“I haven’t even banged them yet.” He gestures in the general direction of the women on the bed. One of them spreads her legs. Outside is cursing and grunting, and women whining about party poopers.
I cross my arms. “Shouldn’t have wasted your time drinking then, should you?” The hotel informed me he checked in at eleven. He was probably drunk at that time, too.
“I don’t wanna dry.” He smiles at me goofily. “You do it.”
My mouth tight, I shove him into a robe without bothering to dry him. He doesn’t resist.
Once he’s decently covered, I retrieve his clothes and dump them into a white plastic laundry bag with the hotel logo. Then I toss a towel over his head to obscure his face and take him to the service elevator. He stands mutely on the way down, looking like some kind of punchy boxer after losing a fight.
Some of the hotel staff are waiting for us on the ground level. Before we leave, I instruct them to send Ryder’s things to the office, settle his account on the AmEx and forward me the invoice within thirty days. I assure them photos won’t be necessary; I’ve seen the damage myself. If the staff notices my wet rat look, they didn’t let it show.
Once that’s done, I start leading Ryder to the Mercedes waiting outside.
“Wait, my car,” Ryder says. He loves his Ferrari.
“I’ll have it brought to the house tomorrow. You know you can’t drive.”
“Not that drunk.”
“Ryder, if you can hop on one foot from here to the back exit without stumbling, sure. But you know you can’t.”
“Watch.”
He goes on one foot. Then promptly stumbles and puts the other foot down before he can even jump.
The driver’s waiting for us. I push Ryder inside. It’s not easy to maneuver him drunk, but I manage. I’ve had lots of practice.
I sit down next to him and shut the door. If I leave now, he’ll end up in another hotel suite or a club. It doesn’t matter that he isn’t even dressed. This town worships fame and money, and he has plenty of both.
The air conditioning inside the car blows over me, and I shiver. My reaction annoys me further. If I weren’t soaked, the temperature would be perfect.
“We’re going home,” I say in my most stern “don’t argue with me, boss” voice. “You’re going to sleep this off. And you will go to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.”
“Don’t want to,” he mutters.
“Would you rather attend your father’s wedding?” Ryder’s sexagenarian father is marrying—for the sixth time, and to a woman who is barely twenty—and there seems to be an epidemic of matrimony in the family because it’s on the same weekend as his cousin’s ceremony. “It’s not too late to make the travel arrangements.”
“Hell no.” Ryder moans theatrically. “Hey, maybe I’ll be too hung over to go to either of ’em.”
“Then I’ll have a driver take you. Don’t worry.”
* * *
By the time I’m home, it’s well after four a.m. I open the door and spot my roommate, Renni Wainger, kicking off her shoes after having finished her shift at the bar downtown.
An aspiring actress from Chicago, Renni is petite with flowing black hair that reaches her lumbar, and pale green eyes that look arrestingly large in her tiny pixie-like face. Combined with a pert nose and wide mouth, she creates the kind of mesmerizing beauty you can’t look away from.
When I first came to L.A., she more or less took me under her wing. It was pure luck that I found her listing for a roommate online. Her lack of success as an actress bothers me, because she works so hard. Amazingly enough, I’ve never heard her complain about it. Her upbeat attitude makes me wish I could do something for her, but she’s asked me not to bother because stuff like that can jeopardize my job. Ryder’s a nice guy, but he’s made it clear he doesn’t do favors for aspiring anyone, and Mira is uninterested in newbies.
“Hey,” I say.
She turns, and her eyes widen. “Oh my gosh, what happened to you?”
“It’s a long story.” My clothes are clammy, and I feel gross. I remind myself to leave an extra change of clothes at Ryder’s place.
“Uh… you okay?” she asks, peering into my face.
“No.” I don’t tell her what happened because my employment contract comes with an NDA. I’m not allowed to talk about anything that happens while I’m working for him.
“You aren’t doing anything crazy because of…you know…Shaun?”
“No.” Shaun Mann is my ex. We broke up earlier today. Well, technically yesterday. We met because I wanted to tell him I was pregnant. But he told me I was worthless before I could get a word out. And once he made it clear how contemptible he found me—too fat, too unhelpful, too bitchy—I couldn’t talk about the baby.