Our dishes are delivered, and I stare at mine for a minute as I try and think this all through.
It’s a lot to say yes to. But more than that, I’m scared of where it will take me. Do I want to step back into this life? Into the limelight? Because that’s what will happen. I know it. When I was with Florian, the press was obsessed with us. So were the fans. And Wild Minds is huge, despite us sitting in a small greasy spoon café off the beaten path of Huntington Beach. Their band is no joke.
And the questions will inevitably arise.
The speculation will be off the charts.
I don’t care so much about that necessarily. It’s more the giving up the anonymity and privacy I’ve enjoyed for the past couple of years. It was a nice breather after the media storm. In the past, I’ve had people break into my parents’ house to come after me. I’ve had a stalker and been threatened in hate mail. I’ve had people scale walls to try and snap a picture.
“Can I have a couple of days to think about it?” I glance up only to realize that Gus is staring at me, his food untouched as well.
“Of course,” he says, but there is something in his eyes. In the way he looks at me. Almost as if he has more to say, and is, for once, holding it back.
“What?” I ask, tilting my head.
He shakes his, rubbing absently at his scruffy jaw, his eyes darkening ever so slightly. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Yes, you can have a couple of days. I don’t want you to say yes to me unless you’re fully ready to make this happen. But Naomi.” He pauses and then smiles confidently. “You’re going to say yes. I can feel it.”
We’ll see, I think. We’ll see.
Chapter Eight
Naomi
* * *
“This is the last time I’m doing this,” Ethan yells, practically at the top of his lungs, his arms panned out wide around him, gesturing boldly at the party that surrounds him. In his house, no less. It’s a Hollywood shindig. One of those things that’s loaded with Instagram models, actors, musicians, probably a Kardashian or two, and a lot of drama.
No one is eating any of the expensive food, but they’re definitely drinking all the premium, top-shelf alcohol.
It’s the sort of event that I used to love being a part of, engrossed in, but now take a back seat to and watch with a smirk and a laugh.
“You say that every time.” He does. Ethan has these types of parties on a quarterly basis. As the COO of Turn Records, his parties are the ‘it’ parties of the season. LA’s finest come out if for no other reason than to network and get their faces on the internet.
And once upon a time, I attended these with Florian.
Tonight, I’m flying solo, and it’s empowering in a way since I’d all but stopped going out to parties.
I’ve had a lot to think about since my dinner the other night with Gus Diamond.
I spent a lot of time at home, playing with the strings of my guitar, and the keys of my piano. A lot of time writing—something I haven’t done, again, since Florian—and even though I’m still not sure about that song or dragging myself back into this world, a tide has shifted within me.
One I welcome and revel in and smile at. At least so far.
“I know,” Ethan groans. “It’s become my thing, and once you start a thing in this town, it’s impossible to stop it. But this time. I mean it. I’m moving to New York.”
I shake my head. “That’s not something to rejoice over or celebrate. That’s me losing a shopping partner who has better taste than I do.”
“Honey, everyone has better taste than you do.” He waves a long, sharp hand over my dress, twirls it around my head, and then snaps it to his hip, cocking an eyebrow and making some sort of condescending noise in the back of his throat. “Purple went out like two years ago. So did this half-up, half-down hippie crap. What are you, an Olsen twin?”
“Don’t even go there. And purple is purple, and it is always fashionable. Don’t fuck with my primary color.”
“The only thing purple you should be entertaining is a dick on ya.”
I snort out a laugh. “Aw, come on, Ethan. Now you’re just poking at all my soft parts.”
“I’m not even going to follow that up because that one is too easy.” I roll my eyes, folding my arms over my chest. “Have a drink, Naomi. Loosen up. It’s my going away party.”
“I’m loose. I’m here, aren’t I? Progress is progress. And besides, do you actually know any of these people?”
His gaze dances about the room, bouncing from person to person, then back to me with a pinched brow. “Like in live-action or via SM?”
“SM?”
He huffs out an exasperated breath. “Social Media, Naomi. Get with the times. You’re twenty-three, not fifty-three. Be like Jesus and resurrect yourself already.” My eyes pop out of my head. “What? Don’t look at me like that. If he were alive, he’d totally agree with me. Now go mingle. There are a plethora of straight, single, highly interested men here tonight. Believe me, I’ve seen some of the looks they’ve been throwing your way. Fuck one and report back. I love hearing about straight sex if for no other reason than to laugh at all the ways your kind does it wrong.”
I stare blankly at him. “I have no words for you, Ethan. You’re fucking crazy.”
“I know. But it’s a party. So, act your age and live a little.”
I would bristle at that if he wasn’t one hundred percent on point with the dig. “Who should I be tonight?” I ask instead, striking a pose and tilting my head while fish-facing my lips as if I’m taking a selfie.
He belts out a loud cackle. “Shit. Come here.” He grabs my dress before I’m capable of even taking a step. That’s when I hear fabric ripping. The dress I was wearing suddenly becomes several inches shorter. The motion so quick and unexpected I practically topple over in my heels as he spins me around to complete the destruction.
A gasp screeches past my throat, my hands and eyes landing solidly on my upper thighs, which are now exposed.
“You’re such a prick,” I manage once I’ve gained control of my voice. “I can practically feel air brushing my ass.”
“Stop. You look hot, and it’s not showing off your ass. Just don’t bend over.” I scowl harshly, but he’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat, so very pleased with himself. “When was the last time your pussy had a friend?”
Um. Two years? Is that considered a long time or something?
I roll my eyes because it’s derisive and deflective. His question is rhetorical anyway. “I hate you,” I go with instead, tearing away from him and tipping his glass of whatever the hell is in his hand onto his designer shirt. He squeals and I take a lot of enjoyment in that sound. “You ruin mine, I ruin yours.” I cock an eyebrow and stalk away from him only to be jostled and splashed with something very wet that stinks of what can only be white wine not even ten seconds later.
Ethan bellows out a laugh from behind me. “You totally deserved that.” I extend my hand and raise my middle finger in his general direction as I stare helplessly down at my dress that is somehow even more ruined than it was seconds ago.