I waved Dennis off. “Keller is going to be right here with me. He’ll keep me out of trouble. Right, Kel?”
“As much as one can.” Keller slipped out of the Cadillac, eyeing the arched entryway eagerly. “Unless whoever attacks you is armed. You know I just cannot with blood. Or if I get hit on by someone hot. But I’m talking Zac Efron as Ted Bundy hot. If it’s just Zac Efron in High School Musical level, I’ve got your back, girl.”
“If you find your Zac Efron in High School Musical, I won’t be bailing you out for lewd acts with a minor,” I fired back.
Keller raised his thumb. “I’m sure this conversation is totally reassuring to Dennis. He now trusts you not to get into trouble.”
I brought my mini smartphone to my lips. “Siri, remind me to make a voodoo doll of my best friend and use it as a pincushion tomorrow morning.”
“Event added to calendar,” Siri replied primly.
Hopping out of the vehicle, I flashed Dennis an angelic, I’ll-be-good smile and pressed my palms together. “Seriously, Den. I’ll behave. Go home. I’m sure Ethel is waiting with her special gingerbread cookies.”
He stroked his chin. “She did say she’s making a fresh batch this morning…”
In a lot of ways, Dennis and Ethel were more of a family to me than Mom and Dad. I’d spent more holidays with them, they took care of me when I was sick, and showed up for my parent-teacher conferences whenever Mom and Dad had been busy at a climate change summit or grilling a tech bro in Congress.
Dennis swung his gaze from my forced smile to the open jaws of The Chateau. He’d taken me here enough times to know I was bound to get drunk, rack up a bill, and end the night vomiting champagne more expensive than his suit into his back seat.
He didn’t want to deal with me. Who could blame him? I could barely tolerate myself. Which was why I planned to drown myself in alcohol tonight.
He sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Just be careful, all right? And go home early.”
“You’re the best, Den. Send Ethel my love!”
He tilted his cloth hat downward. “How ’bout you pay her a visit sometime soon and tell her yourself?”
Dennis and Ethel only languished in Los Angeles because of me. They longed to go back to the East Coast, to their family. I hated that I was a part of their misery, which was why I never dragged myself to their Encino bungalow and endured weak tea and Jeopardy! on loop while Ethel took out her photo albums to show me pictures of the grandchildren they weren’t able to see…because of me. Too depressing. I hadn’t found a liquor strong enough to counter that guilt. Yet.
“Will do, Den.”
He drove off, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust smoke. Ugh. We had to talk about switching to a Tesla.
Keller laced his arm in mine, gazing at the infamous white stack of bricks with twinkling eyes. “At last, we’re in our natural habitat.”
The masquerade ball was hosted as a fundraiser by a plastic surgery clinic in the valley for veterans who’d suffered burn scars. Keller and I had both put 5k in our envelopes, but neither of us showed up for the pre-ball dinner. Keller didn’t like eating in public （true story） and I didn’t like being bombarded with questions and requests about my family.
“You know…” I flipped my dyed burgundy tresses as we made our way to the bar, bypassing masked up bellboys, concierges, and ma?tre d’s. “The Chateau Marmont is known for being populated by people either on their way up or on their way down. Which category do you think we fall into?”
“Neither.” Keller led me to the oaky, red bar of the hotel, with the familiar maroon stools and matching overhead chandeliers. “We’re just beautiful spawns-of. Born into high society and low expectations. We’re going nowhere.”
Keller was the son of Asa Nelson, front man of the band She Wolf and the biggest rock n’ roll legend still alive. Both our last names opened doors—not all good.
We settled at the bar. Wordlessly, the bartender Frederik, slid a Marmont Mule cocktail my way, fixing Keller his regular, Bleu Velvet. Frederik wore an all-white rabbit mask that highlighted his piercing blue eyes.
“I should take him home,” Keller muttered, elbowing me.
“He seems like a bad idea.”
“My favorite type,” my best friend retorted. “Yours, too.”
I didn’t acknowledge that last part. It wasn’t Keller’s fault he thought I slept with everything with a pulse—a common general vibe I gave people. But it never felt good to be reminded that I was lying to my best friend.
Before we even made it to our first sip, we were surrounded by two wannabe actresses, one reality TV star, and a life coach I was certain also moonlit as a waitress at The Ivy. Everyone stood around, preening, while trying to convince the people they mingled with that their big break was just around the corner. This was how Keller and I spent our nights. Every single one of them. Partying, drinking, mingling, pretending like the world was a big, fat pi?ata, ready to burst and rain fat fashion contracts, Vogue covers, and Oscars over our heads.
We were socialites. Young, rich, and bored.
We answered to no one and were sought after by everyone.
Technically, Keller and I both had jobs.
At twenty-seven, Keller was the owner of Main Squeeze, an upscale juicery in West Hollywood known for its detox bundle, favored by Victoria’s Secret models and Real Housewives.
I was an Instagram persona, meaning I got paid in luxury products and compliments, advertising products to my eight hundred thousand followers. Anything from clothes and handbags to tampons. My so-called “work” took two hours a week, but I was oddly protective of it. Maybe because I knew it was the only piece of me no one was allowed to invade or shape. It was all mine. My doing, my responsibility, my little, small win in this world.
“Isn’t it funny,” I mused aloud, swirling the swizzle stick in my drink. “How we can pretend like we’re productive members of society and the tabloids just run with it?”
The two actresses, reality star, and the life coach evaporated from our place at the bar the minute they spotted a Netflix star who’d entered the room wearing a medieval plague doctor mask.
That was the catch about L.A. It was a great place to accumulate people, as long as it wasn’t true friendship you were after.
Keller shot me a frown. “Speak for yourself. I do have a job. I own a juicery. I source all the ingredients myself.”
“Oh, Keller.” I patted his hand on the bar and held up my drink. “I’m ‘sourcing local ingredients’ right now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an amazing hobby, but neither of us needs the money.”
We never spoke of it, but I’d always assumed Keller, too, got a hefty sum of allowance each month from his dad.
“No, Hal, you don’t understand. I have a job.” He frowned, rearing his head back. “With people on my payroll, quarterly meetings with my CPA, budgets, the entire shebang. If I don’t do things, they don’t get done.”
He was deep in denial. We were both counting on our parents to pay our rent, car leases, and life expenses. At least I had the dignity to admit it.
I took a sip of my drink, struggling to breathe in the tight dress. “I mean, sure. What I meant was, we have really fun jobs, so they don’t feel like jobs.”