Page 86 of Apparently, I’m A B!tch

Chapter44

Nikki

Saturday evening

Damn Tristan.

I did not want to be here. I didn’t want to be doing this.

I stood, looking up at the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, watching the impeccably dressed crowd drift in and out of the event.

I might not have been involved in Tristan’s coveted world of art, but I wasn’t uncultured enough to hide behind oblivion. This was The Met. The Met. The most elite of New Yorkers would be here, celebrating an exhibition I knew Tristan would’ve longed to have seen.

And I was about to serve one of its wealthy guests restraining order papers. Ugh. Maybe I should’ve asked a process server to do this.

Tristan wanted Rochelle embarrassed, I understood that. It was possible the woman would back off after she realized her victim didn’t take his abuse lying down.

And after going through his timeline of events, I had to admit it. Tristan did sound like a victim of sexual coercion. It was the exact thing I accused Harvey of doing to Kelly, and while my half-hearted accusations were unfounded, Tristan’s weren’t.

Rochelle was beautiful, intelligent, well-established and wealthy. She had the power to help Tristan begin an art career through her varied connections alone. But instead of having pure, business-minded intentions, she showed up, uninvited, into his home and place of work, to spread hurtful information with the goal of ruining his relationships and his career.

When Tristan detailed, with downcast eyes, the way Rochelle exposed herself and propositioned him with sex at his place of work… I could’ve burned the office down with my anger alone.

I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be doing this. But not because I didn’t want to embarrass the woman. I wanted to do worse. I wanted to make her pay for ruining my best friend’s dreams.

I breathed in and tried to still my trembling hands. I was still so upset.

It took Tristan coming into my office to file a report before I finally listened to him. It took legal confirmation that he was being harassed for me to believe him.

It shouldn’t have taken that. I should’ve known better.

I walked up the steps of The Met, my pencil skirt restricting my movement just enough that my pace had to be slower than I would’ve liked. I wanted to run in there, scream in Rochelle’s face, grip the back of her hair and slam her against a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Of course, I wasn’t going to do that. The blunt eye-for-an-eye upbringing I had was railing against me, but she wasn’t worth it.

I stepped inside, my senses inundated with bright lights, delicious smells, soft music and the pleasant undercurrent of chatter. This place was huge.

It took some time. I had to tap on shoulder after shoulder, asking where Rochelle Wiener might be. The guests, some of them with wide eyes, asked, “Whatever would you want dear Rochelle for?”

I bit back the satisfaction in my voice as I answered, “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the legal issues surrounding Ms. Weiner. Thank you for your time.” It caused a stir to say the least, and I didn’t mind it when the guests began to separate around me, stopping to whisper as I made my way through the event.

Eventually, someone was able to point her out to me.

She was standing in a floor length burgundy gown, with a short, balding man who wore yellow-lensed sunglasses indoors. To his left was a somber man with a fade styled into his hair. Carlos and Kenny Mcloughlin. I recognized them from my second art class with Tristan. They tried to warn him away from me because it might upset the wrath of Rochelle. I should’ve known then that something wasn’t right.

I cleared my throat and approached the small group with a bright smile. The three of them turned to me, each registering who I was at varied times.

“Nikki! No way. Wow, is T here? Man, I miss that–”

Kenny cleared his throat, shutting down Carlos’s surprised, good-natured babbling.

“Ah, it’s the charming student from our oil painting class, isn’t it? What a lovely surprise. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

I stared at Rochelle, taking in the way she stiffened, drink in hand, as she eyed my outfit, stance and the papers I was clutching.

“I’m here on business, Mister Mcloughlin. Specifically with Ms. Rochelle Wiener.” I raised my voice, knowing this was unorthodox and bordering on unprofessional, but I found it difficult to give a shit.

People claimed I was a bitch. They labeled my honesty as something hurtful, as something I used to cut them down to size.

But I wasn’t a bitch.