Chapter Nine

 

Julie

 

Leaving my empty glass behind at my place at the bar, I stride boldly toward the woman's back. As I approach, I can hear Number One Fan make a skin-crawlingly crude, albeit creative, comparison between the pistachios in the small bowl in front of Shane, and her anatomy. I straighten my shoulders, plastering on my best you're-sweet-as-pie-but-you-better-step-off-bitch smile. I'm not even sure I actually have one of those smiles in my repertoire, but I work with what I've got. I sidle up to Shane and glide one hand possessively across his chest. I try really hard to try and ignore how amazing his toned muscles feel against my hand as I attempt to wedge myself between the two of them. A fierce look of disgust contorts the woman's face.

"I'm sorry, honey, but this one is already spoken for," I purr, using everything I observed in the rich girls back home as inspiration as I keep my voice low and non-confrontational.

Malibu Rum Barbie seems to be teetering right on the thin ledge between no-hard-feelings-let's-be-besties frat girl drunk and these-nails-were-made-for-clawing-and-that's-just-what-they'll-do drunk. I'm doing my best to keep her from tipping over to the wrong side. With any luck, she'll just teeter on away and pass out in a vibrantly colored ball somewhere safe. For the life of me, I can't understand why an organization would hold a fancy fundraising gala in a hotel with a bar like this. I wouldn't think the glitzy guest list for the gala would enjoy spending their evening in the same place as the people scattered throughout the bar.

"Where'd you come from, bitch?" the woman finally responds.

Her voice slurs as she puffs her impressive and barely covered chest toward me. It's obvious she's tipped over onto the wrong side of the drunk wall for a brief moment, but her eyes soften again as she looks at Shane. One orange hand digs around in the tiny purse dangling from her wrist and emerges with a room key. She holds it up in front of Shane's face over my shoulder.

"Room 312. Just in case you change your mind."

When Shane doesn't take the key, she places it on the bar and slides it toward him with her palm. I snatch the keycard as she turns to walk away.

"Oh, honey," I say, almost cringing at myself as I say it. The woman turns back to me. "He won't be changing his mind." I tuck the keycard into the woman's cleavage and give it a tap for good measure, causing it to disappear behind the neckline of the dress. "I'll be the only one serving him any… pistachios any time soon."

I flash another smile and turn back around, striding confidently back to Shane so I can position myself between the woman and him again. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm supposed to keep Shane from doing stupid things, and I just low-key threatened a woman and stuck a hotel keycard down her boobs. It must be the dress. Shane's credit card bought me a truly fabulous dress for tonight, and it seems to be warping my brain. Deciding I might as well run with it, and bring my alter ego out completely, I bring one hand up to slide my fingers along the curve of his strong, chiseled jaw.

 

Shane

 

I'm staring at Julie's blood red lips and can’t seem to pull myself away. When she first walked up, I barely recognized her. Her glasses are gone, allowing me to see her almond-shaped eyes better. They are the color of melted chocolate, accentuated by slightly more makeup than she usually wears. She's swept her hair up on the back of her head, revealing the graceful slope of her neck. Her gown, though, is what really takes my breath away. The black and silver bodice hugs tight around her waist and dips low over her breasts, putting her curves on full display before releasing into a skirt that pours like liquid silver over her hips and down to the floor. My skin tingles from where her fingertips brushed across my face. Now her hand sits on my shoulder, the other rested on her hip.

"Is she coming back?" she whispers through her teeth.

I glance over her shoulder to make sure my admirer has gone back to the shadowy realm from whence she came. I shake my head.

"No," I say, my voice lower than I intend. "She went back to her friends."

Julie lets out a breath, and I lift my hand to place it on her hip.

"Good," she says. Her eyes meet mine, then narrow. "What are you doing here so early? I thought we were going to meet at seven thirty."

"I know, but I didn't feel like sitting around anymore," I say, my hand falling away from her.

"So, you came here to sit around? In a bar? Don't you think that's working against us a little considering some of what people have been saying about you?"

"I'm just sitting here," I say defensively. "I'm not even talking to anyone. Besides, I don't see you having a problem coming in here."

"I'm not the one who's trying to pull my image up from the depths of the abyss."

"And you think going into possessive cat mode with a woman who comes up to talk to me is a great move for accomplishing that?"

Julie is silent for a second.

"That might have been a bad plan. It's this dress. It’s doing something to me."

"It's a fucking phenomenal dress."

Her eyes flicker to mine again.

"Thank you. But the point is I didn't want to cause a scene with that woman. I haven't heard the best things about your success rate with women at bars."

"Just for the record," I say, steering the conversation in another direction. "That," I point to the barely-touched glass in front of me. "Is a Roy Rogers."

"A what?"

"A Roy Rogers. It's like a Shirley Temple but with cola.”

As the words come out of my mouth, I realize how absurd it sounds, but there's no way to shove them back in, so I just have to go with it.

"So, you're telling me you came to a hotel bar to pregame a gala with a virgin rum and Coke?"

"Yes. I thought since the whole getting drunk thing is a major component of the situation where I currently find myself, avoiding alcohol would be a good choice."

This is sounding more ridiculous the longer I talk.

Julie glances over her shoulder, then turns back to me sharply.

"We need to get out of here. Right now."

"Because I ordered a stupid drink?"

"No. Come on, we need to go."

"We weren't planning on getting to the gala for another twenty minutes."

"Doesn't matter. We just need to go."

"What's going on?"

"Do you see that woman with the dark hair at the table in the back?" Julie asks, leaning her head slightly to indicate the direction of the table. "From the research I've been doing, I happen to know she's a gossip blogger. A truly nasty and endlessly creative gossip blogger. She might not have noticed you yet, but if she has, I'm positive she's been watching every second of what you've been doing since the moment you walked into the bar. If you don't want your Day-Glo friend over there to be labeled your longtime mistress and potential carrier of your love child by midnight, you need to make a very fast, but dignified exit.

I look at the older, heavy-set woman, and notice she doesn't seem too interested in me at the moment. One hand, however, hovers close to what can only be a sleek camera sitting on the edge of the table. My stomach twists into a knot. I'm used to facing the reporters and bloggers who fill press conferences and swarm around the entrances to the locker room or the stadium. They can be insufferable enough. I haven't ever put much thought into the type of people who weave the twisted, lie-filled stories that have me on the edge of losing everything. Now, I'm looking directly at one, and I feel like I'm watching a scavenger preparing to pick apart whatever stumbles in front of her.

"See," Julie says. "Right there. That's the face I don't want to see. That's the angry face I'm sure has come before many of your displays of less-than-desirable behavior."

"What is she doing here, though? Does she just spend her life going around hoping she finds people to exploit?"

"That's fairly accurate."

"Why's she here tonight, though? Did she come for the convention or the gala?"

"Convention?"

"Yeah. I heard some of the staff talking about how stupid it was of the manager to allow both the fundraiser and the convention to book for the same weekend. Apparently, the events aren't exactly for the same circle of people."

"To say the least. At least that solves that mystery. I'm still a little confused about the venue choice, but it's not my gala."

I look back over at the blogger, and notice she is leaned close to a young man sitting in the booth beside her, whispering and occasionally tapping her fingernails on the wooden surface in front of her. Suddenly the man she's sitting next to lifts his head like a prairie dog who sensed the herd coming. He makes eye contact with me, his mouth opens slightly, and I see him start to pat the woman wildly on the leg.

"Oh, shit, they saw me."

"Yep. They definitely didn't know you were here. Come on."

Julie starts through the bar, and I head after her, hearing the screech of tables being pushed out of the way, and my name shouted over the sound of the music in the bar as they come barreling after us.

"This can't possibly be what you had in mind when you said coming here tonight would make me look like I'm living a normal life," I say as we dip around a corner into an empty hallway.

"Yeah, that went all to hell. Now we're just trying to minimize what she's going to be able to say about you in her blog tomorrow. At least she didn't get any pictures."

"What's her name?" I ask.

"What?"

"Her name. What's her name?"

"The blogger?" She asks, leaning around for a quick glance around the corner.

"Yes."

"Edna Berry. Why?"

"Just for future reference."

"Again, not reassuring, Shane."

"I'm not going to send a hitman for her, Julie. What exactly do you think of me?"

"I never know." She looks around the corner again, then nods at me. "Alright. I think we're in the clear. I guess even she's not willing to play a game of hide-and-seek through a hotel to come up with a good story."

"Let's go, then."

 

Julie

 

Well, this evening is off to a spectacular start. Taking almost an hour to get my contacts in should have given me a hint. I don't know what happened to me. It seems like as soon as I saw that woman approach Shane, all my logic and self-control vanished. I refuse to let myself think it had anything to do with jealousy.

I'm hesitant to arrive at the gala so early, but as we approach, I notice a stream of people pouring inside. I withhold a gasp as I step into the sparkling ballroom and look around. I had expected something far more prim and proper than what I am seeing. In my mind, a fundraising gala would feature unobtrusive decor and pleasant, if generic, music providing the backdrop for elegantly-dressed men and women gliding around the room making uncomfortable small talk. Instead, I feel like we've walked into a surrealist painting. Suddenly the gown I thought might even be a touch too much for this type of event feels subdued and demure.

Maybe I should have gone with the black sequin mini dress with a train of peacock feathers like Bindi had tried to convince me to wear.

I can't believe I agreed to come here as Shane’s date. I understand where he was coming from saying he couldn't just show up to a party like this alone, and that he needs me to buffer him in his first social event since the scandal broke. But I'm supposed to be the one in control. I'm supposed to be the one who knows what I'm doing, yet as I stand here in the middle of a parade of festive, exuberant people, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I've been struck dumb by the dazzling combination of glitter and sequins, and suddenly I can't remember anything I had planned for the gala.

"I think I missed something about the invitation," I say to Shane as a man wearing a black satin version of a masquerade mask walks past.

"That's a pretty safe bet. That's OK. You still look incredible tonight."

I glance over at him, and the look in his eyes makes me shiver.

"You should mingle," I say, hoping he doesn't hear the slight breathlessness I'm trying to keep out of my voice. "Go talk to people. Smile. Be nice."

"Aren't you coming?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"No. You need to do this on your own. It may be good for you to be seen with someone occasionally during the party, but you don't want to look too closely linked to another woman. That will turn into its own new set of rumors and complaints about you. You don't want to look like you're clinging to me, or that I'm for show." Even though I am, in fact, here for show. "Remember, confident, casual, and nothing to be uncomfortable about. We'll meet up later."

I'm not sure if anything I'm saying actually makes sense. I'd like to think I have some sort of strategy going, but I feel it's much more likely I'm just saying whatever words find their way into my mouth. Finally, Shane nods his agreement and heads deeper into the party. Now I'm left not sure what I should be doing. I spent the first half an hour sipping a glass of champagne handed to me by one of the costumed waiters roaming the room. As I sip, I find creative ways to duck away from people trying to approach me. My plan, for now, is to avoid any conversations that could result in me inadvertently causing problems. Tonight is about appearances and getting back to normal, not about making official statements or trying to defend Shane. At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

After a while, I start looking for Shane. It seems like a good time for us to spend a few minutes being seen together. The more I wander around the gala, however, the more aware I am of how out of place I am. Even with a thousand bobby pins creating a structure of my hair that defies physics, a truly stunning amount of makeup, and the fabulous dress, this isn't the type of place I belong. I feel like the nerdy girl who became a makeover project and crashed a party for the popular kids. I start feeling overwhelmed, and soon I'm searching for somewhere to hide so I can breathe for a minute.

Finally, I notice what looks like an old-fashioned train car sitting on one side of the ballroom. I make a beeline toward it before I can even start to ponder how it connects with the rest of the event’s theme. I pause for a moment outside the door to listen and make sure no one’s inside, before slipping through a gap into the back of the car. I feel like I've almost escaped, but the heel of one of my shoes catches in the step, and I tumble forward.

This is it. I'm positive this is the moment I'm going to break at least one bone, not be able to stand up, and have to face the emergency responders dragging me ass-first out of an inexplicable train car. The only thing that would save my dignity is if they somehow don't discover I'm not wearing any panties under my dress. It’s not something I intentionally planned. Instead, I realized after leaving my apartment that the skirt of my gown was clinging to my cotton underwear. I should have bought some of the lingerie the clerk recommended at the upscale boutique I bought it at. Instead, I ended up dipping back into my car and shimmying out of my underwear to let the dress fall properly.

I prepare myself for impact, but just before I hit the floor of the train car someone catches me. Strong arms scoop me up and support me while I wiggle my heel free, before helping me steady myself.

"Are you OK?"

Shane is gripping my arms tightly and holding me close to him. My eyes lift and meet his dreamy blue gaze. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

Speak, Julie. Say something.

"Julie? Are you alright?" he repeats, sounding more concerned.

Say something. Anything. Just pick some words and say something.

"I'm fine."

Did I do it?

"Good. I’m glad."

Perfect.

Shane is still holding me close, and I step back from his grip, sitting on the bench before I manage to get myself trapped again.

"What are you doing in here?" he asks.

"I'm hiding," I say. "You?"

"Same. What are you hiding from?"

"The whole situation, mostly."

"That's thorough."

"How about you? What are you hiding from in here?"

"Mostly the woman over there dressed as a buffet of sushi. She keeps offering me tuna sashimi, but I don't see any of those on her skirt."

"That is two women tonight who have tried to seduce you with culinary metaphors. Is that something that happens to you a lot?"

"From time to time."

"Is that a trend that I’ve missed somehow?"

"I don't think so," Shane says.

"Good to know. I'd hate to embarrass myself by not trying it."

I realize Shane is staring at me, and I turn my attention away from the door back to him.

"Is there someone you intend on seducing soon?" he asks.

I know I'm blushing, and I can only hope the interior of the train car is too dark for him to see.

"Not specifically," I say. "It's just a hypothetical. In case the situation happens to arise."

I feel like I'm sinking into Shane's slightly deepened voice.

"Are you having fun?" he asks.

I let out a breath as I use one finger to push back the curtain hanging over a small window on the opposite side of the car as the door. The people dancing and laughing a few yards away seem to be having the time of their lives, but I feel like they are in a different world.

"No," I admit. "Did you enjoy talking to anyone at least?"

He shakes his head.

"I couldn't find anyone I recognized," he says. "I mean, a lot of people out there are in masks, so it’s possible that I walked right past them, and they just didn't want to talk to me, but it’s weird."

Something's wrong. This doesn't make sense. I hadn't recognized anyone when I was walking around, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. I've only just gotten involved in the world of football, and only to the extent necessary to help Shane. The sound of Shane's phone buzzing in his pocket startles me. He pulls it out, and I see his expression change as he looks at the screen.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Coach," he says.

"Is he here?" I ask.

He's one whose face I would recognize if I saw it.

"He's somewhere," Shane says.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"'Where are you?'" he reads. "'I thought you were coming to this thing tonight.'"

He types something.

"What did you say?"

"That I'm in the train car."

Almost instantly, he receives a response.

"'What train car?'"

"Oh, no."

Shane looks at me and we both smile. I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle the laugh coming up my throat.

"Are we in the wrong place?" Shane whispers as if he suddenly needs to know that we've been outed as party crashers.

I laugh against my hand.

"I think so," I say.

He laughs softly.

I reach into the top of my dress where I've tucked my phone. Shane's eyes lock on my hand.

"What? I didn't have a purse to go with the dress."

"Do you have anything else hiding in there?"

I narrow my eyes at him slightly, then look back at my phone. Pulling up the note I'd written to myself with the information about the gala, I scan over it, then nod.

"See, Venetian Hotel Ballroom. That's where we are."

Shane shakes his head.

"No," he says. "We're at the Hotel Venetian."

"The what?" I ask, my voice creeping up slightly higher than I intend.

"We're not at the Venetian Hotel. You said to meet you at the Hotel Venetian, so that is where we are."

"All I noticed was Venetian. How was I supposed to know there would be two fucking hotels in the same city that have 'Venetian' in their name?"

Shane's head drops back, and he laughs even louder. I swipe at him, trying to shush him.

"No wonder this party is so ridiculous. It's not the fundraiser. I thought the hotel seemed a little off for one of these events. Good job fitting right in, though."

"Shut up," I say, batting at him. "I notice you walked around without realizing it, either."

"You said I have to do whatever you tell me to."

"Yeah, because you've done so well following through with that."

"So, what do we do now?" he asks. "Do we go find the actual gala?"

"We should probably make an appearance," I say reluctantly.

 

An hour later we're in another ballroom, surrounded by the imagery I had envisioned before going into the first gala. We've greeted a few people. I've watched Shane pose for pictures with his coach and teammates. Now, I’m nibbling on tiny hors d'oeuvres that barely make a dent in the hunger rumbling in my stomach. Shane gives a masterful social laugh, pats a man I don't recognize on the shoulder, and steps away from the conversation. As he makes his way toward me, he rolls his eyes.

"What was that all about?" I ask. "Who was that guy?"

"An investor," he says. "He's been throwing money at the organization for years, and every time I see him, he tries to marry me off to one of his daughters."

"Well, that's not creepy at all. You can't take one for the team and let them use you as a bartering chip for more support?"

I try to keep a straight face but fail and giggle. Shane's lips curve up into a smile, and once again, the unwanted thought of how delectably kissable they look crosses my mind.

"The owners have more money than they know what to do with. These people just like feeling like they're a part of something by pitching in.”

"Where does the money go?"

"Programs like the youth cheerleading camps, the team museum in the home stadium, building improvements. A lot of it ends up being funneled through fundraisers to organizations that matter to the owners, like tonight."

"Fascinating," I say, taking another nibble of a pastry shell filled with some sort of curry.

"Really?"

"Not at all."

"Are you enjoying your snack?"

"Not at all."

Shane gives a short laugh.

"I don't know about you, but I'm done with this whole thing. I have a better idea for the rest of the evening."

I look at him suspiciously.

"Like what?"

He shrugs and starts toward the door to the ballroom.

As curious as I am cautious, I follow him.