Chapter 28
PIP
“Here you are,” says Zaza, waiting by the hostess stand at Dante on MacDougal Street. It’s loud and trendy, exactly the kind of place she favors.
“This place looks expensive,” I say to my roommate Keesha as we weave through the bustling crowd.
Zaza waves a dismissive hand. “One of the VIPs who works out at Equinox told me to come in anytime and bring friends, as long as they’re good-looking. And you two pass muster. Come on, let’s get a seat.”
I recognize the tall, blonde hostess as the girl I recently outbid for a vintage jacket at a nearby thrift shop. Her expression flickers with surprise, but she says nothing.
“Ladies,” she says with a professional smile, “let me take you to the VIP booth.”
Keesha’s chocolate-colored eyes widen as we pass through the gorgeous restaurant, with its even more attractive crowd.
“Zaza, when you say you have connections, you really have connections.”
The hostess slides out the table effortlessly, like the finest ma?tre d’ at a French restaurant, and we all slip into the plush corner booth—clearly the best seat in the house.
“Can you take a picture of us?” Zaza asks, handing her phone over.
“Of course!”
We lean in close, beaming our brightest smiles.
“If you need anything else, just let me know,” the hostess says before sashaying away.
“I’m glad you both could make it,” Zaza says. “Keesha, this might be the last time we see our darling friend before she becomes a bride.”
“That’s right,” says Keesha with a grin. “You have that ‘fake wedding’ tomorrow at the Plaza Hotel. Are we invited—or do all the guests have to be ‘fake friends’?”
Both Zaza and Keesha break into a fit of laughter.
“I’ve been following your dates in Vanessa Sinclair’s column. Where’s your dog? I thought you were going to bring little Piglet along,” Zaza says, imitating a singsong baby voice.
“He’s with his father,” I joke, finally joining their laughter.
“Snickers, a father already,” Keesha teases.
Zaza’s smile fades a fraction. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and all this, but you do know it’s a fantasy, right? A fake relationship? You’re getting a paycheck at the end of this.”
“I know, I know,” I admit, waving a hand dismissively. “And I’m looking forward to that check—and to never seeing Snickers again.”
“He can’t be that bad,” Keesha says. “He looks so cute in the pictures.”
Zaza lets out a low, guttural laugh. “He certainly can be that bad. I saw him being that bad in person that night at Rock Center. Imagine the CEO of a white-glove company like Woodward & Co stripping in public. That’s the kind of guy he is.”
“Snickers isn’t really like that,” I say softly.
“What’s that?” Zaza asks, narrowing her eyes. “Are you defending the guy?”
“I know we have our differences, but… he does have some good points.”
“Like what good points?” Keesha chimes in.
“Well, like today when that crazed fan sent?—”
“A crazed fan?!” Zaza exclaims. “What crazed fan?”
I open my mouth to speak, then snap it shut. I’ve overshared. The girls stare me down.
“I—I…” I blush, realizing I can’t lie convincingly. “It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “Never mind. Anyway, the park was beautiful?—”
“Oh, no. You don’t get out of it now, Fletcher. Spill,” Zaza says.
I sigh, knowing they won’t let this go. “Look, it’s nothing. They were filming Snickers and me in Central Park, and this drone dropped a box near us and?—”
“What was in it?” asks Keesha, leaning in.
“Photos,” I say, omitting the red X marks over my face. “A note.”
“This sounds dangerous,” Keesha says firmly. “A note, dropped by a drone? Did it have those cut-out letters serial killers use? The ones cut from a magazine to hide their identity?”
“Well… yes,” I admit reluctantly.
Keesha and Zaza exchange a serious look.
“Man, oh man,” Zaza finally says. “You’re in some hot shit.”
“No, I’m not. Snickers said it was nothing.”
“Is he an authority I don’t know about?” Keesha says. “An FBI agent or something? I thought he was a DJ bad boy turned corporate exec.”
“Look. There’s nothing to worry about. Especially since it’s all over tomorrow night. Shall we order some food?”
Just as I pick up the menu, an attractive woman with long, sun-streaked blonde hair approaches the table. She fixes her angry eyes on me.
“Are you Pip Fletcher?” she asks, her tone accusatory.
“Yes.”
“Keep your hands off Snickers,” she says venomously before tossing a red-colored cocktail straight into my face.
Its paper umbrella decoration bounces off the bridge of my nose before falling into my lap.
“Ouch!” I yelp as the sticky liquid burns its way into my eyes.
“What the hell?” Zaza shouts, leaping to her feet. She grabs her napkin and dabs at my face. Then she turns to shout at the woman’s retreating figure. “What’s wrong with you?”
Keesha sprints toward the hostess stand, wildly gesturing for help.
I sit there, stunned, with alcohol dripping down my cheek. Deep down, I know Zaza and Keesha are right. This isn’t normal. None of it is. But I force a laugh.
“It happens.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Zaza insists firmly. “You need to call this off. It’s not safe.”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, my voice less confident than I intended.
I glance at my watch. It’s already 6:30. Despite the stinging humiliation and the girls’ worried stares, I force a weak smile.
“Look,” I say, gathering myself as I reach for my bag, “we’ll worry about this later. Right now, I’ve got a job to do.”