“Don’t listen to that bitch, you do have to tell us. I agree with Wren. If you want this shit locked down, then you shouldn’t have mentioned the list in the first place,” Zoe scoffed.
I grinned at my best friend. She was totally right. Plus, there was no way I could handle everything that I’d agreed to in the past twenty-four hours without considerable help and emotional support from my girlfriends.
“It’s not written down.”
“So he’s not liable, no paper trail,” Yasmin muttered.
“Probably also so that no bitch can try to copy and distribute or sell the list,” Zoe added. “Which, of course, would make her very dumb, very brave or without enough connections to protect her from the wrath of Jay Helmick.”
My skin turned cold at that. As if I hadn’t already known that Jay was dangerous. That crossing him was dangerous. Though I didn’t plan on crossing or betraying the man, I was unnerved. Which was exactly what he’d wanted from me, I guessed. He wanted me to be scared of him. Scared enough to submit, but not scared enough to walk away.
“He wants weekends,” I told them, sipping my drink.
“What is he, a divorced dad?” Wren grumbled.
I let out a giggle. Even Zoe smiled.
“He’s a man with an extremely regimented schedule,” I explained. “Well, that’s what he said to me. He works constantly during the week and can’t have any ‘distractions’.” I air quoted.
I did not mention the part about him having the discretion to work weekends while expecting me to be available at a moment’s notice and to spend the night in the house in order for him to have ‘access’ to me. Although on the surface it was misogynistic and controlling, I kind of liked the security of it. Yet I also liked the uncertainty of it. It excited me. He excited me.
“But he wants me to be able to attend functions or dinners with him during the week if need be.”
“Of course he wants you constantly available for him,” Zoe said. “Look at you. Beyond that, he’s staking his claim.”
“Staking his claim?” I repeated.
“Honey, he’s going to be making it known to the whole of L.A. that you are his. And God help any man who doesn’t listen.” She glanced at her phone as it lit up on the table in front of her, not picking it up.
I gulped, listening to the soft music playing through the speaks, the clang of glasses from the bar and the murmur of conversations around us.
“I’m really in trouble, aren’t I?” I breathed out weakly.
“Totally and utterly,” Yasmin replied.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Wren added, clapping her hands.
Zoe turned out to be right.
About Jay ‘staking his claim’.
I got a text from Jay early Saturday morning.
Charity dinner. Tomorrow. Eight. Black-Tie.
That was it. There was nothing else. I’d expected I’d be in the back of a car, being driven to Malibu first thing Saturday morning, ready for the best and most terrifying sexual experience of my life.
But no.
He was going to make me wait. Not only that, he was also expecting me to get ready for a black-tie charity dinner in just one day. My very first charity dinner. Where there would most likely be photographers. In a romantic movie, he’d have had some custom, designer dress delivered to my apartment. It would’ve fit me perfectly, and it would’ve look amazing. There would’ve be shoes to go with it too.
But this was not a romantic movie. Actually, I had a feeling that this arrangement would never have romance. It would always be games, tests, Jay exerting control. That had already been partially proven, the evidence being the painful bruise on my ass from the depo shot I got Friday afternoon, sending a doctor to administer it.
It was pivotal that I looked my best for our first outing together. Beyond my best. I had to look better than any other woman he’d ever had on his arm.
It was petty, juvenile and vaguely pathetic to want that, but I did.
Fuck! He hadn’t given me even close to enough time!
He was playing with me. Toying with me.
That asshole.
I should’ve picked up the phone, told him that he’d be attending that dinner alone, or with some other woman that wanted to jump through his last-minute hoops.
I did pick up the phone.
“Wren?” I exclaimed. “I’ve got an emergency. I need a gown. A fabulous gown that has to look like it was made for me and has to look effortless. And I need it by tonight,” I added.
“Be at my place in twenty minutes,” she said in response, not asking a single question why I needed this at just after seven in the morning on a Saturday.
As a stylist, a really successful one, it was my job to be able to get things like red carpet gowns at a moment’s notice, so I should’ve been able to do it for myself. I would’ve been able to do it, but I was not an heiress to an almost billion-dollar fortune with a closet two times the size of my entire apartment, including an entire wing dedicated to the most amazing, custom-made gowns.