by Andy Wayne
“Girls.” He buzzed them over.
“Oh, it's fantastic, Donovan,” one said.
“A masterpiece,” another girl mimed.
“You are the fashion messiah.” The last girl was trying to outdo the others, probably to gain Donovan's favor. He acted like he didn't even hear them and turned to Elena. Then he turned back to the dress, stroking his chin like he was trying to make a serious decision. It was a silver sequined evening gown with a lavender gradient at the bottom. It would work.
“So, you will wear this gown?”
“I love it.”
“Good. It's costing the team four thousand dollars. Don't get it messed up.” He snapped his fingers and girl number one opened a large trunk that took up the entire bottom half of one of the clothes racks. Inside, he kept the tools of his trade—scissors, razors, and a thousand varieties of makeup brushes with a professional palette.
He worked slowly, like a renaissance painter trying to perfect every brush stroke. At one point he took half an hour to perfect a curl that fell down the side of her face. When he was done, her mane of dark brown curls had been tamed into a messy bun and her face shone like that of a porcelain doll. She reached up to touch her cheek, in awe of the face looking back at her.
“What are you doing?” Donovan slapped her hand away. Would you touch the Mona Lisa?”
“I look amazing.”
He leaned against the bathroom counter in front of her. “Of course you do. You're a Donovan girl now.” He reached in the back pocket of his leather jeans and pulled out a card. “You can contact me any time you need me.” Donovan handed her the card.
It was a plain white card with simple gold lettering with ‘#Donovan’ inscribed on the front. “Thank you.”
“We've still got to do your shoes. Sit down on the bed.” He snapped his fingers and girl number three nearly tipped over girl number two trying to grab another case.
“Now,” he opened up the case which transformed into a long shelf, showcasing a dozen pairs of shoes. He let his eyes rest on the strip of fading purple at the hem of her dress. Then he stared back at the shoe case, took his time and finally chose a sparkling pair of royal blue shoes. “These,” he said, speaking almost reverently of his selection. He placed them on her feet, stepped back and squealed. “Fantastic.”
The girls sounded off with seemingly heartfelt praise. Then he snapped his fingers and they packed up and left as fast as they had arrived.
She took a moment to inspect herself in the mirror, then jumped at another knock on the door. She rushed over to answer it.
“Chance,” she smiled. He was wearing royal blue jacket with expensive jeans and a white button up.
“I saw your style team leave, so I figured you would be ready. Here,” he said, reaching his hand out from behind his back, he offered her a single purple orchid wrapped in lavender tissue paper.
“Thank you,” she beamed, and set it in a vase on the coffee table. Then he took her arm and escorted her downstairs to the lobby.
“Donovan really does wonders, doesn't he?”
“He's a genius. I'm glad you sent him.”
“Are you kidding? I love the guy. He does my hair too, you know.” They walked out into the sweaty evening air where a limo was waiting for them.
There were spotlights waving through the ocean mist that were visible miles away from the event hall downtown. Elena had never seen anything like this event in person. They pulled up to the front of the building and waited in a line of cars while silicon models strutted down the carpet one by one, flipping their hair and teasing the small time reporters cordoned off in front of the building.
It was a meat market if she ever saw one, where the only thing that mattered was flesh and what little was covering it. It took nearly half an hour for them to begin moving up in the line.
“Normally I bypass this stuff, but we've got to go down the carpet this time. My father's company is one of the major sponsors.”
“I'm your arm candy?”
“For the moment. The stupid tabloids will label me as gay if I don't bring somebody. I hope you don't mind. I'll make sure people know we're not dating.”
They were waved to the front of the carpet by a guard dressed exactly like a member of the secret service. Then two men opened their doors and he whisked her through.
The red carpet was a series of make-shift stands—complete with strategically placed cameras, corporate banner backdrops and lights that nearly baked her alive. Every time they stopped in front of a stand, she had to smile, hold Chance's hand and stare directly at the cameras.
By the time she walked into the vast dining hall, Elena could barely see from the glare burned into the back of her eyes. What she did see was predictable, a large hall with covered tables set up in front of a stage. People were walking around holding champagne glasses while servers offered them appetizers.
“Over here.” Chance could apparently see more clearly than she could, so he herded her to a small table sitting in the front corner. The rest of the tables had candle centerpieces and place mats. Hers was an uncovered school table with a bottle of vodka sitting in the center next to a cell phone.
“We had seating arranged months ago.” Chance sat her down. “We had to setup an impromptu place for you, but I'm right over there.” He motioned towards a table near the back of the room. “If you need anything just let me know, okay?” He was making her feel like the girl that got asked out to the prom as a joke.
She turned back to the bottle of vodka and stared at it. It looked tempting, but she didn't know who it belonged to or why it was sitting there, so she restrained herself and stood up, so she could hunt down an appetizer.
“Uh, excuse me, miss.” A woman with a thick east coast accent called out from behind Elena.
Elena walked up to a server a few feet away and grabbed a crab puff.
“Are you supposed to be eating the food? I thought you was working for us.” Elena whipped around and locked eyes with a skinny, Puerto Rican women with frizzy black hair and long green fingernails to go along with her white dress.
Elena had no idea how, but somehow the woman had managed to make it look good. “Are you talking to me?”
“You see any other frumpy bitches around here?”
“I see a tacky stripper screaming at the top of her lungs.”
The woman got up slowly with a smile and flowed, rather than walked up to Elena. Without warming, she threw the champagne into Elena's face, and walked back to her seat. Elena wasn't shocked, she was furious, but this woman wasn't going to get to her. She walked to the bathroom with dignity and cleaned herself off.
When she walked back out, the room was dark and a woman in a black dress was walking on stage wearing a seductive top made of peacock feathers and rhinestones.
“Thank you. Thank you.” The crowd cheered when the woman walked up to the podium. She went on to list all of the various high end corporate sponsors that were hosting the event, while Elena slowly walked through the crowd to get to her table.
“I just want to thank Ebony Smiles for all of their hard work.”
Elena took her seat, still staring at the stage. “And I want to share with you some of the things they've done.” She looked back to the left of stage and a skinny young African boy walked out from behind the curtain. Elena caught a glimpse of a woman wearing a headset motioning for him to smile. “This is Abdul, a boy that lived in a small metal lean-to in the wetlands of Nigeria. When the foundation found him, he was dying from starvation with no way to find food or clean water.”
“Pfft.” Elena looked down and nearly jumped out of her seat. Diego was sitting next to her, leaning close with the vodka bottle in his hand. “He's some thug they picked up from the east side.” The smell of his breath was enough to get her drunk.
She was frozen still.
“I know the director. He spends all the donations on hookers and blow.”
“Really?”
He laughed
and took a swig.
“You're lying.”
He pounded the bottle on the table. “Shit you not.” He held his hands up. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her up.
“Wait,” she tried to get away from him, but she couldn't. His grip was too tight.
“Where are we going?”
He didn't answer. Instead, he dragged her out a side door into a courtyard outside of the building. There was a path leading to the beach. He took the last of the bottle and threw it on the ground where it shattered.
She watched him, tortured and drunk—the man looked like he'd hit rock bottom. She was sympathetic, but also cautious and frightened by his behavior. He was an unpredictable creature, seething with rage.
“I know who you are.” He turned on her. “You're here so all the stupid shits in there will like me, but it's not gonna happen, because I'm not fake like they are. I'm a real person whose made real mistakes, and hurt real people. But she,” he pointed at the building, “was not my mistake. I did her right.”
“I believe you.”
“No you don't,” he said as he swung around and got in Elena's face. “You think I'm sick just like the rest of them, that I'd leave that bitch and her little baby alone with no money.” He perked up and stood back, throwing his hands up in the air. “But that's not me. No.” He shook his head. “I'm a good man. I would NEVER do that.”
Elena didn't understand. He was supposed to be the typical douche. He should have been insisting that the kid wasn't his, and that he never cared about Maricela. But something else was going on here.
“Okay, what is the truth then?”
He looked her squarely in the eye, handed her a wadded up piece of paper, and said, “Figure it out,” then walked away.
Elena saw no point in staying at the event any longer. Diego was probably right. It was just a commercialized banquet with a show, and the whole thing was making her sick. She hunted down Chance who was pretending to listen to the busty woman sitting next to him when she walked up.
“Oh, hey.” He had a smile like a game show host.
“Hey. So I'm going to go. Is there a car service or should I make my own way.”
“Ooh. I was planning on taking you back in the limo. I rented it out for the night, you know. Why don't you call a cab?”
“Sure.” She pulled out her phone and walked out to the courtyard. She wasn’t thrilled to have to pay some guy $150 to give her a ride back to the hotel, but she didn’t want to stay and wait for the limo either.
Chapter 4
The wadded up piece of paper that Diego had handed Elena was a cocktail napkin with an address written on it. When she looked it up online the next day, she found herself staring at a mansion with its own private beach and what looked like a swimming pool. It was his home address.
He had been trying to get her to come and see him, but he was drunk and out of his mind. There would be no telling what he would be like the next day. He could have completely forgotten who she was and that he had given her his address. That was the most likely scenario. The man was so upset there was no way he would have stopped drinking after he left. He probably blacked out and woke up on the beach somewhere.
Diego was on a good one, and Elena didn't want any part of it, but she had accepted this job as a last resort to revive her failing firm. She needed to do it, but she wasn't going to just show up at his house. That was not going to happen.
Elena called Chance’s office at the Big One Arena and Chelsea answered. “Hello?” No greeting, just a vacuous reply.
“Hi, this is Elena Matthews, Diego's image consultant.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember you. Listen, Chance went home with a girl last night and he has a bad hangover, so I can't let you talk to him or else he'll get mad at me.”
“That's alright. I just need Diego's number.”
“Ooh. I'm not supposed to give that out. I'm sorry,” she said as she hung up.
Elena couldn't help but be reminded of a child that was just beginning to learn phone manners. One that was always hanging up at the wrong times. This team office was so disorganized and stupid that they couldn't even produce her client's number. She called back, but the receptionist picked up the phone and let it sit off the receiver. Elena could hear her talking to the blond man that had been hitting on her yesterday.
Elena threw her phone against the wall and the battery flew out of it. She really didn't want to show up at his door, but how else was she supposed to meet him if she couldn't even get his phone number. This wasn't okay. Elena thought of trying to call Chance directly, but something told her he would be just as uncooperative.
She couldn't just wait around and hope to get paid. This was a media crisis, one that they would expect to be handled immediately. She had no other choice than to drive up to Diego's house. She rented a small SUV and wound through the city streets until she started heading north of the city where the road hugged the side of a sharp cliff. She was shaking, trying to maintain a decent speed and keep her eyes off the water while she drove up the narrow road.
She could be in danger. Diego already didn't like her. He thought she was just like the rest of those fake people in the auditorium. He told her that she wanted to judge him, and she did. He was drunk and furious every time he’d seen her, and pacing around, looking like he wanted to bash somebody's head in. A man like that could kill a person for looking at him wrong.
So, what would he do when she showed up at his house unannounced? She could find herself facing a shot gun or armed thugs ready to put her in a bag in the ocean. Who knew what he was involved with, or the kind of security a monster like him would have. She could have her calf bit off by a rabid dog or find herself in the morgue.
As the road narrowed, she descended higher up into the hills. The lava rocks on either side started getting sharper, contrasting against the sinister gray of the clouds rolling in off the coast. She might get caught in a downpour, and on a road like that, the consequences could be lethal.
Eventually, the ground leveled out and changed from pebbles and sand to thick, even grass that stretched out for miles. The house was a white, towering affair, the kind found in Beverly Hills that had columns in the front and a wrap-around driveway with a fountain. There was no security gate, though she did see several huts scattered around the perimeter.
That gave her chills. If they saw her and didn't want her around they could do anything—even shoot her. She drove carefully and parked at the edge of the driveway, trying to catch her breath. She looked down at her hands. She was visibly trembling, because she had never been more scared in her entire life.
When she got out of the car, she heard the sound of dog barking. A pit bull was racing towards her.
“Ah!” She screamed and struggled to get the car door open. The dog was furious, and had a jaw so big it looked like it could crush her skull without even trying.
“Luther!” Diego ran up wearing nothing but a pair of sweats.
“Jesus, the thing almost killed me.”
“Sorry,” he laughed, and took a bite out of an apple he was holding.
“I would have called, but the receptionist hung up on me when I asked for your number.”
“It's fine. I told you to come.” He grabbed the thoroughly subdued dog by the collar and motioned for her to follow him into his house. He had a tapestry of tattoos, and they were real tattoos, not the basic stuff found on the walls of a tattoo parlor, or the Old English and cursive that was so common.
His tattoos were amazing. Custom designed art commissioned just for him. There was a cloaked woman in black in the center of his back, with roses sitting at her feet, and Celtic knots around the edges. He turned back to her when he was halfway there and smiled, letting her know that he knew she was looking at him.
He threw the dog in, closed the door from the outside and stood in front to bar her passage.
“You don't want me to come inside?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Do
you know why?”
“No. Why?”
“Because you're judgmental.” He strutted around in front of her, catching her eye. “You see this,” he said as he motioned towards his tight chest and arms, “and you think thug. You automatically assume that I knocked Maricela up and that I play with women. I can't have that in my life.”
“When you affect a certain demeanor...”
“Screw you, lady. If you judge me, you can't help the media see who I really am. I am not putting up a facade. So before you come in my house, I want you to drop all of that judgmental waspy bullshit that’s going through your head.”
“I am not waspy.”
“You thought I was Satan the second you saw me.”
She held her arms against her chest.
“Do you agree?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you hungry?” He dropped his angry tone.
“I guess.” In truth she was starving, but she wasn't sure what he'd have to offer.
“Come on.” He opened the door to a white modernistic palace. Everything was geometric shapes and harsh lines. The place was spotless but comfortable, with sectional couches and window seats. He was watching her reaction closely, almost self-consciously. Maybe he was trying to live down the stereotypes, or maybe he was trying to impress her.
“What do you think?”
“I like it. How long have you been living here?”
“Five years.” He turned around and walked into the kitchen. “When I first signed, I stayed with my parents and helped them renovate their house so they could sell it. I let them save the money and gave them enough to retire on. I did that for all of my family.” He walked behind the counter. “I got everyone houses and cars, and made sure my sister had a college fund.”
“Was it too much of a stretch for you?” She sat down on a stool near the counter.
“It was a sacrifice.” He pulled out a pan and a bottle of olive oil. Then he started chopping garlic. “But I gotta think about everything my mom did for me, and the sacrifices my father made so we could have a life. I can't just walk away from them.”