Love Bites

by Rachel K. Burke

  Change, I repeated silently to myself, resisting the urge to turn around and sprint to the elevator. There is no more David. No more Vincent. Only better people and bigger opportunities.

  Cheryl was still out on medical leave and I assumed Vincent’s latest victim had quit, based on the fact that I was greeted by a small Asian women when I entered the lobby. I gave her my name and took a seat until Michelle welcomed me a few minutes later.

  “Hey there!” she said in her deep, smoker’s voice, hugging me like we were old friends. I forgot how nice everyone was in California. Even the cut-throat VP had a soft side. I followed her into her office, waving to a few familiar faces along the way. No one looked surprised to see me. Sphinx was a relatively small office, so I assumed word had traveled fast.

  I shut Michelle’s office door behind us and sat down across from her. Her office looked exactly the same as it had six months prior – black-and-red leather couch stuffed in the corner, gaming posters on the walls, party photos on her desk. In addition to her tough work reputation, Michelle was also notorious for her chain-smoking habit and excessive tequila-shot intake. Apparently she could drink all the guys in the office under the table.

  After a few minutes of small talk, Michelle got down to business. “So, I heard that one of the reasons you resigned was because of Vincent,” she said, her face stone-cold. “And if so, that’s completely understandable. We don’t have to get into it. All I’ll say is that I’m glad he’s gone.” She flashed me a genuine smile. “And I’m glad you’re here now.”

  “Me too.”

  “Good.” She picked up a piece of paper with a job description printed on it. “Because I think you’d be perfect for this position.”

  Wow. It wasn’t every day that you received a compliment from Michelle Lawrence. “Thank you,” I stammered. “Um… may I ask why?”

  “Well, this person is going to be organizing all of our events,” she said, reading through the bulleted lines. “E3, Comic-Con, Pax… all of them. And since you were in our marketing department for a year, you’re already familiar with these events and the preparation that goes into them. Not to mention this person needs to be extremely organized, which I already know that you are, based on your previous work here.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated, still stunned at the flow of praises.

  “In addition to the business aspects of things, this person also needs to have an outgoing personality,” she continued. “A good portion of the job is interacting with people, mainly the event organizers and attendees. So with your knowledge of the business and your personality, you’d be a great person to represent the company.” Her lips curled upward. “And let’s face it, your looks don’t hurt either.”

  I burst out laughing. “So, I’m gonna be a booth babe?”

  “Hey, sex sells,” she joked. “But in all seriousness, if you want the job, it’s yours. I’ve already talked to the team here and everyone agrees that you’d be the best person for it. We’d take care of your relocation expenses, put you in corporate housing until you got settled, and the salary is 15,000 more a year than what you were earning before. Plus you’d be eligible for annual bonuses.”

  Oh. Well then.

  She folded the papers on her desk into a neat pile, then casually leaned back in her seat to study my reaction. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Relocation is obviously a big decision. Go home, think about it, let me know what you decide.” She rose from her seat, motioning for me to follow. “In the meantime, I’ll have HR send you an official offer letter so you can look over the details.”

  I followed Michelle to the lobby, still stunned at the abrupt proposal. A 15,000-dollar raise? Plus bonuses? Plus free corporate housing?

  Considering my alternate options (ah hem, none), I’d have to be an idiot to turn down an offer like that.

  Wouldn’t I?

  “Fifteen grand?” Jasmine cheered, tossing her champagne glass in the air. “And corporate housing? Have you seen how nice those apartments are?”

  “And annual bonuses,” I added.

  Jasmine locked eyes with me. “Tell me you said yes.”

  I glanced around the room, taking in the surroundings as I considered my response. Jasmine had taken me to the lounge bar at the W Hotel in Hollywood to celebrate, which was known as the Living Room. It was a giant spread of black-leather couches enveloping a lit stage with a red-carpeted, spiral staircase. Tonight’s theme was jazz night, so we sat at a corner table and watched the band perform as burlesque dancers glided down the stairs and circled around them. I wished I had brought my camera. To anyone else it looked like an ordinary stage, but to me it was the perfect setting to shoot. Great lighting, bright colors, dancers in actions. The photographer in me always viewed my surroundings through the lens.

  “Look around,” I said, motioning to the scene around us. “I’d have to be an idiot not to say yes.”

  Before she could respond, a short Asian man wearing thick glasses and a bowtie necklace sauntered over to the table and refilled our glasses.

  “Jazzy!” he yelled to Jasmine, kissing her on both cheeks like they were European. “Are you ladies enjoying yourselves?”

  “We are!” Jasmine motioned to me. “Zen, this is my friend, Justine. Justine, this is Zen. He’s the hotel event promoter.”

  Of course he was. Jasmine knew virtually every important person in the Los Angeles vicinity. He leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Lovely to meet you, Justine.” Zen placed the remains of a champagne bottle on our table and walked away.

  “And I’m assuming this is free,” I said dryly, motioning to the bottle.

  “Naturally.”

  I peered at her curiously. Although I had lived in LA for several years, I had never understood the whole “club promoter” logistics. “How does that work, exactly?”

  “Think about it,” Jasmine said in her peppy sales voice. “If you’re a guy, you want to go to a trendy place with lots of hot girls. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “And if you’re a hot girl, you can get into any happening bar in LA. So free bottle service is a great incentive to keep attractive women coming. And attractive women are a great incentive to keep the guys coming. And bring their friends. And spend lots of money in hopes of taking one of those attractive women home.”

  “God, you are such a sales woman.”

  She grinned. “So, when do you have to get back to Michelle?”

  I shrugged. “She said to take my time and think it over. I figured that I’ll go home, talk to my parents…”

  “And Renee,” she added.

  I nodded hesitantly. “And Renee. Despite everything, I don’t want her thinking that I moved away because of her.”

  “She won’t. I’m sure Dylan explained everything to her. Have you heard from her?”

  I shrugged. “I shut my phone off when I got here.”

  “You what?” Jasmine was one of those people who lived and died by her Blackberry. I understood that being accessible was a vital part of her job, but I sometimes wished that we could have a full conversation without her checking her email 25 times.

  “Since I’m only here for a few days, I want it to feel like a real vacation and not be stressed out answering angry calls from Renee,” I explained. “Speaking of, if the job was already mine, then why did Sphinx fly me out here? Why didn’t Michelle just call me with the details?”

  Jasmine’s gaze fell. “Well, I may have mentioned that you were on the fence about moving back here, so a little refresher might push you in the right direction.” She smiled innocently. “Hey, I missed you, okay? And besides, Michelle thought it was a good idea.”

  Just then, Zen reappeared, pointing to a table to the right of the stage. “Do you ladies see who’s over there?”

  I squinted my eyes, scanning the VIP area, where celebrities were often spotted. “Michael Bolton?”

  “No, silly!” Zen said in a high-pitched voice. “Well, him t
oo, but I was talking about…”

  “Dr. Dre,” Jasmine finished. “Saw him earlier.”

  I looked at her, incredulous. I wouldn’t notice a celebrity if he sat on my face. “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Female to male ratio,” she said knowingly. “Dead giveaway.”

  Sure enough, the table was predominantly women. All clad in very tight dresses.

  I watched Zen as he walked away, floating from table to table, glowing with champagne and smiles. I leaned in toward Jasmine.

  “Is Zen even his real name?”

  Jasmine shot me a look like she was withholding an eye roll. “Is Zen anyone’s real name?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. As overindulgent, self-involved, and downright ridiculous as it was, you had to love Hollywood.

  Chapter 18

  Jasmine and I spent the weekend visiting all of my favorite spots in LA. On Saturday we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway and stopped in Malibu so I could photograph the ocean. I had almost forgotten how beautiful California was. Mountains next to the sand, high cliffs with gorgeous views, mixed diversities of people. I shot the sun setting into the water, the sky alternating different shades of pink and orange. I wanted to remember this feeling of inspiration every time I looked at the photos.

  On Sunday, Jasmine and I went shopping at the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica and had brunch and mimosas at our favorite roof-deck restaurant. Then we emptied our shopping bags into Jasmine’s car, grabbed our towels, and hit the beach to catch some sun.

  It was exactly what I needed. Somewhere warm and welcoming and carefree. A reminder of how life should be.

  Well, except for the lingering familiarity of it all.

  I tried not to think about David. I really did. All weekend, as we passed through the places that David and I used to frequent, I put in my best effort to push him to the back of my mind. But somehow, he was everywhere. In the line at Starbucks. At the table next to us at brunch. On the bike path at the pier.

  I knew I was being ridiculous, as Los Angeles was a gigantic city and the odds of running into David were almost nonexistent. Yet I couldn’t help but feel relieved that, by this time tomorrow, I’d be 3,000 miles away from him yet again.

  At least for the time being.

  Jasmine had planned a surprise for my last night in LA, but she refused to tell me what it was. The only insight she offered was to dress casual and be ready by 8.00.

  After throwing on a pair of black skinny jeans, a sheer purple top and gold heels (which, by LA standards was still considered casual), I hopped into the passenger seat of Jasmine’s Mercedes and watched out the window as we sped down Sepulveda Boulevard in the direction of Sphinx’s office.

  “Is this some sort of work surprise party?” I eyed her suspiciously.

  “No.” I could tell by her lack of hesitation that she was telling the truth. “But it is sort of a…” She searched for the right word. “Reminiscent place for us.”

  It was apparent by her shit-eating grin that I wasn’t getting any more information out of her. So instead I leaned back in my seat, mentally sorting through all the places we used to frequent when we worked together. And since she invited me to a large percentage of her client happy hours, there were a lot.

  However, there was one place that I sure as hell was not expecting to be our final destination.

  “Main Street?” A rush of anxiety began to choke me. “You’re taking me to David’s favorite place? Our place?”

  “Oh relax, it’s a Sunday,” she assured me. “He won’t be here. It’s dead on Sundays. Most people only come for the weekday happy hour.” She pouted, her brows creasing together. “Besides, this was our place, too. I thought it would be fun to come here and get our usual. No one else will ever split the pretzel with me.”

  She did have a point. Main Street was one of our regular Sphinx after-work spots. Jasmine loved taking me there because I was always wiling to split the appetizers with her, mainly the giant Bavarian cheese-filled pretzel. It was our favorite.

  “Fine,” I heard myself say, even though my voice seemed disconnected from my body. I couldn’t believe I was agreeing to this. I pulled down her visor mirror to make sure my red lipstick hadn’t smeared. “But if you see me sprinting back to the car, you know why.”

  She clapped her hands together in excitement. “We can split the mini donut dessert, too! And the sweet potato tots with the spicy mayo sauce!”

  I ducked my head, reluctantly stepping out of the car and following her into the bar. “You are such a foodie,” I mumbled, eyeing her tiny figure. “Seriously, where do you put it?”

  She linked my arm in hers, ushering me through the front door. I could feel the knots in my stomach tighten the second we set foot inside. I glanced around anxiously, scanning every bar patron with a baseball cap and muscular build that stood just above six feet tall. After a solid 30 seconds of analysis, my entire body melted into a giant wave of relief.

  David Whitman was nowhere to be found.

  “Happy now?” Jasmine asked, her lips pursed together to form her best “I told you so” face.

  Happy didn’t even begin to describe it.

  After ordering a plate of sweet potato tots, raspberry-drizzled donut drops, and our usual German pretzel (all hand-picked by Jasmine, of course), I was finally starting to enjoy myself. I’d been so worried about running into David that I’d completely forgotten how much I loved Main Street. The ambiance was more welcoming than most bars in LA. A lot of local bars had a ritzy, posh-type feel, while Main Street had rock-and-roll poster-covered walls, music videos on every TV screen, and long, thin tables that resembled picnic benches. In some ways, it felt more like a friend’s garage party than a bar.

  Three half-eaten plates of food later, Jasmine and I were officially stuffed and ready to take on LA. We had mapped out our future, reminisced about the past (the good stuff, anyway), and caught up on all the gossip I’d missed since I’d been gone.

  “I think Manuel is having an affair with Laurie,” Jasmine whispered in her low, gossipy tone, like the gossipees were going to pop out from behind her and catch her in the act.

  “The blonde girl in accounting? He doesn’t seem like that type.”

  “I’m telling you. Every time I go in his office, he immediately minuses his Instant Messenger, and it’s always from her.”

  “Maybe they’re just friends.”

  “No way.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “I always see those little kissy face emoticons. And when his boss was on vacation, they took very long lunches together.”

  “Like how long?”

  “Like four hours long.”

  “Ohhh.” I thought about it. “I did see them leave a First Friday party together once.”

  “Hey!” Her eyes lit up like she’d just had an epiphany. “If you come back to Sphinx, we’ll be able to go to First Friday parties together again!”

  “And I can crash your client happy hours!”

  “And now that you’re single, we can really go out on the town!” She frowned. “No offense, but you’re much more fun now that you don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “I know.” I hung my head sheepishly. I knew how pitiful I was when I was with David. I didn’t need a reminder.

  Jasmine looked at me sympathetically. “Listen, we all need to go through it at least once. That’s how we learn.”

  “I know,” I repeated. “I was… pathetic.”

  “Girl, pathetic doesn’t even cover it. You told me once that you couldn’t come to a Playboy mansion party because you guys had plans to watch some lame-ass movie and make chocolate popcorn or some shit.”

  “Rocky Road popcorn,” I mumbled in embarrassment. “It was our thing.”

  “Well I guarantee if you had partied with me more often, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere.” Her eyes softened. “Justine, I know you loved him. But no matter how much you adored the guy, the trick is to still maintain your own indepen
dence. Have your own life. Do your own thing. Because the second a guys feels like he completely has you, he loses interest. No one wants to feel like someone else’s happiness relies solely on them.”

  Jasmine’s advice was interrupted by our waitress, who was attempting to take one of our half-eaten plates out of the way. Jasmine shook her head sternly, moving the plate closer to her, marking her territory. The poor waitress clearly didn’t know she was dealing with a girl who once left a restaurant with an entire basket of bread in her purse.

  “Can I get you anything else to drink?” she asked, eyeing our water glasses.

  I looked at Jasmine, who threw her hands up in surrender. “All you. I’m driving.”

  I skimmed the menu, considering my options. Main Street was strictly a beer and wine shop. “I’ll have a glass of sangria,” I said, handing the menu to the waitress.

  Over the next hour, after ordering a second glass of wine, I decided it was confession time. A time that always seemed to surface with a buzz.

  “I have to tell you something,” I blurted out.

  Jasmine raised her eyebrows, looking intrigued.

  “I wasn’t sure if I was going to take Michelle’s offer,” I admitted. “I mean, I want to, and I’d have to be crazy not to, but…”

  “I know.” She nodded understandably. “It would be hard to leave Renee, especially after everything you guys have been through. I’m sure a part of you is afraid that being this far away would put a strain on your friendship, especially since you’re trying to rebuild it.”

  “But that’s just it,” I said. “I can’t center my life around other people. I have to do this, for me. If she’s my friend, then she’ll always be my friend, no matter where I am.” I sighed. “So I decided I’m going to take it.”

  Maybe it was the wine talking, or my reminiscent state of LA bliss, but I felt as though I was seeing my life for the first time. Something about this city just felt…right. I was surrounded by love and excitement and opportunity, and all I needed was the courage to face my fears and embrace change.

  “I really hope you do.” Jasmine smiled proudly, but at that point, I was no longer looking at her. My gaze had frozen on the backside of a figure clad in a red shirt that stood just above six feet tall. White baseball cap. Blue jeans. Muscular arms leaning against the bar.