9. Emily
Most of the time, when people learn that animals sometimes gnaw off their limbs to escape traps, they feel horror and compassion, but right now, I’m jealous of the little assholes. If I were able to get out of this by gnawing off a limb, I would do it in record time. Unfortunately, Liza has both literally and figuratively backed me into a corner so even if I did chew off a limb, I’d still be stuck here.
Her blonde hair falls around her in soft waves, and her deep red dress perfectly matches both the shade of her lipstick and her wine. I can’t help but wonder how long it took her to find such an exact match. She’s beautiful in the same way that nightshade is, but all I can see is the poisonous intent behind her eyes.
“Hey, girl. I’m sure he’s told you all about me already, but I’m Liza, Ollie’s agent. And you are?” she asks, flashing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Emily,” I answer warily.
Does she not know who I am?
“Is this your first time here?” Her voice is sticky-sweet.
I opt for short and succinct. Maybe she’ll get bored of me and wander away on her own.
“Yes,” I answer.
“I could tell,” she says, giving my shoulder a condescending pat. “There’s a certain attitude you develop when you run in the best circles, and you just look as fresh and simple as a daisy. I wish I could pull off a look like that.”
What game is she playing? More importantly, how do I end it?
“How do you know Ollie?” Liza presses.
My eyebrows pinch together “I’m assuming you mean Oliver?”
She forces a laugh, “Yes, of course. All his closest friends call him Ollie. Since you were at his table, I thought you would know that. You must be a new friend. At least I’ve never heard of you.”
I realize she has no clue who I am. Relief and anxiety fight for dominance in my head. I guess it’s true when they say the axe forgets but the tree remembers.
“So, how do you know Ollie?” she presses. “Where did you meet? It can’t have been at one of the A-list parties or team events because I would have met you too. You look too” —Liza pauses, raking her eyes over my curvy frame— “healthy to be one of the sick patients he visits as part of his charity work. What am I thinking?” She laughs. “I schedule those too.”
I try to sidestep her, but she shifts into my path.
I sigh. “Mutual friends.”
She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Interesting. So is it Alexei or Ian that you came with?”
I hate that the best way to deal with her is to answer, but it doesn’t seem like I have a choice.
“We’re here as a group. Strictly friendly.” My voice is terse.
“You must have a lot of friends if you dance with them all like that,” Liza remarks snidely.
This cat and mouse game continues for what feels like an eternity. When I finally think she’s given up and will leave me be, she changes tactics. If I weren’t so terrified, I’d be impressed with how fast her face changes.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” she says, wielding her wine glass like a weapon.
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself,” I insist.
I try to sidestep her again, but again she shifts into my path. If I dash past or push her out of the way, she wins. If I signal for one of the guys, she wins. There’s only one option. I hunker down behind a shield of indifference and mentally prepare to wait out the siege.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. Alexei and Ian have a massive fanbase, but Ollie’s is the biggest by far. His fans are insane. You have no idea how hard I have to work to protect him from them. If you keep going out with them, him especially” —she gestures toward Oliver expressively with her wine glass— “you will be under scrutiny like you’ve never experienced before. Unless you’ve been running in these circles for your whole life, you’ll have no idea how to keep yourself safe from them. They’ll dig through your trash, follow you everywhere, try to hack your information and dox you, and bombard you with all kinds of invasive questions at all times of the day and night. If they manage to find your phone number or address, it’s game over.” Liza sighs. “That’s why I usually insist that anyone who tries to get to Ollie goes through me, but his heart is bigger than his brain so he never listens. You know how men are.”
She touches my shoulder affectionately, and I have the overwhelming urge to bite her hand.
Either I’ve been spending too much time watching nature documentaries or I’m more violent than I thought.
“I’m sure Oliver can handle himself. He seems perfectly capable to me,” I say.
“Not with women. Honestly, if it weren’t so good for his career for him to be single, I’m sure he would have settled down with someone” —she blushes and smiles at me slyly like we’re sharing a secret— “close to him who knows the business and is used to all this.”
I look over her shoulder at the men waiting for me at the table across the club. I wish I could teleport there or at the very least force my terrified legs to move. My entire body aches from existing in this clenched panic state for too long, but I can’t make it stop.
Oliver must feel my eyes on him, either that or miracles are real, because he turns his head and meets my eyes. He seems confused that I’m not making my way over to them until his eyes shift over to Liza and he frowns slightly. Impatiently, Oliver beckons to me. I think he might be a witch because that little gesture breaks the spell I’m under. My motivation shifts from self-preservation and preventing a public panic attack to wanting to please him by getting to the table as fast as I can. Somehow, it’s easier to do it for him than myself.
Save it for therapy, Emily. Just get over there.
I force a smile. “I’m glad he has people looking out for his career. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve been away from my friends long enough.”
I step forward purposefully, my eyes locked on our table, and I’m jerked back by Liza. I’m grateful the water is still in my hands because I think I might have actually hit her this time.
“Can I help you with something?” My voice is sharp.
She lets go like I’ve burned her. “No need to be so testy. I just wanted to make sure you understood my warning.”
Which one? That Oliver belongs to you and to back off or the one you actually said about the crazy fans?
Her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and she adopts a childlike expression.
Are men actually attracted to that?
“I just am so worried about you.” Her voice takes on a whining tone. “There are just so many people out there who could hurt you, and I just want you to be careful. You’re not used to any of that attention, and I’d just hate myself if anything happened to you.”
She gestures hard at me with her wine glass, and this time instead of a few droplets landing on the floor, her entire glass of wine splashes on the front of my dress.
If this were a movie, I’d be impressed at how conniving her character was. Her cries of distress and offers of help are genuine, but the upward tilt of her mouth and the narrowness of her eyes make me sure that this was on purpose.
Her squawks draw the attention of several patrons and the nearest bartender. Wordlessly, he puts a wad of paper towels into her outstretched hand.
Even if I had doubts about the deliberateness of her actions—which I don’t—she makes things clear immediately. Liza leans close under the pretense of blotting the worst of it off my dress. She twists into me at an awkward angle, and I realize she’s done it so my dates can’t see her. As soon as she’s sure she can’t be seen, her face loses any trace of innocence as her face morphs into a snarl.
“See what I mean?” she hisses. “Anyone who hangs around Oliver too long ends up getting hurt, and I like to handle things personally. I suggest you keep it strictly friendly with him, understand?”
The rage bubbling over inside me saves me from giving in to my inner child and running away in tears. I don’t usually like feeling angry. I usually just stuff it down until it explodes out of me, but this time, I welcome it like an old friend.
“What I do or don’t do with anyone is none of your business, so you can fuck right off, Liza,” I hiss back.
I take advantage of her shock to pull away from her “help”. I give her my own sticky sweet smile.
“You’re so kind to help me,” I say loudly for the benefit of all the eavesdroppers, “but I’d hate to take away from your evening any more than I have already.” I add a little extra sugar into my tone just to piss her off. “You’re my hero for getting the worst of it off my dress. I’ll take care of the rest myself in the bathroom.”
I sweep away from her before she has a chance to recover and flee to the bathroom. It’s not until I’m safely behind the locked door of a stall that I allow myself to cry.
My body shakes as I force it to have its tempest silently. I will not permit a single noise to escape. The last thing I need is her coming in here and hearing me or someone else reporting to her that I was sobbing in the bathroom. My legs sag under the weight of keeping quiet, and I grip the safety rail in the stall so hard my knuckles are a blinding white.
It’s a while before it all blows over, but when it does, I slip out of the stall on wobbly legs. The bright-eyed girl in the mirror before has been replaced with a deflated, crumbled mess. Every flaw is glaringly obvious. I am too big, too soft, and too out of my depth. I don’t belong here. I should be at home with Audrey instead of trying to date three men who are completely out of my league. What was I thinking?
At least my makeup hasn’t run. Whoever came up with these waterproof products deserves a medal.
If someone got close, they’d see my eyes were puffy, but I was in the stall long enough that they’re barely red. I don’t plan on anyone getting that close, though.
I reach into my jacket pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when my fingers brush fancy cardstock. I’m glad I insisted on keeping my ticket on me when Alexei and I checked our phones and my bag. All I have to do is sneak through the crowd, get my things, and call a cab once I’m outside.
What about the guys?
The thought stops me from leaving. I look back at the mirror. The dress is sheer enough that the areas still damp with wine reveal a lot more of myself than I wanted anyone to see. Alexei thought I was beautiful when we’d fucked in the car, but my dress had stayed on. He didn’t see the stretch marks or the C-section scar. The dimples in my hips and my soft stomach had also been hidden. I was stuffed into this dress like sausage into a casing. It smoothed out all my unsightly lumps.
If he had actually seen what was under here, he wouldn’t have agreed to a redo on our date tonight.
I zip my jacket to hide the worst of the stain and take a breath. My hands grip the sink and I stare at myself.
You are a badass. You will make it out of here. If you can navigate out of a sleeping toddler’s messy bedroom without waking her up, then you can make it out of this club without three men noticing. When you get home, you can dive headfirst into that pint of ice cream you’ve been saving and forget about all of this.
I give myself the best encouraging nod I’m capable of. Then I turn on my heel and stride out of the bathroom.
If there’s any spark of hope that they’ll notice and stop me, I’ve tucked it too deeply away for it to sneak out and slow me down. All I’m focused on is getting out of a place I had no business being in and getting back home where I belong.