Ruin Me Page 11

  When this whole GoST thing blows over—hopefully in a day or two—I’m telling her I’m moving back to my apartment. Since she’s so concerned that I’m going to blow it with Brandt, I’ll tell her that not having my own place is putting a strain on our relationship.

  The stretch of Broadway that houses the underground entrance hatch is disconcertingly busy. After ten minutes of waiting, I don’t see any sign that I’m going to get an all-clear moment to go down below.

  Finally, I get my moment when two Swedish tourists lean against the corner of the Nine West store. One of the women pulls up her top and starts breast-feeding, and I figure it anyone’s looking around, they’re going to watch her and not me.

  I lift the hatch.

  *** ***

  The second floor of MoMA had been transformed into a crimson wonderland in homage to the book being celebrated, Red by Nia Galong.

  Even the entrance lighting cast a pinkish hue on Inez and Bianca as they stepped off the elevator, a perfect complement to Bianca’s shimmering, fuschia-tipped locks.

  And every eye in the room seemed to notice. Including Anna’s.

  Inez had to hand it to herself—bringing Bianca to the book party was a stroke of genius. She wasn’t trying to taunt Anna. But Anna was probably thinking that last night had been a mistake, and that Inez was now pining away for her. If Inez wanted to get into Anna’s pants anytime in the near future, she had to show her that she couldn’t care less about doing so.

  Besides, Anna had invited her as a last-minute replacement for Lulu.

  “I’d love to come,” Inez had said. “But I already have dinner plans. Can I bring a guest?”

  Anna, clearly taken aback by the request, recovered quickly.

  “Of course,” she’d said with a wave of her hand.

  There had been tension between them all day at the gallery—the best kind of tension. The frisson of unfinished business, the palpable heat of desire. Inez knew that it would just be a matter of time before round two. Maybe tonight, if playing the Bianca card worked as well as she hoped.

  And so far, so good.

  Inez and Bianca crossed the room, not side-by-side like a couple, but in a casual sort of parallel. Even among the jaded art crowd, Bianca’s beauty turned every head. And while Inez had made it clear to Bianca that she was not to act like they were a couple—Inez felt no need to broadcast her personal life—she knew that Anna had no doubt what Inez meant when she introduced Bianca as her “friend.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Bianca. I’ve admired your work in Vogue.”

  Inez was impressed, but not surprised, at the mention. Anna missed nothing.

  Brandt trotted over, greeting Anna with a kiss on her cheek.

  In his John Varvatos slacks and jacket, his chiseled face slightly tanned, his gold hair perfectly tousled, he looked like he belonged right alongside Bianca in a fashion magazine. She could see that he was making a huge effort not to look at Bianca.

  Inez drifted over to a table piled high with the thick, glossy tome being celebrated that evening. She flipped through one, waiting for Anna to break away from the crowd to talk to her, but that didn’t happen.

  “Hey,” Brandt said, also feigning interest in the book. At least, she assumed his interest wasn’t genuine. Did anyone at this party give a shit about the stupid book?

  “Hey yourself,” Inez said, taking a glass of wine from a passing waitress. “So Princess Lulu bailed tonight? Leaving you all alone?”

  “She’s not feeling well,” Brandt said.

  “I’ll bet,” said Inez.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, her little friend’s prank of her mom is splashed across every paper today.”

  Brandt shook his head. “She’s not friends with that guy.”

  Inez shrugged. “Whatever you say. I guess you’ve never heard her talk about him?” She could see by the look on his face that he had.

  “That doesn’t mean she knows him,” Brandt said.

  “If I were you, I’d keep a closer eye on your lady. Because in case you didn’t notice, she showed up at the party yesterday about ten minutes after the GoST extravaganza.”

  “You must be high again,” Brandt said.

  Inez laughed, even though she knew he didn’t mean it to be funny.

  Bianca joined them, bubbling with excitement.

  “One of the editors of W just said they’d love to have me in the magazine.”

  “I’m sure they would,” Inez said, emptying her glass of champagne and looking around for another.

  Now that it was just the three of them, Brandt was doing a considerably worse job of not blatantly staring at Bianca.

  “So Brandt,” Inez said. “What d’ya say we blow out of here after dinner and head to your place for our own little party tonight?” She really just said it to be provocative. But the look on his face was so eager, she figured, why the hell not? She was bored with fucking Bianca—especially after getting a taste of Anna. And maybe if he got a little taste of Bianca, he might reconsider his allegiance to Lulu.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  This time, I almost feel comfortable underground.

  “Rory?” I call. I hope he’s here. I don’t want to just leave the phone, but I’d planned for that possibility, and wrote out a note ahead of time.

  I shine the flashlight along the ground, following the tunnel until I get to the part where it branches in two different directions. I’m sure I’m heading in the same direction as last time, but still don’t see the beacon of light from Rory’s space. Either he isn’t here and left the light bulbs unscrewed, or I took a wrong turn. I tell myself not to panic, but decide to abort the mission.

  I turn around and start heading back. The air is so still, it’s hard to breathe. I didn’t notice it as much last time. I guess I was too distracted. Now I just want to get out of here.

  My heart pounds as I gulp air. I shine the light on the ground, then the walls, trying to get my bearings.

  Suddenly someone’s arm tightens around my neck, and I can’t breathe. I try to scream but his hand covers my mouth.

  I have a desperate, fleeting hope that it’s Rory, trying to freak me out. But I know it’s not.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

  I hadn’t even realized I managed to scream.

  The guy shoves me onto the ground, pressing my face into the cement. I can’t make a sound. I can’t call for help. I can’t beg him to stop. All I can do is pray that I stay conscious. I feel certain that if I pass out, I’m going to die here.

  And then the pressure lets up, and I’m able to gulp some air. But I feel him tearing off my jean shorts, and I scream for help. I don’t know what I’m saying, or even if the sound is actually coming out of my mouth. My underwear comes off, and I feel the air on my bare skin. I gulp and scream again. This time, I hear the loud echo of my panic bouncing off the walls. He’s trying to pull my legs apart, but I kick at him. That gets me a punch between my shoulder blades that takes my breath away. Pain radiates from my back to my neck and I can’t move. A punch like that to my head, and I’ll be unconscious. Maybe I want to be unconscious for this.

  He stops touching me and I hear a thud. I put my hands over my head.

  “What the fuck. I’m going to kill you.”

  The voice is even. Measured. Very controlled, very familiar.

  Rory.

  The guy lands a few feet away from me on the ground, limp like a sack of potatoes. Rory pounds his head against the concrete. I jump up, but I’m so dizzy I fall right back down. The sound of the guy’s skull makes a dull thudding sound. I think Rory really is going to kill him.

  “Rory, stop,” I say. I barely get the words out. I try again. “Rory. Stop! Please, just stop.”

  I feel around for my flashlight, and when my fingers close around the metal base I have my first sense of control since the minute the guy grabbed me. I turn it on and shi
ne it at Rory. The sight of all the blood makes me scream, but I realize it’s not Rory’s blood. And maybe the sight of the blood makes him realize it’s time to stop, because he stops pounding the guy.

  Rory is breathing really hard, but the minute he catches his breath, he says, “Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer him, busy shining the flashlight on the ground to find my shorts. Leaning down to retrieve them brings a shooting pain through my back.

  “Ow,” I gasp, but I’m not slowing down. My sole focus is on getting dressed, on getting out of there. I find my jeans shorts and pull them on without bothering to find my underwear. My shoes fell off during my struggle, and it’s difficult to get them back on my feet because my hands are shaking so hard.

  “Lulu, talk to me,” he says.

  “Just get me out of here.”

  *** ***

  Inez and Bianca ditched the party a respectable half hour after Brandt to avoid broadcasting the fact that they were all taking the party elsewhere. Besides, Inez knew the sight of her leaving alone with Bianca was a more potent sight for Anna. It was unprecedented for Inez to leave first.

  It took some self-control. Even though she knew she was playing the whole thing exactly right, she still felt an intense gravitational pull toward Anna. She was itching for a continuation of last night. But it would have to wait.

  “I think he’s into you,” Inez told Bianca on the way up the elevator to Brandt’s apartment. She knew she was stating the obvious, but perhaps not obvious to Bianca.

  “I thought he’s with your boss’s daughter.”

  “That’s just a career move,” Inez said, offhandedly.

  She hadn’t realized it at the beginning of the night, but this really was her chance to push Lulu further out of the way. She didn’t know how much Anna believed that her daughter was in collusion with the street artist, but at least now she was thinking about it. Tonight, she hoped her little chat with Brandt planted the same seeds of doubt. With the help of her firecracker, coked-up supermodel, he’d be looking for any excuse to stray. And then it wouldn’t be long before neither of them had much use for Lulu.

  Anna would have to reconsider who she was sending into Asian exile.

  Business was business.

  “He’s pretty hot, right?”

  “You think?” said Bianca, surprised, looking at herself in the mirrored wall of the elevator. She’d changed into yoga pants and a tight t-shirt. Bianca hated getting dressed up. Inez didn’t understand that. She lived for events that required cocktail dresses or black-tie gowns.

  “Not my type,” said Inez. “But yeah. You know what would get me off?” she said, pushing Bianca gently against the back of the elevator and kissing her,

  “What?” Bianca smiled, her pillowy lips forming almost a heart shape.

  “Watching him fuck you,” Inez said. The elevator doors opened with a discreet ding.

  “What took you guys so long?” Brandt said, opening the door. He was barefoot, wearing jeans and a powder-blue t-shirt. Music was playing—Muse or Imagine Dragons or some shit she didn’t like.

  “We had to hit Bianca’s place for the party favors,” Inez said, tossing a small baggie of coke onto the living room coffee table.

  They settled onto the couch, and Brandt handed Inez some sort of colorful Mexican tile. “This is useless,” she said.

  “Turn it over.”

  The reverse side was a mirror. She cut the coke and did the first line, passing it to Bianca. She must be doing too much lately, because it was taking her longer and longer to get the buzz going.

  She ran her hand down Bianca’s back.

  “Take off your shirt, babe,” she said. “I can’t wait another second to see your tits tonight.”

  Brandt coughed, eyes on the table, not looking at the two of them. But then Bianca’s t-shirt came off, baring her breasts.

  Bianca leaned forward to do another line, and Inez reached behind her to pull Brandt’s hand around to rest on the curve of her naked back. When Bianca straightened up, holding her nostril, Inez dipped her head forward, running her tongue over her nipples and cupping her breasts with both hands.

  A small sound emanated from Brandt’s throat.

  “Why don’t you take off your pants?” Inez said to him.

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” Inez said. “Bianca wants to do a line off your cock.”

  Bianca laughed.

  “I’m serious,” she whispered to her. “That would make me so wet.”

  Brandt was already shedding his pants and underwear. His cock was hard and, Inez had to admit, impressive in size. Difficult to believe mousy little Lulu was keeping this guy satisfied.

  “Stand in front of us,” Inez said. She picked up the tiled mirror and used the razor to scrape a tiny little toot onto the edge of his cock.

  Bianca hesitated.

  “Jesus, that shit’s making it numb,” Brandt said.

  “Better lick it off, sweetheart,” Inez said to Bianca. “Nothing more useless than a dull cock.”

  Bianca leaned her head forward. But she didn’t just lick the rim—she took his entire cock in her mouth. Inez looked up at Brandt, whose face was contorted with pleasure and shock.

  Beautiful.

  The only problem was that the coke supply was dwindling, and she needed cigarettes.

  “You know what?” Inez said, as if anyone were listening. “I think we are in need of supplies. So you two carry on, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  She texted her coke guy to meet her outside the bodega on the corner of West Twenty-sixth Street. Then she glanced up at Bianca, who was working that cock like she was trying to suck coke out of it. Brandt’s head was thrown back, his ass muscles clenching. Inez was tempted to stay for the grand finale, but she figured she’d better hurry up in the name of keeping the party going.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Rory helps me up the metal stairs, practically carrying me. I’m still shaking, my back hurts, and my legs are bonelessly limp. But my need to get above ground, to get out of that space, is enough to propel me step by step until Rory is able to reach the hatch, push it open, and then pull me to the street.

  “Lulu, I warned you about going down there.” He tugs at the hood of his sweatshirt, drawing it tighter.

  I start to cry.

  “I’m not trying to upset you,” he says, steering me to the corner of the street. We sit against a bare wall next to the stairs to the Prince Street station. People barely glance at us. Aside from my hysterical sobbing, I’m sure we look like a typical young homeless couple. All we need is a cardboard sign soliciting money.

  I’m such an idiot.

  “It’s not your fault. I brought this on myself,” I say, standing up.

  “Let me take you to the hospital,” he says.

  “What? No. I’m fine,” I say. And—aside from my shattered nerves and what will probably be a nasty bruise on my back—I am.

  “Okay, then I’ll take you home,” he says.

  “No,” I say quickly. What am I going to do—let him walk me to the gallery? Yes, this is where I live, Rory. Above the Anna Sterling Gallery. With my mother—Anna Sterling.

  That would be a fun revelation to top off this horrendous evening.

  But I can’t refuse his help because I am scared to walk by myself. I can’t shake the fear.

  “Where do you want to go? You can’t sit here all night.”

  And then I remember that now I have a key to Brandt’s apartment. “My boyfriend’s.”

  “You have a boyfriend?” Rory says.

  “Yeah. Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “No, it’s just that you spend a lot of time running around at night by yourself for someone with a boyfriend.”

  His remark is like the bookend to my mother’s comment earlier today. And they’re both right. I should be spending my time with my boyfriend—my artist boyfriend who needs me and wants me around—who is ready to build something meaningf
ul that I can actually be a part of. And from now on, that’s where I’m going to focus my energy.

  I’m done with Rory, or GoST, or whoever the hell he is.

  Just as soon as he gets me out of here.

  *** ***

  The cab pulls in front of Brandt’s building. He hasn’t responded to my text telling him I’m heading over. He must still be at the dinner.

  Rory gets out of the backseat and rounds the car to open my door for me. I’m surprised by the gesture. But I don’t want him coming inside the building.

  “I’m fine. I’ve got it from here,” I say. “Do you want to take the cab somewhere or … ”

  “No. But I’ll wait here till you’re inside.”

  I nod. “Okay. Thanks.”

  I feel around in my bag for the key, and instead I find the phone.

  I’d forgotten all about it.

  My stomach sinks. Two hours ago, I thought the phone would be the beginning of real contact between Rory and me—the start of an adventure. But I’ve lost all taste for that now. I don’t belong with Rory. I belong with Brandt, with my mother, with the gallery and the world she has built.

  “I got this for you,” I say, handing him the phone.

  “Why?” he asks, not touching it.

  “I thought you could get in touch with me if you needed help with a project or something. But it was a bad idea. Still, I already prepaid a month. You might as well make use of it.”

  He takes the phone, and we look at each other. I can’t see his eyes, but I feel a certain warmth and empathy from him. I guess I never will get to see his face. Because I know, standing there, that this is the end of whatever this was.

  He must know it, too, because he says, “Good luck with everything, Lulu.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  I turn and walk through the set of brass revolving doors. Tears fill my eyes—whether it’s the sense of loss knowing that my fantasy with GoST is over, or just post-traumatic stress, I don’t know. But by the time the elevator opens on the twentieth floor, I’m sobbing again.

  I’ve never used Brandt’s key before, and I hope it works. My hands are still a little shaky, but the key glides right into the lock and turns easily.