Very Twisted Things (Briarcrest Academy #3) (4 page)

She thrust her cup at me again, eyes glittering like hard diamonds. “I must have misheard you.”

I ignored her and turned my head away, tucking myself close to the window. Pretty soon, I’d be splattered against it like a bug.

“Hello? Are you deaf?” she snapped, and I knocked my coffee over as I jerked up from my seat. Brown liquid seeped across the table and dripped on the floor. I watched it spread, unable to get napkins, unable to move. Paralyzed. My gut knew a panic attack was not far behind. I took up panting and tapped my leg.

She eyed me, her gaze flicking over my hands. “Clean-up on Aisle Stupid,” she called out over a mock microphone as the rest of her group tittered.

Every eye in the place swiveled to stare and I had a flashback to the day I’d gotten out of the hospital in Dublin. Reporters, photographers, gawkers—they’d swarmed me, camera lights flashing in my face. Geoff hadn’t made it to the hospital yet, so it had been a poor, unprepared nurse who’d pushed me in a wheelchair out to a waiting car, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about the horde. I’d braced myself for a question or two, but nothing like what hit me. They’d bombarded me.

How does it feel to be the only survivor, Miss St. Lyons?
Like shit.

How did you manage to escape the plane and get on the seat cushion?
By levitating, jerk.

What did you see when the bomb exploded?
People dying, asshole.

Did you get to say goodbye to your parents?
Fuck you.

“Hello? Are you still with us?” Blair smirked as she waved her hands in front of my face.

With nausea rolling around in my stomach, I bolted out the door of the Java and Me and stopped at my car, chest heaving like I’d run a marathon. I sagged against my car.

An airy voice came from behind me. “I don’t mean to pry, but that Blair’s a meanie who gets way too many lip injections and tummy tucks. FYI, she’s older than everyone thinks. Rumor is she paid ten thousand dollars to get a fake birth certificate that makes her ten years younger, which would mean that instead of the thirty-three she claims, she’s really forty-three. Which is like ancient in LA. And don’t even get me started on her breast size—hello, terrifying! And totally fake. I bet she can’t even sleep on her stomach, so who’s the real winner there? Can you imagine the back pain? Or the ill-fitting bikini tops—okay maybe that part would be cool. Whatever. I prefer my B cup any day.” She paused. Probably to take a breath. “Seriously, don’t let her get to you.”

I’d spun around to see the person who’d witnessed my fiasco. She was young, about my age, with brown hair that was pulled back with a sparkly headband. I recognized her immediately as the regular who always wore pink. She took a sip from a coffee, looking chic in a fuchsia angora sweater and white pencil skirt with a long strand of pearls draped around her neck. Three-inch white stilettos graced her feet.

She was a life-sized Hello Kitty, business version.

I blinked at the sheer pinkness of her, but then came to my senses and sent her a smile. “I know. Stupid for getting worked up about it. Maybe if I fawned over her or asked for her autograph like everyone else, she’d be nicer.”

The girl agreed. “She’s not nice to me either,
and
she’s dating one of my clients.” She added in a whisper, “Word is she’s struggling for those younger starlet roles now. Her last cover for
Cosmo
was completely photoshopped. Awkward.”

Wow. Pinky seemed to know a lot about Blair.

I grinned. “She’s an empty-headed bubble with Manolo’s and lipstick, and she needs to be popped,” I said, acting it out with my fingers. “
Pop!
” Apparently, I was much braver away from Blair.

The girl’s nose scrunched up as she bounced on her heels. “Yes! And she shall forevermore be known as
Bubbles
.”

I grinned. “So … you’re in the movie business?” I asked as I relaxed against my silver Maserati.

She nodded and hurriedly fished a card from her Chanel clutch. “Mila Brady, PR person at your service. And before you say it, I know I’m young—twenty-three if you must know—but I already have a couple of big-time clients. Ever hear of the Vital Rejects? Spider—his real name’s a secret—and Sebastian Tate are the front guys. Total hotties.” She blushed. “I actually used to be over the moon for Sebastian back in high school—but I’m over it.”

Had I heard of them? I shook my head. “If they’re recent, then I’m clueless. I’ve been out of touch for the past year or so.” Understatement. I’d been hiding out in a Hollywood mansion, refusing to see anyone.

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “Do I detect a New York accent, then? Are you an actress? You’re pretty. Like really pretty. You could use a new shirt maybe though. One with more color. Just a thought.” She grinned. “Sorry. I talk a lot. Sometimes it’s stupid stuff, but I can’t turn my brain off.”

I shook my head. “No, don’t apologize. Yes, I’m from Manhattan, and no, I’m not an actress. I—I’m a violinist.” I said the words haltingly. It had been months since I’d talked to anyone about music.

“Cool. Why did you come to LA?”

I waffled, shifting my feet, settling with the truth. “California was as far as I could get without a plane. I recently got a job playing at an Italian restaurant, although I haven’t started yet.” Yep, one day you’re a star violinist, the next day you’re playing for celebrities sucking on spaghetti Bolognese.

“What restaurant? Are you here to make a record? Sign a deal? Are you in a band? You know, if you need help getting your name out there, I’d be glad to do the work for you. Just throwing that out there.”

“It’s called Masquerade.”

She nodded. “Great. I’m supposed to meet up with some friends there this week—maybe I’ll see you.”

God, I hoped not. What if I wasn’t able to play?

“I’m V by the way,” I said impulsively, holding my hand out.

She shook my hand. “What’s V short for?”

I didn’t even blink. “Just V.” I didn’t want her to know who I was. Not really. Not when as soon as she pieced it together, she’d get that apologetic look in her eye, and then I’d feel guilty all over again for killing my parents.

She grinned. “I’m headed down to Rodeo Drive for some errands. You wanna come with?” She bit her lip at my silence, tucking her purse up under her arm. “It’s just … I moved here a few weeks ago, and to be honest, you’re the first girl who seems like someone I could get along with.” She gave me a crooked grin. “Plus, I’d love for you to meet my friends.”

There were more like her? I stifled a grin.

Her offer of friendship made me waver, but I shook my head and mumbled a stupid excuse. Hanging out with her wouldn’t change the fact that I couldn’t have friends. It was dangerous to care for people. Something would happen to her. She’d die. Or she’d decide I was too much effort. Too strange. I didn’t need anybody. I was better alone.

She gave me a disappointed smile, hopped in her little white Mercedes and drove out of my life.

Or so I thought.

“I was sorrow with skin.”

—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons

A FEW DAYS later, I went for my daily run around seven in the morning.

I looped past
his
house as usual, noting the gray Hummer and the vintage Mustang in the circle drive. I saw something new: a white Mercedes parked to the side and facing the road, giving me a clear view of the front-end. Surrounded by pink rhinestones,
Mila
was stamped on the nameplate.

Whoa
. I came to a stop at the bottom of their drive. What was she doing here this early in the morning? Of course, the implication was she’d slept over.

That thought made my stomach drop.

Was she seeing my guy?

My guy?
I laughed out loud at my idiocy. I’d never even met him.

Part of me—the ballsy side—wanted to knock on his door, see what Blond Guy looked like close up,
see if he was hooking up with Mila.
Yup
,
crazy.

My feet had ideas too, and I took a step toward the door … and another … and then stopped.

I couldn’t just show up at his door like we knew each other. Right?

Hey, how are you? I’m the girl next door. You spy on me? I gave you the finger?

Yet, I couldn’t deny that he fascinated me, that the night I’d played for him it had felt as if a gossamer thread connected us, his house to mine, his eyes to my body.

I stood there, wavering.
Don’t be a chicken
. Just go knock on the door.

Then what? Chew him out for spying? Ask him over for dinner?

Someone inside the house walked past a window, and my bravado disappeared.

I spun around and ran. Stupid, stupid, stupid. No way was I ever knocking on his door.

About a mile down the street, I stopped at Mr. Wilson’s gate, where he stood messing with his rose bushes. He’d lost his wife to cancer about a year ago, and we’d actually met at a local grief meeting. It wasn’t until later we realized we were neighbors. In his sixties, he claimed to be a simple man, but I knew at one point he’d been a Hollywood bigwig, some kind of movie studio head. Ha. At one point, I’d been on the cusp of a great music career. We had a lot in common.

He set down his shears, wiped his face and came out to the road to greet me. It was our thing, and I looked forward to talking to him. He reminded me of my dad.

I leaned over my knees to get my breath while he talked about pruning.

“You meet the new neighbors in my cove that moved in a few weeks ago?” I asked him a bit later. He was the head of the Homeowners’ Association, so if anyone had info, Wilson would. I whistled and walked around his roses, like my asking wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for me.

“Sure did. I stopped by the week they moved in. One’s got blue hair; an English fellow. Cusses a lot. The other one, a tall guy, seems like the responsible one.”

I grinned. I’d come to the right place.

“Who are they? Actors? Models? Directors? Mental institution escapees?”

He gave me a pointed look, a glint in his eyes as if he were trying to suss me out. “Why do you care so much about the new people? In fact, I’ve sent you several invites to our monthly pool party mixer and you’ve never responded. You’re practically a hermit.”

“Just curious. They
are
my nearest neighbors, and I’d hate to bother them if my music was too loud. I play my violin outdoors, which was fine when no one lived there, but now that someone’s there …” I trailed off and shrugged. Obviously, I was digging a hole.

He cocked an eye at me.

I groaned. “Okay, fine, you got me. The blond guy
is
interesting. He laughs a lot, plays a guitar, and takes midnight swims if you must know. He’s got nice pecs, too, not that you care to hear it. Anyway, I’ve never seen a girl at his house—but this morning there was a white car parked in his drive with
Mila
on the front tag. I’m guessing this means he has a girlfriend—not that I’m interested.”

“Uh-huh. You thinking of opening a detective agency?” He might have been laughing at me.

I crossed my arms and fake glared at him. He grinned.

“Forget the car thing. Did you get a name? An occupation? Is he dating some chick who wears pink and looks a lot like Charlotte from
Sex in the City
?” I bit my lips to stop the madness.

He guffawed, looking pleased. “You have a crush,” he teased.

I felt my face redden.
Did I?
It had been a long time since I’d been genuinely interested in the opposite sex. Not since Geoff.

“Why don’t you bake them some cookies? See what happens,” he said.

“I can’t cook. All I have are Oreos.”

“Then just show up. Smile. Make some new friends, V. I worry about you being alone all the time.”

He was the only one who knew the truth of who I was. In fact, he’d met and worked with my parents on a charity benefit for the Metropolitan Museum in New York several years ago. Somehow out of all the people in LA, I’d ended up being friends with someone who’d had contact with my parents. Here’s the thing, it had felt like fate, and perhaps that was why I was easy with him. Hanging on to the shreds of my past.