Lies, Love, and Breakfast at Tiffany's Page 3

  “You’re actually very pretty.”

  This didn’t feel like a compliment.

  “He’s drunk,” Adam said with a scoff.

  Also didn’t feel like a compliment, but for entirely different reasons.

  “I have my car outside, sir. Why don’t we get you back to the studio so we can get the final edits done on Sliver of Midnight? Then we can get it all signed off and turned in on time.” I spoke slowly and clearly to try to cut through the fog glazing over his unfocused eyes.

  “Do you dance, Sara?” he asked.

  I would’ve sighed, except that would’ve required me to take a deeper breath and fill my lungs with more smoke.

  I didn’t answer, refusing to allow him to sidetrack the conversation into meandering nothingness. “Are you ready to leave, sir?”

  “I’m ready to dance!” He used the table for leverage as he shoved back in his chair. The table knocked into my thigh hard enough that it would probably leave a bruise. I gasped, then coughed. A woman with a major cancer phobia did not belong in hazy dance clubs.

  He was on his feet and making sloppy grabs for my arm, which I avoided until Adam nudged me in Dean’s direction. “Just dance with him, Silvia, so we can get out of here.”

  I glared at Adam, gratified when he shrank back. Maybe he’d think twice before encouraging bad behavior.

  I turned to Dean. “Sir, it’s time to go—”

  But he already had my hands locked tightly in his as he swung them wide in rhythm to the music. He leered at me, and I shuddered. No wonder his wife insisted on a male secretary for her husband. He tugged my arms, forcing me to follow as he led us away from the tables and farther into the crush of bodies in the middle of the room.

  “You’re a good dancer!” Dean declared with a grin that looked manic. Like he had any idea if I could dance or not, since he was dragging me all over the place, not caring that he used my own momentum to knock me into other people who were on the dance floor with us. Without being able to see the right half of the room, I couldn’t avoid anyone.

  “Sir!” I tried to get his attention, to force him to focus on me with enough clarity to see reason. “If we don’t meet this deadline, it will be our jobs. They can’t push back the release date. We need to get back to the studio.”

  “I can’t hear you, Sara,” he said. “Music’s too loud!” He swung me out, letting go of one of my hands so that I had to flail wildly in an effort to regain my balance.

  Hands on my hips caught me and righted me on my feet again. I turned, expecting to thank Adam for paying enough attention to keep me from falling and being trampled by the writhing mob of dancers, when I realized my rescuer was someone else entirely.

  Someone I both loved and hated to see.

  Loved because Ben Armstrong was my friend, and seeing him made me feel like I finally had some support coming from somewhere. Hated because Ben had helped me get the job at Portal Pictures, and now he would witness how badly I was handling it.

  “Ben!” Shouting his name was all I could do before Dean pulled me back in.

  As I spun away, I saw a woman in a spangly dress the exact shade of ice-blue as Ben’s eyes standing next to him. Not that anyone could see his eyes in the muted lights of Burnout. But I knew Ben’s eyes. We’d worked side by side for three years at Mid-Scene Films. And now he was here? On a date? Oh, no.

  But rather than joining the throng of dancers or going back to find a cozy table somewhere, Ben wove through the crowd to follow me. “Are you okay?” he shouted above the music and tossed a worried look from me to Dean.

  “I’m—” I was about to say fine, but that wasn’t true. I had a drunken boss who wanted to dance instead of do his job.

  “Back off, pal,” Dean growled and yanked me to the opposite side of him, away from Ben.

  I apologized to the guy whose shin I accidentally kicked in the process and turned back to where Ben had been, but the pulsing crowd had already swallowed him. Dean reeled me close again. He pulled me tight, wrapping his arm around my back, which thankfully freed up one of my hands.

  People crowded against us. Even without seeing them, I felt the press of them against me, their energy and heat searing from my blind side. Anything could be in a mob like that.

  Crowd claustrophobia kicked in—hard-core. I could handle a lot of things. I could handle my boss being a sexist jerk. I could handle humiliation every now and again. But crowd claustrophobia? No.

  I dug my fingers into Dean Thomas’s hand and held on tight. Turning, I headed for the edge of the mass of ­people. I needed out of the crowd. If I had to punch my way through every single person—even the ones outside my field of ­vision—I was getting out, and that stubborn, horrible man who employed me was coming with because I wasn’t leaving without him.

  Think of meadows. Wide-open meadows with lots of fresh air and light and space. Think of open space, Silvia. I chanted this over and over in my mind as I dragged the dead weight that was Dean behind me. By sheer will, I broke through the mob’s inner circle and more easily moved through the fringes.

  Dean continued to jiggle behind me as if he was still dancing. His behavior definitely counted as a deviation from all the times he barely acknowledged me. I waved my hand in the air to allow him to believe we really might be dancing instead of taking part in an exit strategy.

  I finally got him back to the table where Adam still waited. I gave Adam—and the drink in his hand—a sharp look. “What are you doing with that? I thought you were scared of getting roofied. You don’t have time for drinks. We’re leaving!”

  The words had an immediate effect on Dean. He yanked his hand from my grip and shook his head. “I’m not leaving!”

  Well, so much for getting him to the car peaceably. Thanks for the assist, Adam.

  “Crowd claustrophobia kicking in yet?” Ben appeared from out of the crowd again.

  He’d been in a packed elevator with me once when I’d been stuck in the middle and incapable of really moving my head to see the people on my right. Naturally, the experience blew into a full panic attack. Ben knew how well I handled hordes of people, how not seeing them entirely frightened me.

  I nodded in answer to his question. “Yes, but we’re not staying, so I’ll be okay.”

  I wanted him to know he didn’t need to rescue me from my fear or pat my shoulder for an hour while I tried to ­settle my breathing into something normal. He’d done it once before, but I never wanted anyone to have to do it again. The fact that Ben had ever witnessed me in a full panic still embarrassed me.

  I looked Dean sternly in the eye. “Mr. Thomas! We are going back to the studio. I have a car waiting.”

  Ben’s eyebrows shot up with sudden understanding of why he found me in the middle of a crowded dance floor in a trendy club with a guy who was absolutely too old for this scene.

  Adam hurried to swallow whatever he’d ordered. Chances were good that he’d told the waiter to put it on Dean’s bill, not that I cared. It served Dean right to have to pay. If I could’ve put something on the bill, like a pizza or a box of donuts, I totally would have.

  “Time for drinks!” Dean slurred as he all but collapsed back into his chair.

  I tried to hold him up and propel him toward the door, but the man’s six-foot-two frame compared to my five-foot-six won. Instead of helping me, Adam waved a waitress over to take a drink order.

  “We’re not getting drinks!” I insisted.

  “Sure we are!” Dean countered as he threw an exaggerated wink at me.

  I did not want to interpret what that wink might have meant.

  “Dean Thomas!” Ben said over anything anyone else might have been about to say. “I love your work.”

  There it was. The most magical thing anyone in the business could hear: praise.

  Dean stopped leering at me long enough to send a lo
psided smile in Ben’s direction. Ben’s date smirked at how easily Ben conquered the situation. I would have smirked, too, except I knew the situation was far from conquered. Getting Dean’s attention was one thing. Keeping it long enough to get him into the car was another.

  And though I appreciated Ben’s help, this was my problem.

  “Ben, I got this. You and your date can go enjoy your evening,” I said.

  Ben, not listening to me at all, scooted Adam out of the seat he occupied next to Dean and took Adam’s place. “The scene changes and pacing on Mysteries of Cove were nothing short of genius.”

  Dean nodded with slow, deliberate motions. “Right? I told JJ those cuts were what the film needed. He argued the whole time. But I was right. All the reviews mentioned the pacing. Called it art. Art!” He burst out laughing. Dean’s head lolled back, so he was looking up at the ceiling. “I’m an artist.”

  “Definitely,” Ben agreed.

  So did I, actually. Dean had done some pretty great work in the past, which would make his current decay incredibly sad if it didn’t tick me off so much.

  Ben tossed me a reassuring smile.

  Ben’s date caught the smile and turned her full attention to me. She looked me up and down in an obvious show of measuring my worth. She narrowed her eyes, and then shrugged a bony shoulder and, with a sniff, looked away.

  I frowned, not liking that I’d been so quickly dismissed as not valuable.

  Granted, I was in a club where everyone dressed to impress, and I happened to be wearing a T-shirt from the premiere of one of the first films I’d ever edited. A very small premiere. Of a very small film. Which tanked. I still wore the shirt. I also had on black yoga pants and a pair of old Toms; I wasn’t even wearing socks. And where Ben’s date had hair that shined with a dark luster, my hair probably looked like a brown oil slick since it hadn’t seen the inside of a shower for days.

  Based on that, Ben’s date’s assessment of me might have been fair, but still. Ouch.

  I shook my head and refocused. His sparkly date had nothing to do with my presence in the club. I was here to get Dean Thomas back to the studio. The end.

  Ben still had Dean talking, chumming and schmoozing like some executive producer wooing the most sought-after talent.

  Adam ordered himself another drink. I glowered at him and shook my head. He quickly turned away and pretended not to see. Ben’s date ordered a drink as well, but Ben either didn’t notice or ignored it so he could keep Dean talking.

  “Hey,” Ben finally said, “I’d love to see more of your work, man.”

  Dean nodded. “You will. You will. I have lots of new films coming up. The light stays green in my studio.”

  I hated when Dean said that. It didn’t even make sense, since he didn’t have the power to green-light anything. He could only make a film when someone else gave the green light and someone else did the filming.

  “Great!” I said enthusiastically like I was trying to talk a toddler into handing over his candy. “Why don’t we all go to the studio, and you can show Ben what you’re working on now?”

  Or what I’m working on, I amended in my head.

  After four months of dealing with Broody Dean, dealing with Drunk Dean demanded a different skill set—skills not in my possession. I understood him when he was sullen, but this goofier version of him caught me off-balance.

  Ben nodded, understanding my motivation to get Dean out of the club, and getting on board with it. “I’d love to see what you’re working on right now. That would be amazing!”

  “Su-ure!” Dean slurred. “That’s a good idea. Gotta get to work anyway. My assistant’s always nagging at me. She never shuts up.” He squinted at me. “Hey! That’s you!” He started laughing.

  “Yep,” I agreed. “That’s me.” I flagged down the waitress to settle the bill. I somehow talked Dean into signing the credit card slip, and then Ben hoisted Dean up and supported him with an arm around his shoulder.

  “Let’s go back to the studio. You can show me what you got going on,” Ben said.

  His date finally spoke up. “I thought we were dancing tonight.”

  “I’ll come back as soon as I get him settled in the car.”

  She nodded, her silky dark locks falling forward. I fought to keep my hands from reaching up to pat at my own hair shoved back into a ponytail. I tried not to feel like a moldy old mop next to her.

  “I’ll come right back.” Ben flashed his date a smile, but she didn’t sit around waiting for him. She followed along with our procession to the parking lot. Ben held Dean’s right arm, and I held his left. Adam trailed behind us, up the stairs and out the door.

  At the car, Dean refused to get in. He wanted to talk to Ben some more. I rubbed my eyes, wishing I had a normal boss. Seeing Ben reminded me of how nice it was to work for a responsible, amiable boss. I missed it more than I’d realized.

  “I should go with you,” Ben said, lowering his lips to my ear so only I heard.

  I shook my head and whispered, “You’re on a date, Ben. I’m pretty sure you leaving with a different woman would be a deal-breaker.”

  The spangly date must have sensed the gist of the conversation, because she sighed and said in a kinder voice than her body language implied, “It’s okay, Ben. Even if you manage to get him in the car at this end, how will she get him out at the other? I get that you need to go.” She smiled at me. “It’s okay. Ben will be miserable if he doesn’t help. It’s against his nature.” She turned back to Ben. “If you can get back in the next hour, great. But if not, don’t worry about it.”

  Ben gave her a hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for understanding.”

  She shrugged. “I know you’ll worry if you don’t go. We can catch up some other time. Let’s just make sure that our ‘some other time’ is soon, okay?”

  The moment between them would have been sweet, one of those scenes where the sound editor would have amped up the romantic music and the director would have made sure the close-ups were perfectly framed as they surveyed each other in this moment of service and sacrifice. It would have been sweet, except Ben’s date had to dodge Dean, who’d decided kisses were for everyone and tried to land one on her lips.

  “Not for you, buddy!” she said, sticking a warning finger in his face and shooting him a look that was both withering and warning at the same time.

  I admired her. Not only had she made a legitimate sacrifice, but she was also right. I’d never get Dean out of the car again once we hit the office.

  “How will she get home?” I asked Ben, giving him one last out.

  “She has her own car,” he said. “We met here.”

  “What about your car?”

  “I’ll get it later. No big deal.” He turned back to Dean. “C’mon, Dean. Come show me where the magic happens.” Ben opened the car door, and gestured for Dean to get in. Ben kept his hand between Dean’s head and the frame of the car, and then scooted in next to him in the back seat before Dean could get any funny ideas about getting back out again. Adam took shotgun, and I slid in behind the wheel after handing the valet a generous tip for letting the car stay in the front.

  Sometimes, I really felt the inconvenience of having only one eye. It made it harder to split both my focus and peripheral vision between the road in front of me and the rearview mirror. “Thank you,” I mouthed when Ben caught me looking at him and our hostage, and not at the road.

  Ben smiled and clapped Dean on the back. “I could totally go for some coffee right now—how about you, Dean? A little coffee sound good?”

  “Coke and rum,” Dean answered. Then he laughed long and loud.

  Adam drummed the dashboard in front of me, and the noise made me want to shout at all of them to be quiet.

  Instead, I said over my shoulder to Ben, “I’m sorry about your date.”

  Ben s
hrugged. “Don’t worry about it. But it would make me feel better if you kept your eye on the road.”

  I laughed, which made Dean cackle even more. “Don’t panic, Ben. You’re safe,” I said.

  My assurance must have not been very assuring, because Adam halted his drumming fingers. “Wait. Is he seriously worried? Are you a bad driver?”

  “She’s not a bad driver. She’s a cyclops,” Ben said. “Silvia only has one eye.”

  I saw Ben grinning at me in the mirror, and he motioned with his finger for me to look forward again.

  Adam looked at me in horror. “What? One eye? Is it even legal to drive with only one eye? Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve driven!”

  As if I would have let Adam drive after he knocked back at least two full glasses of unidentified alcohol.

  Ben laughed. “Don’t sweat it, buddy. Your chances of dying in a car crash over the course of your life are one in a hundred and fifty-eight, regardless of who’s driving.”

  “What?” Adam checked his seat belt. “Is that true? One in a hundred and fifty-eight?”

  “Eight. Eight . . . Eeee-iiiight . . . That’s a weird word,” Dean said. “It doesn’t sound anything like it’s spelled.”

  Adam ignored our boss and his word dilemma in the back seat as he continued with his own breakdown. “Those are terrible odds. How would you even know such a thing?”

  Ben shrugged. “Well, statistics aren’t an exact science, and they vary based on circumstances. You know: inside the ­vehicle versus outside the vehicle, that sort of thing.”

  “Eeee-iiiight . . .”

  Adam sucked in a deep breath and muttered, “I think I’m walking from now on.”

  “Your chances of dying as a pedestrian are one in six hundred and forty-seven. So while the odds aren’t as high, it’s not like walking makes you immune to kicking the bucket.”

  Adam swiveled so he could look at Ben directly. “Who are you? Why do you even know that? Who knows stuff like that?”

  “What?” Ben said, seemingly unconcerned by Adam’s panic. “You never wonder about your own demise? You never stay up at night thinking, ‘How is it all going to end?’”