Curiosity gets the better of me, and I move the sheet to reveal the mystery guy’s face. When I get a good look at him, it all comes screaming back. Oh God. I used his belly button as a shot glass. Guess that explains the hangover.
Wait, that can’t be right. I don’t get hangovers. Despite what Gavin thinks, I don’t drink.Much.Okay, fine. Sometimes I have an occasional drink or two. Maybe three if it’s an all-day event. But it never gets out of control, and Ineverwake up in a place I don’t want to be. At some point I must have stopped checking what was in the drinks I was being handed, because sober me would never have let myself end up in a hotel room with…seriously, who is this guy?
I didn’t catch his name, but I’m less frantic knowing he’s a vague acquaintance of an acquaintance and not a total random stranger. Now I feel a regular amount of panic, as one would waking up in the bed of a stranger in a hotel room. Holding my breath, I slide off the bed in an attempt to make my escape. But in my head, I imagined pulling it off way stealthier than I do in real life. My toe gets caught in the sheet, pulling it out from under the guy, jolting him properly awake. Awesome.
“Hmm, what? Oh,” he says, taking note of me. “You’re up.” He smiles at me groggily. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Since last night?” I legitimately don’t know.
As he props himself up and leans back against the headboard, I get a better look at him. Although we shared an intimate moment last night when my lips touched his belly button, his face is barely recognizable to me. It’s also kind of cute. He’s rocking the nineties-boy-band look with his baby-blue eyes and disheveled blond hair. I’d definitely be interested in getting to know him if I were looking for a relationship, which I most certainly am not. When it comes to dating, it’s always the same. As soon as I get close to anyone, it’s only a matter of time before my public lifestyle gets in the way. I’m either going out too much, or I’m not around enough, or there’s never any privacy. But I am so close to having my socialite status bankroll my lifestyle indefinitely, and I am not ready to give that up for anything—or anyone, for that matter.
“Did you sleep okay—”
“I have to be somewhere. So I’m going to take off,” I say, pointing to the front door.
“Yeah, sure. I understand.” He scratches the back of his messy bedhead. “Can I call you sometime?”
Call me?Speaking of…I’m looking for my phone, tossing pillows around with one hand and putting my shoe on with the other. “Yes!” I shout as soon as I spot my phone in the crevice of the couch cushions. “I mean, I’ll call you.” I go back to the bed to grab my wristlet on the nightstand.
“Cool. Do you want my numb—”
I put a finger to his lips to shush him. “Look. Don’t take it personally, but…relationships aren’t my thing.” I wave and disappear out the door before Belly-Button Shot Guy has a chance to drag out this already-too-long conversation.
On my way to the elevator, I order a car service to pick me up atthe back exit of the hotel. As an establishment frequented by many celebrities, The Beverly Hilton has a private entrance and exit for those wanting to avoid the paparazzi. It’s a route I’m familiar with but hardly use, since being in the media spotlight is sort of the whole point of being a socialite. Today, though, I’m glad for the escape route.
I take the service elevator down, and before I exit the building, I use the single-stall employee restroom, which is thankfully empty. Because I have had to pee since I got up, and for some reason, using the restroom in the hotel room of a guy I hardly knew felt undignified. Apparently consuming alcohol from the belly button of a stranger is okay, but using his bathroom is where I draw the line.
While I wash my hands, I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink and gasp. Mascara smudged under my eyes, lipstick smeared across my cheek, and pillow creases on my forehead. This is the part of my life I don’t want the public to know about—that Ican’t letthe public know about.
TheVoguearticle was hurtful, but it taught me how the media game works. When it comes to the wealthy, the press is always looking for a story, which means I have two choices: I can let the media find their story, or I can supply them with it. It’s no secret I choose the latter. It’s why I hired brand manager extraordinaire Kiki Klineman. Every article, every post, and every collaboration has been curated for me to appeal to the masses. And it doesn’t mean I can’t have a relationship with the press that isn’t mutually beneficial. As long as I give the media what they want—a carefree party it girl—I’ll get what I want: a lucrative career as a socialite turned influencer. But I have to be smart about it. In order to stay in the public’s good graces, I have to be seen at parties with alcohol, but I can’t be caught hungover the next day. Which is weird whenI think about it, since it’s only natural for one to lead to the other. But that’s what it’s like for women. You can’t slip up, not in the public eye.
When I finish using the restroom, a driver in a black SUV with tinted windows is waiting for me in the alley behind the hotel. I hop in, and he takes me to the address I sent earlier. It’s about a thirty-minute drive home, so I lean back and close my eyes. I’m so tired, I could sleep for days. It’s a good thing it’s summer. With all the events Kiki has lined up for me, I have a feeling there’ll be many more days like this ahead of me.
I ignore my phone buzzing incessantly in my lap. I’m sure it’s Gavin calling to lecture me on my poor life choices. As much as I hate to admit it, on some level, Gavin’s not wrong. Belly-Button Shot Guy turned out to be this cute, harmless golden-retriever type. But I might not be so lucky next time. Going forward, I promise to make better decisions. For now I’ll ignore Gavin’s calls, since there’s no sense in getting worked up over the PR nightmare, as Gavin will refer to it, when it can be fixed with just one, make that two, words:What’s that?
—
Thirty minutes later, when the car pulls up to my home, there’s a mass of press surrounding the gated entrance.
“Elena! How was last night?”
“Elena, who is that guy you were with?”
“Elena, Elena, Elena!”
Although I never tire of hearing my name being called over and over, this is getting out of control. “Drive past them,” I instruct the driver, opening up the gate with the remote access on my phone. Iusually don’t let drivers beyond the front gate, especially when the press is here. But the paparazzi haven’t been this aggressive before, and today they aren’t shouting the usual words of affirmation.
“Elena, is it true about George Bronstein?”
“What’s going to happen to you now?”
“Are you going to move?”
Move?Why would that even come up? And who the hell is George Bronstein?Great.Is he the guy from the hotel room? As soon as the car comes to a stop, I bolt out of it and pray that someone other than the paid staff is home. It’s usually empty, or maybe it just feels that way when we’re on our separate sides of the house. Although Mom has been more present than usual these past few days. The other day she even asked me if I wanted to do a mother-daughter trip to Korea this summer, which is highly uncharacteristic of her. We don’t do things like that. But right now I’m banking on her uncharacteristic behavior to be home so she can explain to me what the hell is going on. I’ll even settle for Gavin at this point.
As the gate starts to close, the press gets louder and more specific.
“Elena, what do you have to say about the IRS repossessing your family’s assets? Does it have anything to do with the accusations of embezzlement and money laundering?”
