Party Girl (4 page)

“Landon Brinkley.”

She keeps typing.
Should I keep standing here? Should I go?
I have no idea.

“That’ll be all, Brinkley,” she says.

I smile weakly even though she’s not looking up to see it and leave the office. Next door, Quade and McKenna are still hunched over their laptops. As soon as I walk in McKenna speaks.

“You survived day one, Mississippi, you can go. I hope I don’t need to tell you that a similar ensemble will not be allowed inside this building tomorrow.”

Quade snorts quietly.

I blush all the way down to my toes.

“So I’m done for the day?”

“You are, in fact. Just a reminder, we start at nine. I suggest you don’t forget it.”

“Of course. Thank you so much for the—”

“Selah Smith’s office,” McKenna chirps into his earpiece, and once again I am dismissed.

I slam the driver’s side door of my car and melt into the familiar seat. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath the entire day, and now that I’ve let it out, I have an overwhelming urge to cry. God, this day hasn’t turned out at all like I thought it would. I’ve made so many mistakes, and people were so mean. I just . . . I guess I thought I’d make some friends.

The first traitorous tear slides down my cheek, and I swipe at it angrily with my palm.

“No! You will
not
cry!” I tell myself furiously.

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

I throw the car into reverse and make my way out of the congested garage and onto Beverly.

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

It’s just, I’ve been dreaming of this day for so long, and I thought . . . I thought maybe I’d get to learn about events, or help with something creative, or . . . Another tear falls. Nope, we’re not going to do this. I drag my index finger below my lash line to clean away whatever mascara is trying to pull a Tammy Faye on me.

“This is what you came here for, Landon?” I chastise myself. “To cry your way home because the big kids are mean to you?”

I am stronger than this. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will . . . I need something to focus on, I need . . . the right song! I scroll quickly through the playlist on my phone and find what I’m looking for.

When the first few lines of the Taylor Swift song come on, I already feel better. I crank the volume until the windows shake with the twang of her guitar strings in my crappy stereo. By the time the chorus hits, I’m belting the words along with her and slamming my hand down on the steering wheel to punctuate our shared angst at being picked on by bullies. I’m sure the other cars around me are enjoying the view of the crazy girl crying and singing at the top of her lungs, but I don’t care. I don’t have time to wallow; I’ve got a dream job to land.

Over an hour later, when I pull into my own parking spot at home, I’ve cried off all my makeup and most of my eyelashes, but I’m resolved and ready to go back tomorrow and show them that I don’t scare easily.

Chapter THREE

I walk into the Volturi’s office the next morning at 8:57 a.m. McKenna is dressed in another set of perfectly tailored slacks, and his pin-striped suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair. I wonder if this professor thing is his signature look. He does a once-over of my all-black ensemble: a dress that can really be described only as “cocktail attire” and black pumps. It is one of my few options since I don’t really own a lot of black. McKenna’s eyes widen slightly as if I just walked into his office in a clown suit, but I just stand there and smile back at him like I’m competing for Miss America. I’ve decided that no matter what they say to me today, I’m going to keep this look on my face.

“Sit.” He points to my chair from yesterday that’s been rolled into the small space between the open door and the wall . . . I’m literally sitting in the corner.

I slide my bag under the chair and look up at him expectantly.

“OK, Brinkley, there’s no shallow area here. You’ll be thrown directly into the deep end. If you can’t swim, you’ll drown, got it?”

I nod.

“First you’ll need to—” He shudders with a tremor of annoyance. “Are you going to take notes, or do you have something better to do?”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” I scramble for my bag and remove a glittery pink notebook and a matching pen. He starts talking again before I’ve even cracked the page.

“First of all you’ll need to speak with Chadwick. He’s supposed to have centerpiece options for the Rhinestone after-party. Speaking of which, we’ll need a collection of decor inspiration, something unique and original for that event. Come up with a list of jewel-themed ideas . . . You did bring your laptop, correct?”

“No, I—”

“Ugh! Go borrow one from Taylor. Don’t show up here again without bringing your own.”

“OK, I—”

“Now Brinkley. Get the laptop now.” He sighs heavily as if dealing with me is the most tedious chore on earth, so I hop to my feet before I can annoy him further.

The central office area is at the same level of chaos as yesterday, only with new outfits. I look around, confused; I’m not really sure who Taylor is or where he sits. Rather than embarrass myself by wandering aimlessly, I sneak over to Miko to ask directions. She smiles up at me, but before I can open my mouth, I realize she’s on a call; I don’t want to bug her. I raise my hand in apology and start to back away, but she covers her phone receiver before I can sneak away.

“It’s OK. What do you need?” she whispers.

“Sorry! Do you know who Taylor is?” I whisper back.

“He’s the head of production, sits on the far side of the office, but you’ll probably find him out in the production room.”

“Thanks!”

Miko smiles and waves after me.

I hurry off in the direction that Miko has pointed out and find myself next to the kitchen and a doorway I hadn’t really noticed yesterday. I open the heavy door and realize it’s actually the entrance to a large workroom, nearly half the size of the entire office.

Nirvana is wafting out of a small wireless speaker on a far table, and several guys are unpacking what looks like the leftover accessories from an event. I pause for a moment, unsure of who to ask. Most of the men are on the other side of the room and one guy is unloading a crate nearby, so I head towards him. He’s in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black leather Converse. His arms are cut around perfect lean muscle, each with a full sleeve of tattoos, and even from back here he looks like the lead singer of your favorite band. He must hear me tapping over in my heels because he turns around, and I’m surprised at how young he is. He’s got dark-brown hair and chocolaty eyes, and he’s definitely rocking a sort of sexy bad-boy look. If I were into the whole Adam Levine thing, I’d probably be drooling right now.

“Can I help you with something?” He smiles down at me, and I hear a little southern twang that somehow softens his sharper edges. I wonder where he’s from.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Taylor. Can you help me?”

He stares at my face more intently; I wonder if he hears my accent too. I fight the urge to fluff my hair.

“I’d love to help you,” he drawls. “Why don’t you tell me what you need him for?”

What is he, the door guard? I don’t have time to waste with twenty questions, and I don’t want to flirt. I just want to borrow a laptop.

“I just need to speak with your boss. Can you tell me where Taylor is?”

He sets down the glass vase he’s holding on the table behind him.

“I’m a little confused—” he starts.

“And I don’t want to be rude, but this is already taking way longer than it’s supposed to. Can you please just point me towards the head of production?” I look around the room trying to figure out who that might be. “I just need to borrow a laptop for the day, so if you could tell me who is in charge here . . .”

His smile has turned into a full-on grin now.

“I could have fun with this moment, I really could,” he says conversationally. “But alas, it’d take too long and you’d get into trouble and you’d hate me and then we’d never be friends.” He sighs dramatically. “Come on, I’ll get you set up with something.” He starts to walk to the door, and I scurry after him.

“Wait! Are you sure you’re allowed to do this?”

“I’m sure,” he says as I fall in step next to him.

“What if Taylor finds out. Will you be OK?”

He chuckles and comes to an abrupt halt just past the kitchen. I do too.

“Like I said, I’d love to draw this out into some epic game of tease-the-new-girl, but I think my manners are already dangerously lacking. I should have done this when you first walked into the room.” He sticks out his hand to me. “I’m Bennett Taylor, but everyone’s called me Taylor since peewee football, so you can too.” He gives me a cheeky smile, and I wonder how many girls have fallen for that grin since peewee football.

I take his hand in my own and smile back. How is this guy anyone’s boss? He can’t be older than thirty, but then, I guess, not many people at this company are. Everyone here has one thing in common, though. They may have different styles, different ethnicities, and different backgrounds, but they’re all the coolest people you’ve ever met, and this guy is definitely one of them.

“I’m Landon Brinkley. Nice to meet you.”

We turn and keep walking.

“How exactly were you going to pull off the epic game?” I ask after a second.

“Oh, ya know, misdirection, misadventure . . . Almost all my ideas centered on telling you that Big Pretty was the boss just to watch you embarrass yourself.”

“And Big Pretty is?”

“One of our drivers. He can be a little intimidating.” He smiles but doesn’t look at me.

“Well that’s not very nice.” I can’t help but smile a little too.

“I know, Brinkley, that’s why I resisted temptation.”

“I guess chivalry isn’t dead.”

“No ma’am.” He touches the brim of an imaginary hat, and I roll my eyes dramatically, which only makes him chuckle.

Back in my corner I’m busy taking notes while McKenna runs through my to-do list.

“And Lee’s team should have linen samples for the Kessler-Glen wedding—”

I don’t mean to interrupt him, but I actually squeal at the mention of Hollywood’s “it” couple. His eyes narrow into slits.

“I don’t need to remind you that you signed a confidentiality agreement, do I?”

My face falls.

“Of course not. I won’t mention it to anyone. I’m just such a huge fan of Kira Glen; I can’t believe I’ll be working on her wedding.”

“I wouldn’t say
you’ll
be working on it so much as running around in the background schlepping. You won’t even be doing that if Selah finds out you’re a star-fucker.”

What did he just say?

“I’m not a—” I can’t even say the words. I’ve never heard the phrase before, but the way he just spat it at me means it’s definitely not a good thing.

“Brinkley, I’m going to tell you the most important lesson you’ll learn, and I expect you to commit it to memory since I don’t have the time to hire a new intern. Are you ready?”

Even though he’s being condescending, I nod . . . with the all-day smile plastered on my face.

“The celebrity clients are
everything.
Let me say it again—everything. They’re the most important part of this whole deal.” He swings his index finger in a wide lasso, gesturing to the whole office. “They’re the bread and butter, they’re who make it possible for SSE to charge what it does, they’re where we get the press and the clout, and she’d stab her own mother before she’d risk her reputation with A-list clients. Nod if you understand.”

I swallow nervously and nod.

“So like I said, the most important lesson is this: piss off a celebrity client and you can find another job. Serious as a heart attack. No joke.”

I nod again. He looks at me through narrowed eyes as if assessing my understanding of the topic and then continues on as if the whole celebrity aside hadn’t taken place.

“Next I need you to pull some entertainment options for the Lerner bar mitzvah; use the binders out front.”

“You know, I was wondering yesterday if y’all have ever considered creating Pinterest boards for each event element, or even the event itself. It’d be so much more efficient than the binders, and I can—”

“How about you work here more than a week before you start trying to change business practices?” he bites out.

Damn it! I’ll never learn to keep my mouth shut! I nod again. I’m getting really good at expressing chagrin with a single bob of my head.

“Now as for the mitzvah, I also need you to check with operations on the delivery of the kippot.” He rubs the space where his glasses meet his nose like he’s already exhausted. It’s only 10:18 a.m. “They’re supposed to have hand-stitched anchors on them, but Mrs. Lerner sent a panicked e-mail at, like, three this morning, freaking out because Ari went to another mitzvah last weekend and that kid had anchor kippot, and we can’t possibly have the same thing this weekend. We’ll need to reorder sailboat kippot instead.”

I nod again, like I have any clue what he just said. I write a note to myself in the top corner of my page:
Google KeyPah (sp??)
.

McKenna pushes himself to his feet, and the sound makes me look up.

“Time for the all-hands meeting,” he says, slipping back into his pin-striped jacket. He considers me for a moment like I’m a particularly interesting species of insect.

“Fine, you can come. Say nothing.” He says this as if he’s answering the question I hadn’t asked.

I follow him quickly out the door with my notebook in my hands. We walk the length of the office before coming to the door of the conference room. One whole side of the room is lined with large windows that show off a postcard view of Beverly Hills. In the middle of the room is a long glass conference table, surrounded on all sides by Louis XIV acrylic ghost chairs. I run my fingers reverently along the back of one. I’ve never seen these chairs in person, and I can’t believe they use them as conference chairs . . . Actually,
of course
they use them as conference chairs!

McKenna is typing feverishly on his smartphone, but he takes the chair to the right of the table’s head and nods for me to sit next to him. All around us the room is quickly filling with staff members. Then it hits me: all-hands, as in all hands on deck. I try and stop my smile from forming but it’s really tough. I’m so excited to be included!

The beautiful people are finding their seats and sipping on lattes and chatting about everything from a favorite pinot noir to a new band someone saw last night at Hotel Café. It’s all so very LA, and I can’t believe I’m here in the midst of it!

Miko walks in the room with a large sketchpad under one arm and gold oversize headphones on her ears. She’s wearing leather leggings and wedge sneakers in black suede that I didn’t even know existed before seeing them on her feet. Her oversize black T-shirt is falling off one shoulder and has a screen print of an angry cat on the front. On anyone else that shirt would look ridiculous, but somehow she manages to make it, like, the coolest cat T-shirt ever! I look down at my too-short dress and sigh.

I need to go shopping.

Miko sits down across the table and looks up just as Selah and Quade walk in the door. The whole room goes silent, except for Selah, who’s on her phone. Quade takes the seat across from McKenna, and Selah sits down at the helm. And then we all . . . just sit there.

Selah chats on her phone as if she’s got nothing better to do, as if the room full of people waiting for her doesn’t have anything better to do either.

“No, of course I don’t. You promised you were taking me out.” She’s smiling and happy, her voice oozing flirtatiousness. “That’s not true. I loved your last selection.” It’s quiet as she waits for the person on the phone to argue the point. She laughs deep in her throat. “Well perhaps you should try a little harder to impress me?” she asks with an over-the-top pout.

Eew! Barf!

I look down the table to Miko, who rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair, getting comfortable. Clearly this is nothing new, and we might be here awhile. I wonder if the person on the other end of the phone realizes Selah’s having this chat with a captive audience around her.