My brother Griffin was relieved she found a date for the party. Rachel likes to have him act as her backup when she has boy-toy issues, but Griffin is too devoted to his wife and triplets to spend his free time catering to his mother’s vanity.
“It’s incredibly unprofessional to be late to your own party,” comes Jeremiah’s voice from behind me. She’s one of the mothers—and one of the nastiest legal sharks in the country. I’m not too surprised that she showed up. Even though she doesn’t bother with much that doesn’t involve billable hours, she is quite fond of my mom. Calls her the life of the party.
Jeremiah is in a conservative navy jumpsuit more fitting for a courtroom than a party, and a huge diamond hangs from her slim neck. Her hair is dyed the shade of fresh blood.
“You look like your hair committed hara-kiri.” Athena’s voice is smooth, but it isn’t enough to hide the naked blade underneath.
Here we go,I think with a silent, resigned sigh. Athena might be a genius, but she’s also predictable in her dislike of Jeremiah. They’re probably both too smart and too stubborn to get along. Athena hates people who argue with her, and Jeremiah hasn’t seen an argument she didn’t want to rip apart.
“It’s goat’s blood. What do you think? I thought if you invited me over it would match your home décor.” Jeremiah smiles that shark smile. Athena at one point dated some unhinged moron who thought he could cast a love spell on her by spattering her home with fresh goat blood. She’s still embarrassed and upset about the incident, since Jeremiah calls it proof that “the great Athena Grant isn’t infallible.” That man’s lucky the police arrested him and threw him in jail. Otherwise, Athena would’ve found a way to rip him into little pieces and feed them to rabid dogs.
She slowly turns red. It’s the kind of red you get before you scream, “Fuck you,” and launch yourself at the other person. I begin to move away from the mothers before they ask me to take sides.
Where the hell is Mom?
Even Dad, who likes to make a late entrance, has arrived. Dark-haired with a square jaw, he stands tall and grins smugly at the world like he’s God’s gift to humanity. But then, why not? He’s been consistently successful throughout a career in an unbelievably competitive field. People worship him, fawn over him and credit him for launching—or in some cases rebooting—their careers. Even studio executives kiss his feet for the oodles of profit he brings in.
Joey, his assistant with a forehead the size of a basketball court and hair the color of a shriveled California navel orange, is following him. His chest is puffed out, his shoulders pushed back. The smile on his face is more than a little arrogant—he knows he’s gatekeeper to the all-important Ted Lasker. Of course, that shit-eating grin changes to one of subservience as soon as his eyes meet Dad’s.
“Hello, Nicholas.” Rick Gordon, the mayor of our beautiful city, grips my hand. “When is Nikki going to be here?” His cornflower-blue eyes grow soulful as he speaks of my mother, and his face falls a little like a basset hound’s. His lank brown hair adds to the effect.
The man’s married—happily so, according to the people in charge of managing his pristine political image. But Rick doesn’t bother to hide the unrequited crush he has on my mother. Or maybe he doesn’t know he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve. If Mom ever got tired of Paul and divorced him, Rick would dump his wife on the spot to pursue her.
Of course, he’d have to fight a lot of other guys for her attention. She has a particular gift for making men feel great about themselves.
“Hopefully soon. Let me check.” I smile politely, then step away and pull out my phone. I scowl at the missed text.
–Marissa: Hey, I heard you bought LA Food Digest. Can you make me the CFO? I’d be fabulous in the position. I’m looking for a new career, and I feel like you’re the person I can count on to help out.
Marissa is someone I escorted to a social function a couple of months ago, and the woman is woefully unqualified for the CFO position. The only numerical skill she has is an ability to count by twos—and that only to tally up the number of shoes in her closet. She spent the entire time we were out talking about her collection—and which ones she likes to wear to bed. The conversation could’ve been bottled as a form of chemical castration. I couldn’t care less about her shoes or her plastic tits or the cloying perfume that gave me a low-grade headache.
We haven’t spoken since then, and I don’t understand why she thinks she can just contact me for a job.Count on me, indeed.I block her number, then type up a text for my mother.
–Me: When are you going to arrive? Everyone’s already here, including Jeremiah.
Mom specifically said she wanted to hang out with Jeremiah. Otherwise, I would’ve tried to avoid having her at the same event as Athena. I glance in their direction. They’re still speaking, their smiles wider and brighter, showing lots of shiny, bleached teeth.
The text goes unread. That’s unusual. Did she forget to charge her phone?
I wait two more beats, then text Paul.
–Me: When are you and Mom going to get here?
–Paul: Get where?
What the hell? He knows about the party. He was present when Mom and I talked about it, and he’s a reliable kind of guy, unless he’s suddenly developed a cocaine habit.
–Me: Her birthday party at the Ritz.
Three dots appear, then disappear.
Finally a text from Mom arrives.
–Mom: Enjoy the party, love! I’m about to board my flight to Madrid.
Madrid?
–Me: What are you talking about? Everyone is here! You asked for this party!
