Blind Item(3)

“Quick, let’s go,” he said with a cheeky grin. He put his hand out for Nicola’s and she put her hand in his.

But their getaway was short-lived, because they turned around and ran right into the birthday girl herself.

“Baby doll,” Amber cooed at the Scot. “Did you get me a gift? That is so thoughtful. I love it.”

“Sure,” said Seamus. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“That’s not important,” Amber moaned in a messed-up cartoony sex voice. She was wearing a hot-pink chiffon baby doll dress and strappy baby-blue heeled sandals. She was not wearing a bra, and as she leaned forward, Nicola saw the former child star’s nipples. Again. They were a regular feature in tabloid OOPS fashion stories, and for some reason, they reliably upset her.

“What’s important is the thought. I can’t wait to open it.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” said Seamus. “Good seeing you; I’ll let you get on with your party.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Amber, grabbing his arm. “You’re coming with me.” She started dragging him, but he resisted and took her arm off his.

“Amber, this is my friend Nicola,” he said. Amber stared Nicola down, and raised her chin slightly. Her top lip curled into a sneer.

“Hi, bitch,” she drawled.

“Hey, Amber, nice to meet you.” Nicola extended her hand. Amber didn’t take it but she plowed on. “I work with Gaynor Huerta at Huerta Hernandez; she sends her love and says sorry she couldn’t make it. And I believe you know my best friend, Billy Kaye, he…”

“Please stop talking at me,” Amber slurred, grabbing Seamus by the wrist and attempting to drag him away again, like a spoiled child who wanted to show her daddy something.

“Hey, wait,” he protested. “I’m here with Nic, I can’t just leave her.”

Amber turned and grabbed a mousy woman with a huge cold sore on her lip and a plaster cast on her right arm, and pushed her at Nicola.

“Hey, Courtney, this is my friend whatshername, you guys should totally hang out.”

Amber turned back to Seamus. “Look! She’s not alone. They’re totally hanging out. I just need to talk to you for five minutes.”

Seamus leaned in and gave Nicola a light peck. His lips were warm and dry, and his stubble felt electric against her soft skin. “I’ll just be five minutes, I promise. Don’t leave, please—we still need to properly chat.”

And then he was gone.

Nicola felt like she had stuck her finger in a light socket. Seamus O’Riordan just kissed me on the lips! Her face burned. Her pulse was racing.

She tried to focus on the crumpled mess in front of her named Courtney. Stringy brown hair, skinny jeans that swam on her, and yellow off-the-shoulder sweater that hung too far off her shoulders so that Nicola could see the ribs between her boobs. When Courtney clumsily pushed some of the hair out of her face, Nicola’s stomach dropped in recognition. This was Courtney Hauser, former teen star who was currently more legendary for her drug intake than her work.

“You carrying?” Courtney asked in a voice that almost sounded like a cough.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” lied Nicola, wrinkling her nose again at a sudden bad smell.

“I’m sorry, how rude of me. We just met. Let’s start over.” Courtney extended her hand, clad in the filthy cast. As the hand drew nearer, Nicola realized the cast smelled worse than it looked, and she pulled back.

“So you carrying or not?” growled Courtney, with her stinking broken arm still outstretched.

Nicola wished she knew anybody else at the party so she could pretend to go talk to them.





CHAPTER 2

KARA HISSED AS HER ACRYLIC nail poked a hole in the tip of her black latex-free glove. Again. She sat back and felt her shoulders bunched up around her neck. She forced them down to their natural position and took a deep breath. She blinked hard to refocus her eyes and looked around the living room, decorated in busted Target dorm-room furniture. She was alone.

The laminate table in front of her was splashed with bright green fluid. On top of it sat rows of tiny white bottles that Kara had filled with water and a touch of said green fluid, which came from quart bottles marked ALL-WEATHER ANTIFREEZE. This Saturday, after being watered down with LA’s finest tap water, they would be sold to pie-eyed ravers at the Palms Up festival outside Vegas as the best liquid ecstasy that their money could buy.

“Ryk?” she called out over the burbling sound of faceless EDM that had been her soundtrack for the last eight hours. “RYK?”