Party Girl (11 page)

I walk quietly up the stairs behind the group, lost in my own thoughts. Miko has told me this is how it works. Event producers or club promoters get celebrities to their parties by promising them privacy, then turn right around and rat them out to the paparazzi. I’d told her I was surprised Selah’s publicist friends put up with it, and she’d just laughed at me. Apparently, the publicists are often the “inside source” you read about in gossip magazines, tipping off the press about their clients’ whereabouts. As much as an actress might hate being captured looking like hell on her way out of the gym, that’s exactly the kind of shot that gets coverage, which boosts both her (and her publicist’s) career.

At the top of the stairs I stand back from the group as Selah shows them the space. The brand is displayed throughout the party but in subtle ways. Each lounge area has bottle service, complete with a scantily clad Riverton girl. Each server wears a tight black baby tee with the Riverton logo stretched across her chest, teeny-tiny black shorts, and black heels. It’s the sort of outfit I’d typically judge openly, but every single one of these women is so stupid-pretty, they somehow make the miniature uniform work.

Diego eyes the room with a bland expression, then walks over to inspect the small satellite bar in the middle of the space. He picks up the framed bar menu. “These are the featured drinks?” he asks, reading through it.

“Yes, guests can mix their Riverton tequila with any of our specialty freshly squeezed juices,” Selah assures him quickly.

I wonder if anyone else catches the strain in her voice. Diego looks more closely at the menu in his hands, then back at Selah.

“No, that isn’t what we discussed. We discussed specialty featured cocktails, not tequila with juice.” With every word Diego becomes more agitated and his accent more pronounced. “The entire point of the event was to highlight tequila as a feature
in a cocktail
. We discussed this.” He speaks emphatically.

“My apologies. We’ve recently changed up some of our team. Perhaps this detail was a miscommunication.” Selah starts to look around, probably for someone to throw under the bus.

“No. This is a conversation
we
had,” Diego says, “when you and Alex and I sat down last month at the . . . the . . .” He turns quickly to his team.
“¿Como se llama el hotel cerca de la playa?”

“Shutters,” someone tells him.

“Shutters,
sí
. When we had drinks there last month, you remember?” He looks pointedly at Selah.

“I’m so sorry, Diego, I don’t recall.” She touches her forehead nervously. “But not to worry, it’ll take two seconds to come up with a menu of featured drinks.”

Selah looks at the pretty bartender behind the bar.

“Can you suggest some tequila-based cocktails for our featured drinks?”

The bartender chews on her lower lip nervously and looks back and forth between Selah and Diego.

“I’m sorry, I’m not a regular bartender. I’m from the model service. I know how to make a margarita, but beyond that . . .”

Her voice trails off as Diego whirls around to his team. Even from back here it looks like his eyes are going to bug out of his head. He’s barking a torrent of Spanish over the music, and I’m only catching bits and pieces, but between the curse words and the mention of the party budget, I’m pretty sure he’s questioning why they’ve spent this much on our firm. Selah’s composure is wearing down as she looks around for help, and the bartender, bless her heart, looks like she might throw up. Before I even realize what I’m doing I’ve pushed my way up through the group and am reaching my hand out to Diego.

“Señor Riverton, soy Brinkley. Yo trabajo para Selah. Tal vez pueda ayudar,”
I say with the biggest smile I’ve got.

Diego hesitates a moment, then reaches his hand out to shake mine.

“Encantado, señorita. Yo no sabia nadie a SSE habla español.”

“No, with all the bad language you were throwing around, I’m sure you didn’t realize anyone on our team could understand you,” I challenge him playfully.

The Riverton team tenses, and I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have taunted him. Diego stares at me for a moment and then throws back his head and laughs out loud.

“You’re absolutely right,
mi querida
. I beg your pardon.” Diego takes me by the elbow and steers me towards the bar. “Tell me, how do you think you can help?”

“I happen to know a few different ways to dress up tequila.” My tone is half-flirtatious and half-reprimand . . . A persona I used for years as a waitress to keep more than one customer in line.

“You drink tequila?” Diego asks.

“Only if it’s Riverton,” I answer with a cheeky grin.

Diego laughs again and this time the rest of his minions join in as well.

“By all means,
querida
; show us what you can do.” Diego waves elegantly for me to head behind the bar. As I go I peek quickly at Selah. She’s throwing me a screw-this-up-and-I’ll-run-you-over-with-my-car look, and I almost trip over my boots.

You’ve gone too far to turn back now.

I walk over to the back of the bar and duck under the island to get inside. When I pop up I see Brody walking over to join the audience . . . As if I need more witnesses. Rather than look out into a sea of curious expressions, I start looking around for things to make my drink. Behind the bar is a small built-in fridge full of every possible garnish I might dream up, including some bright, perfect-looking cherry tomatoes. It gives me an idea.

“Diego, how is everything?” Brody asks.

Diego turns at the sound and reaches out to shake Brody’s hand with a smile.

“Much better now. This charming creature was just about to make me a cocktail.” He turns back to me.
“¿Tal vez algo dulce como tú?”
he says, and all of a sudden he’s a sexy Latin lover instead of an angry client.

Come on, buddy, you’re old enough to be my dad!

“¿O tal vez algo añejo como tú?”
I challenge him back, not looking up from my work.

Diego laughs like my audacity is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and the rest of the group, including Selah, join in. I doubt she understands what I’ve just said, so maybe laughing is just something everyone does to fit in, like trying bangs or that one semester when I joined the FFA. When I look up, I notice that not everyone is laughing. Brody is looking at me with an unreadable expression. I look quickly down at the tools in my hands.

“¿Cuando usted aprende a hablar español?”
Brody asks in perfectly accented Spanish.

“I grew up in Texas,” I say with a shrug.

I drop a handful of the tomatoes down into the shaker along with the other necessary ingredients and use a spoon I find behind the bar to crush everything into oblivion. The group chats among themselves while I work nervously, and I can feel Selah staring me down, but I keep looking at the concoction in my hands. I add ice, some simple syrup, and the tequila and shake it all up exactly like Max does.

I pour the concoction into a lowball glass and drop a cocktail straw into it. I cover the straw with my finger and remove it quickly as a little makeshift syringe to pop into my mouth for a taste test. It’s perfect. I hand the drink to Diego. He takes a hesitant sip, then another. His eyebrows raise in surprise.

“I love it!” he says, handing the cocktail to Brody’s outstretched hand.

“Of course you do!” Selah chirps. “We knew you would. B has mad skills, and you know I hire only the best!” She says it like this whole scenario was the plan all along. It takes me a minute to realize she’s talking about me. I get only about three seconds to savor the praise before she’s ushering Diego away. “We’re about to open the door; why don’t you let me get you settled at your lounge so Brinkley and I can get back to work.”

As I watch them walk away, Brody takes a sip of the cocktail. I start to clean up the mess I’ve made behind the bar, though I’d kind of like to see his reaction.

“It’s like a tomato mojito,” he says, sounding surprised.

I’m inordinately happy to have surprised him by doing something good instead of something idiotic like the first time we met. I channel Max in an attempt to sound cool. “That’s what I was going for.”

I hear the ice tinkle around in the glass as he takes another drink.

“Let me guess . . . It was the signature drink at all your sorority mixers.”

My head snaps up at his tone, and his eyes narrow at my surprise.

“Excuse me?”

“The drink. I’m guessing all the other Tri Delts were big fans.” He raises the drink in reference. “Is that where you learned to make it?”

He’s not even trying to hide his patronizing tone, and the harsh little smirk on his face says he’s got me all figured out now. It pisses me off.

“Actually, the school I went to wasn’t big enough to be part of the Greek system.” I grab a handful of dirty utensils and throw them into scullery with more force than necessary. “And even if it was, I wouldn’t know a thing about it. I spent every waking hour I wasn’t in class serving and busing tables so I could get to where I am right now.” I look him right in the eye so he can see how angry I am. “Isn’t this what every wannabe sorority girl dreams of?” I gesture wildly around the bar. “Impressing a group of spoiled millionaires by making drinks and flirting with them in Spanish?”

I see the muscle in his jaw jump twice as he looks back at me, his gaze inscrutable. He inclines his head by the slightest degree and sets the glass down on the counter. Maybe he didn’t expect me to fight back, and maybe I shouldn’t have, but I get enough bullying at work that I don’t need it from this guy I barely know. He turns and walks away, and I look back down to finish my task. His voice pulls my head up again.

“Brinkley?”

He’s walking back over, and the look on his face makes me think it’s against his better judgment.

“Can I offer you some advice?” He sounds earnest.

I’m baffled by his tone. I have no idea how he went from antagonizing me to offering me advice. Where does he get off suddenly trying to be polite? I’m just ready to have this awkward confrontation over with.

“Sure,” I answer, more than a little petulantly.

He shoves both hands into his pockets and looks down at his shoes for a moment, seeming to search for the words. When he speaks again his voice is quieter, maybe to avoid having the servers on the other side of the room overhear. He looks up at me again.

“If you were my little sister . . .” I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes. He must see the annoyance flit across my face because a little smile starts playing at his lips. He starts again. “If you were my little sister, I’d tell you that people treat you with as much or as little respect as you allow them to.”

I look back at him confused, unsure of what he’s trying to say.

“I saw the interaction between you and your production team earlier,” he says meaningfully.

I can actually feel the blush rise in my cheeks.

“He’s harmless, but Diego
is
flirtatious and will continue to be so long as you allow it. I’m guessing this is your first professional job?” He looks at me for confirmation and I nod, too embarrassed to find my voice.

“Then start as you intend to finish. If you want respect, then demand it from the beginning. If you let them treat you like a silly little girl, that’s all you’ll ever be, no matter how hard you work.”

I try so very hard to maintain my composure, but I buckle under the pressure of the stern look on his face and look down at my hands. Even though he’s harsh, I actually think he’s trying to be helpful, but I can’t get his words out of my head. They pulse in time with my rapidly beating heart.

Silly. Little. Girl.

To have someone as successful as he is see me that way, when I consider myself so professional, is almost more than I can stand. I look up to defend myself, but I’m silenced by the apology in his light-blue eyes. I open my mouth to say something, but his date saunters up the stairs behind him and effectively cuts me off. She reaches for his hand, and I watch his face change the moment their skin makes contact. In her presence he’s a cool, aloof businessman again . . . Apparently I don’t rank high enough to impress with that persona.

I continue to watch as he shrugs out of her grip to put a hand on her back, and the move seems fitting. This does not seem like the kind of guy who does touchy-feely.

“Shall we?” he asks her.

She nods and murmurs something, and he guides her back down the stairs without acknowledging me again.

Once they’re out of sight I force myself to take three deep breaths and decide not to think about what just happened for the rest of my natural life. This decision, while childish, helps me plaster on my best fake smile and get through the night in one piece.

Selah and the clients leave at ten, and at eleven the club opens up for the public so my work is done. I’ve spent the night nipping at Selah’s heels yet somehow failing to do a single thing to her exacting standards. My mood is as low as my now-defunct ponytail.