Chapter 19
New York City.
The girl who never sleeps just arrived in the city that never does neither. Time Square’s lights and billboards blend together as Val and I book it in our heels for Broadway.
“Impossible to get last minute,” Val says again of our theater tickets, in between panted breaths. “We absolutely can’t be late for this.”
As if I was the one who had to get her hair blown out and brows tweezed at the salon beforehand. After meeting up with Val in San Francisco none of my intentions panned out. Maybe glamour envy got the best of me. Maybe sheer curiosity, or that pesky adventurous spirit that’s always getting me into tomfoolery. Fact is, I’ve always wanted to see New York, and there was no reason not to accept.
With three minutes to spare, we slip through the theater doors and find our box seats.
The show is every bit as dazzling as the hype—the music, the acting, the ambiance—all of it seems to nestle down inside my chest like an assurance that more awaits. It’s about time. When the lights come on, the audience awards the stage with a standing ovation, and Val and I slip out to catch our hired ride to Gideon’s penthouse condo in Soho.
Feels like I’m on a theme park ride. Every moment more exciting than the next.
When we step out of the elevator on the building’s top floor it seems I stepped into an episode of Gossip Girl. I sorta feel like Jane Goodall, observing the elusive swank species in their natural habitat. Wide open space, sleek urban furniture that makes Ikea look like Goodwill, and a wall of windows overlooking the city. A player tinkers away at the white baby grand piano before the windows. Above our heads, people lean against a balcony railing. Behind them, lights flash on the high ceiling like a nightclub.
I hike up the top of my dress a little more—a strapless gold number I bought from H&M earlier, one that couldn’t never compete with all this glitz, but does bring out the color of my hair. Dress shopping is why Val and I got behind in the first place, why we didn’t get out of the salon till late and had to rush to the theater. But now that I think back, running down Broadway because I was late for my show, was totally badass. Besides, even if Donatella Versace dressed me herself, I still don’t think I’d be up to snuff around this rare and sparkly species.
Val steps over to a small bar, orders drinks, and carries two martinis back to where I stand. She fits in here—in her Tiffany-blue strapless pantsuit, a dainty silver chain dangling to one side of her hips. She hands me a martini while sloppily sipping her own. Droplets splash out over the top. She’s been tipsy since we left the show. Not a bad thing. The more she drinks, the easier it is to talk to her, which gives me no excuse. I need to brief her on Amanda, and find a way to reject her offer to recruit me.
“You know, I have to hand it to you,” Val says. “I’m not easy to impress, but Chandler Graves is prospect elite.” She bites an olive from its skewer.
This again? My guts clench down on each other.
“He’s not my BTDT,” Val says over the music.
“I know,” I snap. Yeah, I checked her crew review page. And every other FC member’s for Chandler’s name.
“I’m using my vivid imagination to picture him in action,” she says, “and to you, I’m awarding a compliment. Well done.”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I say calmly. I don’t like discussing him with her—feels all kinds of wrong.
Val makes a face. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the web today.”
The elevator at the other end of the foyer opens again. More socialites unload and crowd the area.
“That’s the second time I’ve heard you break the third rule,” I tell Val. “Not that I’m keeping track…”
“Vince Garrity,” she says. “There. Now you know the name of the heavyweight who topped off my score to 90. Eleven whopping points. Third rule broken. Even-Steven.”
She hiccups, covers her mouth with her hand, and giggles.
“The movie producer?” My jaw drops. Not just any producer, but one of the biggest names in Hollywood. “Isn’t he married?”
Val’s attention is on a couple of guys on the second floor at the railing. “I think I got him between wives.”
Not that it’s my place to judge, but I have to wonder…
“Whoa, so like, nothing’s off limits?” I ask. Because I really want to know.
Val flicks a brow at me. “That’s for you to figure out for yourself. It’s not only about us, you do realize this, right? We offer our prospects freedom. Even if only for a day or a night or hour. We interrupt the pattern of their daily grind, and our secrets breathe life into their mundane routines.”
She is so full of it. “It takes two. That’s what you’re saying?”
Noise and laughter come from the elevator again. A group of six or so people step off singing the words to an Ariana Grande song.
Beside me, Val scoops my arm into hers and guides me toward the staircase. “You’re moving up in the world, Zanne. Time to open up that mind you keep trying to close off. Come. You have people to meet.”
“I do?”
“Why do you think I asked you here? Many of the guests here fly Aether as VIPs.”
We climb the steps, arm in arm, our stilettos steady over each step of plush black carpet.
Val clutches my arm, her martini held carefully in her other hand. “Tell me, if you could pursue any prospect in the world, living or dead, who’d it be?”
Geez, I don’t want to play her games right now. Feels like she’s always roping me in tighter.
“Personally,” she says, “I love a challenge. Seducing someone of vast intellect, like Socrates, would be a total thrill. And someone with vast power, like Henry the VIII. Definitely someone of modern prestige, like Denzel… and just for fun, someone vastly delicious and full of charisma, like Tupac.”
She’s put some thought into this. Higher on the staircase, I catch the skyline outside the wall of windows. I’m here because of her, at the classiest soiree of my life. But not because she’s being nice. She’s grooming me, so one day she can collect as my team leader. She has no idea I want out. Even if I’m team-less for the rest of the year, it’s better than giving her my allegiance.
“Your turn,” Val says. “Who would you choose?”
“Oh, um, I dunno. Lou Gehrig I guess.”
Val regards me from a sideways glance. “The ALS guy from like a hundred years ago?” Her nose scrunches. “Over everyone in the world, living or dead?”
“My granddad had an obsession with old baseball cards, and Lou Gehrig was his favorite. He used to show it off, all packaged in plastic. He’d inherited from his dad. I was real young at the time, but I always thought Lou had a kind of attractive sadness about him. Mysterious like, even before he was diagnosed with ALS.”
“Oh, dear, you’re such a Tragedy Ann,” Val says as we reach the second floor. “But I suppose that’s what gives you your glowing soulful appeal.”
I don’t mention how Mama sold that baseball card when Nana got sick, in order to pay her bills and keep her property. Or how I hoped to one day inherit that card for myself.
Our heels click over the loft’s glossy tiles and we slide into the fray of dancers. Here, the mood is different, cooler, with deep trance-like jazz, instead of piano music.
“Is this more your speed?” Val asks me.
She drops my arm and sways to the music.
“Sort of.” I wouldn’t expect her to know swamp pop or zydeco. “Electronic jazz isn’t exactly what I grew up on, but this is nice.”
She’s not listening anyway. Her concentration is on the sway of her hips to the thumping bass, the martini glass held high in her hand.
A male dancer in a black tee and loose black slacks moves up toward Val. His hip-hop style seems contrary to Val’s highbrow image, but she welcomes him with an open arm. He slinks his body up against her. With a flirty smile, she teases him, tracing her fingers over his chest, under his chin, and he moves in even closer. Val turns and lets her hips sway at his waist, just before she shimmies away and blows him a kiss.
You can almost see the guy’s heart breaking. He flashes Val a pained face and tries to move in again. She wags a finger at him and steps out on her own. Another guy in a fedora tries to approach her. Val welcomes him, her shoulders bobbing gently. But he gets too close too quickly, his hands eager to grab onto Val’s hips, and she side-steps away from him in one swift, clean movement.
She sure is something. Always aware, even when you don’t think she’s paying attention. She has a grace about her, even when turning people away.
Val fixes her eyes on me. Quickly, I avert mine. Busted. I pretend to watch the other dancers.
She approaches me and leans in. “I want you to be my team liaison.”
My head jerks toward her. She does a twirl with her prim little smile, poised as though the paparazzi may show up any second.
What did she just say? Adrenaline spikes through my veins. “For what?”
She leans in again, her shoulder brushing mine. “FC. I need someone I can trust to moderate, keep an eye on things. I have my crew team to focus on. Everything would still go through me, but you’d be my liaison. My first officer, so to speak.”
Utter shock makes my jaw hang loose. “I’m not even on your team yet.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“But I thought there were no ranks within the club?”
Val flicks a brow. “Someone needs to make sure the cogs in the machine stay greased and turning.”
Or that the ratings keep coming and stars keep rising. That’s what she means. She wants me to do her dirty work. Unbelievable. If she weren’t Top Nobility, I’d give her a few choice words.
“Why me?” I ask. “Why not Grady?”
“Grady’s a drama queen, and unreliable. I need someone ambitious, who won’t let me down, who can keep me informed of goings on and encourage activity. There may come a time when an Exit Strategy must be invoked, for someone who’s neglecting the system.” She tosses a shoulder. “You and I work well together.”
Like Pam says, flattery will get you everywhere. But not this time.
“Don’t you think so?” Val asks. “You’re more like me than the others.”
My toes curl inside my strappy stilettos. That’s some bull to the shizz if I ever heard it. She and I couldn’t be more different.
“On the ground we have our differences,” Val says. “But up in the air, you and I are similar. You have a way with people, more specifically, with men. One has to be clever enough to separate the world’s standards from their own and rise to new heights. You’re on your way to Future Star status, soon, you’ll be a Rising Star like me.”
“What if I became a team leader myself?”
She lets out a laugh. “What a waste—you’d have to start from scratch. Once I recruit you to my team, your work will be cut out for you. Nothing will stop us. Together, we’ll rule the sky.” She holds a hand up in the air as if celebrating.
I watch her carefully. Her posture is sloppier than normal. She’s confiding in me, and I’m about to burst her bubble.
“Think about it,” Val says. “That’s all I’m saying. We’ll have a dream team working for us.”
Working for her.
“Once you’ve experienced the thrill of making your own routes and taking charge of your own life and career, you can take on anything.” She gives me a cutesy little grin, holds up her finger, and adds, “Trust.”
She turns and clicks her heels over the tiles toward the drink cart and strikes up conversation with a man waiting for a drink. After a few moments he smiles, leans in, and kisses her cheek.
Am I like her? She’s every bit the image I want for myself—classy, sophisticated, worldly, in control. But…
I turn my back. Outside, the full moon peeks out from between high rises. I need air. Abruptly, I head downstairs, through the ever-growing crowd, and out to a patio the size of a skating rink. A different ambiance here, too—breezy, less people, and spicy Latinx music from a deejay behind a set of turntables, his ear in a headset. A few people dance up on each other, laughing and showing off beneath strings of small white lanterns. A healthy fire inside a large stone fire pit sways to the music too.
I gravitate toward the concrete railing overlooking the sky. Pam loves Manhattan. She has so many stories about this city—so many celebrity run-ins, posh events, holiday excitement. Now I’m the one here, like she always said I could one day be. I should call her, share this moment. The skyline would make the perfect backdrop for a FaceTime call.
I select her name from my contact list. It rings and rings.
Finally, Pam picks up. “Zanne? Are you okay? Why’s it so noisy?”
“I’m in Manhattan, at a penthouse party. Look…” I hold up the phone for her to see.
“Oh, you are!” she coos. “Tell me everything.”
I go into a few details about the night, and she responds eagerly, but soon after, begins asking questions about work. I skate around them best I can and pretend I have to go. My chest tightens as I hang up. Pam’s the one person in the world who I should be sharing every success of my career with. Yet here I am, tight-lipped, avoiding details.
She can never know anything about Flight Club, or else everything will change between us. And now Val’s gone off the deep end. I can’t be her liaison. I have to end this once and for all.