Chapter 23
Ophelia’s, Sunset Strip, West Hollywood, Los Angeles
Carey’s already wobbly on his feet by the time we’ve walked the five minutes east on Sunset to the hotel where Ophelia’s is located.
There’s a security guard at the door and I hope he doesn’t think Carey is already too drunk to go in.
Luckily, the doorman is too busy looking at Antoinette and me so Carey glides in almost unnoticed.
‘Have a great night, ladies,’ the doorman says with a nod.
Did he even see him?
We take the elevator up to the rooftop. Carey is mesmerised by the strip light inside.
‘I never knew elevators could be so pretty,’ he murmurs, caressing the walnut wall. Antoinette and I exchange glances. He’s fucked.
Ophelia’s is beautiful. It’s all twinkling fairy lights, antique garden furniture and vine-clad walls.
There’s Astroturf on the floor, which gives it a sort of English country garden vibe.
The view is stunning, the Strip down below and the glittering lights of the Hollywood Hills in the distance.
The best thing about it, though, is the low wall surrounding the edge, barely a barrier at all.
With all these drunk people.
It’s an accident waiting to happen.
I take a sideways look at Carey as Antoinette leads us to a cast-iron table, right next to the wall. He’s started to sweat. A lot. There’s a thick sheen on his top lip that makes me feel queasy.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask him as he struggles to focus on me. Fuck, his pupils are huge. He smiles, it’s slippery like he can’t quite make it stay on his face.
‘You’re pretty,’ he slurs. ‘Like super pretty. I think I love you.’
‘You don’t,’ I say as Antoinette smirks. ‘That’s just the drugs talking.’
Carey looks puzzled. ‘I don’t take drugs,’ he says. ‘I don’t need to.’
‘No? You just slip them into girls’ drinks, don’t you?’
He stares at me. A drop of sweat falls from the tip of his nose onto the Astroturf. He pats his jeans pockets. Can’t locate his vial.
‘How did you—’
‘“How” doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Let’s get a selfie, shall we? I want one right near the ledge. With that stunning view in the background. How gorgeous will that look on Instagram, Antoinette?’ I take one of Carey’s arms.
‘So gorgeous, sis,’ Antoinette says taking the other.
Carey’s legs are too liquified to do anything except let us lead him over to the wall. I look around but no one is paying us any attention. That’s something I’m starting to learn and love about LA. Everyone is far too busy being their own main character to care about what anyone else is doing.
‘Let’s sit here,’ I say and drop him on the wall. He grips the edge of it, his knuckles go white and look like they might burst through his skin.
Antoinette sits on the other side of him and leans in.
‘Carey,’ she says and he turns his head slowly to look at her.
It’s starting to loll to one side. ‘Do you ever think what it’s like for them?
For the women? Do you ever think how scared they must be when they wake up with no memories of the night before?
Have you usually left by that point? Or do you stick around and watch their confusion as they try to figure out what was put into their bodies? ’
He blinks. And swallows. I’m sure I see his Adam’s apple tremble.
‘Wait—’ he says but it’s too late. I’ve already given him a little shove. Nothing big or dramatic. Just enough to overbalance him.
And then he’s flying through the LA night.
He doesn’t even scream.
There’s actually not a sound at all. Until the crunch.
We look over the edge.
Carey has landed in the ornamental shrubbery outside the entrance of the hotel. One of his legs is bent backwards and his head looks like it’s just sort of exploded.
‘Oops,’ says Antoinette.
Someone already has their phone out, filming Carey’s splattered body. There’s a shriek and the doorman who waved us through hurries over to where Carey has landed. He looks up just as we duck back from the edge.
We’ve already left by the time the police arrive.