Haze - By Andrea Wolfe Page 0,88

Hi, George?

George eagerly greeted him and they shook hands as if they were old friends. After a few additional moments of conversation—Jack quickly realized how overwhelmed I was by the situation—he steered Stacy and I back into our little clique.

And by that point, she and I were both pretty drunk. We all hung out and laughed for a while, enjoying the Hollywood atmosphere and the nice weather. A guy walked up to Stacy and started talking.

"Oh, Dan! Awesome to see you." They hugged each other as Jack and I stood on the sidelines. "Dan, this is Jack and Effie. I hope you can figure out which one is which."

"God, the Jack Teller," Dan said, his face as bright as a neon light in the dark. He looked to be around Jack's age, a little shorter, not as good looking. He had jet-black hair that matched his navy blue button-up dress shirt. Presumably, he was good at his job, whatever it job was.

"Yeah, that's me. How do you know Stacy?" Jack asked inquisitively, deflecting attention away from himself.

"We went to high school together. Now I work for MCI out here after moving from NYC. Goddammit, Jack, you just won't give us an answer, will you? Lexy Brown's gonna be the next big thing, and I know you fuckin' know it."

I gulped, suddenly feeling my heart drop from my chest. I had to look at the ground to verify that it hadn't actually departed from my body and landed on the ground with a splat.

Dan just said MC-fucking-I. The assumed sleaze just got sleazier.

Oh, shit. Was this actually happening? Of all of the random people we could run into at a Hollywood party, it happens to be a representative of MCI. Well, George Clooney, too.

By the time I looked up at Jack, Stacy was already speaking, her lowered inhibitions like deadly machine gun fire. "Effie works for MCI in New York like you used to!"

It was a conversational addition intended to be harmless, a common ground between Dan and me. The sort of thing that contributed to a smoother, more languid discussion. The holy grail for the socially awkward person struggling to make small talk.

And then I felt like I was in one of those medieval torture devices, my limbs being stretched until the bones popped right out of their sockets.

Ouch!

At that moment, I wanted to be in space. Floating around, doing nothing. Not responsible for anything serious or meaningful. Just enjoying zero gravity and the fact that I was as far away from this as I could humanly get. If I could wander away to another planet or galaxy, that would be fine too.

Snap out of it.

"Kind of," I blurted out impetuously. "Accounting stuff. Temp position. Nothing important. I, uh, barely know anyone." I rattled off my points as if I was reading a grocery list. I swiftly realized that by saying anything at all, I was narrowing my escape routes, whittling them away until I was only left with crippling honesty—the truth.

"So what the hell are you doing out here with Jack? Did Sam tell you to—" Dan let out a reprehensible laugh. Reprehensible was the only way I could describe it. "You know what I mean."

Jack's arm around my back suddenly felt like a scarlet letter, as if my flesh had been branded with a mark that said, You just fucked up. Kiss everything you know and love goodbye. I needed his shelter in that moment as much as I needed to just escape it, to salvage the battered body of my career.

Stacy was still grinning, pleasantly oblivious to the internal turmoil I was coping with. I looked at my Hollywood role model with reproach, the alcohol only fueling my emotional fire. Dammit, what made any sense anymore? Hating my hero? Although the ride with Jack had been a wild one thus far, I couldn't have ever predicted this addition to life's very big scrapbook.

I didn't have any excuses or stories I could summon to protect me. Time had stopped while I wallowed in obvious embarrassment. Well, at least I thought it was obvious.

This moment was literally my career versus Jack—I couldn't see it any other way. It was the fight of the century. The bullet had already hit, so I just couldn't dodge it anymore.

"That's pretty fucking rude," Jack said coldly, rising to my defense. "Are you suggesting that she is some kind of 'paid entertainment' from the label? If you really want to fuck up the deal,