Page 33 of Paint the Town, Dove
I turned my attention to Holly, only famous for her association with Yasmine’s clique and her father’s stonework empire. Other than that, her brain was filled with marbles and Marlboros.
“Have you seen your Birkin, Holly?”Hit ‘em where it hurts.“Flavia Owens sleeps with it in prison.”
Flavia Owens was another heiress in the Hollywood sphere, now convicted of twelve drug charges and serving a six-year prison sentence. No one wanted to be associated with her anymore. And that was my ammo.
Holly coughed out her drink, the remnants of dirty martini dripping down her freshly tanned neck and Armani blazer.
“Oof,” I smirked, plucking the olive straight out of her empty glass, “there’s a lineup for the ladies’ room. You could try the mens’.”
She shot up, snatching her Birkin from the couch and discarding it in the trash next to the podium. Twenty-thousand in the dump, all because of a scandal.Pathetic.
“Bye, now!” I called after her, before facing Yasmine with a smile. “And then there were two.”
She glared at me with disgust.
“Where’s Ryden?” I asked, pointedly.
No response. Just crossed her arms and turned away.
“You can pretend I’m not here all you want,” I leaned in closer, “but I’m the biggest pest you’ll ever meet.”
She turned to me now, still mute.
I raised my hands. “Exterminate me while you can.”
It took her a second, but she caved. “How am I supposed to know?”
“Well,” I scoffed, “where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
“Am I supposed to get the reference?”
“No, you’re supposed to take the threat.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what exactly are you threatening me with, Scarlett? You’re not even in the limelight. You don’t matter.”
“No, maybe not,” I laughed, brushing off the sting. “But I’m backstage. And behind the curtain, is where all the secrets swirl and spread like a bat in the wind.”
Her fingers slid off the glass stem. Just a slight of hand, quick as an arrow – a fidget – anerve.
“So, Yasmine,” I dared, “care to hear what the little bats are saying about you?”
She slapped her drink down on the table, gin and vermouth waving the rim. “I’ve earned my place, my career! You’re just piggybacking on someone else’s fame because you’re too talentless to get it yourself!”
My nails bit the crescents of my palm, heat flaying the back of my neck.
Piggybacking on someone else’s fame.
As if I hadn’t fought tooth and nail to give Ryden the life he deserves, givemyselfa shot at happiness.
As if I didn’t need to sell my soul to find a place on Ryden’s stage.
To steal luggage from the airport just so we could have clothes andpocket change, toothbrushes and soap.
To learn everything about the space, the people in it, the ammo to make a rock star.
I did that. Me.
Scarlett Emory-Blake.
