by Megyn Ward
The game she likes to play when she gets bored.
A big, walking button for her to push for her own personal amusement.
Nothing more.
Instead of pointing it out, I just nod.
“I wasn’t kidding about your friends. Any of them bring drugs into my club—”
“I wouldn’t do that—I don’t do that.” She makes an impatient gesture at my arm and the thumb that’s keeping the door closed. “Now will you please let me out of here, I have stuff to do.”
“Of course, your highness…” I drop my arm away from the button panel and give her a sweeping bow as the doors slide open.
“My champagne better be cold when I get there,” she tells me, tossing the directive over her shoulder on her way off the elevator. Because I can think of a properly scathing response, Hurricane Delilah slips into the crowd and disappears.
NINE
Delilah
WHY DON’T’ YOU COME OVER HERE AND WE TALK about it in person?
It was a reasonable request. The Bright Group corporate offices are directly across the street from The Hawthorne. All I had to do was change my clothes and jaywalk.
It took me fifteen minutes to talk myself into the elevator and another twenty out of the lobby. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the frenzy started. Shouts and camera snaps. Photographers jostling and jockeying for position.
Where have you been, Delilah?
Were you in rehab again?
Your tits look bigger.
Did you have work done?
Where are you going tonight?
Ignoring them, I hurried across the street and into the cool sanctuary of Tobias’s high rise and took the elevator to the 50th floor for my impromptu meeting with his younger brother.
Jase was nice to me. Pleasant and accommodating without being slimy about it. Behind the slick polish of his gorgeous face and expensive suit, I expected to find what I always find—someone who looks at me and instantly starts trying to figure out a way to use me to their advantage. Someone who doesn’t see me—just what being associated with me can do for them.
Instead, I found someone who doesn’t really see or care how my celebrity can benefit them. Someone who loves my sister like she’s his own and considers me family because of it. I asked Jase for a favor and he gave it to me without an expectation of reciprocity. He asked for nothing—just said yes and spent the next few hours catering to my every whim. Did I want a certain DJ? What kind of champagne would I like? Were there certain club staff I preferred? That’s something I’ve never experienced and quite frankly, I didn’t know what to do with it.
Then Gray showed up and tipped everything upside down.
He wasn’t pleasant or accommodating.
He doesn’t give a shit what brand of champagne I like or who my favorite DJ is. He made it clear, under no uncertain terms, that he doesn’t want me anywhere near him or his club. That my absence has been appreciated and his life has been easier without me in it.
Like always, when he looked at me, I remembered the night I kissed him. The expression on his face afterward. Like I disgusted him and the remembering made me feel like shit.
“Don’t worry,” Jase told me after Gray flipped him the bird and made his exit. “If you want Gray there, you’ll get him. He can be a dick but he won’t leave me hanging.”
I don’t want Gray.
I need him.
Because even though he hates me, he’s the only person who makes me feel safe.
Because if he’s not there, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it through the night.
Throwing Jase a muttered thanks for your time, I left him standing there, probably wondering what the hell happened, and chased Gray down the hall with the intentions of saying… something. I don’t know what exactly—that’s the beauty of being me. Most of the time I have no idea what I’m going to say or do until it’s already done and said and because I’m Delilah Fiorella, people expect it. Tolerate it.
The look Gray gives me when I get on the elevator tells me he’s not in the mood to tolerate anything—especially from me.
Things were fine until he asked me where I’ve been for the past month.
Paris.
I told him I was in Paris for Fashion Week, which was stupid because Fashion week isn’t until next week and anyone with a cell phone or internet connection could tell you that I haven’t been there for the past month. I haven’t been anywhere.
Whatever.
Like Gray even cares enough to check my story anyway. He doesn’t really care where I was. The only thing he cares about is that the reprieve from my bullshit that my absence granted him has come to an abrupt end.
When I exit the elevator, I hurry through the lobby and don’t stop until I’m across the street and back in the sanctuary of the hotel. Ignoring the stares and camera phones pointed in my direction, I take the private elevator I share with Went up to my suite.
My cell let’s out a chime.
Resisting the urge to ignore it, I dig it out of my bag to check my texts.
Unknown: I’ll see you
tonight. I’ve missed you.
It’s Nik.
Even though I don’t recognize the number, I know it’s him. His security team makes him change his phone number every couple of weeks—so frequently that I never bother to program his new numbers into my phone. Leaving him on read, I drop my phone back into my bag and punch in my code for the elevator.
The second the doors slide open onto its well-appointed living room, I know.
Someone’s been here.
It wasn’t Liz. She left right after I called Jase and it wasn’t Rosa—she’s already been here and she won’t come back unless I call for her. Went lives in Boston and our mother really is in Paris. With the exception of the bellhop who delivered Liz’s breakfast this morning, no one else has stepped foot in here for a month but I can feel it.
Someone has been here.
Or maybe they’re still here.
“Hello?” As soon as I say it, I feel stupid. Like every dumb blonde who gets murdered in every cheesy horror movie ever made. The elevator doors slide closed and as soon as I hear them bump into each other behind me, I have this insane urge to turn around. Lunge at them and claw them open because I suddenly feel trapped.
You’re being paranoid. There’s no way anyone can get in here without their thumbprint being programmed into the system. You’re the only person on this floor. You just feel weird because you haven’t left the hotel in a month…
Forcing myself further into the room, I take a careful look around. Nothing seems out of place. The room service mess is gone and it seems as if Rosa might’ve snuck up here while I was gone to take the opportunity to tidy up but other than that, nothing seems out of place.
Rosa was here. She cleaned up a little. That’s what this is. You’ve been one baby step away from starting to collect your own urine samples for the past month and your bubble’s finally been broken. Everything is going to feel weird and out of place for a while.
Dropping my bag on one of the living room chairs, I kick off my shoes, letting out an instant sigh of relief. I used to live in heels. Now I grumble about putting on a pair of flip-flops.
Inside my purse, my cell lets out a chime, signaling another text and I jump like a gun just went off.
Stupid, Delilah.
You’re being stupid.
There’s no one here.
This is place is practically a fortress.
You’re perfectly safe.
Expecting a how dare you ignore me text from Nik, I reach into my bag and dig out my phone again. Swiping my thumb across the screen on my way to my bedroom, I see the text isn’t from Nik. It’s from Liz.
Liz: Shopping bitch.
Pick me up in an hour.
I don’t want to go shopping. I don’t even want to go to this event that I’ve strongarmed everyone into throwing together for me. I just want to stay here where it’s safe. Whe
re no one can—
There’s a white rose petal on the floor outside my closed bedroom door. Bending down, I pick it up and look over my shoulder. The flowers Rosa brought up this morning are still on the dining room table. So is the white gift box next to it. Reaching for the knob, I crush the rose petal in my hand as I turn it slowly so I can push the door open.
More white rose petals.
They’re everywhere.
A sea of them, surrounding the bed.
Strewn all over its freshly laundered sheets and duvet. On top of them are photographs—twelve of them. Lined up and neatly spaced across the foot of the mattress.
Me.
They’re pictures of me.
Taken today—this morning.
Pictures of me standing outside the hotel.
Crossing the street.
Disappearing into The Bright Group building.
There’s something on them. Something thick and milky. Wet… I reach out to touch it. Almost do before I realize was it is. What I’m looking at.
Semen.
The pictures are covered in semen.
Ohmygod.
Suddenly ill, I turn away from the bed and stumble into the bathroom because I’m going to be sick. Not even bothering with the light, I barely make it to the toilet before the coffee and Madeleines I ate this morning come rushing up.
Finally finished, I close the lid and flush before bracing a shaky hand against the counter to lift myself off my knees. Running the cold water, I rinse out my mouth and splash it on my face, trying to scrub away the dirty feeling that’s leeched itself inside my bones.
Looking up, I see the dark scrawl of it—even in the dark and my stomach clenches again. Rolls and tumbles. Squeeze itself into my ribcage to press against my hammering heart.
Reaching for the light switch, I turn it on to read the message he left on the bathroom mirror.
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, DELILAH?
TEN
Grayson
I’M HERE.
Despite the fact that I told myself that I was going home after leaving Jase’s office—that I was going to grab some takeout from the deli under my apartment and watch the Mets game, I ended up exactly where I said I wouldn’t.
Typical Delilah.
She’s probably not even coming.
Liz just posted on Insta—they’re at Pretty Ricky’s.
Not surprised. Remember her birthday party, last year? Invited everyone to Martinique and then went to Belize with Nik.
She’s the worst.
The lemmings are getting restless because it’s nearly midnight and Delilah still hasn’t shown up, despite the fact that most of her guests are already here. They’ve run through about two-thirds of the Louise Rose and have started ordering premium bottle service on their own dime. Tonight’s receipts for VIP alone are going to be in the mid six-figures. Combine that with what we’re raking in with the riffraff downstairs and I’d bet we’ll cleared close to a million dollars in sales.
Jase will be pleased.
That makes one of us because this shit is ridiculous.
Beyond ridiculous.
Because this place is fuck the fire code packed with every A-lister you can think of—actors and athletes. Models and celebutantes. I even heard a few of them admit that they flew in from LA last minute just to be here, because no one’s seen Delilah in over a month now and they’re all anxious and eager to get a look at her so they can get the tea on where she’s been and who she’s been with.
Her mom is totally done with her. She’s in rehab again—she got caught with coke in her car. Just like last year. She never learns.
Well, I talked to a friend of hers and she told me she’s been in Spain or Brazil or somewhere like that on a modeling shoot.
No, she’s getting back together with Nik and it’s serious this time. He proposed and she said yes. She’s laying low to do some image repair before she meets his family.
While all the explanations for Delilah’s disappearance from the public eye are feasible, it’s the last one that gives me pause, because for all her dumb decisions and bad behavior, I really thought she was smarter than that. Their on again/off again relationship is the definition of toxic so of course they’re a tabloid power couple. When they’re on, you can’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a gossip rag with them, either fighting or cuddling on the cover. Their reality-show dramatics is enough to make a person sick.
Yeah?
Sorry to have to break it to you but that’s not nausea you’ve been feeling, pendejo.
It’s jealously.
It doesn’t help that he’s actually here.
Nik the Dutch douchebag is here with a bunch of his friends, working on his third $800 bottle of vodka. He pulled one of the dancers off the main-floor about an hour ago to work the pole for him and his buddies and is currently trying to talk her into taking her top off for five grand. I’m about three seconds away from tossing him over the railing.
“Come on—five grand…” He waves some bills at her—not five grand but enough to show he’s serious. “All you have to do is shake your titties in my face.”
Her name is Shanen. She’s a sweet kid. Great performer. Been in New York less than a year and already landed a spot in the chorus line in Chicago for the weekday matinee. But even though dancing on Broadway is the dream, she knows that her job dancing here is what keeps her lights on. Even if I weren’t standing six-feet away, there’s no way she’d be willing to risk it for a lousy five-grand.
“Sorry, I can’t,” she tells him, shooting me a quick I can handle this guy on my own look. “It’s against club policy.”
“Policy?” He stops waving his money and sneers at her. “Do you know who I am?” The look on her face says no and seeing it pisses him off even more. “Get the fuck out of here, you skanky bitch,” he shouts at her, loud enough to draw looks and whispers from the surrounding tables. “No one wants to see your flat tits anyway.” He stares at her for a moment, raking his insolent glare up her frame. “You know what? On second thought…” He tosses the bills in his hand up in the air and he grins at her while they rain down on the table she’s standing on. “I’d rather pay you to keep your clothes on.”
Now the whispers turn to laughter and the look on Shanen’s face is enough to push me into action. Reaching for her, I hold out my hand to help her down off the table. “I’m sorry,” she whispers because she just pissed off a VIP and she thinks she’s going to get in trouble for it. Maybe even fired.
At any other club, her worry might actually be founded.
Not here.
“Fuck this guy,” I tell her, not even trying to temper my tone. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
“Excuse me?” the Dutch Douchebag scoffs loudly behind me. “What did you just say, José?”
I let go of Shanen’s hand and turn toward him. “Name’s not José and you heard me just fine—but I’ll say it a little louder for the assholes in the back—fuck. This. Guy.” Somehow, I manage to keep my tone even. Friendly even. Pushing Shanen further behind me, I take a step closer until I’m towering over where he’s sprawled out on a plush velvet sofa. “And before you ask—I know exactly who you are. I just don’t give a fuck.”
His jaw unhinges for a second, right before he narrows his glare on the woman standing behind me. “You’re going to regret this—you both will.”
“Gotta tell you, my guy—I don’t think I will.” Reaching down, I lift the almost empty bottle of premium vodka he and his buddies have been swilling all night from its fancy-ass block of carved ice. “You’re officially cut off—” Turning slightly, I hand Shanen the bottle because I’m about ready to smash it into his smug face and while I wouldn’t regret it in the slightest, giving into the urge to beat this asshole to death would rain holy hell down on my brothers, and that I would regret. “Get the fuck out of my club.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Nik looks around and laughs, his tone making it
clear that he already knows the answer to his own question.
Nobody.
I’m a nobody.
“I think I’m the guy who’s about five seconds away from snatching you up by the back of your neck and tossing you down that flight of stairs over there,” I tell him in a calm, conversational tone that is a complete and total lie. “Now are you gonna get up and get the fuck out on your own or do you want to take the express route to the nearest exit?”
He laughs again but the sound of it dies quickly when he realized that no one is laughing with him. That everyone is staring and whispering and waiting for me to kill him. “I’m a member of the—”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re a member of the Harlem Globetrotters, you can fuck all the way off.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I give him a shrug. “Now—are you walking out of here or are you flying?”
“If you lay one finger on me, you’ll—”
“I’ll go to jail.” I give him an agreeable nod. “Probably stay there for a while but I’ll get out eventually and you’ll still be walking with a limp and swearing to god that you can smell colors—walk or fly?”
He wants to tell me to go fuck myself.
Probably even wants to take a swing at me.
But he won’t because he might be a narcissistic, entitled douchebag but he isn’t a complete moron.
Instead, he stands slowly forcing me to take a step back to give him room to move. “When I wake up tomorrow, the first thing I’m gonna do is call your boss and get you fired.” He flicks his insolent glare at Shanen. “You too—by the time I’m through with you, you won’t even be able to get a job as a bathroom attendant.”
“Awesome.” I give him one of my megawatt smiles. “Don’t forget your back-up dancers,” I tell him sweeping his group of friends in an insolent glare of my own that sends them scrambling after their ringleader.
Nik waits until he’s at a safe distance before he launches his parting shot. “She knows you’ve got the hots for her, you know.” he says loudly, making sure everyone hears him. “She loves messing with you. Gets off on it. Thinks it’s funny. Me—I just think it’s fucking sad that someone like you thinks he’d actually have a chance with someone like her.”