“Cool.” He shoves his mirrored shades up and sticks a hand out. “See you guys in three weeks, eh?” I shake his hand, and then he gives Brooke a quick hug as I begin to wonder what kind of twilight zone I’ve entered.
When he walks off, I’m staring at her, perplexed. Sunglasses in place, she says, “What?”
I shake my head. “Oh, I don’t know—possibly the hug and friendly banter with a guy I nearly decked in the middle of a nightclub for you a few months ago.”
She shrugs. “I guess we needed to get that shit out of the way. It was all a long time ago. I’m trying to move past it. Okay?”
I nod. “Sure. Okay.”
A valet pulls up with her black two-seater Mercedes, and I put our bags in the trunk while she tips him. I’ve barely clicked my seatbelt in place when she pulls into traffic. “So tell me… just how serious is this thing with Emma?” Her tone is very nonchalant.
“We’re not really revealing anything about it yet.” My attempt at being evasive earns me a smirk.
“Yeah, I figured that much. Because of the studio edict for Reid and Emma to look like a real-life love-match?”
“Who told you about that?”
She flips her hand off the top of the steering wheel. “He did, I guess. I don’t remember.”
This is more and more odd. So now they’re chatting? “Hmm.”
Glancing at me through her sunglasses, she says, “You can tell me, right? You know I won’t say anything to the freaking media.”
In four years of friendship, Brooke has never given me a reason not to trust her.
“All right. It’s semi-serious.”
She shoots me a look over the top of her sunglasses.
I shrug and look out the window. “And I want it to be more than semi.”
Her faux-smile is back, but she’s directing it out the windshield. “That’s new for you.”
Isn’t it though. “Yes.”
*** *** ***
REID
While I’m packing up, I text John to find out if he wants to go out tonight, and he calls me back while I wait in the lobby for the valet to bring my car around.
“Hell yeah, you know I’m game,” he says. “Any ideas?”
“I was hoping you had something. No clubs—I’ve got studio orders of exclusive coupledom until the premiere. Can’t risk taking anyone home if it could get leaked.” Not to mention the fact that Brooke will hang me up by my balls if I screw up this elaborate scheme of hers. “Any private parties?” John’s network includes plenty of the bored rich kids of LA’s most prominent cosmetic surgeons, Hollywood execs, and professionals like our dads. He’s even better connected for that shit than I am.
“Yeah, sure, there’s at least one or two that might not prove lame. Pick you up at ten?”
“Cool.”
John and I have known each other for three years, ever since a party during which I thought I was going to die.
I was hitting on this girl, and she was hitting back like a pro. We found a shadowy spot near the pool waterfall to make some semi-stoned explorations and get better acquainted—all fine and good until someone yanked me away from her with the clear intent of ripping my arm from its socket. Apparently she had a boyfriend who was a bit disappointed to find her with her shirt hanging open and one hand down the front of my jeans.
“What the f**k do you think you’re doing?” he screamed, eyes crazy and swinging back and forth between us. His hand was still clenched around my nearly dislocated arm as she stumbled backwards. He was smaller than me, but older and really pissed off.
When he let go, I tried to just retreat and take the loss. No sense getting my ass kicked for some girl who hadn’t bothered to volunteer her name or ask mine, as far as I could remember. “Nothing, man, seriously,” I mumbled, still high but sobering up fast. Unfortunately, my unzipped jeans and the fact that she was fumbling to rebutton her shirt contradicted my words.
He stepped closer to me, his wiry neck muscles bulging. “I’m gonna kill you.”
That’s when John popped up next to me. I’d never seen him before. “Hey! Do I know you?” At first I thought he meant me, but a quick glance told me he meant pissed-off guy.
“Back off, dickwad.” The guy stabbed a finger at me. “This is between me and him.”
“Oh yeah? This is my house. So why don’t you back off.” John was smaller than both of us, but he was gushing righteous indignation.
That’s when pissed-off guy’s six-foot-four, linebacker-width friend materialized. Gaping at him, I thought: I’m dead. Holy shit, I’m totally dead. Expressionless, he stared back as I contemplated whether or not it was even remotely possible for me to get in one punch that might stun him long enough for me to make a run for it. I couldn’t look away from his glassy-eyed gaze until he cracked his knuckles.
I swallowed, trying one last stab at conciliation with the pissed-off boyfriend. “Hey, uh, sorry, dude—I didn’t know she was taken.”
“Not good enough, dude,” he sneered, unappeased. He didn’t want apologies. He wanted blood. Mine.
That’s when John sidestepped me and meaty guy, all 140 pounds of him barreling straight into pissed-off guy. Knocking the guy flat on his ass, he commenced to beat the shit out of him, fists flying. Great, I thought, my eyes sliding back to the huge thug whose neck was the size of one of my thighs, now I’m definitely getting my ass kicked.
I stood straight, fists clenched, certain that if that guy landed one punch, I was going to be (a) unconscious and (b) not nearly as attractive as I began this lousy evening. And then meaty guy breathed a deep, frustrated sigh, rolled his eyes, and leaned down to grab his friend out from under John. Making for the side gate, he towed his bleeding, stumbling comrade along. Without a word, the girl followed.