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“Neither one of you did anything to me!” she announces angrily. She perches her fists on her hips and glares at each of us. “This may come as a newsflash to you guys, but you don't own everything in the world. Hannah asked me to help you rehabilitate your pervy Playboy reputations. That's it. All I’ve got to do is show up, get my picture taken with you, make with the romantic looks… with Emmet. Not you, Dillon!” she emphasizes, pointing at him. It makes me want to laugh. But I don't.
He crosses his arms in front of his chest and raises an eyebrow at her. “And how was making out with both of us supposed to do that, Sherlock? There were a dozen witnesses in there, watching you making out with us one at a time, and then leaving… with both of us. If rehabilitating our playboy reputations was the goal, we’re more than likely worse off than we were before.”
Her mouth drops open a little bit. “No… but… the blogger got me and Emmet. That's what I came here to do today. My job is done.”
I look at Dillon and raise my hands helplessly. “You're probably right,” I admit, exaggerating maybe just a little. “But did you see the blogger come in? He could've been filming the whole time and gotten both kisses. I can see the headline now. ‘Caught canoodling with the Riordan brothers…’”
Dillon tips his head to the side. I think he is overacting, but she seems to be buying it. “No, I don't know when he came in. He could've been filming from the very start. You’re absolutely right.”
“This is totally unfair!” she sputters.
I watch her assembling a counterargument, strategizing on the fly. She's very quick. She obviously wants to come up with a good plan, but I’m fairly certain Dillon and I can dismantle any argument she's going to put out.
Just at that moment, the door opens again and the blogger stumbles out into the light, grinning happily as though he can't believe the scene he just lucked out to find. Instantly his iPhone goes up again and I hear the camera shutter noises going off like machine-gun fire. You’d think he’d have the courtesy to turn the sound off, at least. Probably makes him feel important.
Instantly, Bella rushes toward me, her arms out as though stumbling. I catch her swiftly out of the air and she leans her forehead briefly against my chest, pouting convincingly.
“I just needed a little air!” she exclaims. “Can we take a walk or something?”
“Sure, baby,” I tell her, smoothing her hair. It smells like vanilla and lavender, with a little musky undertone. Having her in my arms, I’m in no hurry to go on that walk.
“Let's go to The Frame,” I suggest. “It’s just around the corner here.”
“Yes, let's,” she sighs, picking her head up to smile brilliantly at me. If I didn't know any better, I would totally believe this girl was in love with me too.
We turn away, her leaning heavily on me as she picks her way among the damp potholes in the alley. Even in Streeterville, alleys are not especially well-kept. Dillon comes up behind us, blocking the blogger’s way.
“Not you, buddy. Private club,” he explains.
“It’s a free country!” the blogger wheezes. It’s a wonder this guy was able to catch us with the Congresswoman. He can barely shuffle down an alley.
After a few seconds, we’re coming up to the back door and Merle, the bouncer, leaps off his barstool when he sees us.
“Misters Riordan!” he barks, dropping his cell phone on the barstool. Just before it hits the leather, face down, I see a flash of Words With Friends. All our bouncers are pretty smart. Gotta be fifteen of them playing Words With Friends together at the same time on a daily basis.
“Merle, good to see you. Busy day?” I ask him as we come toward the back entrance. He opens the door with a flourish and squints over my shoulder, probably assessing the threat level of the blogger who’s still trotting gracelessly down the alley behind us.
“Not too b
usy,” Merle answers, distracted. “Want me to take care of that?”
“If it's not too much trouble,” Dillon says, coming up from behind. Bella glances at him, rolling her eyes, but he just smiles as though not catching her drift at all. He's a stubborn one, like a puppy trying to hump her leg.
Once we are safely inside, Bella lets go of my elbow. I kind of miss it. I like having her holding onto me as we are walking. She steps cautiously ahead, craning her head to see around the corner to the main ballroom. Dillon and I draw up behind, happy to witness her reaction.
It's a large room, painted black with LED chandeliers in waterfall patterns dripping colored lights onto the stage. The stage is black and mirrored, where three of the most beautiful women you've ever seen dance slowly and suggestively, wearing nothing but eight inch high platform heels.
They’re so lovely and fit, they hardly look like people. Their skin glows in the light. Below them are seven or eight of the city's wealthiest business owners, frozen in admiration as these goddesses dole out minuscule portions of their attention.
“You brought me to a strip club!?” Bella hisses.
“I brought you to our private club,” I correct her. “The most exclusive club in the city. Who's gonna tell? Her?” I gesture at the stage. Bella squints in that direction.
“That can’t be — is that — no,” she scoffs. “That can’t be her. But it looks just like her!”
For a moment we all just watch the nearly six-foot beauty, undulating like an ecstatic cobra. Her wide hips twist and rock subtly, mesmerising the businesspeople who slide hundred dollar bills into neat piles below her heels, not daring to go any further.
“Of course it is her,” I assure Bella. We don't even dare say her name out loud, that's how famous she is. “Why would I have anything but the very best?”
