Chapter 19
KEELY
Six years ago
I dress nice in my short, black leather skirt and a sexy fuchsia halter top.
Ashley has grudgingly loaned me her knee-high heeled boots in exchange for doing her laundry for a week.
Since I tend to do it most days or risk brain damage from the skanky smells from her gym bag, it’s no biggie.
I would’ve gone for plain black platform heels, but Ashley assured me guys go wild for leather boots, especially stilettos.
And since she seems to have a hot guy on the go every other night of the week, I’ve decided to trust her on this crucial point.
Leo’s town car arrives at eight sharp.
I try to act cool and not giggle when the chauffeur doffs his cap and calls me ma’am.
A few students drifting out of the frat house across the street whistle when I expose a little thigh sliding into the back of the car.
Although I blush, I’m more than a little pleased by the confidence-boost I get from their male appreciation.
I settle into the back of the car and, as we exit the campus, check out my subtle make-up in the window reflection.
We head south on Westwood Plaza, then hang a right on Wiltshire.
I’m dying to ask where exactly the party is, but it feels as if it’s something I would know, and I don’t want to appear unsophisticated.
I open my small clutch and check that the seventy-five dollars I tucked in there earlier—because my mom has ingrained in me never to leave home without a means to get back—is still there, along with my phone, a packet of gum and a tube of lipstick.
I debated whether to bring my driver’s license, but I decided against doing so. Since this is a private event, and I have a photo of my license on my phone that I can always access if I need to show my ID, I’m cool with not stuffing too many items into my tiny fuchsia purse.
We hit traffic, and I start twirling my hair as anxiety churns through me.
I catch myself and try to play a couple of games of Bejeweled to distract myself instead.
After I fail the same level five times in a row, I put my phone away.
I’m too nervous to concentrate anyway. I look out the window and see that we’re climbing into the Hollywood Hills.
The houses are getting bigger and farther apart.
Below me, L.A. is a blanket of fuzzy twinkles.
I face forward and catch the driver staring at me with a touch of jaded curiosity that immediately gets my back up.
Shit, should I have asked his name? Or made conversation?
I hope he doesn’t mistake me for another self-absorbed rich brat.
I attempt a hey-I’m-one-of-you smile, but his gaze shifts and refocuses on the road.
I’m wondering what to say to him when we swing off the road and stop in front of a pair of towering black gates.
He keys in a code and eases the car onto a white gravel road.
Sleek sports cars and limos litter the tree-lined driveway, but there’s no one outside, which makes me wonder if and how late I am for the party.
And also whether I need to text Leo to let him know I’m here.
I toss the idea out. It doesn’t seem like a cool thing to do, and I don’t want to come off as Needy Nerd .
When the driver stops under a super-wide portico and comes round to open my door, I attempt another smile. His face remains impassive.
“You’ll need this.” He hands me a flat black box, then doffs his cap again. “Enjoy your evening, ma’am.”
He disappears round the side of the house, and I’m left alone on the doorstep. I open the box and stare at the computer-chipped wristband, a tiny earpiece and a mask arranged on a bed of velvet.
Right, Keels, you’re definitely not in Kansas anymore .
I feel a little sick with nerves as I slide the wristband on and insert the earpiece. The mask is a bit big, but I look on the bright side—better a bigger fit than for it to be too small.
When I’m done, I look for a doorbell, but there isn’t one in sight. There’s no visible handle. I chew on my lip for a minute, then knock.
Five minutes later, I’m still standing on the doorstep. I check my phone on the off chance that Leo has realized I’m not by his side yet. There are no messages. I’m about to hit my home button when a Porsche roars up the driveway and skids to a halt, barely missing a column under the portico.
I pretend I’m checking my phone as a guy and girl about my age approach the door. They’re wearing masks and earpieces too. The guy looks me over and smirks, before holding his wristband to a black box at the top right-hand corner of the door.
The box clicks and the door opens. He ushers his girlfriend in and eyes me over his shoulder.
“You coming?” he asks me.
“I… Yeah, sure.”
I start to walk in, but he plants himself in front of me. “Did you forget? You need to code in.” He points to the black box.
“Oh, of course. I was miles away.” I raise my wrist and I hear another click.
We walk into a stunning entryway with a statement-announcing sweeping staircase that rises from the middle and curves into two wide arcs. A guy in a tux holding a clipboard and a similar earpiece to the one I’m wearing approaches. “Names?”
“Jeeves,” says the guy who’s just entered.
“O,” his girlfriend supplies.
The guy with the clipboard traces a finger down his page and nods. “I have you both. Proceed to the east wing, please.”
The couple beam, and the guy smacks his girlfriend on the ass as they skip away.
Right, so clearly the east wing was the place to be.
I paste a cool smile on my face as he turns to me. “Name.”
“ Keely Benson .”
Startled eyes widen as he stares at me. “Umm… did you just— Fuck, I don’t want your real name. I need your codename.”
I flush a humiliating red and I think about making one up, but he only needs to look on his list to catch me out in the lie.
In the end, I go with the truth. “Sorry, I wasn’t given one.
I’m actually here to see Leo—” I stop when I realize I’m probably not supposed to say Leo’s name either.
“The host of the party invited me. He’s my…
umm…” Friend? Date? BFF? I feel foolish, standing there, trying to explain a relationship that has so far only lived in my imagination.
“Can you point me in the direction of where the host is, please?”
He shakes his head. “I need your name before I can grant you access to the wings.”
“Okay, just give me a minute.” I turn away, still drowning in humiliation, take out my phone and start tapping. The next moment, I’m texting air.
“Sorry, there are no phones allowed at the event.” He depresses the button that shuts down my phone before he slips it into a Ziploc-type bag and seals it with a padlock. He hands me the key. “It’ll be returned to you at 3a.m., when the event ends. Now, about the name…”
“You’ve just confiscated my only means of proving to you that I’m an invited guest. How else am I supposed to?—”
“Is there a problem here?”
My head snaps round at the familiar voice and my mouth drops open. “Prof—” I clamp my mouth shout at the last second, before I commit my third faux pas in three minutes.
What the hell is my psychology professor doing here?
And dressed smartly in tailored slacks and a button-down shirt, unlike his normal jeans, sweater and casual jacket combo.
He’s wearing a mask too, but since I’ve recognized him immediately and he’s making no attempt to deny knowing me, I’m getting the feeling the masks are a casual prop, not a serious attempt to disguise identities.
“Are we okay here?” he asks again.
“We’re just straightening out this guest’s identity.”
“It’s okay. I’ll vouch for her.”
Clipboard Guy frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ll find Dorian and let him know. In the meantime, put her down as…” Professor Harding eyes me from top to toe before he smiles. “Put her down as Holly Golightly.”
That earns him a frown. “You sure about this, Moriarty?”
Professor Harding nods. “I’m sure.”
The other guy stares at me a moment before he scribbles my codename down. “East or west wing?”
“We’ll head west first.”
Another note is made before the guy heads off and leaves me alone with the man I all but accused of sexual harassment one short semester ago. A man who just saved me from getting turfed out on my ass before I get a chance to deflower myself all over Leo Brummer.
Silence reigns as Professor Harding, or Moriarty as he’s named himself for tonight, stares down at me from his six-foot height.
Under the lights in the hallway, his dark brown hair gleams and his slate-grey eyes pierce a little too forcefully into my psyche.
I know a few of the girls in my year are a little dreamy over his young Richard Gere looks, but something about him makes me jumpy.
Nervously, I clear my throat. “Umm… thanks for vouching for me.”
“No problem, Holly. Come on,” he says as he steers me left. We pass through a set of double doors made of rose-etched glass, and it occurs to me that for what is supposed to be a party, the place seems a little too quiet. There’s no music pumping from speakers and no voices raised in merry chatter.
If not for the dozens of cars outside, I’d assume I’m at the wrong place.
I clear my throat and think of something witty to say.
But I’m hopelessly tongue-tied, and my brain chooses that moment to remind me what an utter asshole Professor Harding has been to me this semester.
I debate whether to apologize again to clear the air once and for all, but rebellion hardens my spine.
Despite my apology at the end of last semester, he’s chosen to single me out to crap on for weeks now. Fuck if I’ll let him see how much that’s upset me. But he did vouch for me so I can’t exactly ignore him.
“So… what happens in the west wing?” And will Leo be there?
I’m proud of myself for not asking the second question, and for not coming out with a lame line like— do you come here often?