Page 11 of You're So Vine
“For your own good, of course,” says Chiara. “You’re not a go-getter. You need encouragement.”
“This is you being encouraging?”
“No,thisis me being encouraging.”
Chiara points her finger right between my eyes and makes sure my attention remains on it as it moves to indicate the intended target.
“What I need you to do,” she says, “is go over to Jackson and Ava and cut in. He’s about to collapse anyway, so he won’t protest. Ava’s first reaction will be to resist because she’s hurt about whatever it is you did—not the right thing, remember? Keep at it but not to the point where you’re being a caveman jerk. Do not under any circumstances grab her arm. If she continues to refuse, yield with dignity. Try again another time, several other times if necessary, but don’t be a stalker. Got all that?”
“Don’t be a caveman. Don’t be a stalker.”
Chiara raises an eyebrow. “Impressed. Most guys completely fail to hear those instructions. I’m thinking of printing flashcards.”
“What if I don’t do it?”
I feel a pressure on the top of my shoe. Chiara’s stiletto. The heel style that’s named after a particularly thin and lethal dagger. Usually, I wear boots, but Shelby got me some fancier shoes along with the shirt and tie. Thin leather. Chiara’s dagger heel will pass through it without even trying.
“I’ve been in combat,” I say. “I’ve been shot, stabbed, and blown up.”
“You’re still more scared of me, though.”
“Okay, fine,” I say gracelessly. “I’ll do it.”
But even with the stiletto heel danger removed, I hesitate. Feel like I’m on display.
Chiara shoos me with her fingers. “Now’s good, Cam.”
“Are you going to watch?”
“Of course not,” she says, as if I’ve insulted her. “It’s none of my business.”
And off she stalks, in search, I guess, of someone else who needs encouragement.
Shit. If Chiara’s gone, do I really need to go through with this? My three R’s are shouting at me in my head, and I’ve been listening to them for so long, it’s hard to hear anything else.
One of the waiters appears beside me.
“Sir, I’m to tell you that Chiara has eyes everywhere,” he informs me. “And if you don’t act now, she will pay people to graffiti your personal phone number on every spare wall in town.”
“She’d do it, wouldn’t she?”
“Without hesitating, sir.”
I hand him the empty glass I’ve been hanging on to all night. Crick my neck in preparation, loosen my shoulders. Breathe deep and start walking.
Jackson sees me first. He looks like he’s been trying to outrun zombies, all wild-haired and sweating. He lifts a hand in greeting but is too puffed to speak.
Then Ava sees me. Stops dancing, stiffens her whole body, and shoots back her head, like I’m about to go for her jugular.
“Mind if I cut in?” I say, because I’ve been told to.
Jackson’s bent over now, resting his hands on his knees, wheezing.
“You don’t dance,” says Ava, who’s still looking at me like I’m a lizard person.
Knew there was a flaw in Chiara’s plan.
Then, right on cue, the band starts playing a slow number. The kind you can just shuffle to, no skill required. Want to bet who organized that?
