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“Oh no, not anymore,” Bethie says quietly, taking the hand I've outstretched for her to shake. “I got an internship with a management agency instead.”
“Congratulations,” Thea wishes her. “You didn't like it at the studio?”
Bethie looks to the floor, shuffling side to side on her ballet flats. “It's not that. It's just not what I want to do.”
“You want to go into management instead?” Thea asks, genuinely curious.
“Hopefully. I'd love to have my own clients someday.”
“You got a card?”
I swear to god, I have never seen a look as shocked and awestruck as the one that explodes on Bethie's face at Thea's question. Her eyes widen to an extraordinary size, magnified even larger by the lenses of her black-rimmed glasses.
“Are you serious?”
Thea laughs good-naturedly. “It just so happens I'm on the lookout for a new manager and I'd love to get in touch with the agency you're interning for.”
“Oh, okay,” Bethie stammers, fishing around in her little handbag for a card before passing it over. “I'm working with Geoff Hammerstein.”
Thea freezes.
I feel the air change to something glacial, like an arctic wind sweeping us away.
And just like that, I know.
I know the name of the man who abused Thea six years ago, who blackmailed her into touching him in ways she'd never touched a man before.
I don't know what the fuck to do right now, but I know that I have to do something. So, I slip an arm around my girl's waist and pull her into my side, directing my attention to Bethie, who seems completely oblivious to what's happening inside Thea right now. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think we need to find our seats.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Bethie says quickly. “Sorry to hold you up, I'll...um...just be going, then. It was nice to see you again, Althea.”
Guiding Thea through the throngs of people, I somehow manage to find us our seats at the table closest to the stage. Pulling out Thea's chair, I fold myself into my own and look around the several people already seated.
Beside us to the right, a woman with golden hair sips from a glass of champagne with one hand and holds the hand of a dark-haired man with the other. Opposite is a couple I recognize well from television, both movie stars, I think. Next to them is none other than Aiden McCallister and a supermodel I used to see in India's fashion magazines back when we were together.
But I'm too worried about Thea to give a shit about the dude she had sex with one time, even if he is currently staring at her in that fucking phenomenal dress that's draped low across her breasts like he wants to eat her for dinner.
Blocking him out entirely, I direct all my attention to the one person who needs it. “Are you okay?” I ask Thea on a whisper, lips hovering over her ear.
She shivers, but the vacant haziness in her eyes still remains. She nods once. I don't believe her.
“That Geoff guy...” I start hesitantly, “that was him, wasn't it?”
She squeaks this tiny high-pitched sound that breaks my fucking heart.
“Jesus.”
I rub the back of my head, doing my best to smother the rage boiling hot and furious in my blood because this isn't the place to lose my shit. But goddamn, it's hard. Because now I have a name to put to the man I hate more than anyone on this earth. Never have I felt the urge to end the life of another person, but him...fucking Geoff Hammerstein... I could slit his throat and watch the blood drain from him drip by drip without ever feeling one twinge of remorse.
Thea's still lost in the darkness of her worst memory even as dinner is served.
It's five courses of food I've never even heard of before, much less eaten. White truffle and chive Kobe beef tartar is the first dish placed in front of me, followed by something called arancini, then the fanciest fucking salad I've ever seen in my life, a main course comprised of lobster and some other shit and then finally dessert, which tastes like chocolate, but I can't for the shit of me tell you what it is.
And sure, it all tastes good, but I can't help thinking that I'd have been just as happy with a cheeseburger and fries. But what the fuck do I know? I'm just a mechanic. Everyone else here seems to enjoy it, or so they say to one another in between regaling stories of this wild thing that happened to them last month at the Cannes Film Festival or the yacht party they went to in Monaco that got a little out of hand last July.
The only half normal people are the couple sitting beside me. But like me, they keep mostly to themselves.
It's when the plates are finally cleared that the man in the chair directly next to mine finally wrenches his attention away from his date and extends a hand in my direction.
