Trashed (9 page)

The intimacy of waiting for a woman to get ready is not lost on me. Even in the year and a half that I was with Emma, we didn’t share these kinds of intimate moments. I never saw her just out of the shower. Never waited for her to get ready. We always met somewhere, or I picked her up at her house, waiting in the foyer for her to come down.
 

At long last, the bathroom door opens and I catch a glimpse of red, and then my heart stops beating, my lungs seize, and my dick goes rock hard.
 

“Jesus, Des.” I stand up, move closer. “You’re…there just aren’t words for how incredible you look.”

She smiles brightly, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s just a dress I’ve had for awhile. Never even worn it.”
 

It’s not an elaborate or expensive dress, but it’s molded to her goddess body like it was made especially for her. It’s strapless, the cups pushing her incredible tits into mouth-watering prominence, and the hem hangs to brush the tops of her toes on one side while not quite hitting her knee on the other. It’s unbearably sexy without being slutty.
 

Her hair…god, her hair. She’s brushed it to shining perfection, leaving it loose to scintillate in waves around her shoulders and down her back, and she’s put on just enough makeup to accentuate how lovely she is, highlighting the bright brown molten brilliance of her eyes and the tanned clarity of her skin.
 

I wrap my hand around the small of her back and pull her closer to me. “Des…I’m speechless.”
 

She’s wearing a pair of simple black heels, so the difference in our height is almost eliminated. “Really?” She sounds skeptical.

I shake my head. She really doesn’t understand what she does to me. “You’re so gorgeous it’s sinful. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the evening without attacking you.” I tug her body flush against mine. “You’re so fucking sexy it actually hurts to breathe looking at you. Now come on, the carriage is waiting.”

I don’t think she’s ever been complimented this way, judging by her unsure reaction. Eventually she shrugs and then looks me over again. “You look pretty damn sexy yourself,” she says.
 

I just smile at her and offer her my hand. She takes it, and we go to the entrance, brace ourselves, and run for the carriage.

*
 
*
 
*

I bought this dress on a whim, a year ago. At full price it’d have been so far out of my reach I wouldn’t have even bothered trying it on, but it was on clearance, so I gave it a try. I’m not an insecure girl most days, and I’m also not vain. But when I put on that dress, I knew it looked good on me.
Damn
good. So I bought it, even though I never went anywhere that such a dress would be appropriate. And more baffling still, I stuffed it and a pair of heels into my bags when I packed for the summer on Mackinac. Why, I wasn’t sure, even then. I collected trash and drank with the other co-ops and locals. Why the hell would I have brought an evening gown and heels? But, for reasons unknown, I did, and now I’m glad I did.

I’m also glad my hair is long enough to cover the upper edge of the tattoos on my back that peek up over the dress, because I’m pretty sure an event like this isn’t the kind of place to go around showing ink. I wonder if Adam saw the ink? I wonder what he would think if he saw it all, if he likes tattoos or if he’s against them.

And then I wonder why I care.
 

The ride from my dorm to the hotel is quick, which doesn’t leave me a lot of time to mentally prepare. We’re pulling up under the covered portico, and there are two lines of uniformed hotel employees forming an umbrella tunnel from the carriage up to the famous covered porch.
 

My heart is suddenly hammering. Above, where I know the porch to be, cameras flash like nonstop lightning. The carriage door opens, and the wind buffets against me, carrying the sound of a thousand voices all raised at once. A white-gloved hand appears in front of my face, and I take it, stepping out onto the red carpet leading up the stairs to the porch and then into the hotel parlor. The line of umbrellas protects me from the rain, and I take a step away from the carriage to make room for Adam. He descends, tugs his tux jacket straight, and then his eyes fix on me.
 

He offers me a smile, and I see nerves in his eyes. If
he’s
nervous, I should be terrified.

And I am.

“Ready?” he asks, extending his elbow to me.
 

I wrap my fingers around his arm. “No?”

He laughs. “Yeah, me neither. I hate these things.” He glances past me, up the stairs to where the flashes pop endlessly, and then back down to me. “Listen. This might be…crazy. They’re not expecting you, so they’ll have a million questions. Don’t answer, okay? Just smile, give them a few poses, and don’t let them see your fear. They’re like sharks, you know, they can smell it.”

“They?”

He frowns. “The paparazzi? Photographers, journalists.”

My knees quiver. “Paparazzi?” I’d either forgotten or hadn’t realized there would be media at this thing. What the hell did I get myself into?

He rolls his shoulders, lets out a quick breath, and smiles at me. “You know what? Don’t worry about it. All you need to do is be you. You’ll be the most beautiful woman in the room, guaranteed. Just be confident, okay?”

Confident. I can do that. He asked me to go with him. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want me here. He thinks I’m the most beautiful woman in the room.
 

I stiffen my spine, straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and smile back at him. “Let’s go.”

His grin widens, and his eyes roam my face, and then down my body. He leans in, touches his lips to my ear. “That’s my girl.”

His girl? I should be so lucky.

He moves forward and I go with him, watching the steps. I’m not used to high heels, so the steps present a challenge, requiring focus. I hear cameras clicking and flashes popping, voices clamoring louder and louder, and then the stairs level off and I’m surrounded by a wall of humanity behind red velvet ropes, and all of them are shouting at me, at Adam.

“Adam! Adam! Where’s Emma Hayes?”
 

“Who’s your date, Adam?”

“Who is she?”
 

“What’s your name? Tell us your name!”
 

“How tall are you?”

“Over here, Adam!”

“Give us a smile, beautiful!”
 

My heart isn’t beating. It’s not even in my chest anymore, it’s somehow simultaneously in my stomach and my throat. I force my lips to form a smile. Adam’s hand descends to my opposite hip, resting on my waist, his thick arm a supportive bar at my back. He takes three steps through the barricaded crowd, then stops, guides me into a pivot so we’re facing one bank of the journalists.

His arm remains around me, and he is actually holding me upright for a few moments. There are so many of them. The flashes blind me, illuminate me.
 

And suddenly, it hits me:
What the FUCK am I doing here?
I did my own makeup, my own hair. This dress came from the fucking bargain rack at Kohl’s.
 

I feel a panic attack coming on; I force the smile to remain on my face, force myself to breathe slowly.
 

Adam pulls me closer, so I’m molded to his side, so I don’t fall over. He leans down, whispers in my ear. “You’re doing great. Smile. Stop thinking. It’s fine.”

The questions are a nonstop barrage, coming as hard and fast as the flashes, but I’ve stopped hearing them. I’m not sure I could answer anyway. I’m not sure I have a voice right now. I’m not sure of anything, except that I’ve gotten myself into something huge, and I’m in no way prepared.
 

Adam turns with me, presents us to the opposite rank of photographers. He seems totally oblivious, at ease, as if this is totally normal, an every day occurrence. He’s a natural. Loose, smiling, shifting his gaze from one camera to another. I try to mimic him, try to focus on making my smile seem more natural and less deer-in-the-headlights. I stand taller, turn into Adam slightly, shake my hair and turn my head. The cameras go nuts when I do that, and the shouted questions become a repeated refrain:
 

“Who is she?”
 

“What’s her name?”
 

“How long have you been dating?”
 

“Where is Emma Hayes?”

Emma Hayes? Adam’s ex-girlfriend. Oscar-nominated for
Margo and Me
. Golden Globe winner. Three-time Emmy nominee for
Garden of Evil
.
 

Jesus. I’m so out of my league, out of my element. I’m a fish out of water; I’m drowning, unable to breathe.
 

I toss my hair again and focus on a single camera, stare into the black lens; focus on the lens rather than the face above it. Another lens, to the left. Another, and another.
 

And then we’re moving and I have to focus on each step, because I can’t feel my feet. The sheer terror and overwhelmed panic has made me numb, I think.
 

Now we’re stopped again, this time in front of one of those checkered backdrops plastered with logos of companies I’ve never heard of. Adam steps away from me, gesturing to me as if silently saying to the cameras,
here she is
. The questions still come in shouted rolling waves, and the flashes have me seeing stars, but I dig deep, dig down into my reservoir of strength, that place I go when I’ve got nothing left but can’t give up. It’s where I went when LeShawn would get drunk and angry and I’d be the only target, when Frank would come into my room late at night —

I viciously shove those thoughts down. I smile. I pose. I don’t know what I’m doing, why I’m here, why Adam dragged me into this, but I’m here and there’s no escape, so I have to keep going. I turn, smile, toss my hair and look in another direction, and then Adam has my hand in his and he’s pulling me through the doors and into the parlor of the Grand Hotel. The flashes and the questions are left behind, but now I’m faced with an all-new crisis.

Rose Garret is standing directly in front of me. Gareth Thomas, one of the most well-known directors and producers in the world, with over a dozen films to his name, all of them blockbusters, is standing next to her. Lawrence Bradford is there, an older supporting-role actor, one of those guys you’ve seen in dozens of roles but never in the lead. Amy Jones, as stunningly resplendent now as when she was a fresh-faced actress in the late sixties and early seventies. I see other faces I recognize, even more I don’t.
 

And they’re all staring at me.
 

Conversation stops. Drinks pause in mid-air.
 

Rose Garret is the first to step forward. She smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach her curious hazel eyes. “Hi. I’m Rose.”

I take her hand and shake it briefly. “It’s an honor to meet you, Rose. I’m Des.”

“Des.” She says this as if judging me by my name alone. She eyes me, examines me, and then shifts her eyes to Adam. “I thought you were bringing Em.”

“I was. But she couldn’t make it. They shut down the ferries.”

Rose grins. “I bet you’re devastated.”

Adam nods. “Completely. I cried.”

I’m missing something, obviously. I know Adam and Emma broke up a while ago, which I suppose could be awkward if they were supposed to attend a gala as a couple.
 

“So, Des. You’re a model, I take it?” Rose asks.

A server drifts up to us, a silver tray balanced on his palm, and offers us each a glass of champagne. Adam takes two, hands one to me, and I sip it delicately, slowly. The last thing I can afford in this situation is to let alcohol cloud my judgment or loosen my tongue.

“I—” I have no clue how to answer that. She thinks I’m a model?
 

“Des is a college student. An intern.” Adam answers for me.
 

Which is true enough, but probably not in the way Rose is assuming. Maybe that’s Adam’s intent, though. I don’t know.
 

Gareth Thomas moves into the circle beside Rose, and Adam introduces us. “Des, hmm? A unique name for a uniquely beautiful young woman.” He shakes my hand vigorously, and his eyes cut speculatively to Adam. “You’ve been holding out on me, Adam.”

“Man’s gotta have a few secrets, Gareth,” Adam says, nudging the director with his elbow. It’s a joke, but it’s not. I’m a secret? Not so much anymore, obviously.
 

Lawrence and Amy join the circle next, and now I’m suddenly surrounded by Hollywood royalty, and it’s hard to breathe. I try not to stare at each of the people surrounding me, people I’ve seen in movies and on the covers of
People
and
OK!
and
Time
and
US Weekly,
and on Entertainment Tonight or TMZ.
 

Again, the thought hits me like a ten-pound sledge:
What am I
DOING
here?

Adam deflects all the questions directed at me, introducing me without explaining who I am in relation to him, or what I do. I’m an impostor, surely? I don’t belong here: I’m a trash collector.
 

I smile and nod and take tiny sips of champagne, and do my best to keep my emotions buried and off my features. Rose drifts away from the circle, but I see her eyes go to me more than once as she joins a different conversation. Eventually Adam pulls me away from Lawrence, Amy, and Gareth, and moves me through the crowd, waving to one person or another, pausing to chat with this person or that, and he always introduces me politely but neutrally, and leaves no room for probing questions. But I can sense, in every new person we meet, every conversation Adam steers us away from, that everyone is curious. Everyone wants to know who I am, where I came from, and why I’m here so unexpectedly at Adam’s side.

I ask myself the same questions, and find about as many answers as the journalists are getting…i.e., none.
 

I keep smiling until my face hurts, and I shake dozens of hands. Either Adam’s arm is around my waist or he’s holding my hand. I meet so many people I’m dizzy and have no hope of remembering anyone’s name except those whom I already recognized. I manage to make a single glass of champagne last over an hour, and even then I feel disconnected in my head, but that may be as much from the surreal experience as the alcohol.