Chapter 3

“This is crazy. You know that, right?” Cass exclaims as she climbs into the limo and sits across from me.

She looks stunning as usual, clad in a black dress with a slit that goes so high I can’t believe she hasn’t shocked the neighborhood. The dress is fastened with a simple bow at the left shoulder, and she fills it with the kind of curves I can only dream of. This week, her hair is dyed red and pulled up high, enhancing the effect of the dress. Other than the diamond on her nose, she wears no jewelry, which makes the tattoo of an exotic bird on her shoulder, its tail trailing down her arm in a burst of color, even more impressive.

As soon as Cass settles in, Edward closes the door and gets behind the wheel again. We can’t see him because we’re sitting behind the bulkhead, but I feel the limo pulling away from the curb in front of Cass’s tiny house in Venice Beach.

“Seriously, Gabriela, your job is a dream.”

“I wish,” I reply as I hand her a glass of wine.

The limo is one of the Dermont International fleet vehicles, and Nick has lent me Edward, his personal chauffeur, for the night. If I’m lucky, I’ll get Edward’s overtime paid to my boss.

“I think we both need a moment of deep meditation,” Cass offers. “You to appreciate the enormous advantages of your position. And I want to thank you for being so unsociable that you haven’t found another companion for tonight.”

“Bad bitch,” I say, but I laugh when she closes her eyes and throws her head back.

“Mmm,” she murmurs like she’s in a yoga class and not in the back of a limo on her way to a party in Hollywood.

I hesitated about bringing her, but in the end, I decided that not only would she have a great time attending a red-carpet premiere, but it would also be great to have her around if I need support.

Cass has been my best friend since I walked purposefully into her father’s tattoo parlor at the ripe age of fifteen. He sent me off on my feet and made it very clear that he had no intention of risking his license so some spoiled girl from Brentwood could piss off her daddies by getting a tattoo.

I didn’t cry then, hadn’t cried since I was fourteen, but I felt my face burning with anger and frustration. I called him an asshole and yelled at him that he didn’t know anything about my parents and even less about me. I don’t remember calling him a fucking asshole, but Cass claims I did.

What I do remember is storming out of there in a rage and running to the beach. Crossing the bike lane, I nearly knocked a small child to the ground before falling face-first into the sand. I lay there like an idiot with my forehead resting on my arm and my eyes shut tight because I wanted to cry, I swear I wanted to release my tears, but I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, face down, breathing just enough so sand didn’t get into my nose. All I know is that Cass was standing next to me when I looked up, long-legged and tanned, her black hair spiky and gelled. She crouched down, elbows on knees, chin on one hand, staring at me as she swayed slightly back and forth.

“Go away,” I said.

“It’s not your fault. Mom’s gone off the deep end, and my dad has to take care of me. If they take away his license, they will shut him down, take the house, and we will end up living in his Buick, and I will have to prostitute myself in Hollywood just so we can eat breakfast.”

What she said made my stomach drop, and for a moment, I thought I was going to vomit.

“Don’t say that,” I blurted out. “It’s not even funny.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and stood up, gangly as a foal, holding out her hand to help me off the ground.

“He can’t do it, but I can.”

“What?”

“If you want a tattoo, I can do it for you.” She shrugged as if tattooing someone was something any teenage girl could do.

“Don’t talk bullshit!”

“Welp, the choice is yours.”

She started walking away.

I dropped to my knees in the sand and watched her walk away, not turning my head once to see if I had changed my mind.

But I had changed my mind.

“Wait!”

She stopped. A moment passed. And another. Then she turned around. She crossed her arms and waited.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. And you?”

“I just turned fifteen. Can you really do it?”

She came up to me, stretched out one leg, and I couldn’t miss the red rose tattooed on her ankle.

“I can.”

“Will it hurt?”

She snorted. “Well, of course! But no more than it would hurt if he tattooed you.”

I guess she was right about that, though I’ll never know for sure. Because Cass is the only person who has ever tattooed me, and I have several tattoos of hers. That first day, we waited on the beach until her father closed the salon. Then we sneaked in, and she adorned the skin of my pubic bone with a pretty gold padlock, locked and chained.

She asked me why I wanted that design, but I didn’t tell her. Not then. And even later, I didn’t explain everything to her. I only let her see the surface without going deep. And even though she is my best friend, I don’t think I ever will.

That tattoo and the ones that followed are for me alone. They are secrets and triumphs, strengths and weaknesses. They are a map, and they are memories.

Above all, they are mine.

“Who’s going to the party?” Cass asks after a while. “They’ve laid out the red carpet, right?”

“So I’ve heard. But don’t get too excited. It’s a documentary, not a blockbuster movie. I imagine there will be a few big shots in the world, some agents, and maybe even some fourth-rate actors.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we’re going to walk a fucking red carpet. I guess I can cross it off my list of things I want to do before I kick the bucket.”

“I guess so. The dress is amazing, by the way. Where did you buy it?”

“At the Goodwill near Beverly Hills. It’s my favorite.”

Cass is now the owner of Totally Tattoo and makes a good living, but it wasn’t always like that, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her shop for clothes in boutiques.

“Usually, I just stick with a pair of $10 jeans and some cool T-shirts,” she continues. “But the other day, there was a whole rack of fancy second-hand clothes. I swear I didn’t understand those women. They put the clothes on once and then donate them.” She shrugs resignedly. “Oh well, what’s it to me? I had no problem taking advantage of their financial imbecility.”

“Not even looking so stunning, spending so little!”

“I’m telling you. You look great, too,” she adds.

“It’s the minimum. I spent two hours going over my ends and doing my makeup.”

I’ve had short hair since I was fifteen, which was when I said goodbye to my long wavy locks in favor of a hairstyle somewhere between garçon and pixie. Back then, all I wanted was a change, and the more radical, the better. Since shaving was too extreme, even for my state of mind, I didn’t go that far.

But I love the cut. According to Kelly, my hairstylist, it suits my oval face well and enhances my cheekbones. In the end, that didn’t matter to me. The only thing that mattered was that I liked what I saw in the mirror.

“I especially like the red ends,” Cass says.

“I know, right?”

I have dark brown hair with natural golden highlights. To be honest, I like it just the way it is, so I’ve never been tempted to follow in Cass’s footsteps and dye it pink, purple, or even plain red.

Still, tonight I wanted to brighten up my face a bit and asked Kelly to do a few color highlights for me. She went a step further and dyed the ends of a few strands to make the effect not only fun but also stylish.

“It looks great on you, yes, but I mean that the color matches your dress. Which is fabulous, by the way.”

“It should be fabulous… It cost me a fortune.”

I don’t spend my life rummaging through thrift stores like Cass, but I’ve never spent as much money on a dress as I did on this one. It’s fiery red, and although I decided on a knee-length cocktail style, I thought it was just as elegant and sexy as Cass’s floor-length outfit. And yes, when I spun in front of my dressing-room mirror, I tried to see myself through the eyes of Marcus Steele. Not because I wanted to look stunning—not completely, at least—but because I wanted to be the spitting image of success.

Of professionalism.

Of power.

“It looks great?” I ask Cass. “Don’t I look ridiculous? Or worse… too serious?”

“It’s perfect. You seem like a confident and competent businesswoman. And clearly, you’ve taken my advice and invested in a push-up padded bra because you even have a cleavage.”

“Bad bitch,” I say, but with all the love in the world.

I have an athletic build, thin and fibrous, which is great for finding clothes but not so great when trying to fill out a dress.

I wait for Cass to shoot me a sarcastic retort, but she doesn’t say anything.

“What?” I ask when I can’t take it anymore.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

It’s the sweetness of her voice that touches my soul. Cass is loud, and I’m used to that. Coming from her, sweetness can break down my defenses.

“I’ve worked my ass off on this project. I’m not going to let it go down the drain if I can save it.”

“Even if saving it makes you suffer?”

I force myself not to wince.

“He wouldn’t make me suffer.”

“Damn it, Gabriela, he’s already done it. Do you think I didn’t notice? No one knows you better than I do, and in case you’ve forgotten, I was the one who tattooed your back when you got back from Atlanta. I know how screwed up you were, and I swear to God, if working for Dermont hadn’t boosted your spirits, you would have completely fallen apart.”

“Cass, don’t…”

“Don’t what? Don’t worry about you?”

“That was five years ago. I left it behind.”

“And now you have it in front of you again.”

“No,” I protest, and I cut myself off because she’s right. “Okay, maybe yes. Yes. You got me. I’m getting into the lion’s den. Lighting a match at a gas station. Leaping into the void. Choose the metaphor you want because I don’t care. I have to do it.”

“Because?”

“Are you serious?”

“No. I understand you. I’ve seen how you worked on this project. I know how much it means to you. It’s like me and the salon. I used to love working for my dad, but it’s better now that the business is all mine. I feel, I don’t know, adult. Complete.”

“Yeah. The same happens to me.”

“It’s just that he’s already said no, hasn’t he? He told Dermont, and now he’s refused to even meet with you. So do you really think you can change his mind?”

“I have to believe it,” I reply. Right now, pure and hard optimism is the only thing I’ve got going for me.

“Oh, dear. Don’t say that.”

I lean forward to take her hand.

“I can do it. And nothing will happen to me.”

“Oh really?”

“I’m not as fragile as before. I can do it,” I repeat to convince myself too.

“Yeah, fuck,” she says, though her weak smile belies her words.

“Come on!” I cheer her up. “How am I going to fail with how stunning I am?”

That makes her laugh.

“You’re right,” she admits. “In other words, you are here to slay. And, girl, I remember when you were so scruffy that not even a dog would want to lick you.”

“Yeah, right…”

I spent my last years of high school trying hard to be invisible. It was Cass who brought me to my senses the summer before I left to study at the University of California, Los Angeles.

It was a day I remember like it was yesterday. It was Tuesday, and we had decided to visit the campus that would soon become my home. A couple of senior students gave us a good run-through, and my immediate reaction was to hunch my back and cross my arms.

“Are you stupid or what?” she asked me with that delicacy of hers.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, come on, Gabriela. You have to stop doing that. You’re hot, and you hide it by putting on those hideous sweatshirts and baggy jeans. And the hair…”

“I’m not going to leave it long!”

“Have you considered, I don’t know, combing it?”

I put my hands in the pockets of my baggy jeans and stared at the sidewalk.

“Hey,” she said, more sweetly. “I understand. Really. Make yourself comfortable on my shrink’s couch, and I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on in that little head of yours.”

“Oh well, I didn’t explain what happened so you can analyze me,” I snapped.

“You know what? I don’t care. Because you’re my best friend, and I love you, and you’re handing over power to that motherfucker on a fucking silver platter.”

“I’m not giving him anything,” I argued. “He is gone. He’s long gone. Thank God.”

“Shit. He’s the reason you walk around like you want to be seen as the typical chubby. You may not have seen that jerk since you were fifteen, but he’s with you every fucking day.”

I clenched my fists, annoyed.

“Don’t even think about going there,” I said.

I raised my head and took a step toward her.

“Too late.”

Cassidy was only about three inches taller than me, but she always had a commanding presence, and her shadow overwhelmed me. And that only infuriated me more. I was suffering. I was lost. And not even my best friend had my back.

“Don’t fucking do it.”

“Don’t do what?” she asked. “Don’t tell you the truth? A perverted photographer took advantage of you because you were young and beautiful, and you still do everything you can to not notice yourself? Fuck that. You were fourteen, fourteen! The bastard was him.”

I shook my head slowly; my eyes stung, but I didn’t cry. I wanted to run, but Cass was the one I always went to, which meant I had nowhere to go this time.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

It was enough.

“Damn it, Gabriela,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You don’t get it? That jerk took your virginity. But he didn’t make you his. You’re smart, and you’re pretty, and he can’t take that away from you. You have to admit it. Because every time you hide under shit like this,” she added, tugging at my ugly gray sweatshirt, “you’re letting him win. If you want to get your life back, then get it back! And do it by taking advantage of that body you have.”

Now, sitting in the back of the limo in my sexy red dress, I can still feel my stomach twist as Cass talks about what Bob did to me during those months when I was fourteen. But more than that, I remember how comforted and secure I felt just knowing that I had a friend who really loved me.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

Cass cocks her head and obviously doesn’t know what I mean.

“Because?”

“Because of this,” I reply, touching my dress. “If you hadn’t scolded me years ago, I probably would have come tonight in a tracksuit.”

“Not if you came with me,” she says, and we both laugh.

“Hey, Gabriela,” she says after a moment. “I just want you not to get mad at me again. In fact, you never explained to me what happened with Steele, but I know you well enough to know that with men and relationships, you get pretty scratchy.”

“That’s a mild way of putting it,” I agree.

I don’t need a psychiatrist to know that I still have problems.

“Have you slept with anyone since Atlanta?”