. Enjoy.”
“No, don’t go!” she whined behind us.
As we emerged onto the path, my phone began to buzz again. I took it out of my purse. Wendy.
“Hey,” I answered.
She sounded like she was crying. “I’ve been . . . trying . . . to call . . . ” Her words slurred together.
Immediately I was worried: Wendy was never a mess. “Are you okay?”
“No. I feel . . . My drink, I think it . . .”
“Where are you?”
“A tree,” she managed. “Behind . . . hookah tent . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
“Wendy?”
But she seemed to have dropped the phone.
The party had thinned out as Dylan and I hurried across the lawn in the direction of the hookah tent. We found Wendy slumped against a tree with her eyes closed, her fairy wings twisted beneath her. I gently slapped her cheeks.
“Wendy!”
“Belle.” She blinked open her eyes for just a moment and then shut them again.
“Somebody must’ve spiked her drink,” I said. “She never gets this drunk.”
“Should I call an ambulance?” Dylan asked.
“No!” Wendy moaned. “No ambu . . . Home.”
“If she can talk, we’re probably okay to take her home.” I jostled her to keep her awake. “I’ll just have to stay with her to make sure she doesn’t get any worse.”
Her chest started to heave. Dylan lifted her and positioned her on her knees, and I held her hair back while she vomited purple liquid into the bushes. Sorry, I mouthed to him, patting her back. “That’s good . . . You’re gonna be okay,” I soothed her.
“Let’s get her home,” he said.
“Not out the front,” I insisted. “She’d be mortified.”
He nodded, thinking. “I saw a gate at the base of the garden, past the gazebo. We can exit there. I’ll have the car meet us.”
“I should find Summer,” I said.
“Eric texted me a while ago. They left.”
Summer always did favor a French exit, especially when there was a man involved. Though I couldn’t help but feel a prickle of irritation. What if Dylan had turned out to be a weirdo? Or had taken off and what had happened to Wendy had happened to me? I disentangled Wendy’s wings and gathered her shoes and purse while Dylan called the car, then easily lifted her limp form. No one gave us so much as a second glance as he carried her around the edge of the garden and into the woods. We found the gate in no time, the Suburban idling right outside.
In the cocoon of the car, the driver handed us one of those puke bags you normally find on airplanes. “Thanks,” I said, impressed.
“Not the first time,” he sa
id. “Where to?”
“My dad’s place is close if you want to go there,” Dylan offered. “It’s where I’m staying. He’s not there.”
Spending the night with Dylan was certainly tempting, but it wasn’t in the cards tonight. “I think I better take her back to my place,” I said, giving the driver my address.
I rested my head on Dylan’s shoulder while Wendy retched into the bag. When she was finished, I folded up the top of the bag and she lay her head in my lap. “Feeling a little better?” I asked.
She grunted.
“What happened?”
“Dunno,” she slurred. “I’s with Summer and that blond guy; then they lef’ and I din’ feel good, so I call you.”
“Did anyone give you anything? A pill or a mint? Or did you leave your drink unattended?” Dylan asked.
She waggled her finger. “Nope. I’s with Summer, on a tuffet like lil’ Miss Muffet.”
“Was anyone else around? Could someone have passed by and dropped something in your drink?” I pressed.
Again she waggled her finger. “I got up to dance with that guy real quick. Summer din wanna dance.”
“With Eric?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She closed her eyes.
Dylan and I exchanged glances over her head. Could Summer . . . ? Dylan mouthed.
No way, I mouthed back, horrified he’d even suggest it. They’re friends.
He shrugged. “Sorry. Just a thought.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to dislodge the idea he’d planted in my brain. Summer would never.
Surely not.
When we reached my little hillside fourplex, he helped me carry Wendy inside and get her set up on the couch with towels and a bucket while the Suburban idled outside.
I kicked off my heels and gave him a quick tour of my worn but comfortable prewar space, pretending to be a real estate agent. “Built in 1936, this one-bedroom features a living room at the front with French doors leading to a balcony that overlooks the street,” I announced with a flourish. He laughed, trailing behind as I led him down the hallway toward my bedroom. “Off of the hallway you’ll find a lovely original black-and-white-tiled bathroom on one side and an eat-in kitchen on the other, and here at the end of the hall we have the master.”
“I like it,” he said. “It’s bohemian.”
I cast my eyes at the white Christmas lights twinkling in glass jars on either side of the iron bed, the brass Buddha staring down peacefully from atop the dresser, wedged between photos of Bette Davis and Katharine Hepburn.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I wonder how many starlets have lived here, in the shade of the Hollywood sign,” he mused.
He was looking at me like he wanted to kiss me again. I turned my face up to his and let him pull me to him. His lips met mine just as the sound of vomit hitting the bucket erupted from the living room.
“Right on cue.” I sighed. “Sorry. I gotta see about her.”
“I should go anyway,” he said. “I have to leave for the airport in two hours.”
I left him adjusting himself as I padded into the living room, where I found Wendy leaning over the side of the couch, the bucket beneath her. She groaned. “I feel like crap.”
“I know.” I wiped her mouth with a towel. “But you’re gonna be okay.”
Dylan appeared in the doorway, his hard-on still visible through his suit pants. “Wanna come to London tomorrow?”
“I wish.” I smiled, averting my eyes from his protruding pants. But I had a job and was trying to have a career, and I wasn’t about to pin all my hopes and dreams on some guy I met a few hours ago, regardless of how sweet he seemed. “Wanna stay in LA a few days?”
“I wish.”
I walked him to the door, where he kissed me one last time and promised to call next time he was in town. I watched the Suburban drive into the dawn, certain I’d never see him again.
Day 4
Tuesday morning—Cannes, France
The drum of hooves and hot breath as the pack draws near. Dirt clods fly, shadows sharp in the noonday sun, colors so saturated the scene is almost surreal. Green grass, blue sky, blurs of red and white uniforms. Somewhere a stick is raised and a ball flung. Muscles ripple under glossy coats of chestnut, gunmetal, and black, lathering in the heat. Cheers from the small, well-heeled crowd, sipping rosé at picnic tables under the shade trees on the sidelines.
I lean my forearms on the white fence that edges the spectator area and gaze out at the horses, feigning interest in the game to avoid the human buzzards circling our table. Judging by the number of male acquaintances who happened to show up to his match today, word must have gotten out that John is traveling with a harem. I’m reminded that that’s what we’re here for, after all. “Good for business.” I can’t keep my eye on the ball to save my life, but the horses are beautiful, as are many of the men riding them. If only it were the strapping Scandinavian-looking one that caught my eye on his last pass who was coming to lunch with us, and not the two old enough to be his father.
I actually got my hopes up when Summer revealed that a few of the polo players would be joining us after the match. My knowledge of polo is limited, but from what I can tell, there are two groups of players, the paid professionals who look like they belong in a Ralph Lauren ad and the rich guys who play to feel young. John and his friends clearly belong in the latter group.
I’m feeling much more myself this morning after finally having had a good night’s sleep last night. I’d intended to stay awake to see whether our door was locked during the night again, but I guess I was so worn out from the sun and swimming and Jet Skis that I couldn’t keep my eyes open and passed out during the movie we watched after dinner. I’m normally a pretty light sleeper, but apparently it took Vinny five minutes to wake me when it was time for us to go to our rooms, and my limbs were so heavy I could hardly make it down the stairs.
I feel Wendy’s nails on my arm and turn to see the others exiting the gate behind her. “We’re leaving,” she says.
“Why?” I ask, confused. John’s still on the field.
“Don’t be obvious because she’s staring at us, but see that woman over there in the big ugly hat?”
I surreptitiously glance over her shoulder to see a Waspy-looking woman in her forties wearing the biggest, bluest hat I’ve ever seen.
“Take my arm; let’s go,” she says. And then, as we walk through the gate, “That’s John’s wife’s best friend. So we have to leave.”
“Wait, John’s still married? But he was getting a divorce when he and Summer met, what—six, eight months ago?”
Saying it out loud reminds me just how quickly Summer has adapted to her new lifestyle. Wendy wrinkles her brow. “It’s been longer than that.”
“No,” I say. “It was after Christmas when they met.”
“Huh. Well, it seems like longer. Anyway, it’s complicated. Something about divorce being too expensive right now. So they’re still technically married. I mean, she’s like his fourth or fifth wife or something, and he only sees her once a month or whatever, and she knows about Summer, but there’s an agreement that she and Summer don’t share space. And the wife gets priority, or she’ll make his life hell. So whenever she or her friends are around, Summer can’t be there.”
The first of our two black Suburbans peels out of the dirt lot in a cloud of dust as we approach, leaving us covering our faces.
Claire, Wendy, Amythest, and I are all lost in our own worlds as our Suburban pulls away. I gaze out the window at the brilliant day while we speed along a road that hugs the coast, my thoughts completely out of step with the tranquil setting. I shouldn’t be surprised that Summer lied about John’s marital status—it’s the least of the lies she’s spun, and yet somehow I’m thrown by it. When I think of the vicious tactics she’s employed to maintain her place . . . The fact he’s still married somehow makes it worse. And that Wendy knew and I didn’t? I have to do a better job of paying a
ttention.
I realize I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into, agreeing to come on this trip; I probably should have stayed home, gone to see Grannie with Lauren. We’d be doing water aerobics with the biddies right about now, which sounds absolutely wonderful. But it’s certainly too late to turn back at this point.
I briefly allow myself a fantasy about what a trip like this would be like if I were here with Lauren and Hunter. There would be more quiet reading time involved (Lauren), and more dancing (Hunter). And certainly no one would tell us where to sit or what to talk about. That’s the problem with being on someone else’s dime: you serve at their pleasure. At least I’m only here for a week. I can’t imagine choosing to live my whole life like this, the way Summer has.
I take out my phone, frustrated that I still have no new messages. But as I’m putting it away I notice the little airplane icon on the top and remember I’d put it in airplane mode to save power since we have no service on the boat. I turn on data roaming and immediately am hit by a flurry of notifications. I scroll through, looking for one in particular. And there it is, a message from @drl1991, sent two hours ago. It’s only one line:
Where are you?
I bite my lip. So my posts did their job. But now what? I’m nervous about actually seeing Dylan. It’s been so long since we were in the same room, and so much has happened.
Somewhere off the Ligurian coast,
headed to Saint-Tropez. You?
Wendy peers over my shoulder. “Who ya writing?”
I hesitate for a moment before answering her. “Remember Dylan? Eric’s brother. We spoke to him on the phone after Eric—Oh! You met him. At the fairy party, like, two years ago.”
“Oh my God, the night someone drugged me.” She shivers. “I don’t really remember him, but I know he saved my ass.”
“He’s out here for the summer, somewhere near Saint-Tropez, I think.”
She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “You guys are still talking?”
“I mean, sort of.” I shrug. “He lives in London, so we haven’t seen each other or anything, but yeah. I’ve talked to him a few times, since the news about Eric.”
The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020 Page 12