Never

by Lulu Pratt

  Chapter 1

  Ava

  “Would you just come on,” Petra nags me for the hundredth time.

  She’s always ready before me, and never lets it go unnoticed. We became roommates a little over a year ago, which has been awesome for my social life. Although she’s four years older than me, Petra often feels like a little sister.

  We met several years ago after being enrolled in a few classes together at UCLA, then set up a life-coaching practice jointly and then moved in together when we realized our leases were ending the same month. We spent so much time with one another already, it made just sense.

  It’s the third time this week she’s pulled me out to an event, when I’d rather curl up in bed with a glass of wine, binge watching crime documentaries on Netflix. I guess I’m a bit of a stereotypical only child, nearly always choosing to be by myself as opposed to being in a crowded nightclub.

  “I knew I would come in here and find you like this,” Petra sighs, eyeing me through the reflection of my vanity mirror. Her gray contacts make her look exotic, or so she says. In my opinion, they only make her look older, but I learned the hard way not to attempt to separate her from her false grays.

  “Like what?” I snap, knowing full well what she’ll say. Sometimes, being best friends allows us to read each other’s attitudes with ease.

  “You’re ready, Ava! What am I waiting for?” She shrieks so loud I cringe. Her mouth is only inches from my ear, yet she’s using her party voice as if there’s already music to yell over.

  “I’m finishing my mascara,” I lie. I had completed my make-up about half an hour ago, but not wanting to go out was a good enough reason to delay our departure as long as possible.

  Just then, Petra’s phone vibrates, and she smirks, looking at the screen.

  “Look at you, grinning like a guilty kid. Is that Jacob?” I ask, peeking over her shoulder, but she hides the phone before I can even catch a glimpse.

  “No, not Jacob. He’s so last week,” she says in a mock valley girl accent.

  Petra has been my guide into the strange world of the city of angels. She was raised here, and so it all seems normal to her. Coming from a small town just outside Bakersfield, I’m not used to the fast pace, or the ever-changing trends, of such a big city.

  In my hometown, there’s one diner that’s been there my whole life, and when you want to go out to eat, it’s the only place to go. In LA, there’s a new restaurant springing up every day, and at least twice a month Petra drags me to a grand opening of the new “it” place. I’m still struggling to get used to it all even though I have been here for years.

  “So then who is it?” I wonder, still trying to peek at her phone.

  “It’s nothing like that, Ava. Can you please just come on?” She deflects, focusing on my procrastination to avoid answering the question.

  “Okay, I just need to pack my purse,” I say, walking into my large closet with my lip gloss and mascara in hand.

  Reaching to my top shelf, I pick a black leather clutch purse to match my bandage dress and stilettos. Petra would usually call this a boring outfit, but tonight she seems to be too engrossed in her phone to be the judgmental sister I never wanted.

  “You don’t need all this,” Petra groans as she watches me picking items from my regular purse to pack into my tiny clutch.

  “I need my wallet, Petra,” I roll my eyes, annoyed by her exaggerated need to hurry.

  “No, you don’t. When do you ever pay for things with me?” She tilts her head while resting her hand on her hip before adding, “just bring your license, and you shouldn’t even need that.”

  She’s right. Whenever I go out with Petra, I never have to worry about anything. It’s like she has a key to the city, the way she instantly gains access to every major event. She once told me there’s a secret society of bartenders and doormen, and that every kid from the city serves two years in the nightlife to create their own network. From the stories I’ve overheard, I know she was popular as a VIP waitress during her undergrad years at UCLA.

  With Petra watching me like a hawk, I throw my license, a couple of bills, lip gloss and a pack of gum into the clutch before giving her the “I’m ready, stop hassling me,” glare.

  After quickly typing something into her phone, Petra nods and walks straight out of my room without another word. Following behind like an orderly mentee, I make my way into Petra’s white S-Class Mercedes Benz. The car is too flashy for me even on a normal day. On nights like this one, when she insists on having the top down, I scoff at her desperate ploy for attention.

  Petra doesn’t come from money, far from it actually, but Los Angeles isn’t about what you have, but rather what you look like you have. My best friend plays that game well, and always makes sure her appearance is top notch, regardless of how many late notices she receives for all her unpaid bills.

  “So, where are we going again?” I ask before she turns up the music as she always does. I can’t remember if this is an opening of some sort, or just another club.

  “Wherever the city takes us,” she smirks before blaring the music so loud I instinctively cover my ears, which makes her burst into laughter.

  Looking over, it’s impossible to remain mad at her, and giggles pour from me as I watch her speed through the busy streets of West Hollywood. As the city passes us by, I still find it hard to believe I live here, after dreaming and working hard to make it happen.

  Growing up so close to LA strangely made it more distant. I always felt the need to be someone different to live in a city filled with such glamor, but when my high school counselor introduced me to a program to attend UCLA, I jumped at the opportunity to leave.

  Petra’s heading to Hollywood, so I figure we must be going to a nightclub. A feeling of dread rushes over me. Not that I love either, but grand openings are less pretentious than nightclubs. There aren’t even lines to the parties here. Everyone just crowds around a man with a clipboard, pleading their case to get in. It’s pathetic, but also Petra’s favorite pastime.

  Before I can guess which club she’s going to, she rears off and continues straight to the 101, leaving me confused.

  “You’re going to the valley?” I yell over the music, the disbelief apparent in my tone.

  If there’s one thing Petra hates, it’s the valley. Whenever we have to leave Los Angeles County, she acts like we’re traveling to Siberia.

  Petra doesn’t answer, although I’m sure she’s heard me. Without a word, she makes a left, heading up the narrow streets leading to the Hollywood Hills.

  “The party’s up here?” I mutter, the loud music drowning out my confusion.

  “I just wanted to drive through and see the homes,” Petra answers, although I wasn’t speaking to her more than I was remarking on her strange decision.

  We both enjoy a random drive through a beautiful neighborhood for daydream inspiration, but rarely do these whimsical drives take place on the way to an event. When I hear her phone ding to alert her of a text message, I watch her smirk while she checks the phone before turning down another street.

  “Ooh, look. Some rich asshole is having a party,” she chuckles after turning down the music.

  A young man in a black and white tuxedo comes to the car, looking over his shoulder. The entire scene is a bit strange, but Petra doesn’t seem rattled and I try to take my cues from her.

  “Johnny, get over here!” She yells at the young man before turning to me, “I dated his older brother. We’re so going to this party,” she whispers.

  “Petra! What’s up?” He asks, digging into his suit pocket before pulling out a thin white joint and a lighter.

  “What do I need to get in there?” Petra nods to the large house at the end of the cul-de-sac. There are so many people moving about around the house, it looks like a nightclub.

  “Just one of these,” Johnny grins as he pulls out a red ticket from his back pocket.

  “Sweet,” Petra takes the ticket from him so q
uickly I could barely get a glimpse of it.

  “Oh, and you’ve gotta let me park the Benz. It’s strictly valet,” he says before sparking the joint and inhaling deeply as he backs away from the car, making room for Petra to open her door.

  “Come on,” Petra turns to me, speaking sternly like she always does when she thinks I might mess up something.

  Shocked by the quick turn of events, I scan my seat as fast as possible, hoping not to leave anything behind, because I don’t even know if I’ll leave with Petra. Whenever we go to events it’s a toss up if I even see her again once we make our way past security.

  “Johnny, you better not put one scratch on my car.” I hear Petra say as I round the car. Her voice is serious and threatening as she cuts her eyes in his direction.

  “Chill. Enjoy the party.” He shakes his head while climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “And don’t smoke that in there.” She yells as he begins to pull away.

  Johnny smirks and nods his head, the joint resting between his lips as the Benz continues down the street.

  “Whose party is this?” I ask as we walk up the sidewalk to the white mansion. The grass is crisply cut in front of everyone’s house, like a scene out of a movie.

  “I don’t know. I’m just glad I saw Johnny. This is the type of event you have to know someone to get into.” Petra is obviously excited now.

  These events were what drove her in life, and I’d be lying if I didn’t feel privileged to know her in times like this. She knew everyone, and it always seemed to pay off as she finagled her way into exclusive events and award shows.

  “Wow. This is incredible,” I gasp as we finally approach the house. It’s white and even larger than I initially thought when I first saw it.

  The house stretches around in an L-shape, taking the space of what should probably be two homes. It’s incredibly modern, with more glass than any other surface.

  “You know the drill, Ava. Act like you’ve been here before,” Petra whispers.

  Chapter 2

  Ava

  Together we march through the front door as I try my best to present the most nonchalant demeanor I can manage. And that’s no easy feat, because the home gets more impressive with every step.

  The artwork hanging on the walls varies from abstract to extreme realism. A painting of a young South Asian boy emerging from a lake looks so clear, I have to squint to determine it’s not a photograph. If I were in a museum, I’d spend extra time studying it, but for now I have to pretend none of this impresses me.

  As I thought from outside, all the furniture is white, along with the floor and walls. The massive artwork is the only pop of color, but it’s all the home needs. Several people are wandering down a hallway, and I absentmindedly follow them before realizing Petra’s gone in a different direction.

  Shit! Now, I’ll never be able to find her. Glancing around, I rack my brain to remind myself what she wore. By the time I’ve remembered the red dress, there’s a new group of party goers walking in the front door, and this group actually looks unimpressed by the marvelous home. Snatching my phone out of my purse, I send Petra a quick text asking where she went before my attention is stolen.

  The artwork seems to get even more grand the further you go down an empty hallway, so I follow it as if I’m in an art gallery, because that’s what it feels like. Gripping my phone in one hand, and my small clutch in the other, I make my way to a quiet area of the house, where no one seems to have explored.

  A series of black and white photographs lead up a staircase, and I’m captivated by their story. Each photo appears to have been taken outside of a small restaurant somewhere in Europe — Paris, I think. In the first one, a mother sits in the chair holding a small boy. He seems intrigued by the camera, but the mother’s eyes are captivated by him. You can see the love and admiration as she watches the innocent joy in her son.

  My eyes wander over to the next photo, this one about three steps up from the first, and a middle-aged, overweight man stares into the camera with a frown as a small woman stands beside him with a smirk. Their body language would make you think they’re not with each other, but if you look closely, you can see their fingers interlocked as they hold hands.

  My mind races, making up possible stories — how he is a grumpy stickler who never smiles, while his wife swears he’s a softie inside. I bet she bakes pastries and writes love stories or something equally romantic. The photographer had to know the viewer would be lost in the details of their work. It’s quite fascinating, actually.

  “Just do it.” I hear from the top of the stairs, and my attention immediately turns to a man in a black suit surrounded by a group of women and two men. They all seem to be listening to him intently, and when his blues eyes flash to me, I feel my breath catch in my throat, as the world pauses around me.

  Never in my life have I seen a man so devastatingly handsome, but his glare is so intimidating, I’m frozen.

  “What are you doing up here?” He barks, and I turn to look behind me, hopeful he could be speaking to someone else.

  “You. What are you doing up here?” He confirms my fears, his eyes piercing through me.

  “Pictures,” I utter. My mouth is dry and the complete sentence I had in my mind seems to have died on my tongue. “I was looking at the pictures,” I add after a deep swallow.

  The entire entourage is staring at me now. Some of the women are grimacing as if I’ve chosen the wrong steps to walk up, but the two men both share a look of sympathy.

  “I’ll be down soon,” the man says to the group and they scatter without hesitation, some staying on the upper level, while a few rush past me so fast I’m hit with a gust of wind from the stampede.

  “Come here,” he orders, his eyes squinting as he looks down the stairs at me.

  My body follows without a second thought and I climb the stairs slowly, both excited and afraid to be closer to this man who seems to have a hold on everyone around him.

  “What are you doing here?” He asks again as I approach him on the top step.

  My mouth is dry and my heart is racing, but this time my sass is far from missing. “I told you I was looking at the photographs,” I repeat, glancing down the staircase at the last image he’d interrupted me from enjoying.

  This one features three young boys, with a worn soccer ball at their feet. Their arms are wrapped around each other’s shoulders to show their closeness and their smiles are happiness personified.

  “Yes. That’s what you said, but the party is obviously not upstairs.” He says lowly, his voice is even sexy.

  Now my hands are sweaty, and I can feel my chest rising and falling rapidly as I repeat Petra’s mantra in my head, act like you’ve been here.

  Our eyes linger longer than necessary as I try to take in every detail I can manage. He’s strong. I can see that even through his suit as his biceps flex while he grits his teeth. Even more impressive is his jawline, which is like a Roman sculpture. My eyes wander to his full, pink lips and I know it’s a mistake when I swallow hard, my stomach muscles tightening with desire.

  “Are you stealing from me?” He finally asks, but his words are too soft to be true. I can sense he just wants to continue this interaction, and he seems to be the type of person who would react much more hostile if he truly believed I was attempting to take something from him.

  “Are you kidding me?” I scoff.

  “I’m just saying, why are you upstairs, wandering around a clearly empty wing of my home when you see the party is elsewhere?” He stresses the words my home just like an arrogant man of wealth in LA.

  “Do you want to search me?” I challenge, slamming my clutch purse on an end table behind him before holding my arms out to my side.

  To my surprise, he decides to take me up on my offer, stepping so close I can see the shine on his mouth after his tongue glides across his lips. I can smell the cologne on him when he moves, a delicious aroma with rosewood undertones. His hands slide fro
m my wrist, up my forearm, and an electric current rushes through me from the connection. His skin is soft, and his hands move with a sense of confidence, just like everything else about him.

  There’s not a word between us, but from the way his lips part, as the cool minty breath escapes him, I can tell he’s attracted to me. And if my eyes are as revealing as they usually are, he can tell I’m seconds away from jumping him.

  “Are you satisfied?” I smirk, but he doesn’t answer.

  Instead, with his eyes locked on mine, he runs the palm of his hand down my chest, splitting my breasts as my body silently pleads with him to go further. My pelvis is tightening with anticipation, while his hand stalls on my belly.

  “I think you’re clear,” he whispers, our faces too close for standard tones.

  Dropping my arms in disappointment, I smile at him. However, before I can come up with a response, my phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down to see a text message from Petra.

  Come outside now!

  “I’ve gotta go!” I blurt out before taking off down the stairs as fast as possible. Petra has been known to get thrown out of events after a couple of drinks, and the last thing I need is for her to forget about me, leaving me stranded.

  “What’s your name?” I hear him yell from behind me, but I simply look over my shoulder, taking in his gorgeous face one last time. A look of confusion clouds his blue eyes, and I can’t blame him.

  I know I’m darting out of the party like a lunatic, after wandering into the restricted area of his house, but at that moment I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

  Just when I make it outside, I see Johnny getting out of Petra’s Mercedes as she anxiously waits to get in. When our eyes lock, she waves me on with a sense of urgency that prompts me to race down the front lawn in my stilettos.

  “What the hell happened?” I ask, out of breath as I settle into the passenger seat.

  “That party was dead. Let’s go to the club,” Petra sighs while scanning her rearview mirror before taking off down the narrow street.