Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,28

and scanned the room. Froze.

“Lee?” I leaned closer to her. “Is that Tatiana over there?” I didn’t point but Leanna followed my line of sight to where two of the photographers were flashing non-stop at a tight knot of tall, well-dressed people.

The woman was stunning in real life.

“Yes, she’s the face for the line.”

“Oh.”

“What?” Leanna made an impatient gesture that sent some of her Blueberry Stretch sloshing over the side of her glass. She looked sadly down at the rest of it.

“They were dating not so long ago. I mean, like, maybe two, three weeks?” I took another sip of my drink.

“They, as in—” Leanna’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me Daniel Hartmann dumped Tatiana for you? Because oh my god if that is true!”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying it’s weird to see her. She’s this famous, gorgeous model, and here I am in your dress—a complete nobody.”

“Ah.” Leanna drained the last of her drink. “At least we know the bartender, right?” She whirled around, ordered another from Scott.

An hour later, a bit tipsier, having made the rounds of the space a few times, had a few random conversations with the few people Leanna knew and with the few people to which we were brave enough to introduce ourselves, I found myself dancing two feet from Tatiana, who had let her hair down from her high ponytail and now looked like the sort of sultry woman that would be hanging on Daniel’s arm.

“We should go,” I whispered, both fascinated and appalled. And sickly jealous. After being with a woman like Tatiana, with several women like Tatiana, what on earth could Daniel possibly see in me?

Except the chance for more revenge?

The thought chilled me, but the movement of the crowd on the dance floor, a round of shouts above the music and noise of the party, drew my attention.

There was some sort of fight. Leanna grabbed my arm, but then that gorgeous, nearly six-foot tall, pole-thin model came crashing into us, and sent all three of us stumbling back.

Tatiana offered a slurred apology and then stalked drunkenly away. But the fight was still happening, only it was another gorgeous, tall woman and an almost-as-gorgeous man yelling and gesticulating at each other.

Leanna tugged at me and we moved away just as the photographers were moving in. We fought against the crowd that seemed to be going in the opposite direction, as if what was happening on the dance floor were the planned entertainment for the night.

The bathroom was nearly empty with only one of the five stalls filled. Leanna closed a stall door behind her. I waited by the sinks, staring at myself in the mirror. I looked good in the black shift dress, with chunky eighties-inspired jewelry. But my hair was damp at the temples from dancing and my face looked a little softer after two Original Blues.

I pulled my cell phone out of the clutch, half-hoping there would be a message on it that I hadn’t heard in the din of the party. Only the time in red, digital numbers glowed back at me. It was nearly midnight and both Leanna and I had to work in the morning.

How different from six months earlier when, as students, we’d stay up all night and then stumble into class.

“Home, right?” Leanna called from inside her stall.

The door to the handicapped stall opened and Tatiana stepped out. Of course she would. It was exactly the sort of bizarre event that happened on nights like these. The Czech model scanned me in a quick glance, as if she didn’t recognize the person she had crashed into moments before. Then with an imitation of her catwalk stride, she stumbled toward the sinks.

“Yeah, home,” I called back to Leanna, trying desperately to act like I didn’t care that Tatiana was inches away, also staring in the mirror. Staring at me.

“You might not want to go out there,” I said finally, breaking the uncomfortable, all too aware silence. “That fight drew a lot of attention.”

Tatiana laughed, shook her head, which sent her professionally-managed honey-blonde mane shaking down her back as if she were in a commercial for shampoo. My comments seemed to have broken whatever reflective mood she was in.

“Don’t worry about me, honey,” she said with a smirk. “Not all of us are uncomfortable with attention.”

• • •

The words stuck with me. I’d never thought of myself that way but after Daniel lecturing me about my art and now this, I was