Lip Service – By CJ Warrant #3
Realizing what I just did, I shove it back in my purse and run out of the bathroom, calling, “Thank you.”
And for what? I have no frickin’ clue why I thanked the man.
Ava
“Is everything all right, Ms. Lange?” Jessica Taylor tilts her head slightly and stares at me with a quizzical frown.
I smile wearily, while glancing over my shoulder for him . To my immense relief, he is nowhere in sight. I turn and face Jessica. “Um…No—yes—I mean, I’m good. I’m ready.” I then snap my mouth shut before something even more ludicrous comes out.
With a curt nod, Jessica leads me down a different hallway. Her phone pings. She glances down at the screen and lets out an exasperated breath. “Give me one minute and wait here.” She strides back to where we came from.
Out of curiosity, I stroll down the hallway. The deeper I go, the brighter the area becomes.
And no wonder.
Around the corner, there are big windows that look out over the city of Los Angeles. What a spectacular view. I can see Pershing Square from here. Although… I’d rather watch those two gorgeous men messing around.
O.M.G. Ava. Get over it!
Putting that glorious thought aside, I step into the sunshine that’s flooding the space. I’m instantly warmed, and the tension along my spine loosens.
Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I slowly turn and notice a room full of people. And everyone’s eyes are on me.
I cringe, and gulp with mortification. Huh. Mortification seems to be the word of the day. I stand there, not sure what to do. God! I must look like an absolute idiot as I bask in the sunlight like some beach bum.
Way to go, Ava . Another bonehead move . Be like a statue. Be like a statue.
To my surprise, they all turn back around when a beautiful man walks into the room. His dark brown hair, winning smile… Wait. He looks so familiar?—
I gasp as I realize where I’ve seen him. He is the other man—John—from the bathroom.
My eyes drop to his crotch, and my face instantly flushes hot and heat pools tight in my lower belly. Images of him and the blond guy jacking off pop into my head.
My heart is ricocheting off my ribcage and I find myself discombobulated, not sure what to do, especially when he smirks at me. He finally turns away, and only then can I breathe again.
“Ms. Lange?” My name echoes off the walls and I jump in surprise. Urging my feet to move, I hustle out of the group’s sight and head back to where I last saw Jessica.
“Ms. Webb is ready for you.” Jessica looks past me, toward the hall I just exited. She narrows her eyes for a second before pasting on a fake smile. “Follow me.”
She leads me to a set of elevators at the end of the hall. We ride up to the twentieth floor.
When the doors open, I’m greeted with another waiting area, just as lavish as its downstairs counterpart, and a closed red door.
Jessica twists the ornate, copper-colored doorknob, and opens the door. “Go in,” she says with a hint of annoyance.
“Thank you,” I utter and walk inside. Even though she hasn’t been polite, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be courteous.
The moment the door closes, I realize that I’m alone, with Ms. Webb nowhere in sight. I take the opportunity to look around and am in awe at what I see.
I’ve left the twenty-first century and am now right smack in the middle of the Victorian era. Instead of the stark, sharp lines of both reception areas, this room is plush, warm, and welcoming.
I spin in a slow circle, amazed at the old boudoir-style décor the room emulates. This office doesn’t look like an office at all, but more like a bedroom without a bed.
I reach out and touch the rich, red filigree-patterned wallpaper that covers three walls—a perfect backdrop for the framed images adorning them.
The fourth wall is painted in muted beige and gives the appearance of a frame for the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The view of the city is spectacular, and I can see Elysian Park in the distance.
Crushed velvet curtains, the color of burnt umber, are trimmed in soft gold and puddle on the dark mahogany floor. A highly detailed oriental rug completes the room’s décor. As I bend to get a better look at the pattern, I blush. It depicts couples in various sex positions.
A large Victorian walnut desk is positioned by the window and half turned toward the beautiful view. The deep red brocade chair behind it reminds me of a throne. From what I know of her, the audacious chair seems appropriate for Guinevere Webb.
Minutes go by, and I’m still alone in the room. With no other chairs aside from the one behind the desk, I sit on the large curved settee, upholstered to match the throne chair, and gaze at the pictures on the walls.
Instead of the posed photos in equal-sized, bold, black frames that I saw in the waiting area downstairs, these frames are in different shapes, colors and sizes.
The subject matter seems more… organic. Images of children playing.
Various families laughing and holding each other.
There are a few famous people I recognize, too.
There’s even one of a much younger Ms. Webb with a boy no older than fifteen standing by her side. He looks familiar.
“Ms. Lange?”
I’m jolted out of my musings. “Yes?” I squawk like a parrot as I stand and watch Ms. Webb glide toward me.
Her lush, red lips outline a bright white smile. Her makeup is flawless, her silver hair is stylish. She extends her manicured hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you, Ava. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I glance down at her hand, stunned at her words, before I gather my wits and shake it. “Thank you for having me, Ms. Webb.”
“Call me Guin. And please, have a seat. I have so much to go over with you,” she says as she tries to release my hand.
My brain finally restarts and I let go. “Sorry,” I say sheepishly, and sit back down.
“No worries. I know this meeting comes as a surprise to you, but I knew I wanted you on my team the moment I saw your work at the Abernathy’s bar mitzvah,” Guin explains as she sits in her chair.
My work?
“Abernathy’s…” Her words have me confused, because I don’t remember that client .
“Oh, I’m sorry. Darling Shepard’s child, Randolph Abernathy.”
“Oh, the under-the-sea-themed party. I remember now. That was a last-minute call. I think the previous event coordinator dropped out earlier that day.”
“Yes. But you jumped right in and saved the day. You captured the theme so beautifully that people are still talking about it.”
“Really?” I don’t know what else to say. I came in late in the game, and had to work with the items the previous planner had ordered. And when Randolph’s father arrived drunk and nearly crashed into the candy table, which had taken me forever to arrange, I thought the party was ruined.
Guin claps her hands and smiles. “The way you handled the other caterer and quickly got them on board, then went into action and set up the tablescapes in a matter of minutes, before the children came in… You’re brilliant. That’s why I had Jessica reach out to you.”
My cheeks heat at her praise. “Thank you. But that’s my job.”
“I love your modesty, too.” She smiles, then leans forward, her eyes pinning me in place. “Ava, the main reason I called you is because I desperately need your help.” There’s a note of worry in her tone, and I silently huff. Like I’m going to turn down anything she offers.
“Alright,” I say.
“Mind you, you were already on my radar for an event planner position, but there’s been an incident, and I need to immediately call upon your talents.”
“What happened?”
“I’m in the same predicament as Darling Shepard, but it’s much more dire. The coordinator I put in charge of the event tonight e-mailed me last night to withdraw . I need someone who can think on her feet and get the job done.”
“Tell me about the theme, and I’ll see if I can,” I say, as nerves take up residence in my stomach.
“I have to first explain that this event is extremely exclusive and intimately private. Most RLS parties require everyone who works at or attends to sign an NDA. It protects everyone, including me.”
The idea of signing a non-disclosure agreement sets off warning bells. But this is Guinevere Webb, and she’s asking for my help. Warning bells or not, I can’t tell her no. “I understand and will sign it.”
“I’m not sure you do.” Guin rises from her chair, rounds the desk, and sits next to me on the settee.
“You see, Ava, my company is much bigger than what the world sees. We also have big secrets. In order to keep those secrets from leaking to the public, we have measures in place. This is my company and I have to protect what’s behind these walls. Do you understand now?”
“Yes, I do,” I say, although I really don’t. I get that she has a lot on the line, but I’m not understanding what she means by intimately private .
“Good. If you can complete this event without a hitch, the event coordinator job is yours if you want it. With a handsome salary, naturally. You do want to work for me?”
“Yes, but can I ask a question?”
She chuckles. “Of course.”
“What does intimately private mean?”
She exhales slowly. “It’s where adults come to play, be comfortable in their sexuality. Explore their desires and passions. Do you understand what I’m explaining to you?”
Holy crap! Is she talking about sex parties?
I should be shocked by this new information about RLS and Guinevere Webb.
But then, I don’t judge. My parents taught me to be open-minded about the world we live in.
And if two, three—or however many consenting adults—want to get it on in the privacy of a party scene, more power to them.
Then a thought hits me, and I pale at the notion.
“I have one more question. Two, actually.”
Guin starts laughing. “You won’t see the guests. And you certainly won’t be participating. But I do want you to remain in the building until the end for clean up.”