The Art of Scandal(33)
“Who is blowing up your phone?” Keely White approached her with a bottle of leave-in conditioner and a blow-dryer. She was the only member of the Abbott-approved glamour team that Rachel had hired herself. Clothes were one thing, but she drew the line at a European waif smearing ashy makeup over her face. “Is it Faith? Tell her I got that tea tree shampoo she likes.”
Rachel hid her phone against her thigh. “I’ll let her know. So, what are we doing with my hair this time?”
Keely plugged in the blow-dryer. “Same as always? Silk press, bump the ends.” She paused. “Maybe we could add some barrel curls since it’s a party.” Her eyes brightened and she held up a finger. “Oh, I got something for you. Hold on.” She moved away and started digging through her bags again.
Watching her, Rachel realized that Keely was the only person in her life who wasn’t connected to Matt in some way. Rachel had stopped reaching out to her college friends when her father died, because watching them succeed at what she’d abandoned was too painful. She’d barely gotten to know her coworkers at the café before Matt swept her off her feet and into his exclusive social circle, people who acted as her judge and jury.
Rachel picked up her phone and put her panicked thoughts into a text.
Rachel: I don’t have real friends anymore.
Nathan responded almost instantly.
Nathan: That’s not true. You have me.
His words were reckless, chipping away at all the reasons she should keep her distance. But he couldn’t know how vulnerable she was right now—exposed and raw in places that hadn’t seen daylight in years. “Be careful with me,” she whispered.
“Did you say something?” Keely appeared behind her holding a hair clip. It was a flower made of pavé diamonds and black crystals that glittered when she tilted her hand. “I know it’s a little flashy, but there’s not much going on with that dress over there.”
“A black dahlia.” Rachel took it from Keely’s hand. “You know what they mean, don’t you?”
“Murdered white lady in the forties, right?”
“Betrayal.” Rachel set the hair clip on her vanity next to her phone. “They’re supposed to be a warning.”
When Rachel walked downstairs, Matt’s face turned the crimson color of her lipstick. The black dahlia was pinned above her ear, and the Abbott-approved dress was still upstairs on the hanger. Instead, she wore a black leather dress that fit her like a pair of driving gloves. The right side flashed a mile of leg whenever she took a step, and the low neckline plunged a few inches above her navel. “Welcome home.”
Matt didn’t respond. He stormed out and, five minutes later, pulled up to the front of the house in a new Maserati. That car had the same infuriating effect on her that the cocktail dress had on him. A seamless exchange of passive-aggressive fuck yous.
He didn’t speak until they were on the road. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.”
Rachel stared out the window as their neighborhood floated by. “That my tits still look amazing without a bra?”
“Jesus.” He glanced at her chest. “Is this how you’re going to be now?”
“You’re the one who wanted me to stick around. I’m just maximizing what is apparently my lone asset.” She gestured from her face to her body.
Matt tightened his grip on the wheel. “Hailey shouldn’t have told you about the focus group.”
“How could you not tell me?” She shook her head. “Oh, right. You’re a fucking liar. Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Okay, that’s a bit—” His jaw clenched. “You’re being overdramatic.”
“Well, this is a hostage situation. I’m probably not being dramatic enough.”
“No one’s forcing you to take my money.”
“You just want me to pretend I don’t need it.”
She crossed her legs, and the dress parted over her thighs. Matt’s gaze followed her movements before he jerked his eyes back to the road. “Are you trying to sabotage me? There are important people at this party.” He was getting louder, while she had a death grip on her tone that kept it at an even level. “This should be easy,” he snapped. “What I’m asking you to do is exactly what you were already doing before. Show up, smile, and drink some goddamn champagne.” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “Why do you have to make everything so hard?”
Matt made a sharp turn, the tires screeching on the asphalt in the Vasquez driveway. The valets stopped talking to stare as he braked to a sudden stop.
“Don’t kid yourself. This?” Rachel gestured between them. “Was never easy.” She glanced at the gawking guests, already raising their phones to take pictures. “Now pull yourself together. Your fans are watching.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nathan bypassed the valets and parked his car between the west entrance and the lemon groves. No one entered that way unless they were working in the kitchen. Tonight, the lot was filled with small cars and catering vans. A group of guys standing in a cloud of cigarette smoke passed a bottle of Smirnoff back and forth while they spoke loudly about going to Adams Morgan after their shift. Nathan imagined joining them, blowing off the party, and throwing back shots at some college bar until his brain was numb. But he’d promised his family to make an effort.