LIKE (Social Media #2)

by JA Huss

  “I’ll get them, Grace,” Scott says as he walks up to us. “I was just coming to see if you were in yet.” He grabs the massive arrangement with ease, since he and Blake really are big guys, and walks it down to my office. He sets it down on the only table and then turns to face me. “We have a serious problem,” he says.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, now listen, I don’t want you to think we’re taking advantage of you, but Grace, you’re the only person who can do this job.”

  “What job?”

  “The wedding,” he huffs out. “I know we don’t do weddings here, and the whole reason you wanted a promotion was so you can move away from weddings, but this is John Blazen’s fiancée. And Johnny went to school with us—with my sister, specifically—and wants us to handle the wedding, but the new Mrs. refuses to use Leah over at Little Lady.”

  “Blazen? He’s the new quarterback for the Broncos?”

  “Uh, yeeeahhh,” Scott says back, like he can’t believe I had to ask. “This wedding is the event of the year and it’s happening in two weeks. But Leah pissed off the future Mrs. Blazen, and now she wants Big Guys to handle everything. So…” He hesitates and shuffles from one foot to the next. “Will you do it?”

  “How come I’ve never heard of this wedding?”

  “Total hush-hush,” Scott says as he wipes his brow. He’s really sweating my answers. Which is ridiculous. I never say no. I’m a yes-girl. And besides, like I’d really turn down my first assignment. It’s something I do well and they need me. “Blazen just got raked over the coals by his ex after that whole cheating scandal, and didn’t want the media to know about it until after it’s over.”

  “OK, I mean, sure, Scott. Whatever you guys need.”

  He claps me on the shoulder—hard, like he must do to his brother—and beams a smile at me. “That’s great. I’ll make sure your club events are all taken care of this month. The wedding’s in Vegas in two weeks. I’ll have Flora get all Leah’s preparations over to you, stat, and you can set up a meet-and-greet with the future Mrs. Blazen today.”

  Before I can ask if the future Mrs. Blazen has a name that might not reference the husband she doesn’t yet have, Scott is off, being his usual boisterous self to my new co-worker Adam.

  I let out a deep breath. OK, for a first assignment, a wedding is right up my alley. It’s a good thing, really. It will give me time to settle in without the pressure of setting up club events on top of it.

  Just one wedding in two weeks.

  How hard can it be?

  Plus, it’s a celebrity wedding. Sorta. The Broncos are superstars in this town, and everyone knows of Johnny Blazen, both on the field and off. He’s a huge playboy and his recent divorce from second wife Amber was a scandal this town will never forget.

  At least until they have the new wedding to gossip about.

  “Here you go, Grace,” Flora says as she hands me a thick paper file. “This is the hard copy of receipts and stuff that Linda sent. She said to tell you good luck. Apparently Mrs. Blazen is pretty difficult.”

  “Oh, great.” I smile at her. “Hey, by any chance, do you know Mrs. Blazen’s first name?”

  “Um…” Flora stops to think. “No, actually. I think she refers to herself that way.”

  And then she’s gone and I’m alone in my office with my new assignment. I flip the folder open and find Mrs. Blazen’s number, key it into my phone, and then hit send.

  “Hola,” a chirpy woman says on the other line. “Future Mrs. Blazen here.”

  “Um, hi, Mrs. Blazen, this is Grace Kinsella from Big Guy Events. I’m your new—”

  “Yes, Grace. We’ve met down at Little Lady Events. I’m thrilled to see you’ve been moved. I asked for you specifically a few months ago, but Leah refused to let you be my planner.”

  “Oh, I had no idea. I just—”

  “I have time to meet in an hour, can you come to my house in Park Hill?”

  “Sure—”

  “Great, see you then.”

  And the call cuts off.

  I just stare at my phone for a few seconds and then it rings in my hand. I press accept automatically without looking at the number. “Big Guy Events, Grace Kinsella speaking, can I help you?” Shit, I just answered my personal phone with my business greeting.

  “Miss Kinsella, this Mr. Whitman at the bank.”

  “Yeah?” Double shit, I bounced a check.

  “I just wanted to personally let you know that your savings account conversion has been completed, and I wanted to check to make sure you didn’t need anything else before I leave for the day. My mother is not well and I’d like to—”

  “Wait, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, my mother, she’s a diabetic and she’s got a toe infection, so I have to go take her—”

  “No, I mean…” I roll my eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that, so yes, of course you should go—”

  “Great. Your new interest rate on your savings has been doubled.” He stops to chuckle. “After all, with a deposit like that, we offer special perks to our best customers.”

  “Perks?”

  “You have concierge service now. I’m your personal attendant and I will attend to everything you need, Miss Kinsella, but tomorrow, if that’s OK?”

  “Yeah, sure, but—”

  “Great, call me at this number whenever you need anything. Just not—”

  “Today, yeah, I get it.”

  “Thank you,” he sings back at me. And then I get the disconnect beeps again.

  Jesus. Can life get any stranger? These flowers are not mine, this bank concierge is not mine, and this celebrity wedding is not… well, yeah, that one is mine. I smirk at that, but still. Weird.

  Well, since Mr. What’s-his-face can’t be bothered today, I will sort that bank stuff out tomorrow. And I still have forty minutes before I need to leave to meet Ms. Blazen, so first thing first.

  How much coffee money do I have left?

  I press my Starbucks app on my phone and walk over to the flowers as I wait for it to load. There’s a card, and I’m just pulling it out of the little pink envelope when my balance comes up.

  I stare at it.

  Then at the card in my hand.

  You are cared for.

  Then my balance. Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven dollars, sixty-three cents.

  What? How? I look back at the flowers and see Asher’s little V initial. What the fuck? Who the hell puts five thousand dollars on a Starbucks account?

  And that stuff with the bank?

  I pull up my banking app on my phone and log in. It takes a few seconds, which is not good, because the time between that and when it loads only gives my heart time to beat faster, so that when I actually see the balance in my savings, I have to grab a hold of the table to keep from falling over.

  I have thirty thousand dollars in my savings account.

  Chapter Five

  #TheGiftThatKeepsOnGiving

  MY mind wanders all day. Grace, Grace, Grace. That’s all I think about as I listen to my agent go on about upcoming projects, promotions, and charity functions.

  I nod for everything.

  “Yes, sure, Larry,” I tell him when he asks if I’ll attend the IM2 premiere.

  “You will?” he asks, surprised. He’s holding his phone, glancing down at it every few seconds even as he talks to me. “I mean, you’ve been making such a big deal about it these last few years.”

  “Hell the fuck no! I’m messing with you. I can’t stand the paparazzi and the fanfare. I’m sick of it. I’ve lived in the public eye for twenty-seven years, and that’s not including the first five years where the public eye was only Adam. It’s tiring. I’m at the point where this really is a job, ya know? I’d like to go home at the end of the day and just… be with people in a normal way.”

  Larry looks at me suspiciously, one brow hitched up on his forehead, one eye squinting. “You’re seeing someone?”

  “What? No, hell no. I’m
not seeing anyone.”

  “You have a girl at your place, don’t you? I’m coming over tonight to check. Are you shacking up?”

  “No, Larry. Look, all I mean is that I need space. I need… time off maybe.”

  “Time off? Are you kidding me? V, your career is at its height. You’re in your prime. You have roles coming out your ass. IM2 is the beginning. All those stupid roles are behind you and now is the time to take on projects that are meaningful and fulfilling. You can’t quit now.”

  “I’m not talking about quitting, I’m just talking about doing… something else. Like relaxing. Enjoying what I have for a year.”

  “A year? No, you can’t—” His phone buzzes in his palm and that distracts him away from my conversation just long enough for me to wave a hand at the waitress to get the check. “I have to take this, do you mind?”

  “You go, I’ll pay. Talk to you next week.”

  He pats me on the back as he answers his call and then walks out.

  We’ve had this weekly lunch every Tuesday for ten years. Larry is my best friend as well as my agent and I know he’s just looking out for my career, but the truth is I don’t want to think about my job, or the premiere of IM2, or the appearances I’ll have to do to promote it, or any of the other endless things that come with being a movie star in Hollywood.

  I need to get the hell out of Hollywood, actually. I think that might be my problem.

  “Here you are, Mr. Asher,” the waitress says as she hands me the check. I pull out my card and hand it over to her and go back to my thoughts, looking out the window onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Grace. That’s all I want to think about today. Tweeting with Grace tonight. And who would’ve thought that this simple thing could make my day?

  I wonder if she got my flowers, or realized I’ve padded her bank account with money? Or the Starbucks card?

  I’m still smiling at all of that when my phone buzzes and speak of the angel, she’s calling me right now to thank me! I press accept. “Calling me at work, tsk tsk tsk,” I say playfully.

  “Asher,” she seethes and I actually sit back in my chair at her tone. “Who the fuck do you think you are going into my private accounts? Just who the fuck?”

  “Whoa, Grace, not the thank you I was expecting.”

  “Thank you? Are you crazy? I’m writing you a check and giving all that money back. How dare you! I will not be bought. I will not have you giving me money with the presumption that I owe you something, understand? I will write you—”

  The waitress discreetly slips the bill back on the table and I hold my hand over the phone and mouth Thank you, bring the car, at her.

  “—and you will stop with this. Do you understand?”

  “Grace, listen carefully, because you’re missing out on the experience of what just happened to you. OK?”

  “How dare you discount my feelings on this—”

  “Listen,” I growl at her. “You had your say, now I will have mine.” She huffs out some air and I can almost imagine the eye roll she’s giving me in Denver and that just makes her all the more desirable. But she needs a firm hand right now, because she’s being emotional and reactionary. “It’s a gift. I’d like to help you out. In your pursuits or dreams. Whatever. Use that money any way you want. There are no expectations tied to it at all. If you write me a check I won’t cash it, so don’t waste the time and effort it will take for all your self-righteous indignation. It’s pointless.”

  “I don’t want your gift. And I’ve changed my mind. I’m not tweeting with you tonight.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not. And who the hell puts five thousand dollars on a Starbucks card? It’s ridiculous!”

  “What’s ridiculous about it? It’s a payment card, now you have money to pay.”

  “It’s five years’ worth of coffee, Vaughn. Starbucks could go bankrupt in five years. The world could end in five years. You have no idea what will happen in five years. So it’s a waste of money.”

  “You’re right, anything can happen in five years. But…” I hesitate, take a deep breath, and then say it. “But every day for the next five years you will walk into Starbucks knowing I’m still caring for you. Every day for the next five years you will think of me at least once. So it’s not a waste of money, it’s a gift that keeps on giving. For both of us. Because once a day I will know for certain that you are thinking of me. And once a day you will know for certain that I’m thinking of you. How is any of that ridiculous?”

  Total silence on the other end of the line.

  “Grace?”

  “I don’t even know what to think about that.”

  I shake my head in confusion as well. “What’s to think about? I don’t get it.”

  “It’s too much. And the money, Vaughn, please. It’s sending me all kinds of mixed messages. I don’t understand what’s happening. All of this is just too much!”

  “Too much how? Your constant objections to everything I say and do are sending me mixed messages. Jesus, do you even like me? From the way you react to everything I do, I’m going to have to say no. The money is not complicated, Grace. You must worry about bills, you don’t make very much. So why is it too much to take that worry away?”

  “You’re trying to buy me.”

  “Buy you for what? That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “It does to a poor person.” And then she hangs up.

  And that is bullshit. I redial and get ringing. One, two, three, four, voicemail. “Grace, call me back.”

  I take my credit card and stuff it in my wallet as I exit the cafe, sliding my sunglasses down over my eyes, as I head into the paparazzi. They bombard me with questions, cameras clicking, people touching me. The crowds gather, but the valet is there, and then the security from the restaurant comes to help—this is the cafe to the stars, they know how to deal—and I slip into the Range Rover, check traffic, and pull out onto Santa Monica, heading west.

  I’d like to forget about her.

  That’s a lie. I’d like to fly to Denver right now and fuck that girl until she relents and lets me boss her around.

  I chuckle a little because she hates the bossing. I get it. Lots of girls hate it. But I’m half joking about it with Grace. I can take no for an answer, but not all the fucking time. She wants to say no to me just to say no. And while I like to spar with her, it bugs me that she’s so combative. Can’t she see I’m playing? I’m not sure if she’s pretending to be offended by the money, or if she really is.

  Isn’t that why she works? Isn’t that why everyone works? To make money and pay bills, and do new things, or take care of kids?

  I’m not out to offend her. I just wanted to help her

  I dial her phone again, and again, it goes to voicemail. “Why can’t you just say thank you? Why can’t you just feel good about the money? Why can’t you just enjoy it?” I hang up and wait to see if she calls me back.

  I don’t want to squash her independent nature and I like her feistiness. I wonder how feisty she can be in bed when she’s not getting fucked publicly. I’d like to find that out and I’d like to find that out right now.

  But I put on my blinker and turn right at Laurel Canyon to head up into the hills. I’ve got meetings and she’s got a job. I try and remember how long it’s been since I was dating a woman with an actual job. Someone who was not paid to hang out and wait for me to show up.

  Wait, did I just refer to this as dating?

  We’re not dating. I shake my head and laugh. I don’t date, and not only that, long-distance relationships never work. And I’d never date a girl in Denver, for fuck’s sake. Denver. No. Colorado is a place you go on vacation. You ski there, you don’t date girls there. You might fuck some girls there, and I do plan on fucking Miss Kinsella there. But that’s not dating. I don’t know what this is, a friendship maybe. But it’s not dating.

  I check my phone to see if I’ve missed any messages, but no. She’s not calling me back. That’s OK. I will leave h
er alone so she can work today, but if that woman thinks I’m going to walk away from our sex tweeting tonight, she’s mistaken.

  Ten minutes later I pull up to the gates of my modern mid-century home and the security guards let me through with a smile and a wave. I have a tuxedo fitting later this afternoon, but the tailor comes to the house, so I plan on spending my day at the pool thinking up ways to make Miss Kinsella blush and wiggle with one hundred and forty characters.

  Chapter Six

  #SomeAssholesAreBrilliant

  I THROW my purse down on the table near the front door, kick off my heels, and flop down on my couch. Exhausted.

  Walking to work this morning was fun and exciting, but the reality is that I need my car during the day to meet people. So all that musing over living and working local was just bullshit. I can’t ride the bus to meet clients. It’s stupid. Just stupid. It took me forever to get over to Park Hill today, and I was totally late because I had forgotten that I didn’t drive. And instead of going home and picking up my car, I insisted that I try to get around without one.

  Denver has no real train system, so public transportation is not an option like it is in bigger cities. So now I live two blocks from work and I’ll still have to drive every day.

  The future Mrs. Blazen—who actually does have a name and it’s Kristi—was a mess. A total mess. All that fake happiness on the phone was just that. Fake. She tried to force the smile with me too, but in person you can see she’s having a very hard time dealing. She’s pregnant for one, and that’s why all this hush-hush stuff with the wedding, and she’s far enough along for everyone to know that she got herself knocked up by this Blazen guy months before the divorce was final.

  She was on the verge of tears the entire time. Everything I asked, from what kind of music she liked to what color flowers she would prefer, her eyes filled up. I can’t say for sure, but I think some of that is the pregnancy hormones and some of that is guilt. And she deserves to feel guilty. Women who sleep with married men are scum in my mind.