Several police cars and motorcycles appeared, surrounding the bus. Over the rap music playing from a speaker, Evan explained that we were being escorted to the stadium to avoid traffic. “The city shuts down an avenue so that people who can afford it get this treatment.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nuts, right?”
“Only way to do it,” a small man cut in, introducing himself as Riza. “I produced The Wolf of Wall Street with Jho Low,” he said. He took a seat across the aisle.
As an adolescent, wealth was an abstract concept to me. I had a rough idea of my parents’ income, but I’d been clueless enough to ask my mother only a year earlier if forty thousand dollars was a reasonable amount for a person to live on for a year. “That’s certainly not enough money to be comfortable,” she’d said, without expounding further. I was not yet able to grasp the difference between rich fathers from my hometown and billionaires like Jho Low. There were no tiers when it came to rich people; to me, rich was just rich.
I started making my own money at fourteen. I thought it important to never be indebted to anyone. In high school, I once paid for a date with a boy I wasn’t interested in, just to ensure that I wouldn’t have to go out with him again or, my worst fear, owe him something sexually. I didn’t have my driver’s license yet, and I was concerned that I’d have to repay my date for picking me up; I offered to pay for his gas money. I plunked down a wad of cash at the Mexican restaurant where we ate. “Really, it’s no problem. It was super nice of you to pick me up,” I said. Paying made me feel that I was in control. I’d prided myself on being free of obligation.
* * *
When I moved to LA and started working full-time, there was a girl, Isabella, who had a look similar to mine: thick brown eyebrows and big features. Even though we were both nineteen, I felt older than Isabella. She was soft-spoken and timid, using her long hair to cover her body. We’d see each other frequently at castings, where we bonded over the loneliness of living in a new city. She told me she’d recently started going out to clubs with her housemate, Chloe, a blond model who was almost six feet tall. “You should come with us sometime,” she offered.
I’d only spent a handful of nights in clubs, but I knew that I didn’t particularly enjoy them. I didn’t like the music they played or how drinks spilled on my bare legs or someone always seemed to be groping me. Still, it seemed stupid to turn down an opportunity to meet new people. I was desperate to start an adult’s life in Los Angeles. We made plans for the following week.
We met at a Japanese restaurant that felt more like it belonged in Las Vegas than in Los Angeles. I told Chloe and Isabella that I was nervous because I’d lost my fake ID. Chloe laughed and reassured me: “You don’t have to worry about anything like that.”
A short man in his midthirties, wearing a black button-down shirt, greeted us at the entrance to a private dining room, kissing Chloe and Isabella. I was surprised—I’d assumed we’d be going out with people closer to our age. He smiled widely and introduced himself to me as “Sacha, Chloe’s friend,” telling me to drink and eat whatever I wanted. Unfamiliar with extensive cocktail lists, I blanked when the waiter came for my order, and asked for a tequila sunrise, a drink I remembered my mother liking. The sweetness of the grenadine made me feel nauseous. As dish after steaming dish theatrically appeared on a long table, underage models trickled in, smiling nervously as Sacha stood up to greet them.
“What do you need, ladies?” he asked every time, signaling to a waiter. He was animated and anxious, unable to sit still.
“What up, Sach!” a woman dressed in chunky heels and a leather jacket hollered as she strutted over to the private dining room. Sacha popped up. “Kim! Gorgeous as always.”
Kim was our age, but it was clear that she was different, confident and at ease, a veteran. She wrapped her arms loosely around Sacha, placing her chin in the crook of his neck, and surveyed the table of quiet young women, assessing us, her gaze jumping from one to the next.
“The guys are almost here,” she whispered, pulling away from him and taking a seat. Not long after that, Sacha announced it was time to leave. The long table was still covered with full plates of food. When I stayed seated, waiting for a check to appear, Isabella whispered to me, “No, no, no. We just go.” Realizing that someone else was paying, I felt a twinge of uneasiness.
Outside, Sacha directed us to several black SUVs and told us to “hop in.” As I climbed in, using one hand to hold down my short dress to keep it from riding up over my ass, I saw several men around the age of forty already in the car. “Hello,” said a big, bald man who appeared too large for his seat. His massive hand sat heavily on the thigh of a petite, pale woman who seemed just a few years older than me. “This is my fiancée,” he said. She waved listlessly. From the back seat, an unshaven, chubby man with a greasy nose called out, “Hi girls, let’s party!”