Chapter Eleven
Scarlett
“Ice is nice, have you tried fire?”
“So she filed a formal complaint against GQ, and you know what I did?”
I rolled my eyes when the strobes dimmed, kept them bright when they didn’t. “What did you do, Mr. Turner?”
He slapped his knee, chortling like a hyena. “Ripped it up and tossed it in the sink!”
This confused me. “The sink?”
“Where else am I meant to place such a minute dilemma?”
I clinked my glass to his, unbothered and apathetic. “Clever.”
“Aren’t I?” He smirked to himself, emptying the contents of his tumbler.
God save this industry.
“And where is our rock star, Ms. Blake?”
I glanced around the lounge, finding only bodies clad in bright neon, spoiling themselves on the complementary booze and hors d’oeuvres.
No Ryden.
A pit formed in my stomach. I adjusted accordingly. “I’ll hunt him down.”
He placed a firm hand on my knee, squeezing bone. “He’s a grown man, Ms. Blake. I’m sure he’s indulging just as we are.”
My mind whirred back to the past: eight years ago, sitting across the dining table at Baker and Bear’s, flirting for a way to stay at the inn – indulging a man well past his mid-fifties, who found me buoyant and sprightly.
Yeah, those were Hank’s words, to a twenty-year-old Scarlett – “a real crotch-rocket.”
He, too, grabbed my leg with a predatory gaze in his eyes. But Sinead’s old blueberry pills came in handy for one thing, and it saved my life.
Our life.
Me and Ryden.
Where the FUCK is Ryden?
Abe’s hand was still on my leg before I scooted upwards and out. “I’ve got to freshen up, Mr. Turner, but this has been lovely.”
His lips flatlined. “You’re my date.”
“Care to accompany me to the ladies’ room, then?” I leaned forward, placing an angular nail under his chin. “I’m sure there will be many more formal complaints for you to throw in the sink tomorrow.”
His cheek reddened, a hunch telling me that he failed to disclose the full story of his little incident report. Paid her off? Most definitely. Most pigs do.
I stalked towards the ladies room until I was out of Abe’s line of sight, then surveyed the space.
He could be anywhere in this zoo, I thought. Or he could have left. No, he wouldn’t do that to me. Not unless –
I spotted Yasmine by the dome couches, sharing a round of martinis with Holly Blackhaven.
It didn’t even take a fucking second.
I perched down right in front of the two airheads, popping an olive into my mouth. “If it isn’t the rugrat twins.”
Yasmine gaped, snatching her martini. “You can’t just steal drinks.”
“No,” I crossed my stilettos on the table, “but you can steal songs.”
Rage pooled in her eyes. The other one yapped at me. “Have some class, Scarlett.”
I turned my attention to Holly, only famous for her association with Yasmine’s clique and her father’s stonework empire. Other than that, her brain was filled with marbles and Marlboros.
“Have you seen your Birkin, Holly?” Hit ‘em where it hurts. “Flavia Owens sleeps with it in prison.”
Flavia Owens was another heiress in the Hollywood sphere, now convicted of twelve drug charges and serving a six-year prison sentence. No one wanted to be associated with her anymore. And that was my ammo.
Holly coughed out her drink, the remnants of dirty martini dripping down her freshly tanned neck and Armani blazer.
“Oof,” I smirked, plucking the olive straight out of her empty glass, “there’s a lineup for the ladies’ room. You could try the mens’.”
She shot up, snatching her Birkin from the couch and discarding it in the trash next to the podium. Twenty-thousand in the dump, all because of a scandal. Pathetic.
“Bye, now!” I called after her, before facing Yasmine with a smile. “And then there were two.”
She glared at me with disgust.
“Where’s Ryden?” I asked, pointedly.
No response. Just crossed her arms and turned away.
“You can pretend I’m not here all you want,” I leaned in closer, “but I’m the biggest pest you’ll ever meet.”
She turned to me now, still mute.
I raised my hands. “Exterminate me while you can.”
It took her a second, but she caved. “How am I supposed to know?”
“Well,” I scoffed, “where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
“Am I supposed to get the reference?”
“No, you’re supposed to take the threat.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what exactly are you threatening me with, Scarlett? You’re not even in the limelight. You don’t matter.”
“No, maybe not,” I laughed, brushing off the sting. “But I’m backstage. And behind the curtain, is where all the secrets swirl and spread like a bat in the wind.”
Her fingers slid off the glass stem. Just a slight of hand, quick as an arrow – a fidget – a nerve.
“So, Yasmine,” I dared, “care to hear what the little bats are saying about you?”
She slapped her drink down on the table, gin and vermouth waving the rim. “I’ve earned my place, my career! You’re just piggybacking on someone else’s fame because you’re too talentless to get it yourself!”
My nails bit the crescents of my palm, heat flaying the back of my neck.
Piggybacking on someone else’s fame.
As if I hadn’t fought tooth and nail to give Ryden the life he deserves, give myself a shot at happiness.
As if I didn’t need to sell my soul to find a place on Ryden’s stage.
To steal luggage from the airport just so we could have clothes and pocket change, toothbrushes and soap.
To learn everything about the space, the people in it, the ammo to make a rock star.
I did that. Me.
Scarlett Emory-Blake.
And this fraud would not take that power away from me.
I stood now, creeping forward until the peaks of my pumps pressed onto hers.
“The problem with people like you, Yasmine,” I spat, standing above her, “you’ve lived too long like a leech and you’re running out of blood to suck.
Sure you got Ryden’s song, the only song, need I remind you, that placed you at the bottom of the charts because your voice is weak compared to his.
But one day, maybe a few years from now,” I sneered, “your little career is going to tank. And you know what happens when a leech runs out of blood?” I stood, taking her dirty, disgusting martini in my hand. “They die.”
And down came the rain that washed the spider out –
“Scarlett!” I heard his call from afar, a crowd of people forming around me and the now soaked Yasmine Ryvetts.
She screamed, a whiny, mouse-like wail that pierced my eardrums. That any human can make a noise like that surprised me, but coming from Yasmine, I wasn’t shocked.
Ryden was right on cue, tearing through the horde of people, coming to a halt beside me.
Through the sticky glaze of her eyes, the olive pit rolling around in the sac of her dress, she looked like a fucking clown. Flashes of light illuminated the sphere, cameras and chatter going off like bombs.
“Scar…” Ryden put his hand on my arm but I steered him away, glancing once at Yasmine before driving the knife.
“Where there’s smoke,” I mouthed, “there’s fire.”