The Lion's Den

by Katherine St. John

  She holds up her foot and shows us her tan woven wedges with the telltale red bottom.

  “Ooh, I have those in white. And black. I think I have them in navy, too, but I don’t have tan. I need to get the tan,” Summer gushes.

  Her wardrobe sure has evolved since this time last year, when she was borrowing from my limited closet. But then, she’s certainly worked for it. I swallow my vitriol. “Good thing we’re the same size.” I wink.

  “Of course, I can’t wear them around John,” she whispers. “He can’t stand it when I’m taller than him.” She assesses Wendy. “You’re probably fine wearing heels because you’re so short, but you shouldn’t,” she warns, looking at me. “If you didn’t bring flats, you can borrow some.”

  “I have flats. And not wearing heels for a week sounds great.”

  “Good.” Summer pats my knee. Her eyes land on my wrist. “What kind is that?” She indicates my glowing smart watch.

  Her appetite for material goods is voracious.

  “It’s some weird German brand.” I finger the gold band. “I just thought it looked cooler than most of the ones out there that I see.”

  “I like that it’s round,” she says. “Lemme try it on.”

  “It’s syncing to my body to tell me when I’m gonna get my period and stuff, so I’m not supposed to put it on other people,” I demur.

  “Weird,” she says. “What else does it do?”

  “It tracks my sleep. I’m not sure what else. I just got it.”

  “You’ve gotta give me the name. I want one.”

  “It’s not quite as nice as yours.” I indicate her Rolex. “And that ring is fabulous.”

  “Thanks.” She admires the sparkling yellow stone in the light. “It’s a canary diamond. It’s worth, like, two million, if you can believe it.”

  Two million dollars for a ring? Sweet Jesus, I can think of so many better uses for two million dollars than as a finger decoration.

  I have exactly $794 in my bank account. Plus eighteen hundred in cash in my freezer, but that’s for rent, due the day after we get back. I don’t even have a credit card. I just recently paid off the ten thousand in debt I ran up to buy a car and put down a deposit on an apartment, and I don’t want to have the temptation of digging that particular hole again.

  Wendy gazes at the bauble, transfixed. “It’s gorgeous.” Her tummy rumbles. “Sorry. I’m starving!”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Oh, you guys didn’t get any Danishes up here?” Summer asks.

  “No,” Brittani chimes in. “Why? You have some? I’m starving.”

  “We had a whole basket,” Summer says, “but we ate them all. You guys were supposed to have some up here.” She flags down the younger flight attendant. “Are there any more Danishes?”

  The girl shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “But wasn’t there a basket for up here?” Summer cocks her head.

  “There was, but that was the second basket I gave you,” she says.

  “You ate two baskets? Piggy!” Brittani exclaims.

  “There should be more,” Summer insists, ignoring Brittani.

  The stewardess nods. “Yes, ma’am. Will you be needing anything else?”

  “A double latte with coconut milk and agave.”

  “Wait, you got lattes on here, too?” Brittani asks. “I’ll take what she’s having.”

  The gray-haired stewardess approaches, having finished reconfiguring the beds into chairs. “Please return to your seats for landing.”

  “Just make the one latte, please,” Summer instructs with a roll of her eyes. “Brittani can have a sip of mine.”

  “Thanks, sis.” Brittani’s tone drips with sarcasm.

  “Brittani!” Rhonda chides. “Be grateful to your sister for bringing you here.”

  “She knows I’m kidding. God!”

  Before I can return to my seat, Summer grabs my elbow. “Sit with me.” She pats the forward-facing seat next to her at the table.

  I slide into the seat beside her and buckle my seat belt, wondering whether I’ve already gotten myself in trouble. But maybe, I reproach myself, she’s just trying to be nice.

  Summer watches the flight attendants chatting at the front of the plane. “I got rid of the pretty ones,” she whispers.

  I never would have noticed if she hadn’t said anything, but indeed the stewardesses are plain, made only more so by their dowdy uniforms. But I can understand her reasoning. John did pick her up on a jet.

  When I don’t answer right away, she continues. “Sorry John can be a little controlling,” she confides. “But he’s hardly gonna be around. He’ll be working most of the time.”

  “All good.”

  “It’ll be just like old times, only now I have a yacht.” She flashes me a grin, and I see a flicker of my old friend, the girl I shared secrets with before the diamonds and the deceit. “Ooh, look.” She points out the window, at a strip of road perched atop a mountain overlooking the sea.

  “Is that where we’re landing?” I ask, alarmed.

  She laughs. “Don’t worry. We do it all the time.”

  It’s midday when we land at the small private airport on the Ligurian coast. As we step off the plane into the unrelenting Mediterranean sun, we’re greeted by a hot breeze and a sweeping view of the sea. I pause to enjoy it, until Brittani bumps into me, also entranced.

  “Holy shit!” she exclaims. “It is so fucking pretty here!”

  My ears ringing, I bound down the steps to the tarmac, fishing in my canvas carryall for my passport. Summer stops next to me, rummaging in her giant Louis Vuitton.

  “I like your bag,” I say, hoping to keep up the camaraderie we shared on the plane.

  “I got it to match the rest of my luggage, but it’s way too big—I can’t ever find anything in it. You can have it when we get back.”

  Once inside the small stone-and-glass building, we hand over our passports to the lone Italian customs agent, who stamps them without ceremony and hands them back to us. Amythest eyes her stamp with admiration.

  “First stamp?” I ask.

  “First time I’ve left the States since I came over from the Philippines. When I was six,” she admits.

  “You were born in the Philippines?” I ask. She nods. “I’ve never been there, but I hear it’s beautiful.”

  “Ha. Tell that to my mom. She gave up everything to get away from there.”

  I want to ask her more, but we’ve joined the others waiting in the airy lobby for the baggage handlers to bring out our bags. Summer is holding court, thumbing through her passport. “Almost full.” She displays her stamps. “We’ve been to so many places, I’m gonna have to get a new one soon.”

  I point out a Bahamas stamp. “I remember that one,” I say with a conspiratorial smile.

  “That’s from a trip I took with my mom to Atlantis,” she says lightly.

  I laugh. “No. It’s from when I was shooting that movie there and you and Wendy came down to visit.” I open my passport to show her my identical stamp, but her voice stops me cold.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her green eyes lock on mine, making sure I’m aware of the minefield I’m walking across. “I’ve only ever been to the Bahamas with my mother and with John.”

  “Right. Got it.”

  Good thing they don’t stamp your passport when you’re driving into Mexico, because––

  “What are you girls looking at?” John approaches and places his hand on Summer’s shoulder.

  “Oh, I was just showing them my stamps from all the places we’ve been,” Summer says a hair too quickly.

  In a split second I see him recognize that’s not the whole truth, consider it, and decide not to engage. “I have a meeting in town.” He throws a smile at the rest of us. “Welcome to the Riviera, girls. I’ll see you all on the boat later.”

  Before anyone can respond, he’s halfway across the lobby, Vinny trailing after him. The older goon
, whose name I can’t remember, rounds us up. “Ladies, your passports.”

  The other girls hand over their passports to him without a second thought, but I hesitate. One of the first rules of international travel is never to part with your passport.

  He holds out his hand to me expectantly. “For safekeeping.”

  “I can just hold on to it,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’m careful.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” Summer says. “It’s just the way John does things. Believe me, it’s easier if we all just go along.”

  “I’d rather just hold on to it,” I repeat, my heart hammering in my chest.

  “Belle, please don’t be a problem,” Summer implores.

  I can’t think fast enough to come up with an excuse, and clearly they’re not going to make an exception for me. But I don’t like this one bit. After another few awkward seconds, I reluctantly acquiesce. He slips our passports into his jacket pocket, and we follow him out into the sweltering day, where two black Suburbans wait under the portico, engines running. The goon climbs into the first one. “Summer, Brittani, and Mrs. Brown, you’re with me.”

  “Mrs. Brown?” Rhonda balks. “Please. Call me Rhonda.”

  He nods without cracking a smile. “Okay, Rhonda.”

  “What about Amythest?” Brittani asks, hip-checking Amythest. “I wanna be with my girrrl.”

  “Quit your bitching. You’re in Italy!” Rhonda says.

  “Whoooooo! It-a-ly!” Brittani croons.

  I dive into the second Suburban, thankful for a break from that voice. Wendy, Claire, and Amythest pile in behind me. We all take in the view as we wind down the mountain, past picturesque homes built into the hillside facing the sea. “I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Claire says.

  “I can’t believe we had to turn over our passports,” I grouse.

  “Planning on going somewhere without the rest of us?” Wendy teases.

  “It’s the principle,” I say. “Besides, it’s weird. I mean, why do they need my passport? Unlike Summer, I don’t enjoy being kept on a leash.”

  Wendy sneaks a glance at the driver. “John does seem pretty controlling,” she agrees in a whisper.

  “Yeah.” Claire matches her whisper. “The NDA was a little weird.”

  “And the assigned seats on the plane,” I add quietly.

  “She said he’ll be working most of the time, though,” Wendy reasons. “I doubt we’ll see him that much. And maybe it’s superstition or something. A lot of people are weird about flying.”

  Leave it up to Wendy to be diplomatic.

  “How’s he so rich?” Amythest asks.

  “I don’t know exactly,” I say. “His company is Lionshare Holdings? He does something with real estate development, I think, moving money around, funding things.”

  “Sounds shady,” Amythest comments.

  “I’m sure some of it is,” I agree.

  “I don’t think so,” Wendy says. “He just funded the new superhero movie with that superhot Australian guy who just had a baby with the blonde that was in the last installment? It’s like number four in the series I think.”

  “Midas 4, When the Gold Runs Out,” I recite. I turn to Wendy. “Speaking of movies, don’t mention anything about you guys visiting me in the Bahamas. According to Summer, it never happened.”

  She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Good to know.”

  “I just wish she’d tell us these things before,” I grumble. “How are we supposed to know what not to say?”

  “Well, we know John’s jealous,” Wendy replies. “So probably skip anything that has to do with another guy. And for sure don’t mention Eric.”

  “Who’s Eric?” Amythest asks.

  “Summer’s ex,” I say.

  “What happened?”

  “He died,” Wendy says with an air of finality.

  “Shit. How?” Amythest presses.

  “It’s probably better if we don’t talk about it.” Wendy looks pointedly at me. “Okay?”

  “O-kaaaay.” Amythest holds up her hands. “Jeez. So what happened in the Bahamas?”

  I could bite my tongue, but I’m feeling ornery. “You know Tate James?”

  Amythest nods. “I mean, not personally.”

  Wendy gives me a sharp glance. “Oh, come on,” I say, snorting. “I get not talking about Eric, but this is really not that big a deal.” I turn my attention to Amythest and Claire, who lean in attentively. “I had a bit part in a movie he was starring in a couple of years ago—”

  “Which one?” Amythest interrupts.

  “Black Heart,” I say.

  “Who were you?” she asks.

  “I played his girlfriend’s best friend who gets taken hostage by his nemesis and killed. I had, like, two lines before I got a dagger to the throat.”

  “That’s so cool,” she enthuses.

  “So what happened with Summer?” Claire asks.

  “My scene required rain, and they wanted real rain, God knows why, so I was down there a couple of weeks waiting for it to rain, and Summer and Wendy came down to visit me. Summer ended up hooking up with Tate. Then his wife showed up for a surprise visit, and he kicked Summer to the curb. She was pretty upset.”

  “Then what happened?” Amythest prods.

  “Nothing,” Wendy says, fixing me with a glare.

  Okay, fine. I won’t tell the part about how Summer showed up at his hotel room and confessed everything to his wife while he was on set, triggering that vicious divorce. “See? Not that exciting,” I concede lamely. “We had fun before the merde hit the fan, though.” I turn to Wendy. “Remember that wedding we accidentally crashed?”

  Wendy laughs. “And I ended up making out with the best man. Can you believe that was only, like, three years ago?”

  “A lot can change in three years,” I say.

  I lean my head back against the leather seat and gaze out the window as we descend into a little town at the bottom of the hill that seems almost set-designed to be a quaint Italian village by the sea. The street is lined with bakeries and shops that look like they’ve been there for hundreds of years.

  The Suburbans thread their way slowly through cobblestone streets that were not made to accommodate giant American vehicles, coming to a halt in front of a cute little restaurant with red awnings and ample outdoor seating.

  “How cute,” Claire comments.

  Summer, Rhonda, and Brittani emerge from the front Suburban and stroll past the restaurant. “I was hoping we were going to eat,” Amythest says longingly as they disappear from view.

  The goon opens the door, and the car fills with the smell of spiced roasting meat. “Where’s everyone going?” I ask.

  “Summer saw a shop she wanted to stop in.”

  “Can we just pop in that restaurant and grab a bite while she shops?” Wendy asks. “We’re all starving.”

  He shakes his head. “You stick together. Come on.”

  We pile out of the car, and he herds us up the street and around the corner, into a little boutique where Summer already has an armful of dresses to try on. She holds a peach one up for us to see. “What do you think?”

  “That color is beautiful on you,” Rhonda raves.

  The smell of fresh-baked bread wafts through the store from the bakery next door. I could faint I’m so hungry. I thumb through a rack. Prada. Miu Miu. Versace. The prices are in euros and are nothing I can remotely afford.

  “These clothes are gorgeous!” Wendy exclaims.

  Claire shows me the price tag on a swimsuit, wide-eyed. Six hundred fifty euros. For a strip of fabric no bigger than my hand. I sit in a chair in the front corner of the store, looking longingly out the window at curvy Italian girls licking gelato from waffle cones.

  Upon seeing the armfuls of outfits Summer is taking into the dressing room, the shopgirl pops open a bottle of prosecco and pours us each a glass. The bubbles caress my tongue and the alcohol hits my stomach like a fireball, warming me fro
m the inside out. Without a morsel of food in my belly, soon I’m fuzzy and starting to enjoy myself. The shopgirl keeps the bubbly coming, and before long, we’re all merrily sloshed.

  When we finally leave the store, Brittani and Rhonda are restyled in the tasteful new dresses Summer bought them and Bernard is overloaded with Summer’s giant shopping bags. I’m a little surprised that he’s willing to be her cart horse, but I guess he doesn’t have much choice. We stumble down the cobblestone street behind him, the impractical four-hundred-euro white silk scarves Summer bought each of us draped around our necks, our laughter echoing down the narrow pathway. The sight of the restaurant where our Suburbans are parked reminds me of how hungry I am, and I immediately feel the downturn of the champagne buzz already beginning to morph into a headache.

  Wendy grabs my arm. “Do you smell that? Fresh pizza.”

  I inhale the scent of baking crust, bubbling tomato sauce, smoked meats. I know I’m supposed to just go with the flow, but my hunger gets the better of me. Weak at the knees, I turn to Summer. “Please can we just stop in and grab a slice of pizza? We’re famished.”

  “Oh! I totally forgot you guys were hungry! Was there not enough fruit and PowerBars in the car?” she asks.

  All of us from the second car shake our heads no. “We didn’t have anything,” I say.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Summer exclaims. “We had them, so I figured you did. We have to get you something to eat.”

  Bernard looks up from his cell phone and shakes his head. “We go to the boat. John wants you there when he arrives.”

  Summer sighs and looks at us with genuine pity. “I’m so sorry. You can have whatever you want as soon as we get to the boat,” she promises.

  We force smiles and nod.

  “The tender is down at the water.” Bernard points toward the water, a few hundred yards away. “The cars are too big. We’ll walk.”

  We follow Bernard down another picturesque cobblestone street, the reflected light between the buildings turning gold as the sun makes its daily journey toward the sea. The only one of us talking is Brittani, loudly telling Amythest a graphic story about a guy she was having sex with at a fraternity party and managed to throw up on, then passed out naked on his bed, only to wake to two guys standing over her, pouring beer on her. It’s nauseating. I want to slap some sense into her, for the sake of womankind. But I know that would be an exercise in futility. I briefly wish my thoughtful, clever little sister were here in her place. Ha! As if Lauren would be caught dead playing the role of eye candy on some billionaire’s yacht.