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Liar.
“I have to go.” I toss the phone onto the sofa without so much as a goodbye.
I’m nauseous and become more so as I play back last night’s dinner.
First of all, dinner was supposed to be only the two of us. But, as usual, it turned into an intimate affair for thirty—us plus his director, the leading stars of his upcoming movie,Make It So, and their entourages.
Although we hardly spoke—and in retrospect, that’s likely how he planned it—he said nothing about flying back to Toronto.
A hard rap on the hotel door causes the alcohol to bubble up my throat. Time to plaster on a smile. Fallon Kingsley, a former child star and one of Hollywood’s up-and-coming actresses, is a close friend and she’s here.
When I open the door to my suite, she flings herself at me.
“Oh my God, L.” Her gorgeous blonde hair, heavily scented with hairspray and expensive perfume, smothers my face. “It’s been too long.”
I latch on to her, needing the closeness and comfort of another while I fight back the tears. My party-girl persona doesn’t want to come out and play.
“It hasn’t been that long. We had lunch yesterday.” I snicker to cover the croak in my voice and pull away.
My gaze lands on her dress to avoid looking her in the eye. Fallon would rather bathe her wounds in gasoline than let anyone see her hurting. I’ve got to pull myself together. “Fal, you look to die for.”
And she does. Always. Even when drunk off her ass, makeup smudged, and screaming profanities—the press made a killing that night—Fallon’s a stunner.
“Are you ready?” She scans me from head to toe, scrutinizing the floral brocade cut-out mini dress I’m wearing. “Cavalli. Nice.”
Her shiny, dark-green Bottega Veneta both clings to her body and flows freely in all the right places. Parading into the suite, she immediately spies the champagne and takes a long, healthy swig from the bottle.
The rim rests on her bottom lip as she staggers to the full-length mirror. She’s already tipsy, and I gawk, not sure what to say.
For the past few weeks, while in LA, I have had intense therapy sessions to deal with my recent scare, on top of all my other shit, and in the only way I know how to help Fallon, I suggested she give it a try. That got me a massive eye roll before she snorted a line of coke and left me in the bathroom of the restaurant where we were having lunch.
I’ve had help from a psychologist for nearly two years now. Of course, the sessions in LA were hard for so many reasons, including that my longtime therapist, Doctor Hemming, was in Toronto. But if not for her, I don’t know where I’d be. My doctor found someone local to help me deal with recent traumatic events, and when she could, she participated in our sessions virtually.
Movement from Fallon as she stares at her reflection in the full-length mirror brings me back to now. “L, what’s with the pout? We’re going to have fun tonight, no matter what.”
She guzzles more champagne, then slams the bottle onto a nearby table, finger still curled around the bottle. A pale liquid foam bubbles from the bottle and trickles down the side.
Unfazed by her mess—she never is—her glassy gaze nabs mine through the mirror. “Don’t tell me that face has anything to do with Felix…I say fuck ’em.”
Her declaration is less about my so-called boyfriend and more about her on-again, off-again, movie-star boyfriend, Wells Truett. They’ve recently split. Again.
Usually, this is a good thing. When together, their cruel and exhausting mind games inevitably drag anyone orbiting them into their mess.
“Felix has nothing to do with my mood.” Haughtily, I jut out my chin as if it were that easy to erase the disappointment and anger at my father.
Felix is inconsequential even if I’m tired of his self-centered bullshit. I will deal with him tonight.
She flops into an oversized chair, still clutching the bubbly. “Have you talked to him?”
I snort and shake my head. “No. I’ve stopped trying to reach him, but tonight will be different. He won’t be able to ignore me.”
My pulse quickens in anticipation of the face-off with the devilishly handsome dickhead, while Fallon arches a brow, scrutinizing me in a way that makes me twitch.
“But something is wrong. What did the asshole do now?”
“Nothing.” I chew on the inside of my cheek as if that will lessen the need to vent. “It’s my dad. He tossed me aside. Again.”
“No.” She thrashes dramatically from side to side, and I’m grateful for her theatrics.
