Читать книгу Exposed - Zoey Williams - Страница 8

Chapter One

The blister forming on my right pinky toe throbs with every step. I can’t wait to go home and kick off my six-inch pumps, unhook the bra whose underwire is digging in right under my armpit and peel the pantyhose off my legs like a snake shedding its skin. I glance down at my watch. It’s nine o’clock. I’m coming home from work on a Friday night at nine o’clock. Any other twenty-six-year-old event planner would have some glamorous lifestyle—instead, I’m making a pit stop at the local bodega before I head home and collapse on the couch.

I’m bending down to grab a cardboard cup of instant chicken soup—the ultimate sodium-ridden comfort food—to add to my small basket of junk food when I feel my phone vibrate in my purse.

I answer it without looking at it. “What’s up, Reka?”

I hear heavy, rhythmic breathing. Reka, my neurotic fifty-something boss with big eyes and spindly limbs like a praying mantis, must be running on her treadmill desk again. She’s in our Paris office since yesterday; it must be close to three o’clock in the morning there. I swear this woman does not sleep.

“Did the seating chart arrive for the opening tomorrow?”

She’s referring to the opening night of the most recent winner of a network cooking competition’s new sushi place. The irony of me eating incredibly processed chicken soup when I throw opening parties for the top chefs and restaurateurs in New York isn’t lost on me. “It’s in your inbox.” I smirk at myself for being so on top of things.

I hear the treadmill power down and then a shuffling of papers. “It’s right here. I should’ve known. You’re always one step ahead of me, Macy! If I’m not careful, you could easily have my job one of these days.”

I chuckle. “Goodnight...err, good morning, Reka. See you on Monday.”

“Oh, that reminds me. There’s supposed to be a big fashion show next week. We just got the account. I know fashion isn’t your thing, but I may need to help out.”

She’s referring to the fact that I don’t exactly have my finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. It’s rare that I have to work the red carpet of anything other than a restaurant opening—and it’s not my favorite thing to do—but of course I say yes. It must be a big show if she needs all hands on deck.

“Knew I could count on you, Mace,” Reka says being hanging up.

I momentarily consider what it would be like to have Reka’s job. Coming to the office before the ass crack of dawn, leaving at ten, running around like a chicken with my head cut off. I know that’s what it takes to work in New York City’s cutthroat event-planning industry, but I can’t imagine being Reka. One time, when she was on a business trip to LA, she asked me to look for something in her desk and I stumbled upon an entire drawer of blood pressure medication.

Event planning is exciting—the fluttery feeling I get when someone walks down the red carpet I planned, the blinding lights, the never-ending flow of champagne—it’s all so glamorous. I’m a behind the scenes kind of girl. I like to say that I’ve walked many red carpets—it’s just that I’m always in the background of the screaming paparazzi’s shots, speaking into a headset with a clipboard in hand.

I pay for my food and the same graveyard shift cashier who doesn’t speak a lick of English gives me the thumbs-up sign and I give it back. I come to this bodega way too often.

Walking out onto the street, the air is cool and I pull my blazer tighter around me. With each step, the plastic bag from the bodega hanging from the crook of my elbow bumps lightly against my hip. I walk past a line of restaurants with outside seating, the cloth and metal barriers dissecting the sidewalk in two. I walk on the narrow path, smelling a new cuisine with each restaurant I pass. The garlicky, fresh bread scents of a brick oven pizza parlor, the spicy, exotic air of a Thai restaurant, the fresh, gingery smells of a sushi joint—they all tickle my nose as I pass. On the other side of the barrier, couples hold hands across red and white checkered tablecloths, lean in for a wine-soaked kiss or throw their heads back in laughter at their partner’s joke or anecdote.

I look down at my bag full of my measly dinner and walk home more aware of my singleness than I have ever been. I can’t think of the last time I went on a date. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I hung out with my two best friends.

It has to have been at least a month. I think of Jasmine and Daniella—they’re both so busy with their own lives, I hope they don’t mind that I haven’t been around lately. Ella’s pregnant with her first babies (twins!) and Jazz started a not-so-legal operation out of her apartment selling ganja-infused juices. For the pothead who likes to stay trim!

But, thankfully, they know how much I love my job. It’s always been that way. Even in college, at the parties I threw, Jazz and Dani danced on our dorm-issued giant wooden coffee table while I quietly stacked abandoned red plastic cups and deposited them into the trash, shushing people so none of the RAs would show up. Watching from the sidelines while my friends shone in the spotlight, planning, cleaning up—that was me in my element. I’m happiest when I see other people enjoying themselves at an event I put together. I’m a giver by nature. So it was no surprise that Velvet Rope, Inc. snatched me up right after graduation.

I walk up the steps of my brownstone and then up another flight to my apartment.

Turning my key in the lock, I don’t feel the familiar give of the metal mechanism. I suddenly realize that the front door of my apartment isn’t locked at all. I scrunch my brow. I’ve never, ever forgotten to lock the door to my apartment, but chalk it up to the craziness of the past week. I make a mental note to triple-check the door instead of my usual double-check the next time I leave. Once inside the small foyer, I flip the switch on the wall and the hallway light glows to life. I hang my keys on key holder by the door and kick off my shoes, arranging them neatly so that they’re at an exact ninety-degree angle with the wall. I slide my handbag down my arm and put it on top of the small desk by the front door, fluffing it slightly so that the hobo bag doesn’t droop and cause a slight crease in the leather.

The cold tiled floor of my kitchen feels good on my feet that have been in high heels all day. I go over to the sink to fill the teakettle with water for my soup, but turn off the tap after a few seconds. I hear a creak. I squint, straining to hear if it will happen again or if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I turn the tap on and shut it off abruptly when I hear it again, and now it’s undeniable: the sound is footsteps in quick succession, a scurrying, almost like a small animal. I’m too busy to take care of a pet, but I sometimes long for an orange and white tabby to graze its body on my calf with a cheerful purr or a big, goofy dog prancing over with a tennis ball between its drooling jowls. Then I hear the clunk of something knocking into my coffee table in the living room and a harshly whispered, “Dammit!”

Someone is inside my apartment.

The front door. I swear I remembered to lock it this morning. Maybe I did leave it locked and someone figured out a way to break in. But there wasn’t any damage on the doorframe, I remind myself. The only people who have keys are Ella and Jasmine, and we agreed that it would only be in case of emergency. I look down at my phone and don’t see any missed calls or texts from either of them. I hear the small creak of metal springs; someone is sitting on my couch. Oh god! Someone really is in my place. I clutch my phone again, my finger poised above the number nine on the keypad, but realize that if I call the police, the burglars will hear my voice. Actually, they’ve probably already heard me enter the apartment, so I don’t have much to lose. If I enter the living room, they’ll probably run away, maybe even out the fire escape, and I want to get a good look at the bastards. I instinctively take a few steps toward the living room and then stop myself. I really, really have to call the police. But then a whiff of something reaches my nose. It’s not overpowering, but I detect a slight hint of something...burning. Is some maniac lighting my freakin’ apartment on fire?

I rummage through my cabinets. With a large kitchen knife in one hand and a mini fire extinguisher in the other, I charge into the living room like a Spartan soldier.

“Don’t move!” I yell. “I have a knife!”

My feet come to a halt on the carpet when I realize that the lights are dimmed and scattered all throughout my living room are lit tea lights. It’s quite pretty, actually. And then I see Dani and Jazz sitting together in the middle of my loveseat.

“Oh my god, you s-scared me half to death!” I sputter as I put the knife down on one of my bookshelves and drop the extinguisher to the floor. The bravado I had just a moment ago rushes from me in an instant. I brace my hands on the top of my thighs and bend over, panting. “What’s going on? Are you both okay? Is everything okay?”

I look around at the candles. “Are you planning to murder me?” I laugh. “It looks like you’ve set up for a ritual sacrifice.”

Jasmine gets up from the couch and walks over to me with a serene smile on her face as if she’s pitying me, as if she knows something I don’t. I look over at Dani, who’s rolling her eyes, clearly embarrassed. I look back at Jazz and it’s then that I realize she’s wearing a cream-colored pantsuit, something a preacher on television would wear. For someone who feels most comfortable in tight leather pants and a vintage T-shirt advertising a punk rock band, this is obviously well out of the norm for Jazz. In contrast to her ridiculous outfit, her dark almond-shaped eyes painted in sparkly eye shadow, a row of hoops trailing up the length of both ears, her signature silver peace sign necklace. That is, except for her hair which has changed a million times over the years—her naturally straight, black locks permed into kinky curls, dyed every color under the sun, chopped to every length, even shaved right down to the skull. It’s now fashioned into a lavender-hued Mohawk, crafted into spikes with the help of some extra-strength hair gel. Her head looks like a dinosaur.

“Are you okay?” I repeat, making sure all her limbs are intact. “Why are you dressed so weirdly?” I spin in a circle, surveying my living room. “Seriously, why did you light all these candles?”

Dani smirks and blows out a breath.

“Mace-y,” Jazz says, overpronouncing both the syllables of my name like Oprah, “I’m so glad you’ve come. Please. Join us.”

“What do you mean, so glad I came? I live here, Jazz.” I walk farther into the living room and put the back of my hand to her forehead. “You okay?” I look around the room again at the candles. “You guys are scaring me.”

“Come,” she says again robotically like the leader of a cult. “Let’s have a seat.”

“Did someone die?” I ask, still completely confused. “Are we sitting shiva? I need to remind us all that none of us are Jewish.”

“I told her this was a dumb idea.” Dani sighs, patting her swollen tummy.

Jasmine smooths her silk pants before resting her elbows on her knees and steepling her fingers. “Mace,” she says dramatically. “This is an intervention.”

I look around at the candles and then back at Dani, hoping she’ll provide some answers.

She leans in and whispers, “Jazz kinda got confused between an intervention and a séance. Just go with it.”

I burst out laughing. I wonder if Jasmine’s been sampling her wares more than usual lately.

“An intervention? Jazz, I don’t suffer from any addictions. I barely have any vices. Last time I checked, you were the party girl.”

“Hey! I was a party girl, too,” Dani pouts. “You know, before this happened.” She points to her stomach. A sliver of her dark skin peeks out between the top of her stretchy maternity pants and the bottom of her flowy blouse.

“Don’t you see? That’s the problem. I love you and I think it’s time you loosened up a little bit.”

“What are you talking about? I am loose. Here I am about to have some dinner, watch a part of a movie and relax.”

“Macy, there’s another part of you that I’m concerned isn’t loose enough.” Her eye line goes to my crotch. “I’m talking about your vajean.”

“What?”

Jasmine reaches behind one of the pillows on the couch and removes a plastic bag. A plastic bag that has been stuffed in the back of the first drawer of my dresser for years.

“Hey!” I say.

“Exhibit A,” she pronounces a little too loudly, dumping out the contents of the bag on my coffee table and pointing her finger accusatorily at a heap of lace and chiffon. She extracts something I vaguely recognize from the pile and twirls it around her pointer finger. I then realize what’s spinning around and around is a pair of long-forgotten lacy underwear. “Behold all of your lingerie.” She tosses the pair of panties back on the coffee table with the others. “Underwear, bras, teddies. All of them still have the tags on them.”

“Exhibit B,” Ella joins in, pulling a small box from behind her on the couch. What is this, a magic show? “The vibrator I got you for your twenty-fifth birthday, Frank.”

“You named my vibrator?”

“You don’t remember that? We named him Frank, like a hot dog. Get it?”

The memory comes back to me. “Ah, yes, you’re right.” Between all of the margaritas, the fuzzy memory of us giggling over the pun comes back to me. And then I remember shoving Frank into the back of my pajama drawer and forgetting all about him.

“And lastly, the most terrifying piece of evidence of all,” Jasmine says forlornly. “Your calendar.”

She flips open the glossy wall calendar, every page as pristinely white and blank as the day I purchased it.

“Is this an intervention or a trial?” I ask.

“All I’m saying is that you take way too many Facebook quizzes for a woman in your age bracket. You just took one called ‘Which donut are you?’”

I press my lips into a tight line because I can’t argue against that. It’s true.

“Ugh, that sounds amazing,” Daniella says wonderingly. “Which donut were you, by the way?”

“French cruller.” I sigh.

“The most single of all the donuts,” Jazzy comments.

“Shut up.”

Jasmine holds hands with me and Daniella. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the death of a dear friend...”

“That’s not how it goes,” I say. “You just combined what a priest says during a wedding and a funeral.”

“...Macy Grant’s ladybits,” she finishes. “We barely knew ye. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

“Yeah, I got it loud and clear, Jazz.” I roll my eyes. “You think I’m a pathetic single person. Where is this all coming from?”

“You know how I thought for a long time that monogamy wasn’t for me? Well, I’ve met someone and she’s wonderful, and now that I’ve found what Daniella and Mark have found—”

“Hey, hey—slow your roll. You’re not married with two little cage fighters in your uterus,” Daniella laughs. “You sleep with anything on two legs. So you found a new hookup—”

“First of all, that’s not true. I’ve never slept with a kangaroo and I once dated a one-legged chick. Secondly,” Jazz insists, “this woman’s the real thing. She’s my soul mate.” A dreamy, goofy smile develops on her face. I feel like tiny blue cartoon birdies could start flying around her head any minute now.

“If she’s so important to you, why is this the first time we’re hearing about her?” I ask.

“She hasn’t exactly...come out yet.” Jasmine’s eyes dart to the floor, but then snap up to meet mine.

Ella and I both give her a look. Jasmine has dated closeted women in the past and we all know how great that ends up.

“I know what you two are thinking,” she says. “But she will. It’s coming soon—she promised me!”

“I can’t imagine anyone being able to get you to settle down,” Ella chuckles. She must be pretty special.”

“She is,” Jazz says, her cheeks flushing in a way I’ve never seen before. “And don’t pretend that you weren’t a wild child before you met Mark,” Jazzy scoffs. “You slept with so many dudes, when your mother sat you down to have the talk freshman year, you asked her what she wanted to know.”

Daniella opens her mouth to speak, then closes it.

“Anyway, I just want you to have what the two of us have, you know? I didn’t want to have to do this, but...” Jazz removes a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of her suit jacket like a slick lawyer presenting some damning evidence.

She clears her throat. “Ahem. Macy, your singleness has affected me in the following ways—”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I grouse. “This is silly, Jazz.”

“Macy your singleness has affected me in the following ways,” Daniella starts then puts her piece of paper down. “Actually, it hasn’t really affected me, Mace. I like you the way you are and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Ella!” Jasmine whines indignantly. “That’s not part of the plan!” she stage whispers.

“I wasn’t finished yet,” Daniella laughs. “We just see how hard you’ve been working lately and how if you don’t get out there soon the only thing you’ll be married to in the near future is your job. Though you don’t have to go along with Jasmine’s plan, it would be nice. You’ve been such a good friend to us. I know any man would be lucky to have you—” She shoots a playful glance at Jasmine. “—if only for your incredible amount of patience. You deserve somebody special.” Daniella scoots over so that there’s a space between her and Jasmine. I sit between them and they each take one of my hands.

“This is coming from a place of love. You’re our best friend and we only want what’s best for you,” Daniella says. “We know how amazing you are and just want you to find someone who sees that, too.”

“And the only way to do that is to get out there.”

“We’ll be your dating gurus!” Jasmine exclaims brightly. “I have a great person to set you up with. A client of mine. I think you two could really hit it off!”

I love my friend, but I’m downright scared to find out who Jasmine—who once dated a girl who carried around pictures of her rabbit in her wallet and would take them out at any given opportunity—would set me up with.

“That’s nice of you, Jazz, but I don’t think I could do the blind date thing,” I say, trying to spare her feelings. “Could we start smaller?”

“Are you saying you’d start online dating or something?” Jasmine asks, her voice full of hope.

I look at my two friends, holding hands, staring at me with the same expectant look my grandmother gets when she’s waiting to hear the winning lottery numbers announced on television. I’ve known them long enough to understand that it’s not worth putting up a fight when they’re like this. They have this idea stuck in their brains, and there’s no way I can convince them to let it go.

I look up at the ceiling helplessly. Lord, give me strength. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

Jasmine and Daniella jump up and down and emit screeches only dogs can hear.

When she finally calms down, Ella says, “Great. Now all you need to do is tell work you’ll need the entire week off.”

“Hey, wait a minute. You never said I’d have to take time off from work. I can’t do that.”

“Tell them there’s been a death in the family,” Jasmine says simply.

“But there’s a big show coming up next week—some fashion thing. I always have to be on call for other events I’m not assigned to, you know.”

“You’ll always have a big show coming up,” Ella says simply. “If you wait until you don’t have work to do in order to start dating, it’ll never happen.”

She’s right, but I shake my head. “Even so, my boss is in Paris until Monday. I can’t call her when she’s on vacation. Even if she works half the time she’s there.”

“Macy—” Jasmine starts to whine.

Ella puts her hand on Jazzy’s forearm to stop her. “Wait. Let’s give her the weekend. She needs time to prep. Like get a manicure, get some waxing done...”

I raise a hand to my face self-consciously. “Yeah, I guess my eyebrows could use a little cleaning up.”

“She doesn’t mean your face,” Jasmine says automatically.

“Come to my house tomorrow afternoon and I will show you all the joys of online dating,” Jasmine says breezily. “Oh, and bring a bottle of wine, too.”

“Why?” I ask. “You know I’m not a big drinker.”

Jasmine exchanges a knowing glance with Ella. “Because you’re going to need it.”