Chapter Twelve
Costumes were required for Kelsey’s party, even though Halloween was more than two weeks away. Their costumes were not a collaborative effort; Troy took firm control, shooting down all of Vish’s suggestions and pushing through her own concept.
“There’ll be a red carpet,” she said. “And photographers. We can’t just half-ass it. This’ll be a whole-ass effort or nothing.”
Vish would be happier with the “nothing” side of the equation. Troy had procured an elaborate Indian-prince costume for him consisting of a vest and baggy pants in embroidered purple-and-gold satin, a matching turban, and gold sandals. She insisted on painting his eyes, rimming them with her black liquid eyeliner and applying multiple coats of mascara. Vish felt like an ass, and he couldn’t help thinking this whole business maybe wasn’t a benchmark moment for cultural sensitivity.
Troy looked great, though. She wore some kind of gladiator getup. A sexy gladiator, clad in a gold breastplate and a short gold skirt. Heeled gold sandals that laced up to her knees, a matching sword and shield. The sword was real; Vish had hefted it, and it was heavy and sharp and probably nothing that could be legally carried in public. She wore the glass bottle necklace, as always, even though it looked silly with her costume. Nice to think something he’d given her meant so much to her.
“Where’d you get the outfits?” he asked.
“Called in a few favors with the costume department at the studio,” she said. She fussed with a curling iron in his bathroom mirror, turning her blunt bob into a mass of tangled ringlets, which she piled high on her head and secured with a rigid gold headband that resembled a crown. “It’s all production wardrobe, from movies or whatever. Aren’t they fabulous?”
Troy arranged for a limo to pick them up. Black and sleek and long, it looked out of place waiting at the curb in this neighborhood. Vish had never ridden in one before. It seemed excessive and silly, much like their costumes, but Troy assured him this was a limo-appropriate occasion.
On the way to the Moroccan restaurant where Kelsey’s party was taking place, they got tipsy off of the adorable single-serving bottles of champagne stocked in the limo’s mini-fridge. That was for the best, because by the time they reached West Hollywood, Vish had managed to overcome his mortification and in fact was feeling pretty warm and good about the whole affair. Champagne was a wondrous elixir.
There was no red carpet, just a line of photographers and a few reporters leading up to the entrance. Vish trailed Troy and remained silent, a dumb smile plastered on his face, as she posed for photos and gave short, funny answers to shouted questions. A bouncer at the door checked their names against a list before gesturing for them to go inside.
Gauzy purple drapes hung from the ceiling and divided the main room of the restaurant into separate areas. Booths of dark wood with carved high backs were partitioned off with embroidered curtains that could be closed for privacy. The tables were tiled with colorful mosaics; hammered bronze lamps mounted to the walls gave off a flickering light.
The room was full of costumed guests. Troy’s instincts had been correct; everyone had gone all-out with their attire. As ridiculous as Vish felt, he blended right in.
Just inside the door, Vish stopped in his tracks. There, by the bar. A face he recognized. Dark hair, longish in front, a charcoal suit and white collarless shirt. No tie, no costume unless it was something too subtle for Vish to figure out at a glance. Sparky Mother.
Huh. Well, it made some sense he’d be there. Sparky and Kelsey had clearly known each other at Maryanne’s party.
Sparky scanned the crowd, looking bored. His eyes met Vish’s, and Vish felt an odd sort of electric charge, but Sparky turned away without changing his expression.
Troy touched his arm. She looked at Sparky. “You know him?” she asked.
“I think so,” Vish said. “I don’t know if you remember me mentioning him. That’s Sparky Mother. He’s this manager who offered to look at my writing, but I lost contact with him.”
“You should go and talk to him,” Troy said.
He was about to mention that it looked like Sparky didn’t remember him when they were interrupted by the birthday girl. Kelsey was celebrating her induction into adulthood by dressing as a Disney princess in a gown made from yards and yards of sparkling yellow chiffon bundled up with an enormous poofy satin bow at the back. She threw her arms around Troy and squeezed her tightly. With luck, she wouldn’t accidentally impale herself on Troy’s sword. “Troy! Vish! I’m so glad you guys could make it! You look fantastic!” She detangled herself from Troy and pulled back so she could better see their costumes. “Oh my gosh! I love Aladdin! You look so awesome!” she said to Vish.
It was easiest just to smile and compliment Kelsey on her own costume, which is what Vish did.
“Have you had anything to eat yet? They’re coming around with trays, but the buffet table’s over there.” Kelsey waved a tiny hand toward the back of the room. “I thought this place would be perfect for my party, looks-wise, but the food here is kind of gross. So I asked the chefs to make all my favorites.”
Troy scoped out the contents of a passing tray, which was borne by a white-garbed server. “Which is why we’re having sliders at a Moroccan restaurant. Good plan, Kels.”
“I can’t help it. I like hamburgers, and it’s my party.” Kelsey giggled. “Help yourselves, guys. I’ll be back in a bit.” She moved on in a whirl of chiffon to greet some new arrivals.
Vish slid Troy a sidelong glance. “You didn’t deliberately dress me as Aladdin, did you?”
“Please. Perish the thought.” Troy craned her head around the room. “Is the bar open, or are the paparazzi deterring this place from serving alcohol at a teenager’s birthday party?”
“There’s a bar. What do you want? More champagne?”
“Whatever you’re having. Thanks.” Troy kissed him on the nose. “Ridpath’s here. I’m going to go say hi while you suss out the drink situation.”
Vish squeezed into an empty spot at the bar and waited for the bartender to work his way down to his end. Someone jostled his elbow. He glanced over. Sparky.
Sparky looked straight ahead, forearms resting on the bar, his attention fixed on the wall. When he spoke, it took Vish a minute to realize his words were directed at him.
“I got your message,” Sparky said. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’ve been busy.” He glanced at Vish once, quickly, then looked forward again. “You look ridiculous, by the way.”
Vish was startled into silence for a moment. “It’s a costume party, if you’ve noticed. And I didn’t leave you a message,” he said at last.
“You called, though.”
“I tried. The number you gave me wasn’t working.”
“It works. It’s just… monitored.” Sparky’s mouth twisted into a quick grimace. “Things are a little dicey right now. Everything okay with you?”
Monitored? That phone call that never quite reached Sparky’s office, the whispering void and static on the line…“Yeah. Everything’s great.”
Sparky threw a quick glance around the room. “Yeah, well, about that,” he said. “Things are most definitely not great for you, and that’s kind of entirely my fault.”
“What?”
“I got you into a lot of trouble. Sorry about that, but if you do whatever I tell you, everything’s going to be fine, probably.” Sparky looked at him. For the first time, Vish noticed his eyes were a very dark blue, framed by those thick, dark lashes. “She’ll kill you if she can.”
“What?” Vish said again. “Who?”
Sparky glanced over Vish’s shoulder, then grimaced. He shook his head. “I’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself, Vish.” And with a pat on Vish’s arm, Sparky withdrew into the crowd.
Vish jumped at a light hand on his shoulder. Troy. She looked startled by his reaction. “Just checking to see how you’re coming on the drinks,” she said. She glanced around. “Were you talking to your
manager friend?”
Vish almost denied it, though he didn’t know why. “Just for a second,” he said.
She’ll kill you if she can.
“I need to hit the ladies’ room,” Troy said. “At this rate, you’ll probably still be here by the time I’m done.”
She melted off into the crowd again. The bartender wasn’t anywhere close to his end of the bar, so Vish just snagged two slender flutes of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter, then did a quick reconnoiter of the room in search of Sparky. No sign of him.
The explosion shook the restaurant. A low boom, a vibration that rattled the lanterns on the walls, and then smoke poured into the dining area from somewhere in the back, puffy gray clouds that bore an acrid scent.
A moment of stunned silence, and then pandemonium erupted.
Someone slammed into Vish from behind. The champagne glasses went flying out of his hands. Costumed party guests swarmed past him en masse toward the front of the restaurant. He grabbed the bar to brace himself against the flow of bodies. Troy. Troy was in the ladies room, which was at the back of the restaurant, which was where the explosion came from…
Chaos. Screams and shouts. Stampeding guests, their dazzling costumes in disarray, knocked each other over and upended tables and ripped drapes down from the ceiling in their crazed attempts to get outside. Broken glasses and smashed plates of half-eaten food littered the floor.
A hand on his wrist. Vish turned and saw Troy, safe and sound. Her color was high; her eyes glittered with excitement. “There you are. Crap. What happened?” she asked. She looked around.
He pulled her into his arms and clutched her against him. “I don’t know. It was an explosion. Were you close to it?” he asked. “I thought you might have been caught in it. I was looking for you.”
“I’m fine. I’m okay. I didn’t see anything. I was in the ladies’ room, and I heard some kind of bang. Maybe something in the kitchen blew up. Gas stove, maybe.” She squirmed out of his grip and reached up to straighten his turban. “It smells terrible in here. Let’s get away from the smoke or whatever this shit is.”
They had to wait for the congestion at the door to clear. Vish, jittery with adrenaline, wanted to push and claw his way out with the other guests, but Troy, ever calm and collected, linked her fingers with his and anchored him to one spot.
They were among the last to evacuate. The night air was crisp and cold. Vish shivered in her vest. Troy, in her skimpy metal breastplate, didn’t seem affected by the chill.
Everyone stood on the sidewalk in confused clumps, the pretty costumes sad and incongruous on the city street. A fire truck arrived, followed by an ambulance and two police cars. While the firemen swarmed into the restaurant, a police officer addressed the crowd.
“Folks, we’re going to need you to stay here for just a little bit longer while we investigate the situation,” he said. He was burly and middle-aged, with a red beard and redder cheeks. “Who here can tell me exactly what happened?”
“There was a bang.” That was Kelsey. Her face was pink and puffy, and it was obvious she’d been crying. One of the photographers darted right in front of her and snapped a picture inches from her nose; Kelsey blinked in confusion from the flash, but didn’t turn away. “And then there was smoke, and it smelled bad, and everyone started screaming.” Her voice broke, and she started crying again. Troy instinctively moved toward her, but two girls in princess costumes flanking Kelsey wrapped their arms around their friend. Kelsey buried her face into their gauzy dresses and sobbed.
“Crappy birthday party, huh?” Troy said under her breath to Vish. “Poor kid.”
Vish nodded. He looked around at the other evacuated party guests. No sign of Sparky.
In turn, a calm, polite police officer took down their names and their accounts of the incident. After just under an hour of loitering on the sidewalk in the cold night air, they were given the go-ahead to leave. Good. Vish’s sandals were killing him by this point, and he could only imagine what Troy’s feet felt like. Troy called their driver to summon their limo, and they slid into the warm, comfortable interior.
As soon as the door was shut behind them, safe in the cream leather cocoon, Vish felt better. “What do you think happened?” he asked.
Troy shrugged. “Some weird accident, I guess,” she said. “I’m just glad it wasn’t anything serious.”
“Are we going to my place?” Vish asked.
“You bet.” Troy leaned forward and consulted with the driver through the tiny window. When she sat back, the screen rolled up to give them further privacy.
She grinned. “Ever done it in a limo?”
Before Vish could protest that sex in public places wasn’t his kink—in fact, he found the idea off-putting—she was on him, unhooking her sword and letting it fall to the carpeted floor. She settled over his lap and propped her arms against the seat behind him. She unfastened his loose silk trousers and lifted up her short gold skirt. A few adjustments were made, and then she rode him, her cheeks flushing, her curls tumbling out of her upswept hairdo.
Vish slid his arms up around her bare neck. At some point during the evening she must’ve lost the glass bottle necklace.
After they were done, she collapsed in his arms. They fixed their clothing and cleaned up with a stack of cocktail napkins from the mini-bar. Troy nestled against him, her breastplate gouging into his chest, and kissed his chin.
“Thank you,” she said.
Vish smiled. “What for?” he asked. “You did all the hard work.”
“For everything,” Troy said. “It’s been a fun evening.”
Considering the excitement at Kelsey’s party, “fun” wasn’t the right word, but the burst of panic and confusion now seemed trivial compared to the reality of Troy in his arms. Vish snuggled her closer to him, ignoring the pain in his ribs, and closed his eyes.
Wrong City Page 12