Page 14 of LA King

“Alana, dear.” A blond woman who I guess to be in her mid-forties walks over to me and gives me two dramatic air kisses. “Ladies,” she declares, taking hold of my elbow and turning me to face the room. “This is Alana Montoya, and she has come to join us in our work for good causes. I know you’ll all give her a warm welcome.”

Every pair of eyes in the room are now on me, scrutinizing my appearance. No doubt all of these women are wondering what the king of LA sees in a woman like me. I probably should have opted to wear something a little more chic. Some ladies offer me a smile, but others are unable to hide their contempt. I note the bottles of expensive champagne on the table and wonder if this is a celebration. “I hope I’m not intruding,” I say apologetically, feeling self-conscious as they continue to stare at me like I’m an exhibit at a museum. My one designer dress—Chanel; my best thrift store find ever—definitely would have been more appropriate. There are enough designer labels in the room to feed a small community for a year.

“Don’t be silly. We meet here every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.” The woman I assume to be Amanda ushers me toward the table. Once I’m seated, she introduces herself as Amanda Grant and informs me her husband is one of Alejandro’s investors.

“It’s truly a pleasure to meet you,” I tell her.

Amanda sits on my right, but I don’t have a chance to speak to her any further because the woman on my left grabs my hand and examines my ring finger.

She snorts. “I would’ve expected a bigger rock than that from the king of LA.”

I yank my hand back and work to speak evenly. “It was my grandmother’s.” I wore it on my right hand for years after she died, and Alejandro had no objections when I requested to use it as my engagement ring instead of some flashy diamond that would cost an obscene amount of money.

“Your grandmother’s?” another woman repeats. “How quaint!” She titters, and a few others laugh along with her.

They have no idea that I grew up in politics. Dealing with fake people comes as naturally to me as breathing, so I simply offer them a saccharine smile.

“Take no notice of them, dear.” Amanda pats my thigh. “They’ve had far too much to drink already.”

I turn my attention to her, and she gives me a rundown of everyone at the table. It seems I’m fortunate enough to be in the company of the LA elite. These women are the wives of the wealthiest men in Los Angeles, and I’m told that if I want into a party, onto a list, or to be someone of any note at all, then this is the crowd I need to win over. At least that’s the way Amanda sells it to me.

I’m not so sure she’s right, at least not about the kind of parties and lists I’m interested in. I’m not so sure I have anything in common with any of these women. When there’s a gap in the chatter, I take the opportunity to ask about their charity work, hoping we can at least find a mutual interest there.

“Oh, we’ve already chosen our charity for this year,” Amanda answers. “We’ll be hosting a fundraising event in the fall, so we’ll start planning in the next few weeks. There’s no rush to get started yet.”

My interest piqued, I rest my chin on my hand and give her my undivided attention. “What charity are you fundraising for?”

She makes a faint sighing noise, like this is all too much for her to bear. “The school needs a new wing. Their sports hall isn’t fit for purpose now that they have so many new pupils.”

“And which school is that?”

“Montlake Academy,” she replies dismissively, making it clear she’s already bored of my questions.

Well, I guess that’s one thing we have in common. I am bored out of my mind.

Montlake Academy! A private school already dripping with money is the charity project they’ve chosen?

I don’t belong here at all. That crushing sense of loneliness I experienced after Alejandro’s mom left is back, and this time I’m not sure I’ll ever shake it. Is there any place in LA where I might fit in?

I make a point of checking my watch before I push my chair back. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I have another appointment to get to,” I say, forcing a smile. “But it was lovely to meet you all.”

“Oh, no. Really?” Amanda pouts. “You’ll come back on Monday, though, won’t you? It’s quite the coup having the new Mrs. Montoya in our midst. The donors will love it.”

“I’d love to, if my schedule allows,” I lie with ease.

I bid them goodbye and head to the door. Hugo steps out of the shadows and is at my side before I reach the exit. Like a gentleman, he holds the door open for me.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

I wait until we’re outside to answer. “Yeah. That just wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s all. I was hoping to do something meaningful, to actually help people, but I don’t think I’m going to find that here.”

Hugo quickly scans the parking lot before leading me to the car and opening the door. Once again, I climb inside and drop my head back against the headrest with a sigh.

I don’t realize Hugo’s already in the car until he speaks. “Where to now?”

I recall an article I read about the women’s shelter downtown that’s about to lose its funding. That seems like a place where I might be needed and somewhere my fundraising skills might be useful.

“Do you know the Maggie O’Malley shelter downtown? I’m sure it’s in Central City East, near East 15th street.”