10. Mutually Assured Destruction

10

MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION

LILA

U sually I’m a grab-it-by-the-horns kind of gal when it comes to parties—especially parties in my honor—but right now, there’s enough fast-acting anxiety in my body that an Error 404 system failure is bound to happen. As with every internet-breaking campaign, Ester has taken it upon herself to transform Kitty’s Catwalk into the ultimate launch party, crowning me and Bristol as the guests of honor. Guests of honor who are lying to the entire world about their relationship.

I peek through the catwalk’s curtains, my eyes zigging and zagging between the consistent circulation of high-profile attendees, and my gut’s practically screaming at me to abandon my favorite Louboutins and make a Houdini escape out the window. This is all becoming way too real way too fast. The party’s already flooded with paparazzi circling the floor like ravenous sharks, and I’m the tasty chum that’s going to attract them. I could barely answer their questions about Bristol during the gala without gagging. And now we’re supposed to entertain this ludicrous scheme because I used a willing stranger as my stripper pole during my first public appearance. Who does that? Ugh !

Get it together, Lila. Get it together, Lila. Get it ? —

“You know, you should be happier,” a rumbly voice says from behind me, two cups sweetener and one cup trouble.

I don’t need to turn around to confirm who it belongs to. There’s only one voice in the entire world that simultaneously grinds my gears and pacifies me like a sedative. While I may have found my Zen after Bristol’s and my… elevator escapade …it doesn’t mean I’m going to sweep all his misdemeanors under the rug. His past rejection’s still a hairline fracture on my heart, and one talk in a cramped elevator isn’t going to change that.

I hoover in a breath for four, hold it for seven, then release it for eight, hoping that it’s enough to suppress my more violent tendencies. “And why’s that?” I humor him.

Bristol, as usual, looks genuinely happy to be here. He has the charm turned up to at least a seven tonight and wears his hair in that stupid, slicked back look that tripwires every sensation below the designer belt. Bad sensations. Sensations that have no business crashing this very professional party. Why are suits even required for an event like this? Why couldn’t Bristol have shown up in some disgusting Hawaiian shirt and too-tight golf shorts that show off a very untasteful moose knuckle?

“Because you get to hang out with me for the entire night,” Bristol answers, either oblivious to the irony in my tone or having the audacity to mortify me anyway. Probably the latter. Definitely the latter.

When I finally come face to chest with him, I’m reminded of just how many inches he has over me, and I lift my head up to glare daggers at him. Goose bumps flare over my arms, my heart does a triple axel in my chest, and the needle of my emotion barometer tips all the way into red. “You look like shit.”

Bristol grins—a blinding, disarming grin that probably churns out some signal to the nearest woman and raises her state of arousal before turning her into a sex-crazed zombie. “ And you somehow look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you,” he drawls.

“God, you’re predictable,” I scoff, glancing at my cuticles in disinterest, though the not-so-dormant flutters in my pussy mock me. A Bristol-induced headache is starting to burgeon, and pressure squeezes my temples like an abrupt altitude shift.

“I think you meant to say ‘incredible.’”

“Oh, so now you’re putting words in my mouth?”

“Angel, I’ve put a lot of things in your mouth. But words? Never.”

I pat him on the cheek. "Look at you, refusing to monitor women's speech. You're such a feminist."

He inclines his head, leans into my clammy palm, and stares me down with heavy eyelids—a slipstream of tension that could easily drown me. My breath suddenly feels tight, sand fills my throat, and nerves begin to gnaw away at my stomach lining.

“What can I say?” he replies, and I’m doing a piss-poor job of not staring at his lips while they form around each rasp of a word. “I love putting women on top.”

A cross between a snort and a laugh projectile out of my nose and mouth at the same time, and I try to cover it up with a weak throat clear. He rattled me! Oh, God. Now I’m no better than any other girl in this world who laughs and swoons at the idiotic things Bristol Brenner says. He’s already zombifying me. I need to amputate the infection site.

When I finally make the sound decision to drop my hand, I swear a brief flash of disappointment flickers across his face, though it’s probably just a trick of the light. “Are you ready for tonight?” I ask in a whisper, my voice fading below the rising decibels of the party.

“Are you?” He doesn’t need to comment on my sweaty hand or the pre-puke pallor I’ve probably adopted within the last several minutes.

“Believe it or not, pretending to fake date someone is not in my wheelhouse.”

Bristol fiddles with his cuffs, and a deep chuckle ricochets against his ribs. “Pretending, huh?”

“If you feel me up tonight, you’re losing a hand. And it’ll be your good one. Try jerking off without it.”

The devious way he smirks at me has my heart flip-flopping and my confidence flaking off like a painful sunburn.

“You imagine me jerking off?” Arrogance drips from his brow, and self-satisfaction contorts every perfectly proportioned feature on his flawless face.

“Yeah, when I’m having a nightmare in bed.”

“So you dream about me?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Which means you think about me.”

“Again, not intentionally.”

“I don’t know, Lils.” He makes a show of flexing his biceps when he crosses his arms over that ridiculously strapping chest of his, and I only realize I’m gawking a second too late. “Kind of sounds like you think about me.”

This is going to be impossible. Pretending like I don’t utterly despise him…is going to be impossible. Pretending like I don’t want him to fuck me in the bathroom…is going to be impossible. My head wants one thing, my pussy wants another, and if I don’t get my hormones under control, we’re all going to end up getting fucked tonight. In the asshole. No lube.

He’s just trying to get under your skin, Lila. Remember why you’re here. You’re doing this for your career.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I say saccharinely, facing forward and running my hands down my bright red bodycon dress.

Bristol mirrors me. “You. Next to me. Preferably in that pink Victoria’s Secret nightie. ”

Since we’re backstage, I’m not sure how visible my blush is, but there’s enough heat circulating through my body to fuel an entire apartment building in the dead of winter.

Deep breaths, Lila. You got this. Everyone will probably be too drunk to remember anything that happens tonight anyways. All you have to do is pretend like the gala wasn’t a total shit show and take back control.

I think Bristol’s about to say something when Ester flits over in her kitten heels, glowers at both of us with her resting bitch face, and—distastefully, mind you—fixes a strand of my hair with her talons. “Showtime, people. You better bring it tonight. If I don’t see a new headline by tomorrow morning, I’ll fly in my models from Belize to take both of your places. Capiche?”

Bristol gives her a salute, clearly immune to her fear tactics. “Sure thing, boss.”

I, on the other hand, tremble in my six-inch heels. “Mm-hm.”

There’s no warning before the curtains swing to the sides, I’m flash-banged by a spotlight, and Ester takes a long stroll down the catwalk with her arms outstretched like she’s some kind of evil villain. Which, actually, may be fitting. Bristol and I both stand at the curtain line, frozen from the sudden calamitous uproar in stimuli, and I know for certain there’s at least one bead of sweat running through my foundation right now.

Some blurry figure hands Ester a microphone, and to add to my onset blindness, a lovely, shrill screeching grates my eardrums. “Thank you all for coming to Kitty’s Menoulé launch party. We couldn’t have done this without all your support. This is the start of an entirely new era for fashion and fragrance alike, and I implore you to follow us on this journey as we, for the first time in Menoulé history, partner with the biggest NHL team in the entire tri-state, The Riverside Reapers.”

Another spotlight blasts to overpowered life on Bristol’s figure, and a rumbling of claps, cheers, and hollers shakes the entire room. All he does is nod and give a close-mouthed smile, and despite both actions being inherently boring, he somehow makes them look good. A cavalry of Reapers is hyping us up to the left (I’m guessing because I still can’t see twenty feet ahead of me), and some of the anxiety in my chest actually de-bloats upon hearing Aeris’ famous wolf whistle.

“And Kitty’s Catwalk is proud to introduce our star of the season, newcomer Lila Perkins,” Ester announces, gesturing to me as a godforsaken spotlight washes me out completely. I wave because I don’t know what else to do, and even though I’m evading Bristol’s general direction, I can still feel him watching me. An indescribable chill tickles my nape, coexisting with the crackling warmth in my belly. The crowd is still on a celebrating high, and a few drunken shouts harpoon the air—which I’m half-sure are emanating from my tipsy best friend somewhere in the faceless sea.

Ester’s got this whole shtick down, selling parasocial relationships like realtors sell crappy houses for a million-dollar profit. “Gift bags are on the back table as a little thank-you from Menoulé. Make sure to tag us in whatever pictures you take here tonight. We’d love to see all your beautiful faces.”

And then—dear God—Ester turns toward me, beckons me with her hand, and instructs me to walk twenty-eight feet without tripping over my freakishly high heels in front of three hundred people. My 4-7-8 breathing technique isn’t working anymore. My stomach is pinched into a knot that I’m nowhere near equipped to untangle right now. Of course I was going to have to walk down a runway. We’re ON a fucking runway! If I don’t move in the next five seconds, I’ll endure Ester’s wrath.

My heart’s racing a million miles per second. I’m gonna have a sweaty underboob by the time I get down from this elevated platform. Every worst possible scenario is flashing through my mind right now like a stuck camera shutter. Right as I’m about to wobble over to her like a newborn deer, Bristol hooks our arms together, forces me to match his stride, and just starts walking.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.

He doesn’t bat an eye. “My boyfriend duties.”

“ Fake boyfriend duties.”

“Tomayto tomahto.”

By some miracle, we both make it to the end of the catwalk without disaster, and we all pose for a brigade of cameras and ecstatic paparazzi. That familiarly unfamiliar chill returns, but this time, my gut-instinct is to turn to Bristol. And when I do, he’s looking right back at me like I’m his only lifeline in the middle of a tempestuous ocean.

“So, tell me, who wears the pants in this relationship?” one of the reporters asks in an overly friendly tone, as if he has no trouble overstepping any boundaries.

Bristol and I speak at the same time.

“Me,” I answer.

“Lila,” he says.

The reporter—who’s a balding man in his mid-forties—pumps his fist in the air. “Yes, love that! Women empowerment, am I right? Say, Bristol, is she this dominant in the?—”

“You two weren’t dancing with each other at the gala,” a different interrogator interjects, looking far more unimpressed than the majority of the flock we’ve garnered. She’s wearing an ironed blazer, smells like sadness and baby powder, and looks about two fucks away from quitting her job altogether.

“Oh, uh…” Bristol scratches the back of his neck.

“We were just having a bit of an argument,” I explain nonchalantly, clinging onto his arm and giving it way too tight of a squeeze. “But we’re better now. Isn’t that right, pookie bear?”

A strangled choking noise ekes out of him, but he quickly amends his discomposure. “That’s right, my darling cinnamon bun.”

What the fuck?

The reporter looks both of us up and down, her mouth flattens into a grimace, and then she decides to lower her assault microphone. I internally blow out a breath of relief, but it’s unfortunately short-lived when yet another tabloid-hungry journalist shoves their way to the front.

“It looked like there was a little bit of a disagreement with a stranger at the gala. Care to comment, Bristol?” they ask.

Oh, no. I do hate to say it, but Bristol’s a smart guy. That whole confrontation with Glifford was out of character for him, and it seems like the paparazzi definitely didn’t forget it. I fear that we might have another… incident …on our hands by the way Bristol’s scowling at the journalist.

Bristol inhales deeply, though it doesn’t seem to help him. “I should’ve de-escalated the situation, but another man’s hands were on my girl. I couldn’t just let that go.”

He’s just saying that for the cameras. It doesn’t mean anything… right ? Bristol doesn’t get jealous.

“Is this true, Lila?” the reporter inquires.

Calm thoughts, Lila. Calm thoughts. Go to your happy place—you, in silk sheets with McDreamy, sharing a Burrito Supreme Lady-and-the-Tramp-style.

“Yep,” I mutter through clenched teeth, trying my best not to crush his arm out of purebred fury. Bristol has no right to lay claim to me when he was the one who threw me aside like some one-use, hole-abused sex doll.

Bristol winces when I sink my claws into his forearm. “Couples get into little tiffs here and there. It’s a part of life. But we’re better than ever. Actually, our third-month anniversary just passed the other day. I took her out to her favorite lookout spot near Yosemite. Totally surprised her. She usually hates surprises. Always catches onto me before the big gesture, isn’t that right, sugar snaps?”

I nod because I don’t think what I want to say is news appropriate.

Bristol rests his other hand on mine, and I’m not sure where these sudden acting skills come from, but he gets this dreamy glaze over his eyes, and a sickeningly lovey-dovey smile unfolds over his lips. “Best decision of my life asking her to be my girlfriend.”

Barf.

Everyone instantly glances at me for a reaction, a confirmation, anything—and my cheeks bristle with a condescending smile.

“Oh, yeah. Bristol’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s sooo romantic. A real Casanova. I can’t get enough of this man.” I defuse the tension with a weak chuckle, forcing myself to nuzzle my head against his chest, and I practically inhale a mouthful of his cheap cologne. This is what rock bottom looks like, people.

“Well, it’s no wonder the internet’s in love with you two. I can feel the love from here. Say, will we be getting a proposal in the near future at all?”

Again, Bristol and I answer at the same time, with two clearly headbutting opinions.

“No.”

“Absolutely.”

“The future’s so unpredictable,” I say.

Bristol pretends like I’m not even here. “Well, she’s definitely the one.”

“We’re still so young. ”

“I love how she’s always so realistic. Remembers to get me out of my head sometimes, you know?”

“Someone has to, otherwise the house wouldn’t get cleaned,” I harp, my tone laden with irritation as he single-handedly sands down the last of my patience. We’ve shared a handful of nights together—enough nights that we’ve both picked up on each other’s irksome flaws. While Bristol keeps his area relatively clean, he doesn’t extend that same grace to the rest of the house.

Bristol finally turns to face me. “At least I know how to put dishes in the dishwasher.”

“At least I don’t get the wrong kind of cheddar cheese when I go to the grocery store, even though the right kind is specifically written out on a list.”

“At least I don’t leave hair portraits in the shower.”

I gasp, and then I bare my teeth. “At least I don’t eat everything in the fridge and force us to do two grocery runs within a week!”

“At least I don’t snore like I have a deviated septum!”

Oh, I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna wring his neck right here, where everyone can watch. Ester wanted a new headline? Here’s one:

JILTED GIRLFRIEND MURDERS HER INCOMPETENT AND OBNOXIOUS BOYFRIEND BECAUSE HE CAN’T KEEP HIS FAT TRAP SHUT.

I don’t know when the paparazzi begin to disperse, but by the time they do, Bristol and I are arguing with one another in the middle of the party. Thankfully, we’re not loud enough to disrupt the entire evening, but there’s no way in hell either of us are ready to surrender.

“You’re terrible with directions,” he snaps.

“GPSs exist. Why do I have to memorize directions?” I retort, the initial flame of rage in my chest nowhere close to guttering out—unleashed rage that I’ve held together with duct tape and false promises since Bristol left. “You’re allergic to putting the toilet seat down.”

“Oh, sorr-y I don’t think about toilet seat etiquette when I’m getting up to piss in the middle of the night.”

“Well, you should! Do you know how many times I’ve almost fallen into the toilet?”

A low growl stirs in his throat as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you know how many times I’ve tripped over random shit you leave on the floor? You’re like a fucking squirrel leaving behind a trail of breadcrumbs.”

This is the first time I’m actually thankful that Bristol’s wearing a suit, because I grab his tie, yank him into me, and relish in delight when he loses his balance. “You’re getting a beer gut,” I lie, wrapping the silk around my acrylics. If I tugged any harder, I’d cut his airway off.

“You’re…” He doesn’t finish that sentence. In fact, it morphs into a half-groan, and he glances down at the precarious situation I’ve got him in. I don’t need to make (frankly dangerous) eye contact with him to know that this night isn’t going to end in a civil goodbye or a handshake. No, we’re gearing up for World War III, and the casualties are either going to be my dignity or the expensive pair of panties I have on right now.

I really don’t think he has the balls to retaliate, until he says something that’s even worse than him cussing me out or accusing me of hogging all the covers (which I don’t do).

“God, you’re fucking intoxicating.”