Wrong City (10 page)

C
ostumes were required for Kelsey’s party,
even though Halloween was more than two weeks away. Their costumes were not a
collaborative effort; Troy took firm control, shooting down all of Vish’s
suggestions and pushing through her own concept.

“There’ll be a
red carpet,” she said. “And photographers. We can’t just half-ass it. This’ll
be a whole-ass effort or nothing.”

Vish would be
happier with the “nothing” side of the equation. Troy had procured an elaborate
Indian-prince costume for him consisting of a vest and baggy pants in
embroidered purple-and-gold satin, a matching turban, and gold sandals. She
insisted on painting his eyes, rimming them with her black liquid eyeliner and
applying multiple coats of mascara. Vish felt like an ass, and he couldn’t help
thinking this whole business maybe wasn’t a benchmark moment for cultural
sensitivity.

Troy looked
great, though. She wore some kind of gladiator getup. A sexy gladiator, clad in
a gold breastplate and a short gold skirt. Heeled gold sandals that laced up to
her knees, a matching sword and shield. The sword was real; Vish had hefted it,
and it was heavy and sharp and probably nothing that could be legally carried
in public. She wore the glass bottle necklace, as always, even though it looked
silly with her costume. Nice to think something he’d given her meant so much to
her.

“Where’d you
get the outfits?” he asked.

“Called in a
few favors with the costume department at the studio,” she said. She fussed
with a curling iron in his bathroom mirror, turning her blunt bob into a mass
of tangled ringlets, which she piled high on her head and secured with a rigid
gold headband that resembled a crown. “It’s all production wardrobe, from
movies or whatever. Aren’t they fabulous?”

Troy arranged
for a limo to pick them up. Black and sleek and long, it looked out of place
waiting at the curb in this neighborhood. Vish had never ridden in one before.
It seemed excessive and silly, much like their costumes, but Troy assured him
this was a limo-appropriate occasion.

On the way to
the Moroccan restaurant where Kelsey’s party was taking place, they got tipsy
off of the adorable single-serving bottles of champagne stocked in the limo’s
mini-fridge. That was for the best, because by the time they reached West
Hollywood, Vish had managed to overcome his mortification and in fact was
feeling pretty warm and good about the whole affair. Champagne was a wondrous
elixir.

There was no
red carpet, just a line of photographers and a few reporters leading up to the
entrance. Vish trailed Troy and remained silent, a dumb smile plastered on his
face, as she posed for photos and gave short, funny answers to shouted
questions. A bouncer at the door checked their names against a list before
gesturing for them to go inside.

Gauzy purple
drapes hung from the ceiling and divided the main room of the restaurant into
separate areas. Booths of dark wood with carved high backs were partitioned off
with embroidered curtains that could be closed for privacy. The tables were
tiled with colorful mosaics; hammered bronze lamps mounted to the walls gave
off a flickering light.

The room was
full of costumed guests. Troy’s instincts had been correct; everyone had gone
all-out with their attire. As ridiculous as Vish felt, he blended right in.

Just inside the
door, Vish stopped in his tracks. There, by the bar. A face he recognized. Dark
hair, longish in front, a charcoal suit and white collarless shirt. No tie, no
costume unless it was something too subtle for Vish to figure out at a glance.
Sparky Mother.

Huh. Well, it
made some sense he’d be there. Sparky and Kelsey had clearly known each other
at Maryanne’s party.

Sparky scanned
the crowd, looking bored. His eyes met Vish’s, and Vish felt an odd sort of
electric charge, but Sparky turned away without changing his expression.

Troy touched
his arm. She looked at Sparky. “You know him?” she asked.

“I think so,”
Vish said. “I don’t know if you remember me mentioning him. That’s Sparky
Mother. He’s this manager who offered to look at my writing, but I lost contact
with him.”

“You should go
and talk to him,” Troy said.

He was about to
mention that it looked like Sparky didn’t remember him when they were
interrupted by the birthday girl. Kelsey was celebrating her induction into
adulthood by dressing as a Disney princess in a gown made from yards and yards
of sparkling yellow chiffon bundled up with an enormous poofy satin bow at the
back. She threw her arms around Troy and squeezed her tightly. With luck, she
wouldn’t accidentally impale herself on Troy’s sword. “Troy! Vish! I’m so glad
you guys could make it! You look fantastic!” She detangled herself from Troy
and pulled back so she could better see their costumes. “Oh my gosh! I love
Aladdin! You look so awesome!” she said to Vish.

It was easiest
just to smile and compliment Kelsey on her own costume, which is what Vish did.

“Have you had
anything to eat yet? They’re coming around with trays, but the buffet table’s
over there.” Kelsey waved a tiny hand toward the back of the room. “I thought
this place would be perfect for my party, looks-wise, but the food here is kind
of gross. So I asked the chefs to make all my favorites.”

Troy scoped out
the contents of a passing tray, which was borne by a white-garbed server.
“Which is why we’re having sliders at a Moroccan restaurant. Good plan, Kels.”

“I can’t help
it. I like hamburgers, and it’s my party.” Kelsey giggled. “Help yourselves,
guys. I’ll be back in a bit.” She moved on in a whirl of chiffon to greet some
new arrivals.

Vish slid Troy
a sidelong glance. “You didn’t deliberately dress me as Aladdin, did you?”

“Please. Perish
the thought.” Troy craned her head around the room. “Is the bar open, or are
the paparazzi deterring this place from serving alcohol at a teenager’s
birthday party?”

“There’s a bar.
What do you want? More champagne?”

“Whatever
you’re having. Thanks.” Troy kissed him on the nose. “Ridpath’s here. I’m going
to go say hi while you suss out the drink situation.”

Vish squeezed
into an empty spot at the bar and waited for the bartender to work his way down
to his end. Someone jostled his elbow. He glanced over. Sparky.

Sparky looked
straight ahead, forearms resting on the bar, his attention fixed on the wall.
When he spoke, it took Vish a minute to realize his words were directed at him.

“I got your
message,” Sparky said. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’ve been busy.” He
glanced at Vish once, quickly, then looked forward again. “You look ridiculous,
by the way.”

Vish was
startled into silence for a moment. “It’s a costume party, if you’ve noticed.
And I didn’t leave you a message,” he said at last.

“You called,
though.”

“I tried. The
number you gave me wasn’t working.”

“It works. It’s
just… monitored.” Sparky’s mouth twisted into a quick grimace. “Things are a
little dicey right now. Everything okay with you?”

Monitored? That
phone call that never quite reached Sparky’s office, the whispering void and
static on the line…“Yeah. Everything’s great.”

Sparky threw a
quick glance around the room. “Yeah, well, about that,” he said. “Things are
most definitely not great for you, and that’s kind of entirely my fault.”

“What?”

“I got you into
a lot of trouble. Sorry about that, but if you do whatever I tell you,
everything’s going to be fine, probably.” Sparky looked at him. For the first
time, Vish noticed his eyes were a very dark blue, framed by those thick, dark
lashes. “She’ll kill you if she can.”

“What?” Vish
said again. “Who?”

Sparky glanced
over Vish’s shoulder, then grimaced. He shook his head. “I’ll be in touch. Take
care of yourself, Vish.” And with a pat on Vish’s arm, Sparky withdrew into the
crowd.

Vish jumped at
a light hand on his shoulder. Troy. She looked startled by his reaction. “Just
checking to see how you’re coming on the drinks,” she said. She glanced around.
“Were you talking to your manager friend?”

Vish almost
denied it, though he didn’t know why. “Just for a second,” he said.

She’ll kill
you if she can.

“I need to hit
the ladies’ room,” Troy said. “At this rate, you’ll probably still be here by
the time I’m done.”

She melted off
into the crowd again. The bartender wasn’t anywhere close to his end of the
bar, so Vish just snagged two slender flutes of champagne from a tray carried
by a passing waiter, then did a quick reconnoiter of the room in search of
Sparky. No sign of him.

The explosion
shook the restaurant. A low boom, a vibration that rattled the lanterns on the
walls, and then smoke poured into the dining area from somewhere in the back,
puffy gray clouds that bore an acrid scent.

A moment of
stunned silence, and then pandemonium erupted.

Someone slammed
into Vish from behind. The champagne glasses went flying out of his hands.
Costumed party guests swarmed past him en masse toward the front of the
restaurant. He grabbed the bar to brace himself against the flow of bodies.
Troy. Troy was in the ladies room, which was at the back of the restaurant,
which was where the explosion came from…

Chaos. Screams
and shouts. Stampeding guests, their dazzling costumes in disarray, knocked
each other over and upended tables and ripped drapes down from the ceiling in
their crazed attempts to get outside. Broken glasses and smashed plates of
half-eaten food littered the floor.

A hand on his
wrist. Vish turned and saw Troy, safe and sound. Her color was high; her eyes
glittered with excitement. “There you are. Crap. What happened?” she asked. She
looked around.

He pulled her
into his arms and clutched her against him. “I don’t know. It was an explosion.
Were you close to it?” he asked. “I thought you might have been caught in it. I
was looking for you.”

“I’m fine. I’m
okay. I didn’t see anything. I was in the ladies’ room, and I heard some kind
of bang. Maybe something in the kitchen blew up. Gas stove, maybe.” She
squirmed out of his grip and reached up to straighten his turban. “It smells
terrible in here. Let’s get away from the smoke or whatever this shit is.”

They had to
wait for the congestion at the door to clear. Vish, jittery with adrenaline,
wanted to push and claw his way out with the other guests, but Troy, ever calm
and collected, linked her fingers with his and anchored him to one spot.

They were among
the last to evacuate. The night air was crisp and cold. Vish shivered in her
vest. Troy, in her skimpy metal breastplate, didn’t seem affected by the chill.

Everyone stood
on the sidewalk in confused clumps, the pretty costumes sad and incongruous on
the city street. A fire truck arrived, followed by an ambulance and two police
cars. While the firemen swarmed into the restaurant, a police officer addressed
the crowd.

“Folks, we’re
going to need you to stay here for just a little bit longer while we
investigate the situation,” he said. He was burly and middle-aged, with a red
beard and redder cheeks. “Who here can tell me exactly what happened?”

“There was a
bang.” That was Kelsey. Her face was pink and puffy, and it was obvious she’d
been crying. One of the photographers darted right in front of her and snapped
a picture inches from her nose; Kelsey blinked in confusion from the flash, but
didn’t turn away. “And then there was smoke, and it smelled bad, and everyone
started screaming.” Her voice broke, and she started crying again. Troy
instinctively moved toward her, but two girls in princess costumes flanking
Kelsey wrapped their arms around their friend. Kelsey buried her face into
their gauzy dresses and sobbed.

“Crappy
birthday party, huh?” Troy said under her breath to Vish. “Poor kid.”

Vish nodded. He
looked around at the other evacuated party guests. No sign of Sparky.

In turn, a
calm, polite police officer took down their names and their accounts of the
incident. After just under an hour of loitering on the sidewalk in the cold
night air, they were given the go-ahead to leave. Good. Vish’s sandals were
killing him by this point, and he could only imagine what Troy’s feet felt
like. Troy called their driver to summon their limo, and they slid into the
warm, comfortable interior.

As soon as the
door was shut behind them, safe in the cream leather cocoon, Vish felt better.
“What do you think happened?” he asked.

Troy shrugged.
“Some weird accident, I guess,” she said. “I’m just glad it wasn’t anything
serious.”

“Are we going
to my place?” Vish asked.

“You bet.” Troy
leaned forward and consulted with the driver through the tiny window. When she
sat back, the screen rolled up to give them further privacy.

She grinned.
“Ever done it in a limo?”

Before Vish
could protest that sex in public places wasn’t his kink—in fact, he found the
idea off-putting—she was on him, unhooking her sword and letting it fall to the
carpeted floor. She settled over his lap and propped her arms against the seat
behind him. She unfastened his loose silk trousers and lifted up her short gold
skirt. A few adjustments were made, and then she rode him, her cheeks flushing,
her curls tumbling out of her upswept hairdo.

Vish slid his
arms up around her bare neck. At some point during the evening she must’ve lost
the glass bottle necklace.

After they were
done, she collapsed in his arms. They fixed their clothing and cleaned up with
a stack of cocktail napkins from the mini-bar. Troy nestled against him, her
breastplate gouging into his chest, and kissed his chin.

“Thank you,”
she said.