7. Andi #3
“Unless you want the next headlines to be about how I’m so fucked up in the head I piss myself on the carpet walking out of here,” I hiss, my hands clenching into fists by my sides, “I need the restroom.”
Ezra falls into step beside me out of habit more than anything, but I catch his sleeve before we make it past the gift table.
“Alone,” I murmur. “Please.”
His jaw works, but he nods, peeling off towards the bar instead. His willingness to finally listen to what I have to say makes my throat tighten. But I can’t freak out right now.
The bathroom, when I finally shoulder past a cluster of women reapplying lipstick, is a disappointment. Maybe I’m not thinking straight, because why would I think the bathroom would have a magical portal away from this hell?
But when I stare at the fancy hotel branded hand soap, an idea sparks in my mind.
“Hi,” I say, stepping up to the least intimidating woman of the bunch. Her eyes drag up and down my dress, and I can’t help but feel drastically underdressed compared to her sleek, mature satin gown that covers her from neck to ankle.
“Yes?” she asks, raising an imperious brow.
“Do you know whether there’s a business center on this floor?”
“Oh, I’m not staying here,” her nose wrinkles as if the thought of staying at a hotel like this is beneath her. Damn, tough crowd. Considering this bathroom has marble and gold fixtures, I seriously wonder what kind of hotel would be up to her standards.
You’d think a charity gala would have nicer guests, but I guess not.
“There’s one right down the hall, sweetie,” another older woman with expertly coiffed white hair and a deep maroon shawl around her shoulders tells me.
“Thank you,” I say, my shoulders tugging down.
I step out of the bathroom, my eyes scanning the crowd, keeping an eye out for Stuart’s watchful eyes.
When I see no sign of him, I head down the direction that sweet old lady mentioned, doing my best to keep my shoulders back and my spine straight. The last thing I need is for someone to see me skulking about and accuse me of doing something I shouldn’t be.
Which I am, but that’s not their concern.
Act like you belong and people will think you do.
Right at the end of the hall, there’s a little brass placard with the words BUSINESS CENTER printed on it.
I push past the door, waiting for it to shut behind me before letting the confident mask I tried pasting on slip away.
I instantly gravitate toward one of the desks. Like a gift from whatever god still bothers checking in on me, is a desktop computer and a landline phone, an actual, corded, hotel landline.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I swear some of the blood vessels at the back of my throat have burst, making me taste copper.
I don’t let myself think.
I hurry to the desktop and open the search engine. There’s only one person whose phone number is remotely public.
Northline’s front desk.
“Hello, this is Northline,” a bored sounding receptionist answers.
“Hi there, I was wondering if I could speak with Cameron Foster? I have a tip for a current story he’s working on.”
“He’s out of the office now, but would you like to leave a voicemail?”
God, I could kiss her.
“Yes. Yes, please—”
Before I even have a chance to process, a beep sounds. Damn, I guess she really wanted to get me transferred away from her phone.
“Hi—hi, this is going to sound insane,” I whisper, glancing at the door every half a second like Stuart is going to materialize through the wood, “but it’s Andi. I’m—okay. I’m not hurt, I just—” My voice cracks and I hate how thin it sounds.
Will they even be able to recognize it’s me? The moment that anxious thought sinks its claws into my brain, it won’t let go.
“It—it’s me, I promise. Remember all those galaxy-ception jokes? Anyway, I—I just wanted to say I didn’t do it. I swear. Please, I—I know you have no reason to help me, but I need your help. I—I have to go.”
I hang up before I have a chance to say something that could get me into trouble. I should’ve thought about what I wanted to say more. I just have to hope that Cameron believes me and that sense of justice he has is strong enough to get him to help me despite the rocky start between us.
I wipe my clammy palms on the itchy fabric of my dress and walk back into the ballroom like my chest isn’t cracked wide open.
I feel like I’m floating away from my body, dissociating from the crushing reality of my situation. Turns out, screaming into the void of Cameron Foster’s voicemail, didn’t help the debilitating anxiety gnawing at me.
It doesn’t matter that my dress makes me feel naked, or that these are the kinds of shoes that send agonizing bolts of pain up the balls of my feet with each step, or even the fact that the paparazzi are throwing out increasingly ridiculous and insane questions whenever I’m within earshot.
No, that’s not true. It definitely does matter.
But does it matter more than the few breaths of fresh air I manage to gulp down between exiting the hotel and entering the SUV with tinted windows, ready and waiting for us? I don’t think it does.
Which probably means Gina’s psychological torture is working.