My cheeks heat and I have to look away from her penetrating stare. And not ever think the wordpenetratingin her presence ever again. “I mean, I plan to complete the challenge, as expected, but I don’t know how much of my sex life I’m willing to put out onto the internet that never forgets. I was planning on focusing more on what the experience teaches me, not the details itself.”
She studies me for an uncomfortably long minute. “You do want your own column, don’t you? The freedom to write whatever you want? You’ve been after this for years and I always told you that eventually it would be your turn. Once you paid your dues.”
It’s the first time in eight years she’s blatantly acknowledged how much she’s been dangling a promotion in front of me. And I’m not sure where the resolve comes from—maybe from the image of Duke, nodding proudly when Iland a punch, or from Izzy, who drank in my every word about what it’s like to work as a writer. Or maybe it comes from me. Whatever the source, that resolve is there.
“I’ve already paid my dues, Natasha.” My voice is soft but strong. “And writing one article about sex isn’t going to change the work that I’ve done over the past eight years. And it’s not going to make me any more deserving of a job you already know I can do.”
For a second, she seems surprised by my resistance, but she recovers quickly, shrugging off my words. “It might affect how the readers vote.”
“I’m okay with that.” I push out of my chair. “Anything else?”
She doesn’t even deign to give me a response, just nods me out of the office without a word.
I’m not going to pretend like that rebuke doesn’t sting, because of course it does. I’ve thought of Natasha as a pseudo mother figure since the moment I met her. But she’s not my mother. She’s not even really my friend. She’s my boss. And yes, she has done a lot for me over the years, but I have also given so much because I didn’t want to disappoint her. Natasha gave, and Natasha probably took advantage. Both things can be true.
And if this is the reaction I get when I put up a little bit of a fight, well, I don’t know that it bodes well for the future.
—
I yank downon the hem of the sparkly silver dress May strapped me into—mostly unwillingly—earlier this evening,but it doesn’t keep the thin fabric from riding halfway up my thigh the second I take two more steps.
“Stop fidgeting.” May pulls on my arm, tucking it into the crook of her elbow.
“This dress is way too short. And tight. And glittery.” And she vetoed myFeminist Bitchnecklace, which was really just rude.
“Tonight is not about being subtle. Or comfortable, for that matter.”
We stroll down the sidewalk, bypassing the line of people waiting outside Warwick. May gives her name to the doorman and we’re immediately whisked inside. Thank Thor for friends with PR connections, because had I been forced to stand in that line and wait, I would’ve 100 percent chickened out. After volunteering yesterday, I was resolute in my mission to find a hottie and bow-chicka-wow-wow, but right now, my resolve is wavering.
“We’re meeting some of my work friends, but we don’t have to hang out with them for long if we don’t want to.” May leads the way through the still-early and not-quite-throbbing crowds, putting a vast amount of space between me and the exit.
Warwick is one of the typical LA places I’d never go to if it weren’t for May, and even under the influence of May, I still avoid it like I avoid dude-bros at Comic-Con. It’s on the small side as far as LA clubs go, and while I can appreciate the overall vibe—imagine if Gatsby’s interior designer took over a hipster warehouse—it’s not really my scene. Loud music and expensive (though delicious) cocktails havealways taken a backseat to a night at the movies. Or the theater. Or being home alone in bed with a good book.
So yeah. Take the venue, plus the task at hand, plus the lingering weirdness from my conversation the day before with Seth, and it’s a recipe for a cranky Lana.
We find May’s coworkers and she exchanges a bunch of air kisses with the lot of them. Luckily the volume of the music means I don’t have to do more than smile and wave and accept a cocktail poured from the bottle service spread across the table.
“You only get one of these.” May hands me my drink and a stern look. “If you’re going to have a hookup tonight, it’s going to be a fully consensual hookup.”
Oh fuck. The reality hits me as I down my drink. I’m here to find a one-night stand. A one-night stand I will be totally sober for. Here I was last night thinking this whole experiment might be just what the doctor ordered to help me gain some clarity on my not-feelings for Seth. Instead, I already hate everything about this.
May loops her arm through mine again, pulling me away from the table and into the crowd. “Let’s do a lap and find some top contenders.”
She guides me around the room, pointing to a couple of different guys who could be potential targets, as if sleeping with someone for one night only has become some sort of mission impossible.
It should come as no surprise that none of the chosen few pique my interest. There’s nothing wrong with any of the men—at least not that can be discerned in dim clublighting—but none of them give me even a hint of the tingles previously derived from a mere swipe of Seth’s thumb over my knuckles.
After I mentally eliminate the fourth contender—who’s engaged in some sort of fist-pumping dance—I tell May I need to use the restroom. She starts to walk with me, but I shoo her back in the direction of her workmates, suggesting she help herself to another cocktail and have some fun. Sensing I need a break, she blows me a kiss, warns me not to try to sneak out the bathroom window, and sends me on my way.
Once I locate the restroom, I lock myself in a stall, relishing the simple peace and quiet of the tiny cubicle of space. The room at large is miraculously empty, which is nice, but it also means I’m left without anyLet’s go to the bathroom to talk about our datesgossip to distract me.
I take out my phone, planning to scroll through Instagram for a few minutes before forcing myself back into the jungle of men in too-tight pants, determined to find, if not a suitor, then at least one who passes as suitable.
The latest post on theATFaccount pops up in my feed as soon as I open the app. And it punches me in the gut.
Seth has his arm around some girl—and by “some girl” I mean a totally knockout-gorgeous woman—a wide smile on his face as she looks up at him adoringly. I don’t know who this woman is, but it definitely isn’t Jessica. The caption is basic—Putting myself out there—but a particular hashtag catches my eye.
#LongTermPotential
