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After that, I drove around aimlessly, like a madman, scoping out random hotspots, in search of Georgina’s parked car. And when I didn’t see Georgina’s car anywhere—not surprisingly, considering I was looking for a needle in a haystack in a city of four million people—I simply kept going. Driving. Searching. Freaking out.
When my search of Hollywood came up empty, I drove to Westwood—the neighborhood immediately adjacent to UCLA—figuring Georgina might have gone back to her old stomping grounds. I even went into Bernie’s Place, looking for her. But, nope. She wasn’t there, either. At every turn, I came up empty-handed. No Georgina.
And that’s when I had a batshit crazy, paranoid thought: what if, when Georgina casually referenced “the musician,” she meant to do it? What if that wasn’t a slip or an incidental bit of information I’d cleverly picked up on? What if that telltale phrase had been the entire point of Georgina’s little speech to me? What if Georgina was actually calling me, specifically to tell me, in code, she was heading into a bar to watch a performance... by Troy Eklund?
The very thought of Georgina being in the same room with Troy nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. My rational brain knew I was being paranoid, and that the chances were slim. But then again, Georgina did know all about Stephanie Moreland. So, why wouldn’t she know about Troy, too?
I googled Troy’s name and quickly found out he was scheduled to play at some dive bar called Slingers in West Hollywood tonight. So, off I went, all the way back to that side of town. Even though I knew I’d literally commit murder, thereby ruining my life, if I walked into that bar and found Troy with his hands or lips on Georgina.
Thankfully, though, when I got to Slingers, I didn’t see Troy, or Georgie, anywhere. And when I chatted up the bartender, I found out Troy had played his set earlier, as scheduled, thereafter flirted with several women, per usual, and then left about fifteen minutes before my arrival with a blonde who’d practically swallowed his face in the few minutes before they’d cut out. Also, per usual. It was all excellent news, obviously. Also, proof I’m losing my damned mind.
Finally, when I’d exhausted all my ideas, I drove to Georgina’s hotel. Which was where I saw her convertible in the parking lot. I was glad to see she’d returned to the hotel... but sick to my stomach to think she might not be alone in her room. Oh, God, how I toyed with the idea of going to Georgina’s room and knocking on her damned door. But, somehow, I refrained. I forced myself to leave and drive home, even though my heart felt like it was bleeding.
And now, here I am. Tossing and turning as I await a return text from Georgina—confirmation she’s alone in that fucking hotel room.
Exhaling in resignation, I grab my phone and tap out another text to her, asking her if she’s home yet, even though I know she is... Also, even though I’ve already sent her three similar texts, none of which she’s answered.
Are you back at your hotel yet? PLEASE REPLY.
This time, Georgina texts back immediately.
I told you not to text me, Mr. Rivers.
A huge smile spreads across my face. If she’s answering me, then she’s alone. Has she been alone all night... or did whatever guy from the bar just now leave?
Me: Just want to make sure you’re safe and sound.
Georgina: Do I need to sic my lawyers on you? That’s four texts tonight. You’ve long since crossed into stalker territory, dude.
Me: I thought you said you were turning off your phone until morning.
Georgina: I lied. That’s this thing where a person says one thing but does another. Oh, wait, I don’t need to explain that to you. You know all about lying, don’t you?
Again, I smile. Even when Georgina is bitch-slapping me, she turns me on.
Me: Are you back at your hotel?
Georgina: None of your business.
Me: Just want to be sure you’re safe.
Georgina: My safety isn’t your concern.
Me: Yes, it is. You’re my friend, remember? Also, you’re working on the special issue. While you’re doing that, your safety is my top priority. If you don’t tell me where you are, then I’ll call your father to ask him if he happens to know how to use the “Find My iPhone” feature. I’m assuming you’re on your father’s phone plan?
Georgina: Goddammit! You can’t keep doing that! Yes, I’m at my hotel, you wack job! I’ve been here for well over an hour, doing research on my laptop.
Me: Did you get hit on at the bar?
Georgina: What do you think?
My heart rate spikes.
Me: But did you come back to your room alone?
Georgina: None of your business. But because I’m a saint, and we’re friends, I will admit the guy who hit on me at the bar was a turd. He was good looking, but within two minutes of talking to him, I hated his guts. And not in a good way. Not the way I hate your guts. Like, for real.
