CHINA
After eating the delicious meal left by Cassidy, a relaxing steam-filled hour in the sauna, and a cascading shower that made me feel like I’d had a heat peel, I’ve almost found my zen in the bottom of a bottle of red. The previous bottle of white wasn’t cutting it. The red was needed to cut the edges off my raw emotions that slowly crept to the surface. Every time I’m given a moment of solitude in this mansion, I slip into an alternate reality where I would rather become a hermit. There are days I wish I wasn’t the sweetheart Doll of Crown Industries that everyone envisions. I want to have company, but I despise the act of conversation. It’s forced and unnecessary. It’s all fake in so many ways.
The dress I selected for tonight fits like a glove and meshes with my shoes perfectly. It’s not too tight or too showy, yet it gives the hint of a girl who’s just figured out she’s not the Ugly Duckling anymore. At all these social events in the past, I’ve been dressed as my mother envisioned I should be: pristine, prim, and properly packaged. I want none of that. I want to be me. No more charades, no more smiling for the cameras—even when I feel like telling them to fuck off—and definitely no more dresses meant for Princess Diana. I will be me.
Shit. I said that already. The wine must be getting to me. Oh, well. Fuck it.
After I finished perfecting my hair and makeup, I spritzed a bit of my favorite perfume and applied my favorite ‘sexy me’ killer red lipstick. I’ve probably gone through three tubes of in the past few months. With all these events, meetings, and press releases, I’ve dwindled my supply. It totally sucks, as I can’t get it anymore.
Checking my reflection in the mirror one last time, I exit the house and walk toward the limo that awaits. I’ve made the poor guy wait longer than I should have, but fuck it. I’m out of fucks. I’ve been so out of fucks that I don’t care about anything anymore. Hopping in and sliding as gracefully as I can across the slick leather with a short, tight dress, I pull it down a touch as I close the door.
Bringing down the privacy screen between myself and the driver, who I’m expecting is Gregory, my dad’s favorite, I’m surprised to see someone different.
“Uh, who are you?”
He doesn’t even venture a look toward me in the mirror. “Tristan, ma’am.”
“Where’s Gregory? I thought he was taking me.”
“Flu,” Tristan states rather stiffly, brokering no room for further conversation about it.
I decide to bypass his gruffness and act just as short. “I assume you know where we’re going? Drop me at a side door. I don’t want to deal with paparazzi.”
“Ma’am,” is all he says as we turn down the freeway, away from the house.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve had a few too many glasses of wine. I don’t feel like a confrontation, least of all, starting one with an unknown limo driver about his lacking personality. I doubt I’ll ever see him again, so why put effort into it?
The liquid courage coursing through my system will make my tongue loose enough with the ensuing bad company. There’s no use in beginning a horrible night before I’ve even reached my destination.
By the time I arrive at the Petersen, it’s almost nine thirty. The party looks to be in full swing. There’s an extended line of limousines, Hummers, high-end buses, as well as the brightly polished Ferrari's, Bentley’s, Lambo’s and Maserati’s. Some I know belong to friends or enemies on the track. Tonight is an affair when we come together as a community to offer kids an opportunity to race. It’s something that enables them another outlet beyond drugs and gangs.
These are the kids that have parents who work two or more deadbeat jobs, just to put food on the table. It may not be the safest outlet, but they will get training and medical that would rival anything they’d receive in the gutter. I may not always agree with the Crown Foundation on everything they support, but this one is something I wholeheartedly do. Tonight, I’m hoping I can convince them to add a few more dollars to the roster. I want to help more kids like Charlie.
“Ma’am, the door you requested,” Tristan indicates as he parks the car. Walking around and knocking on the side door, Tristan reappears to open mine. Assisting me out of the limo, I step forth, taking his hand to stand, pushing my dress down neatly.
“Thank you,” I say curtly. Waiting for the door of the venue to open, a middle-aged man opens the door with a bang against the outer wall.
“Ms. Crown.”
Nodding, I step toward him.
Tristan stands nervously, scanning the area. “Would you like that I wait for you here or at the front? Either would suit me fine, though I would feel safer to gather you there.”
“The front will be fine.” Walking away, my heels click across the cobblestone entrance. As the door is closing, the last thing I hear is “Ma’am” from Tristan as I enter the soiree.
For the first time, I’m alone at one of these. Feeling completely deserted in a room that will be filled with strangers, teammates, competitors and blowhards, I’ll have to prove I can handle this.