Page 243 of Bend
He was going to have me at his beck and call until sunrise.
I didn’t like jewelry that much anyway.
nineteen
He’d smirked when he’d given me his address and tried to give me directions, but I knew where he lived, give or take. He was up in the park, where the lawyers and magnates play. I remembered Debbie’s edict to just have fun, but the fact I’d failed in my mission to get him to take me to Tiffany rankled. Not that I really had anything to go with the carats I would have made him buy me, but failure wasn’t something I took lightly, especially if it meant I’d been weak.
The valet pulled up with his dark green Jaguar. “Can I drive you to your car?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m in the lot,” I said. “It’s fine.”
He put his face close to mine, until I could feel his breath in my ear. “If you don’t want to go home with me, I won’t hold you to it. We can wait, or we can call it off.”
“A bet’s a bet.”
He brushed his nose on my cheek. “You sure? I can be demanding.”
“So can I.”
He stepped back and smiled. “Not tonight, you’re not.” He moved onto the curb. “I’ll leave the gate open for you.” He got into the car and drove off. I watched it head down La Brea, swaggering just like he did.
When I went inside, Gabby had already called a cab. I could smell a vodka tonic on her breath, but she seemed relatively sober.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” I said.
“Monica, you want to go, so just go. I’m tired of being babied.”
And that was that. I put her in a cab and walked to my car.
My phone buzzed as I got into my little Honda. It was Vinny. Fucking Vinny.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Vegas, baby.” He was somewhere loud and unruly, yelling into the phone.
“We’ve been looking for you. The band broke up.”
“I can’t hear you. Listen, Sexybitch, you did a gig tonight at that shithole on Santa Monica?”
“Fron—”
“Eugene Testarossa’s partner was there. Testarossa himself wants to see you. So you text me when you’re up next, and I’ll call him back and he’ll show up. Bang! You’re in.”
“Vinny, I can’t—”
“Text me, baby. Love you.”
He cut the call.
What an asshole. He goes to Vegas for how long and now he wants his fifteen percent because I got my own gig? Oh no. That wasn’t going to work. I texted him,
—You’re fired—
I was at my car when the phone dinged.
—Fuck I am. You signed a contract—
—The band signed a contract. The band didn’t play tonight. I played solo—
