The Virgin Society Collection

45. RideDie

45

RIDE OR DIE

Harlow

I’m counting down.

All day at work, I tick off the hours in my head. Then, I do it as I head home in the evening to get ready. As I finish my makeup, Layla comes by, banging on the door, declaring she’s here to help.

“What else are friends for but to help get you ready for a gala?” she asks as I swing open the door.

“You’re right,” I say.

She sweeps into my apartment and closes the door behind her.

I’m already in my red dress. I gesture to the back of it. “I can’t zip this up without you.”

She smiles slyly. “I knew you’d need me.” Layla spins me around and zips up the sheath dress.

I turn back to her. “How do I look?”

She eyes me up and down, assessing. “You look twenty-one and sexy.”

I laugh, like I’m dismissing the compliment. But that’s a damn good way to look when I see Bridger again.

I can’t wait. It’s been too long.

Layla dangles a pair of chandelier earrings from her fingers and holds out a tiny purse. “Wear these earrings tonight. I wore them when I landed my job. They’ll give you good vibes.”

I snatch them and the purse. “I need all the good vibes.”

“So is everything all set for tomorrow?”

I nod, nerves rushing through me as I put on the earrings. But even though I’m nervous, I’m also resolute. “I texted my dad. He’s coming over at noon.”

She gives me a you’ve got this look. “It’s all going to work out in the end.”

I swallow past a lump in my throat. “I hope so.”

One more night to get through. One more night, and then we’ll be free to be together.

Layla walks out with me, crossing through the lobby and to the street. I do a double take when I spot the red sports car at the curb—Layla’s ride. Ethan’s at the wheel, aviator shades on. He waggles them. “Hop on in, gorgeous,” he says. “Think of me as your chauffeur.”

I shriek, and I’m not even embarrassed by the high-pitched sound that comes from my mouth. “You guys are driving me to the gala?”

Ethan winks. “What else are friends for?”

“Everything,” I say seriously as I slide into the car, emotions climbing my throat. “You guys are for everything . And I love you so much.”

“You better, especially since you left the Virgin Society,” he teases as he peels out into Manhattan traffic.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to uphold all its values,” I say.

Ethan snorts. “Like getting out of this society,” he says, then licks the corner of his lips salaciously. “With a hot babe or a hot dude.”

“You go,” I say, and we cheer him on as he weaves expertly through traffic.

Soon, we reach the hotel, and they drop me off in front. I can’t think of a better way to enter.

Inside, I’m strung tight with anticipation. I’m wildly eager to see Bridger again. But I also want it to be tomorrow so I can kiss him in public already.

A quandary indeed.

I make my way through the bustling lobby, up the escalator, then down the hallway. When I’m ten feet away from the French doors, my phone buzzes in my clutch.

Grabbing it, I slide it open.

I’ll be there in five minutes. Xoxo

I glow a little inside. Maybe a lot. After tapping out a quick reply— Prepare to be impressed as l resist flinging myself at you when I see you —I head to the ballroom, tucking the phone back in my clutch.

We’re almost there. Tomorrow isn’t far away.

I lift my hand to touch the I on my necklace for strength. But then, I gently tap the chandelier earrings instead, picturing Ethan and Layla. No matter what happens with my dad tomorrow, I’ll always have my friends. They are my family now.

Feeling strong, I follow the sound of Unfinished Business , Sweet Nothings , The Dating Games .

My ten-year-old self would have floated to the moon to have waltzed in here. It’s as sparkly as I imagined more than a decade ago when I begged my parents to be their plus one.

Servers in white shirts and crisp slacks circulate with silver trays of fancy hors d’oeuvres. Gorgeous guests in reds, golds, fuchsia, and sapphire smile dazzlingly bright. Men in tailored tuxes—probably ones they own rather than rent—look polished and sharp. There are even a few women in tuxes.

I devour the sights—actors like Jude Fox, writers like Ellie Snow, and then, wow…is that Davis Milo over there, holding court with his Tony Award-winning wife Jill Milo? I shiver in excitement. In another corner, I spot Nick Hammer, the creator of a popular late-night animated show that was adapted into a Broadway musical.

But my father taught me better than to stand and gawk, so I weave through the crowds, scanning for Table Twelve in the center of the room. I move past the A-list of the television industry and spot my father there, his arm curved around Vivian’s waist, grandly entertaining some agents from Astor Agency, I presume.

Vivian chimes in, it seems, laughing, then saying something I can’t make out. She seems…happy.

Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.

Dominic from the show is with them, with his red-carpet grin.

I keep my focus on my father as I walk, but my stomach churns. My chest aches too with a new pain, a new fear.

I’m going to be the instrument of his hurt.

Even if he doesn’t disown me, he’s going to be so disappointed in me.

Maybe even angry.

But I do my best to shove those emotions to a far corner in the back of my mind as I near the table.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of red hair a few tables away. Isla’s here. Sweet Nothings was nominated for an award, and she’s the head writer.

Weird that she’s not hanging around Table Twelve. She’s talking to a man at another table. No idea what that means—if it means anything at all. But I have enough trouble of my own; I don’t need to borrow it from others.

When I reach my father, he turns to me, beaming. “Harlow! At long last, my princess,” he says.

I wither inside. He has no idea. Of course he has no idea that tomorrow I’m going to blindside him.

Maybe I’m the selfish asshole.

Words well up inside me, and I’m dying to spit out the truth right now.

But for one last night, I’ll play the role I’ve played my whole entire life. The good daughter.

“Hi, Dad,” I say and give a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m so glad you could be here. Tell me everything about the new job,” he says, playing the part of the doting papa. Only, neither one of us is acting. My father does adore me. And I am a good girl.

But he is also a liar and an addict.

As for me? I’m not a princess. I’m just a flawed young woman.

We are all good and bad in our own ways. But the difference is who we hurt with our shades of gray.

I’m faithful. He’s not.

“It’s going great.” We make small talk for the next few minutes, and it’s the most surreal moment of my life. All I want to do is blurt out the truth.

“And the installation will be done on Monday,” I finish. Then my skin tingles, and I just know.

Bridger’s here.

I spin around. My heart thunders at the sight of him moving through the crowd, his tux hugging his strong frame, his jawline shaven, his eyes locked on me.

I’m sure he can’t help the way he can’t stop looking at me. My smile grows dangerously wide as he nears us.

It takes all my willpower not to run to him, to fling myself into his arms. I’ve missed him so much. I want our future so badly. But I’ve spent a year being patient. I’ll spend another few hours doing the same.

When he arrives, he tears his gaze from me like it pains him.

“Hello, Ian,” he says.

But it’s different from any greeting I’ve heard him give my father before. It’s tight. Clipped.

Did something happen in Paris between them?

If so, my father doesn’t let on. He simply claps Bridger on the shoulder and says, “Let’s hope we win Best Show for the fifth year in a row. It’ll make it even sweeter when we present the final award of the night.”

Bridger doesn’t answer. He simply says hello to Vivian, the guests from Astor, to Dominic and then me.

Here we are, at the gala I longed to attend when I was younger. I’m in the center of all the festivities. Everyone is lovely, but I’m not a part of this world. I belong in SoHo, or Tribeca. I’m at home in The Frick, or the Ashanti Gallery. My heart lies in the St. James Theatre, and the rest of the theaters on the Great White Way where I can get lost in a musical.

With that man.

The one across from me. The one I’m pretending I’m not with all throughout dinner, all throughout dessert, all throughout these conversations.

Even though Bridger keeps stealing glances at me.

Finally, there’s a break before the awards start, so I grab my purse and head for the ladies’ room.

Inside, I touch up my lip gloss and check the time. I half wish we were at a diner, Bridger and me, eating French fries, gabbing about his trip.

Maybe tomorrow.

Once I leave and turn down the hall, Bridger’s walking toward me.

With purpose. With intensity.

With desire in his eyes.

My stomach swoops.

He’s where I belong too.

I turn around, head back down the hall, scan the area. There’s an alcove off to the left—a quiet nook with a chair just past the ladies’ room. I nod to it then turn in. He’s there seconds later, and I’m vibrating. He balls his hands into fists so he doesn’t touch me, and I do the same.

“Hi,” I whisper, fighting every impulse to kiss him, to hug him, to touch him.

“Hi,” he says, his dark gaze raking over me. “This whole time, I’ve wanted to take your hand. Kiss you. Touch you. Tell you that you look beautiful.”

My heart beats wildly. “So do you.”

Then, with fuck it in his eyes, he leans in, brushes his lips to my cheek, whispering, “Missed you so much.”

“Missed you too,” I say against his stubble. “Come over tonight.”

“As if I’d go anywhere else but home. With you .”

Home. That’s what he feels like. My home at last.

Then he leaves, and when my hummingbird heart settles down, I exit the alcove and head back along the hall.

But all the air vacates my lungs when a redhead pushes on the door to the ladies’ room in front of me.

I go still as a rabbit.

Maybe Isla didn’t see us.

But then she casts her gaze over her shoulder at me.

And she looks smug.