“I’d be happy to pick you up.”
There was something about the way that he said it, in spite of the tone of respect, that made her feel exposed, as if he knew a secret, all of her secrets.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll make arrangements.”
For a moment, she considered ringing up Christopher on his cell phone. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t the only co-dependent one in this happy little circle of two. He deserved a night in the company of friends. A night when he wasn’t focused on trying to take care of her. She could deal with Jesse McArthur. She’d better.
ELEVEN
Rochelle
While Jesse went to meet Princess Gabby, Rochelle decided to play the Game. Not a decision, really. Just a toying with the keys of his laptop. What else was she supposed to do in this room that looked like every other hotel that had ever momentarily contained her life?
The site was easy to find, once she Googled it. She’d been there enough times. She scrolled past the first part, the medical definitions that made her cringe—theexiasand thelimias,the people who ate only at night, the ones addicted to exercise, the ones who craved sand or chalk.Pica,that one was called. So ugly these names, and the afflictions they represented. Then she found the one she was seeking. Clicked on symptoms. The answer flooded onto the small screen in blue and white, a wave of information. Now the game began.
Often have a history of abuse.She was free of that. A point for her.
Frequently have feelings of insecurity.Who in Hollywood wouldn’t? Call it a draw.
Prone to shoplifting or breaking the rules.Another point for her.
Sexually capricious.Not for many years. Make it half a point.
She was okay. Every time she played the Game, comparing herself with the stereotypes, she knew that. She didn’t even need to answer the other questions. Oh, hell, why not?
Frequently has excuses for missing meals, saying she or he has eaten earlier.Okay, maybe one point for the devil, but if you’re not hungry, you’re not hungry.
Regardless of weight, considers him- or herself fat.Another twinge. She got up from the computer and walked to the full-length mirror on the wall beside the window.
She wasn’t slutted up, as Jesse called it. Just the jeans, just the soft heather-toned sweater over them. Damn, her ass. He was right about that. Her thighs. They weren’t dangerous yet, but she could see the spread. The Clen wasn’t working fast enough. She needed to increase the lunges and talk to Blond Elvis about his toys. Okay, give up a point. What woman today over thirty wouldn’t feel the same way? Especially if her husband was having drinks with one of the sexiest women in the world?
Believes being thin is akin to power.You’d better believe it, baby. Guilty on that one, all the way. But who cared? She’d still won the Game.
That was why she liked to play the Game.
She always won.
She glanced over at the courtesy bar. There would be nuts in there, cookies, maybe crackers, along with the requisite alcohol. Perhaps she could just find something to chew. She wouldn’t have to swallow it.
But first, where the hell had Jesse hidden her cigarettes? She just hoped he came back soon. And that somehow he didn’t notice that Princess Gabby, and not his over-the-hill slob of a wife, was the one with the killer body.
Gabriella
Gabriella lucked out. The shuttle from the hotel was a black sedan. The young, buff driver looked as if he’d been cast for the role, and the Hilton was only six blocks away. She wouldn’thave to be embarrassed in front of Jesse McArthur, jumping out of some Yellow Cab, the way she and her grandmother used to when they made a trip of similar length downtown.
“I could have walked it,” she said to the driver.
“A princess shouldn’t have to walk.” He got out of the car and opened the back door for her. A well-meaning man, sweet, the way Christopher was sweet.
“How’d you recognize me?” She hated herself for trying to beg one more good moment out of this encounter.
“The story in the newspaper.”
She looked up into his eyes but couldn’t read whether or not there was sincerity there. What did it take to understand men? To know which ones were good, and which ones were rotten? It wasn’t easy, not like shopping, where you could spot last year’s fashion disasters on the sales racks, where you could identify the plastic-wrapped rotting vegetables on the kiosk at the grocery store.
She handed him the tip, fingers closed around the bill, pointed down.
“You have a way back?” he asked.
