Page 49 of Big Boss
Except this time, it feels like everything inside me has been scooped out, and I’m left as hollow as the pretty piece of decoration I was designed and molded to be by dear old dad.
The only thing left is this emptiness, this stupid and consuming yearning to be heard. I enter my too-quiet house and head for my guitar, clutching it against my body like it can keep me afloat.
If this is what sex with an actual friend turns into, then hard pass. I’ll just be alone forever. Lyrics start rushing through my mind as my fingers ease into a plaintive melody. Looks like it’s just me and the music I haven’t been able to write since forever.
I can’t believe she told me that what happened between us didn’t matter.
And maybe it didn’t really matter to her, but it sure feels like it should have.
17
Erica
I’m notdue to start at Rosenblum’s gallery until the Monday after the First Steps fundraiser. And I know that I’m an idiot because I decide I’m going to go and check in on the event in person. I have tried talking myself out of it repeatedly, but it’s like trying to look away from the car crash. Impossible.
Look. I know it’s a bad idea. A terrible idea, even. But that doesn’t mean it’s enough to stop me from making sure that everything ends up going to plan—my terrible, reckless plan that could even end up with me getting arrested or something, that is.
No matter what went down with Tate, I’m not going to sit back and ignore the very real possibility that his dreams won’t come true without my help.
Besides, I already have the gown. And I know I’m still on the guest list because I wrote it myself.
And yet, when I get to the entrance, I see the entire red carpet walkway with all the flashbulbs going off, and I simply can’t bring myself to do it. I have no business walking in like I’m one of the people who inhabits the circles that Donovan Tate operates in.
We’ve all seen how that went for me last time. I’m nothing more than the help to him. My entire purpose to him is helping run this very complex and fancy charity fundraising event and stand by and applaud along with everyone else as we watch him turn into a better version of himself. Instead of the Donovan Tate that people seem to think he is.
The one who makes out with a different beautiful woman every few months. The one in the tabloids. The one who has a certain reputation that he can’t seem to shake, and maybe that’s because it’s justified.
I want to scream at someone because I really thought I knew him better than this. But a picture’s worth a thousand words, right? That’s why I don’t bother even listening to his voicemails and delete them outright.
If I hear his sweet, honeyed voice, then I’m going to end up crawling on my hands and knees and begging him to let me be his assistant again, all while I’d rather be begging him to use me for his pleasure.
And obviously that’s not a possibility. I need to move on with my life and put the entire Donovan Tate experience behind me for good. I keep telling myself that checking in on the gala will give me the closure I need. Whether it does or not remains an open question.
I sigh and head toward the alley. There’s a line cook outside smoking, and I nod to him. He raises a hand but doesn’t speak as I move toward the kitchen doors. I say hi to the chef and the various kitchen staff and head toward the galley doors.
The ballroom looks magnificent. The fairy lights overhead reflect little sparkles of artificial light in the glittery, water-filled centerpieces at each table, making the lighting effect split and multiply.
Even the guests look expensive. The women here are all a different type of creature than me, made up and day spa-ed within an inch of their lives. Everyone here probably has perfect teeth and has never had acne. Certainly none of the women here had to watch the person they cared for the most making out with some random celebrity less than twenty-four hours after sex.
Good thing I’m in the kitchen and not out there, where everyone would be able to tell in a minute I don’t belong here.
A harried-looking, well-dressed creature slides into the kitchen. “Honey, what are you even doing in here?” The little sweetie in black latex takes one long look at me then tucks my arm into their elbow. “Come on, let’s get you back to the event.”
I want to protest, but we’re already out the doors and the crowd parts around us almost biblically. It’s obvious to me that everyone knows who I am, and they’re giving me a wide berth.
The catsuit-clad sweetheart leading me places me at the front center table. And because the world is cruel and clearly I am paying out on some serious karmic debt right now, the person seated next to me is none other than Bella LeGrande.
Coincidence? No, more like a curse. Or is this Donovan Tate sending me some sort of message?
No, he would never treat me like that. I may not completely understand what his life is like, but I’ve never once seen him be intentionally unkind to anyone, even if they actually deserve it.
I straighten my shoulders and level a cool gaze at the fancy celebrity who was photographed making out with my boss less than twenty-four hours after I begged him to fuck me harder.
Nope, not the time to blush. It’s time to pretend that this doesn’t matter to me at all. If I can pretend like nothing between Tate and this woman matters, then maybe what happened between Tate and me will start to matter less.
The perfect, pink-clad pop music princess finally notices me, and it goes about as well as you might expect.
“You.” She seethes at me, her perfect face unmoving.
