14. Fish Out Of Water

Fish Out Of Water

Terra

S hit.

Fuck, shit, fuck, and fuck me.

Fuck me sideways.

My palms sweat. I can't breathe.

"I can't do this," I whisper.

Saxon takes my hand. The interior of the Range Rover is cool and dark. The white LED headlights illuminate a pair of valets waiting to take the car. Beyond them, a cobblestone drive arcs around a replica of the Trevi fountain in Rome—a fact provided to me by Saxon. I wouldn't have known what it was, other than an absurdly ostentatious display of wealth. And it's just the tip of the dick, so to speak.

Lining the circle drive are cars. Lots of very expensive cars. Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Aston Martins, Bugattis, Range Rovers, and cars I've never seen before, which means they're probably even rarer than the others. Fortunately, our Rover doesn't stand out…other than the bullet hole pockmarks, that is.

Men in tuxedos wander in pairs, wielding fully automatic machine guns. They cross back and forth in front of the gate almost half a mile back—the gate is either solid gold or gold-plated…and judging by what I've seen thus far, I'm gonna go with solid gold. Pairs of armed guards roam the acres of manicured lawn, and these guards assigned to lawn detail each keep terrifying-looking dogs barely restrained on leashes. I count twenty pairs just from where I'm sitting.

The house itself is a castle. No, really, it's a castle. Built from blocks of stone which must weigh several tons each, complete with crenellations, towers, walkways, and arrow-slits. There's a fucking moat—the circle drive and fountain are on this side of the moat, which is ten feet wide and a six-foot drop from ground to water. The bridge over the moat is a high arch made of more ancient-looking stone. More guards stand in pairs on both sides of the bridge—meaning, two guards left of the opening and two on the right on this side, and two more on each side on the other end.

Spotlights bathe the castle in eldritch light, the occasional bat fluttering through the swath of illumination.

We're stopped behind a line-up of cars waiting to be parked, each of which disgorges a glamorous couple.

So far I've seen six A-list actors, a famous rockstar and his super-model girlfriend, a pop megastar and her athlete boyfriend, several supermodels with hulking bodyguards and boyfriends in skin-tight leather pants, and entourages of hangers-on.

No one less than a B-list star, therefore. Millionaires. Billionaires.

Saxon will fit right in, with his blond Adonis build, perfect features, scary scar, and killer green eyes.

And then…there's me.

"What was I thinking?" I whisper, voice shrill. "I can't go in there, wearing this, with women who have literally worn dresses made for them by top-name designers on the actual red fucking carpet! Me and my homemade fucking piece of shit. Me and my fat ass and my belly." Tears haze my eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Hey." His tone is firm, hard. "Cut the shit, Terra Connelly. This is no time to wallow in self-pity."

"Fuck you," I snap. "You're perfect. You can eat a whole goddamn pizza and it'll just go to your stupid muscles. I eat one fucking pretzel and I gain ten pounds in my left ass cheek." I point angrily at the castle. "It's a castle! Filled with fucking famous people—professionally attractive famous people!"

"Terra, honey. Look at me." I can't disobey that soft, loving tone. Yes, loving. "You're perfect."

"I'm fucking terrified." I can barely hear my own whisper.

"I swear to you by the brand on my arm, the brand marking me as a Broken Arrow, I will not leave your side. I'll beat the shit out of any man or woman who dares look at you with anything less than fucking awe." He touches my chin. "Look at me. Look at me , goddammit."

I've turned my eyes away, unable to handle the love in his. "Stop. I'm trying not to cry."

"Look at me, woman." I do, and his eyes are deadly serious. "I love you. You can do this. Your hand in mine, every step of the way."

I swallow hard, tip my head back. Breathe. "You love me. I can do this. My hand in yours, every step of the way."

"That's right."

"I can do this."

"You faced down Camilla Marccione, and she wants to be your friend. A bunch of entitled fucking asshole celebrities will be a walk in the park."

"It's Jean-Paul we have to impress."

"And you will." He rummages in the glove box and comes out with a package of Kleenex. I fold one and blink into it, dab, blink. Check my eyes in the mirror—still good.

Look at him finally. "You said it."

"I know, but it seemed like the right time."

I can't smile yet—I'm too scared, still. "I'm not saying it yet."

"Don't. I see it, honey. I feel it. You'll say it when you're ready. If that's a year from now, or ten years, or never, I don't care."

"Liar."

"Told you, I'd never lie to you."

I inhale deeply, hold my breath, count to five, and let it out. "Let's do this."

He nods, tosses the key fob in the cupholder, and exits, circling to my side. Opens my door for me, beating the valet who was moving to do it. The other valet is behind the car, examining the bullet marks with a curious expression. Saxon tries to tip them, but the valet just shakes his head.

"No, thank you, sir. We are paid very, very well, sir."

Saxon shrugs. "Cool. Keep it close, yeah?"

With a nod, he climbs behind the wheel and the Rover glides away. The other valet escorts us to the bridge, gesturing.

Saxon tangles his fingers with mine and saunters casually onto the bridge, past the stoic, hard-eyed guards.

I swallow hard and work like a motherfucker to summon my inner bitch. She's usually right there when I need her, but I've never felt more like a fish out of water in my entire life.

"Chin up," Saxon mutters. "Don't try to not look impressed—you're supposed to be."

"How are you so cool about this?"

"Not my first party at this place. Last time, though, I was one of those dudes." He juts his chin at the guards striding back and forth along the crenelated walkway over the main entrance of the castle.

"So you've never been as a guest?"

He snorts. "Hardly." A shrug. "My dad and mom have been, though. Of course, as soon as they got here, Dad left Mom to go chase tail."

"Dick."

"That's one word for him."

We've crossed the bridge; the cobblestones of the bridge expand into a wide walkway bordered by a waist-high hedge of interlocking rosebushes, lights clustered at the base of each rosebush's root. As the walkway nears the entrance, it broadens into a wide semi-circle, the rosebush hedges growing taller and taller until they're climbing up trellises on either side of the twenty-foot-high arched doorway; the roses wreath the arch, fragrant blooms swaying in a gentle breeze. The castle extends away in both directions and towers high above.

Ahead of us, the pop star and broad-shouldered tight end lean together, whispering and pointing. If they're impressed, I can be.

We're in line, fifth or sixth—ahead of us, as each couple or group reaches the door, a seven-foot-tall guard with arms bigger than my thighs demands to see invitations.

"Your coin better get us in," I whisper.

Saxon just nods. "It will."

Ahead of us, the pop star's spiked heel catches in a groove of the cobblestones, and she wobbles—her boyfriend catches her, but her sparkly, diamond-studded clutch goes flying.

Instinct more than anything sends my hand out, and I catch it—the logo tells me it costs more than everything I own put together.

Once she's righted and has her balance, she turns to me—and yes, she's very tall and very beautiful. Stunning, really. Good thing I'm not a superfan, or I'd probably be shitting my pants.

"Ohmygod," she laughs, covering her mouth. "I'm so embarrassed. I dance in heels, you know? You'd think I'd be able to go five feet without tripping." She accepts her clutch from me, steps back, and her eyes scan me from head to toe. "I'm sorry, but who made your dress? It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen! I need one!"

My heart leaps, and my breath leaves my body. I glance at Saxon, for some reason.

He just grins and shrugs. "Don't look at me. I can't sew a fuckin' button back on."

"Me either," says the football player.

Saxon's hotter, if you ask me.

I bite my lip and summon my courage. "Um, actually, I made it myself. I'm sort of a designer?" It comes out as a question.

"Shut… up!" She takes my hands and spins me in a circle—she's a little hyper, actually. " You made this?"

I nod, trying to look cool but feeling all sorts of awkward and verklempt. "Yeah."

She digs into her clutch and pulls out a receipt and a black Sharpie. Scrawls a phone number and a signature. "Call me. I want one."

"Um."

She leans close. "Don't sell that, please . That's my personal number. But if you're here, at a party like this, you've got to be cool about stuff like this."

"I would never."

"Do you do collections?"

I can't help a laugh. "I work on commissions, so far. But I'm open to anything."

"NEXT," booms the behemoth gate troll. "INVITATION."

The athlete reaches into his tuxedo pocket and produces an invitation on thick ivory card stock, the letters gilt and swirly.

This Jean-Paul guy must fancy himself a king. But if people like the couple we just talked to have to get an invitation, then he may very well be exactly that, for all intents and purposes.

The gate troll examines the invitation. Stares hard down at the ultra-mega super power couple.

"ENTER."

She turns and gives me a finger wiggle wave. "See you in there! I'll introduce you to my friends. You'll be drowning in commissions by the end of the night, I promise!"

And then she's sweeping through the doors, which boom closed behind them.

Leaving us face-to-face with the gate troll.

Have you ever met someone in real life who's seven feet tall? It's wild. Like, yeah, intellectually, you know, "Seven feet… that's a tall man." But in real life? You don't know. It's mind-boggling. Even Saxon, who is by no means short, barely comes to his shoulders.

His head is shaved, the hint of stubble black—his eyebrows are thick and need a good plucking. Not that I'm gonna mention it. His suit can't contain his muscles, which should probably have their own area code.

"INVITATION." His voice rattles my bones.

Saxon, with elegant, fuck-you insouciance, slides his hand from his pocket and flicks the coin at the gate troll.

Who catches it, eyes widening. He stares down at Saxon, at me. At the coin. "No shit?" His voice stops being so bone-rattling.

"No shit." Saxon accepts it back and pockets it.

"Have a great evening, sir," the troll says, sounding a little rattled. "Mr. DuPlessis will want to make your acquaintance." It sounds an awful lot like an order couched as a suggestion.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll cross paths," Saxon says, sounding bored. He gestures at the door. "May we? I need a drink."

"Of course, sir." The troll elbows aside the half-size lackey who has been tasked with opening and closing the giant doors, so he can open them himself. "Sir, madam."

Once we're through and the doors are closed behind us, I collapse against Saxon for a moment. "He was kissing your ass, Saxon." I can't help a laugh…a somewhat delirious one. "Sir, madam. Never been called madam."

Saxon grins. "Told you. That coin, especially in this place, makes me damn near a god. That dude has probably never even seen one."

"How'd you earn it?"

His expression darkens. "A story for another time. When I've had a bottle of whiskey, first."

"Oh. Well. Never mind then."

He brightens and grins down at me. "So. That happened."

"Huh?"

"You-know-who? The dress?"

I widen my eyes. "Right? Like, holy shit." I glance up at him. "Should we not say her name?"

"No. No names, here. Even if the person you meet has been your idol your whole life, you don't say their name, and you don't make a scene."

"Do these people even know what kind of a person it is hosting this party?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Not likely. They know there are a lot of rumors out there about him, but they won't pay any attention. Nor will they care. A good party is a good party, and these parties are world-famous. Besides, it's not like he does business here, especially not during a party." He eyes me. "And…don't call his character into question. Please. Be respectful."

I nod. "Of course. I won't embarrass you, I promise."

He laughs. "That's not what I'm worried about. You couldn't embarrass me if you tried. He's just touchy about his reputation, and I don't want anything unpleasant to happen."

"Unpleasant…funny way of pronouncing ‘murder'."

"Because what I really meant was ‘cut your eyelids off followed by a nice acid bath.'"

"Oh." I grimace. "That's a whole other level of unpleasant."

I take a moment to look around: like a true castle, the main entrance leads into an open-air courtyard. Opposite the main entrance is a balcony some fifty feet off the ground—on the balcony is a DJ wearing a motorcycle helmet decorated with neon glowing paint splatters, dancing as he/she/they spin and scratch an elaborate electronic beat; the sound comes from professional concert-grade speaker stacks suspended from cherry-pickers parked in the corners of the courtyard.

And yes, the courtyard is big enough that two huge cherry pickers look small. The courtyard is packed with people, all in their finest black-tie garb, sipping drinks, bopping heads, and rubbing elbows. Central to the courtyard is another fountain, this one of a man I've never seen before carved out of marble, his booted foot planted on a representation of the globe, with several naked women in throes of either ecstasy or agony arrayed at his feet. The water spews from the open mouths and eyes of the prostrate, writhing women. The whole effect is shocking, macabre, and thought-provoking, in a ridiculously grandiose and hubristic sort of way.

I nudge Saxon and point at the fountain. "Is that…?"

"Yes." He chuckles. "It was commissioned and executed without prior approval by a well-intentioned personal assistant, or at least, so I've heard. Our fair host wanted an attention-grabbing fountain for the courtyard and assigned the PA to handle it. He gave woefully vague instructions, and this was the result."

"Oh." I bite my lip and try to stifle somewhat hysterical laughter. "And what was his reaction?"

"He laughed and laughed and laughed…and shot the PA in the face. And then laughed some more. He left it because it amuses him to let his guests believe it represents his opinion of himself."

"Doesn't it?"

"Well, no. He doesn't suffer from a lack of self-assurance regarding his status in the world, let's just say that. But that?" He laughs again. "No. He's not that arrogant."

Servers in tuxedos, faces obscured by the masks that only cover their eyes and nose, circulate through the crowd, carrying trays laden with bottles of wine, whiskey, and liquor. When a guest indicates that they want a drink, they're given the entire bottle.

Now, I don't know much about fancy alcohol, but I feel like even if you're handing out middle-shelf bottles, that's gonna add up fast. And I suspect the bottles are most likely not mid-shelf.

A server passes by and Saxon lifts his chin at her—she lowers the tray in his direction, and he takes a bottle of whiskey. Another tuxedo-and-mask-clad server follows behind the first, her tray laden with empty wine glasses, tumblers, and flutes, and a silver bucket full of ice with matching tongs, as well as twenty-ounce bottles of various sodas.

Saxon takes two tumblers from the tray, clinks a few large squares of ice into each, and pours the tumblers full, returning the bottle to the bottle-bearer.

He hands me one, and I take a tentative sip. "My lord. This tastes expensive."

Another dry chuckle. "It's a fifty-year-old whiskey. I'm committing the gravest of offenses by putting it over ice."

"Seems like a somewhat inefficient system," I note.

A shrug. "Maybe. But you'll remember it. Anyone can put on a full, open bar. What other party will you ever attend where you see that? The champagne? Thousands of dollars per bottle. The wine? Same. You wanna keep the bottle? Keep the bottle. Everything is calculated to impress."

"So, now what?"

"Now we mingle. Enjoy the party. Stay sober."

"I thought we wanted to—"

He squeezes my hand, and I take the cue to shut up. "There's a procedure. He's watching. He's listening. He knows I'm here and I know he knows, and he knows I know. He wants to see what I'm going to do and who I talk to. He wants to get a handle on you. Who you are to me. Are you arm candy? Am I here to cause trouble? I've been gone a long time, and I show up out of the blue, with my coin, at his party? What do I want?" He smiles at me. "So, we be ourselves. We enjoy the party. Talk to people. We stay cool, we don't make a scene."

"I thought we wanted to make a splash?"

"We do. We just don't want to appear like we're trying to make one."

I sigh. "This shit is complicated. I'm not exactly a subtle or sophisticated kinda gal, babe."

He turns to face me, his eyes merry, glittering with excitement. "You're fucking perfect. You're the hottest babe in the joint."

I blush. "I saw Scar…Black Widow over by the fountain. Nice try, but I'm not hotter than her."

"That's just, like, your opinion, man."

I feel my jaw drop. "Did you…did you just quote The Big Lebowski at me?"

He leans down and kisses me. It's not a gentle or chaste kiss, either. There's tongue, and teeth. Maybe a moan, but I'm not admitting to anything.

When he pulls away, he's smiling, all teeth. Predatory. "Look over my left shoulder."

I do, trying to be surreptitious. A glamorously gorgeous woman famous for being the first social media influencer is giving me side-eye over her glass of champagne. Her husband is at her side, sipping whisky, following her gaze.

"Why is she looking at me like that?" I ask, trying not to feel hysterical.

Not hysterical like "hahaha," hysterical like I need a room made out of pillows and a hug-myself jacket.

"She's trying to figure out who you are, and if she should know you." He snags my hand and hauls me in her direction.

"No, no, no I can't talk to her —" I protest, but then we're in front of them. "Hi! Um. That was loud, sorry. Hi."

She grins and laughs. "Hi. Some party, huh?" Her natural speaking voice is very different from her TV persona. "I love your dress. Who made it?"

"Um…me."

Her eyes widen. "Wow, really? Should I know your name? Have I seen your work on anyone?"

My…friend from the invitation line wanders over. "Her dress, right?" She touches my shoulder and gently indicates I should turn around, so I do, and they discuss the back, the drape of the skirt, the fabric…

The influencer takes my hands. "Well, I'm going to need an exclusive design. Can you do a velour tracksuit, or do you only do dresses?"

Saxon sips whiskey and leaves me to the wolves, the jerk. Meaning, he refuses to answer questions for me. So, I have to interact with these stupidly famous, successful, beautiful women asking me all sorts of questions and requests.

Finally, I have to speak over them. "Okay, hold on, hold on, Jesus. My name is…" I pause and glance at Saxon. "Wait, you said no names."

"Have your agent call mine?" The influencer suggests.

I cackle, unable to keep it in. "Agent? That's a good one."

Saxon finally steps in. He glances at the football player. "I work for a nightclub in Las Vegas. A very, very exclusive one. The kind you need an invitation to even know about. I've seen you there in the past. That's where you can find her. Visit us there, get a VIP table, and I'll bring her to you. You can discuss business in a more conducive setting."

The athlete nods. "Got you."

His girlfriend looks confused. "I've never been there."

"Not exactly your scene, babe. Not mine anymore, either."

The entrepreneur-husband laughs. "I went there, once. Quite a place."

"It's not for everyone." Saxon gathers me in one arm and salutes with his tumbler. "Nice to unofficially meet everyone. We're gonna mingle."

Handshakes and hugs all around, and then Saxon is leading me across the courtyard. It's a journey fraught with tension on my part because, at every turn, I'm jostled by someone famous…

And invariably, the women eye my dress, and the men eye me.

Saxon leads me to the opposite side of the courtyard, under the DJ balcony, where a rock star and his supermodel girlfriend swagger and swan, respectively, over to us. The rock star ogles me, and the supermodel interrogates me about my dress, with the same response as the previous two encounters—namely, shock, and an immediate demand for an exclusive design.

We chat for a while, and then Saxon leads me around the edge of the crowd to a spot by the outer wall, where we sip and he eyes the crowd and I try to keep from hyperventilating.

Yet again, a couple approaches us. This time it's a movie star and her husband, and another…ahem, MARVEL -ous discussion regarding my dress and how I'm the designer, and when can I have one ready for her.

It's our fourth repetition when I cotton on to his strategy.

"You're showing me off," I say, over the top of my drink, which I've been taking baby bird sips of.

"Absolutely." He grins at me. "They don't give a shit about me, that's for damn sure. It's all about you and your dress. You're the talk of the party, babe. Look around."

I do, carefully, and realize he's right. Eyes slide to me, fingers point, whispers are exchanged.

"Saxon, I'm not ready for this. I can't go from making dresses in my sublevel shithole to designer to the stars, literally overnight."

"Well, you are. So suck it up, buttercup. If you can pull that dress off in a day, imagine what you can do with unlimited resources, unlimited time, and commissions that start at six figures."

My stomach flips. "But, I…"

Whatever I was going to say—which I'm not really sure of—is cut off by a loud gong.

The DJ stops, with a literal record scratch. The crowd parts like The Red Sea in the Charlton Heston movie The Ten Commandments .

A woman wearing elaborate body paint and not a stitch else catwalks down the aisle created by the partygoers; a pair of white tigers prowl at her sides, unfettered, mouths open, snarls occasionally rumbling from their throats. She stops at the fountain. Poses, one hand on each tiger's back. Her eyes scan the crowd, sweeping from face to face, in utter silence.

You can hear a pin drop. No one even coughs.

Finally, her gaze lands on the doors opposite the main entrance, beneath the balcony. These doors are twelve feet high, and look like they came from an ancient gothic cathedral, thick dark wood bound by black iron, with huge knob-like buttons running in vertical lines; massive lion heads clutch gigantic iron rings in their jaws.

The body-painted tiger lady gestures at the door, an elaborate flourish of both hands…

The doors creak open seemingly of their own accord. Lit by hidden spotlights, a man stands in the opening, wearing a form-fitting black suit, a plain maroon V-neck underneath the blazer. His hair is black and slicked back. His eyes are dark and deep-set, his features square and ruggedly handsome.

He exudes power and wealth just standing there.

"Guests, friends, and ghosts from lives past." His voice booms, amplified. "I bid you welcome. Please, enter my home, and join me for dinner."

There's an explosion of light and smoke, and when the smoke clears and eyes adjust, he's gone.

I can't help a laugh. "Holy fuck, is he melodramatic. Jesus." I glance up at Saxon. 'Ghosts from lives past'…is that you?"

Saxon nods, sipping. "His way of letting me know he knows I'm here."

"So we wait for him to summon us, or something?"

Something along those lines, yes."

"Any tips on dinner?" I ask. "What's that like?"

"Fuck if I know. Never been inside."

I gape at him. "I thought you…"

"I was outdoor security, once, a few years after I got my first coin."

"You act like you know exactly what you're doing."

He grins down at me. "It's all bullshit and bravado, babe. Bullshit and bravado." He winks at me. "I've attended other Cabal parties, so I know how they work. They're all modeled after these."

"The Cabal sounds like a very complicated organization."

"It is. It's almost a secret society, really." He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. "We shouldn't discuss my former employers out loud here, though. Bad form."

Without any signal that I can see, he seems to know it's our turn to go—this whole time, since our host vanished in a literal puff of smoke, couples have been filing in some mysterious order down the aisle, couple by couple.

Everyone is watching. Staring, that is—at me . I've never in my life felt so self-conscious as I do in this moment. I feel every jiggle of my chest, every bounce of my oversized ass cheeks. My not-flat, no-visible-abs belly. The cellulite on my thighs, visible when the panels of my dress shift.

"You're perfect. I love you. Smile." His voice comes to me in a whisper, his lips barely moving.

I tilt my chin up, fake a smile and an expression that I hope says I own the place, and do my best to prance gracefully and elegantly and arrogantly down the aisle created by a hundred of the most famous people on the fucking planet.

Through the doors, into a shadowy nacelle and toward a red glow, my heels echoing on stone walls.

Heart in my throat, I squeeze Saxon's hand as hard as I can, letting him lead me into the red glow.

From the frying pan into the lion's den.