Party Girl (10 page)

“Tell me everything.” My voice sounds a lot more confident than I actually feel.

Chapter EIGHT

I worked until ten trying to cram as much information as I could into my brain while Selah wasn’t in the office to harass me. This morning I spend forty-five minutes in front of my closet trying to pick out an outfit that she won’t find “ridiculous.” I settle for a black Zara jumper over black tights and black heeled booties. The little black blazer I’ve got on is a recent acquisition from a “shopping trip” into Miko’s closet. Since she owns more clothes than any single human I’ve ever met, she’s more than willing to let me swipe a few pieces. I’ve toned down my hair and makeup as requested, though I have to tell you, I feel totally naked without my lashes! My one act of defiance is a thin, neon-pink, patent-leather belt around my waist. I’ve decided that if Selah makes any comment about it, I’ll use it to strangle her.

I’m the first one in the conference room for the all-hands meeting, and as the space slowly starts to fill up I review my notes for the fiftieth time. Everyone glances at me surreptitiously as they make their way to their seats, but no one says anything. I’m sure they’re all just dying to see how many ways the intern can screw this one up. Someone takes the seat next to mine, and I look up to see Miko sliding a Starbucks cup to me with a smile.

“What kind of coffee is this?” I ask.

“The don’t-piss-your-big-girl-pants kind,” she says with a grin.

I take a sip of the caramel latte and smile back. Selah chooses that moment to breeze into the room, and my stomach seriously considers rejecting that sip of latte, but I keep it in check.

I am strong. I am smart. I am courageous.

I am strong. I am smart. I am courageous.

I plaster a smile on my face and we all wait while she finishes typing on her phone. After a few minutes of nervously staring at my boss, I look around the room at all the faces waiting anxiously along with me. It only then occurs to me: this is just another one of her intimidation techniques. She loves that a whole room of adults sits watching her like an audience. In fact, if this is anything like the other meetings I’ve been to, she’ll look for any and every opportunity to embarrass me or put me in my place. I will not let her have the satisfaction of catching me unaware. I watch her facial features like a hawk, and the second I see her mouth open to say something, I spring to my feet.

“Should we get started then?” I ask quickly.

For a second she just stares at me, and everyone else does too. I didn’t wait for her to call on me, but she was about to do just that and everyone knows it; it’s not like she can chew me out for doing my job . . .
Can she?

“By all means.” She waves at me impatiently.

“The Riverton party is coming up next Tuesday. Taylor, would you give us a production status, please?” I say it with a smile that only slightly wobbles.

Taylor looks at me, bemused. “Guest list is confirmed at 287. Rentals come in Monday afternoon. Finalizing the DJ’s rider and the special VIP section for the Riverton team.”

“How many of that total are VIPs?” Selah asks Taylor.

Taylor looks to Walker, who consults her notes, but I have the information so I just jump in.

“Thirty-three are VIPs, fourteen of those are SSE clients. You mentioned you’d double-confirm arrival times with PR on Monday, correct, Walker?” I ask down the table.

Sixteen sets of eyes are staring at me in open shock, and believe me, no one is more surprised by the confidence in my tone than I am.

But here’s the thing: last night while I lay under my purple comforter and vacillated between excitement about this opportunity and open panic that I’d be fired before lunchtime, I finally made a decision. I decided that if I was going to do this job, I was going to have the courage to do it to the best of my abilities. That way, if Selah decides to can me, at least I will know I’ve tried my best.
Just do your best
, I hear my mama say in the back of my mind. And so that’s what I’m doing.

“That is correct, isn’t it?” I ask again when no one answers.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Walker agrees quickly.

“Carpet arrivals start when?” Selah asks the production team.

“Eight,” I answer again.

“Maybe I’d know that if I had the—”

“Timeline,” I finish Selah’s sentence, pointing to the iPad I had turned on and placed before her at the beginning of the meeting. The timeline for the Riverton event is open on the screen.

“Well aren’t you just full of surprises,” Selah says.

I choose to take that as a compliment regardless of whether she is offering one. I smile at her, waiting for instruction. Selah scans the timeline then looks up at Taylor.

“Did we get the cigar guy for Diego?”

“Of course. According to him he’s born and raised in Havana, can’t get any more authentic than that,” Taylor says.

“And he’s set up where?”

“Next to the Riverton sampling table in the VIP lounge,” he replies.

“And that is
where
exactly? Honestly, Taylor, how am I supposed to know what that means?” she snaps at him.

I slide the party diagram from my stack of paperwork out where she can look it over. Look at me everyone; I’m Johnny-on-the-spot!

Selah studies it for a moment and then looks up again.

“I want to change the VIP seating around. Jin, you and I can discuss that later.”

Miko nods at her, and Selah continues.

“I don’t think I need to remind everyone how important this client is. The tequila line is Diego’s baby, but Riverton Spirits has multiple liquor brands and incredibly deep pockets. Every element has to be beyond reproach.” She glares up and down the table and everyone nods quickly to appease her.

At last, she asks, “All right, what’s next Brinkley?”

I’m so thrilled at having made it out of my first all-hands meeting in one piece, I don’t even mind when Selah barks for her coffee later that afternoon. I ask Ambrose to cover the phones and hurry out to grab the order.

When I bring it back to the office her door is closed and I knock quietly. She calls for me to enter, but as I open the door I can hear that she’s on a call. I try and stay as quiet as possible as I walk across the room.

“I understand your interest, Meryl—” she says into the phone without looking up. “I mean, obviously I’ve only ever hired the best, but that no longer includes Will McKenna.”

I almost trip over my shoes when I realize she’s talking about McKenna and Quade. I need to get out of this room as quickly as possible. I set down the coffee cup and see her eyes flash as she listens to what the person on the other end of the line is saying.

“Of course. Well, ultimately it’s your decision, but I have to tell you . . . I’d have real issues associating with any company who’d be willing to work with someone I’ve had to let go.” Her tone is sharp and serious, and I hope she doesn’t call out to me before I get to the door. “No, I do mean it. I’d hate to stop sending you business but, really, you’d be forcing my hand if you brought him on. My trust has been broken, and once that happens I’m afraid I just don’t feel comfortable working with any company who employs—Oh, you do? I’m so glad to hear it. I’d hate to lose you as a partner, Mer.” She’s back to using her sweet “client” voice again, happy with the response the person on the phone has given.

I close the door quickly behind me and head back to my office. I’m trying to process what I’ve just heard. I’m pretty sure she was talking to Meryl Franklin, who owns the event-rental company we use most often, and that Meryl was considering hiring McKenna. Clearly, Selah has stopped it from happening. Plus Selah has just let Meryl, one of the biggest gossips in this industry, know that she won’t do business with anyone who does hire either McKenna or Quade. Selah’s connections and budgets are big and deep; I can’t imagine any vendor in town is willing to cross her. So, she’s effectively just signed the death certificates of her former assistants’ event careers.

I can never, ever cross this woman.

“We need alcohol!” Miko yells down the bar to Max, who is clearly busy with another customer as we walk up to the bar.

“I’m pretty sure she blackballed them.” I continue the conversation we’d started in the car.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Miko reaches for the happy-hour menu even though we surely have it memorized by now.

“You mean she’s done this before?” I’m shocked.

A cute, hipster bartender walks up to us.

“What can I get you, ladies?” he asks in what I’m guessing is his most alluring voice.

Miko waves him away dismissively with the menu in her hand. “Nope. Not you.” She doesn’t react at all to his startled expression, but I give him an apologetic look as he scoots away. “Of course she’s done it before. Selah’s friendships and the power with which she wields them are a thing of beauty. If there’s a bitchy well-connected publicist in a one-hundred-mile radius, you can bet Selah will be her maid of honor when she gets hitched to whatever junior development exec she convinces to marry her without a prenup.”

“I don’t understand. What do Selah’s friends have to do with anything?”

Miko looks at me like she can’t believe I’d ask such an idiotic question.

“Everything. Selah is besties with every A-hole publicist in town because they’re the ones who bring her their biggest clients. Big clients mean big budgets and therefore a lot of power where vendors are concerned. Nobody is going to mess with her and she knows it.” She yells again. “Max, come on, did you hear me? We need to drink! She survived the day!”

Max scowls at her but comes down to us all the same.

“Did you hear?” Miko asks, excited.

“That you need alcohol?” Max asks. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure everyone north of Sunset heard that.”

“Yes, alcohol. We’re celebrating; she survived!” In the nearly two months we’ve been hanging out, Miko, bless her heart, has blatantly refused to acknowledge Max’s bad moods. She simply carries on as if my roommate isn’t glaring at her.

“So you’re still employed?” Max asks.

“Come on now.” Miko does a little snap, whistle, and move-it-along rolling of her finger. “You can work while you chat, barkeep!”

Max glowers but dutifully starts to mix up something for us.

“I’m still employed, and get this, they’re paying me now.” I’m being sarcastic.

“Hourly rate or salary?” Max adds some odds and ends to her cocktail shaker.

“Salary,” I answer proudly. “Did you just put mint and tomatoes in that?” I eyeball the shaker skeptically.

“Do
you
want to make the drinks?” Max stops using her pestle to grind the ingredients in the shaker.

Miko elbows me in the ribs. “Don’t poke the bear, Landon.”

I smile sheepishly at Max until she resumes making the drink.

“We’re all salary, by the way,” Miko adds, eagerly reaching for the lowball glass Max passes her way.

“Really? That seems so expensive.” I sniff my cocktail and then take a sip. The heady sweet-and-sour combination swims all the way to my toes. “This is delicious! It’s sort of like . . . a tomato mojito.”

“That’s what I was going for.” Max shrugs.

“Expensive would be if she actually had to pay us for all of our overtime. Salary only seems exciting until you realize how many hours you’re working. I’d suggest never actually doing the math on what your hourly rate ends up being at the end of an event week. It’ll only depress you.” Miko takes her first tentative sip of the drink. Her face lights up and she takes another huge swallow. “You’re a wizard,” she pronounces to Max.

“Glad you think so.” Max gives her a little smile and then turns her head to take someone else’s order.

“And now a toast.” Miko turns to me with her glass already raised. “To surviving day one.”

“To day one.” I clink glasses with her.

“Now you just have to make it through 364 more of them,” she says solemnly. I look at her, she looks at me, and then she turns her head to Max. Raising her glass, she announces, “We’re gonna need more of these!”

Chapter NINE

I drive up and down Sunset three times before I realize that Twenty-Five, the location for the Riverton party, is the two-story brick building half covered with ivy on the corner. In my defense the only signage is the small silver XXV next to the door, and I don’t realize they are Roman numerals until my third time past.

I park around back and make my way to the rear door, where several members of our production team are scurrying in and out. The Riverton party is supposed to be hip Hollywood luxury, and I tried to dress the part. I splurged on a pair of leather leggings with my first paycheck. They were sort of ridiculously expensive, but honestly, anything that makes my butt look this good might be worth twice as much. The leggings are tucked down inside ridiculously high-heeled boots that come up just above my knees. My top is a blousy black silk that ties into a big bow around my neck . . . sort of chic librarian. My hair is teased within an inch of its life and pulled back into a perfectly messy pony, and my one pop of color is the deep-berry lip stain. At the last minute I’d added a few lashes. Selah might think they are ridiculous, but the Texan in me can’t imagine going to a party without them. I think my whole look is a good mash-up of LA cool meets conservative southern girl. Here’s hoping I don’t look like an idiot.

As I come through the back door of the club I see Taylor looking over some paperwork in his hands. He is as good a place to start as any.

“How’s everything going?” I ask as I walk down the hallway towards him.

He looks up with a smile already on his face.

“It’s going just fine. Want a quick walk-through?”

“That’d be great, thanks.” I haul my big bag higher up on my shoulder and fight to keep the weight from sliding back down my arm as we head towards the front of the club. Taylor notices me fighting with it and gestures towards it with the paperwork rolled in his hand.

“Can I help you with that?”

“Thanks, but I’ll manage.” I smile at his manners, which only furthers my belief that he’s from the south. “I’m dying to know whether or not that’s an accent I detect.”

Taylor’s face spreads into a boyish grin at complete odds with his rough-looking exterior.

“Now here I thought it wasn’t even noticeable anymore.”

“Well, maybe not to everyone else, but I’d recognize a native at ten paces.” I eye him speculatively. “I’m guessing . . . Oklahoma?”

“Born and bred.”

“You a Cowboy?”

He smiles lazily. “I’m a Sooner.”

My scowl makes him laugh.

“You?”

“Lone Star State.”

“Makes sense.” He nods thoughtfully.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re far too polite to be anything but a good southern girl.”

“Are you teasing me?”

“Of course not,” he says in a serious tone. “I love southern girls!”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I answer sarcastically.

We come to a fork in the road, and I’m unsure of which direction to turn. I look to him.

“You’ve never been to Twenty-Five?” He points to the left.

With every step we take, the deep bass of the club’s sound system rumbles louder.

“I thought everyone on staff came here. It’s got one of the toughest doors in LA, but the SSE connection makes it easy to get on the list.”

He has to raise his voice a little louder as we pass through an industrial kitchen bustling with food prep.

“To be honest, all I’ve done since I moved to town is work and sleep. I haven’t really had time to go out.” I pick my way slowly over the huge rubber mats that line the floor to keep people from slipping. If I’m not careful my heel is going to get stuck in one of the little grooves and kamikaze me to the floor.

Taylor stops and spins around abruptly. I nearly run into the tight black T-shirt that covers his . . . upon closer inspection . . . really defined chest.

“Maybe you’ll let me remedy that sometime.” He smiles down at me with a sly grin.

“I’m sorry, what?” I’m flustered.

“Your never going out; I’d like to remedy that.”

Oh.

“Oh, um, sure—maybe we can all do a happy hour after work or something?” I say dumbly.

I’m not really good at this sort of thing and definitely not with someone who looks like he does. Also, I’m pretty sure my daddy would have a heart attack if he saw all those tats, southern or not!

He must see the distress written on my face because he smiles, and it’s not flirtatious, just friendly.

“I promise I’m not nearly as dangerous as I look. I just thought we could hang out. It doesn’t have to be drinks; it can be something totally harmless.”

“OK?” I answer, unsure.

We finally find ourselves in the main room of the club, and all other thoughts flit from my mind because I can’t stop gaping at the club space around me. Twenty-Five is a perfect mix of masculine old-world furnishings and whimsical touches. The club is big, but not overwhelming. Everything from the bar to the second-floor lounges flows together, but each area is divided into sections throughout the space, and each feels slightly different yet somehow all part of a whole.

One section is a cluster of dark leather chaises and fur throws, and another looks like an old library in dark amber tones. The bar, an island in the middle of the room, is a mix of modern LED lights and old wood. In each space the severity of the furnishings is muted by odd touches . . . a vintage brass scuba mask on a coffee table, a mountain-goat bust mounted on exposed brick, huge oversize black-and-white pictures of cows covering the expanse of one wall. None of it makes any sense together, and yet it totally works. It’s all mix-and-match luxury; the sort of space that makes you feel comfortable even though the sofa you’re sitting on surely costs more than your life is worth.
I love it!

Three guys from the production team come through the room carrying equipment to set up for the red carpet out front. They stop when they get close to us, and I see them give me a sleazy once-over. The look is bad enough, but then one of them decides to add soundtrack.

“Damn, look who’s all grown up.” His eyes run all the way down my body and back up again.

Back when I was a waitress, I had to deal with this sort of thing all the time, but I’m unsure of what I can say in this situation. Is this normal LA work behavior?

Before I can respond, Taylor does it for me.

“Well now, that’s appropriate,” he says with sarcasm. “You guys get back to work.”

He’s at least ten years younger than all of them, but they obey without hesitation and walk away.

“Sorry about that. Smith’s actually not a bad guy; he’s just trapped in the body of an eleven-year-old.”

Awkward silence descends, and I want to change the subject.

“How much of this decor did we bring in?” I run a hand over the top of an ancient-looking pool table that’s been reupholstered in a bright purple velvet.

“Decor?” Taylor looks confused. “Nothing. We only brought in some extra lounges for seating. You really haven’t been out in LA, have you?”

“Why do you say that?” I look back at him.

“Because this is a Barker-Ash property.”

“Barker-Ash, as in the hotel chain?”

“Barker-Ash, as in the
everything
. Hotels, restaurants, a handful of the best clubs in town.” That bemused expression is back; it’s like I’m some sort of Martian who needs him to explain the intricacies of earth life.

“OK, but what does that have to do with the decor?” I ask slowly.

“Each Barker-Ash property has a similar aesthetic; it’s our signature design.” A man speaks up from behind us.

I turn around to acknowledge him, and the look on my face—a smile? a mask of horror? I have no idea—freezes in place. Brody Ashton, gorgeous, uptight, and apparently the wealthy owner of this club, is standing in front of me looking like the cover of GQ. Next to Brody is a beautiful woman who’s nearly as gorgeous-looking as he is. Her long dark hair is sleek, shiny perfection, and I’m pretty sure just her legs alone are taller than I am. She’s dressed for something far fancier than our event tonight, which makes me wonder what they’re doing here now, especially way before the party starts.

Brody is in dark wool slacks with a blue button-down under a dark gray vest. His sleeves are rolled and pushed up on his tan forearms, and his hair is way past the need for a cut but still looks all rumpled bedhead perfection. I’m not sure how someone can look simultaneously casual/sexy/stoic businessman, but he’s somehow cornered the market. I have a small moment of panic that he and his girl Friday might have just seen the creepy, sleazy interaction with the production guy, but she looks too bored to care and his face is entirely unreadable.

He leans over and whispers something into her ear, and she nods and heads off towards the bar. I can’t stop staring at them; they’re both beautiful in a way I thought was achievable only through airbrushing.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks.

Oh Lord, he caught me staring! I’m pretty sure I just swallowed my tongue.

“Excuse me?” I squeak when I’m able to produce sound again.

He frowns slightly, like I’m an idiot or a waste of time or both.

“The club aesthetic; do you like what you see? Does everything look OK for the event?”

“It’s, er—” I mumble eloquently. Taylor saves me.

“You heard about the issues with the alarm?”

“Yeah, Bennett, thanks for calling. I was on my way out and thought I’d stop by to check on it.” Brody reaches out and shakes his hand. “There shouldn’t be any other problems, but Marco is on site if you need anything. Since I am here, though, can I just confirm that guest count again?”

“I think we’re at 215 or something like that,” Taylor replies quickly.

Brody inspects us both, like he doesn’t believe what Taylor’s saying, and he’s wise not to: our guest count was at 301 as of this morning.

“I’ve told Selah this, but I’ll just remind you again, capacity is 250 and that includes staff. I won’t do battle with the fire marshal again over her numbers.” Brody’s face is calm, but his tone leaves no room for discussion. He does not seem like someone you’d want to piss off.

Taylor must agree because he nods emphatically. “Absolutely, totally understand.”

“Well, I’ll leave you both to it.”

Without another word Brody turns and heads back, presumably to find his date.

“We’re room-ready in an hour, Brinks. You still want me to show you the layout?” Taylor says to me.

Brinks?
I blink at him. What am I, an armored truck?

“Sure, yeah. Show me everything.”

I’m checking things off the list on the clipboard when Selah pours into the club forty-five minutes later with a group of impeccably dressed men all around her. I attach the pen to the edge of my clipboard and walk over to meet them. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but I’m not dumb enough to leave her presence without permission. At every event I’ve worked so far, Quade never left Selah’s side for one minute. I’ve wondered what would happen if she had to use the restroom; I guess tonight I am going to find out. I stand off to the side as Selah walks the clients through the room.

“Diego,” she practically purrs, “let me show you around.” She slips her arm through the arm of an attractive older man and starts to tow him through the space.

“The guests enter through there?” Diego asks in a thick Latin accent.

“Yes, with the exception of some of the VIPs, who’ll come through the back entrance,” she says in what I’ve come to think of as her “client” voice. It is the overly sweet, kiss-up tone she uses when speaking to anyone with money or power, and it’s as fake as my eyelashes. One second she’s on the phone using the purr to tell a client how fabulous they are, and in the span of a heartbeat she’s off the phone and hissing at me.

“But if the VIPs are coming through the back, how will they walk the red carpet?” Diego asks.

“Don’t you trust me?” She wags a finger at him playfully. “I’ll handle it, don’t worry.”

Diego eyes her speculatively, clearly not eating up her tone the way her clients usually do.

“Of course I trust you; had I not, I certainly wouldn’t have approved the quarter million dollars we’re spending on this event tonight. Not to mention the—Paul, what was it we spent on a talent wrangler?” Diego turns back to another member of his team, forcing Selah to release him from her clutches.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” a studious-looking man answers him.

“Yes, not to mention the twenty-five thousand you insisted was necessary to get those VIPs here in the first place. So perhaps you’ll indulge this old man and explain to me how that works.”

Diego’s tone and smile are easy and practiced, but his eyes are shrewd. He isn’t easily impressed by Selah, and I think she knows it.

“Of course.” Selah plows forward, refusing to drop her act. “VIPs come through the back. Part of our agreement with their teams is that they won’t be harassed except by our in-house photographer who has access to them. But of course we have paparazzi arranged to catch them as they leave for the night. We’re in constant communication with those paps. This event will get coverage in every weekly, don’t worry. Let me show you the cigar roller; we had him brought in all the way from Havana!” she says brightly as she pulls Diego after her.