Very Twisted Things (Briarwood Academy #3) - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,6

as a customer.

“Sorry. I don’t work here.” I indicated my e-reader and latte. “If you want more coffee, the employees wear black and white—you know, the people with aprons and name badges.” I smiled. I’d grown up with girls like her, Park Avenue Princess types who thought everyone owed them.

“Your shirt is black and white.” She nudged one of her girlfriends, and they both burst out in a fit of laughter.

I looked down at my black Ramones shirt and grimaced. Band shirts and flip-flops hadn’t always been my everyday attire. At one time, slinky and soft had been my go-to fabric. Couture even. I put my back to Blair, hoping she’d forget about me and move on. Although it was unlikely, the thought of her realizing who I was gave me hives. Literally. An itch had taken up on my back, between my shoulder blades.

She jabbed me on the arm again, this time more insistent.

I tensed and pulled as far from her as I could.

“Honey,” she said, the syllables drawn out and sugary enough to make me gag. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Blair Storm. I just wrapped up a James Cameron movie and a Maroon 5 music video with Adam Levine.” She preened as one of the girls in her group clapped excitedly. I halfway expected her to take a bow. “I’m one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, and if you don’t know that, then you must live under a rock. Now, be a sweetie and get me a refill.”

In my head, I tapped out “Rip Her to Shreds” by Blondie on my violin.

I scowled. “I’m fully aware of your awesome magnificence. And I’m not your sweetie.”

“What did you say?” she said, straightening up in her seat, glossy lips now in a straight line. The occupants around us froze, eyes bouncing from me to her. Even the manager speared me with a glare saying, Don’t bother the talent!

Anger bubbled up, and I opened my mouth to let her have it like I would have before the crash, but I froze, blood rushing to my face. My free hand—the one that wasn’t clutching the table—twitched to tap.

She thrust her cup at me again, eyes glittering like hard diamonds. “I must have misheard you.”

I ignored her and turned my head away, tucking myself close to the window. Pretty soon, I’d be splattered against it like a bug.

“Hello? Are you deaf?” she snapped, and I knocked my coffee over as I jerked up from my seat. Brown liquid seeped across the table and dripped on the floor. I watched it spread, unable to get napkins, unable to move. Paralyzed. My gut knew a panic attack was not far behind. I took up panting and tapped my leg.

She eyed me, her gaze flicking over my hands. “Clean-up on Aisle Stupid,” she called out over a mock microphone as the rest of her group tittered.

Every eye in the place swiveled to stare and I had a flashback to the day I’d gotten out of the hospital in Dublin. Reporters, photographers, gawkers—they’d swarmed me, camera lights flashing in my face. Geoff hadn’t made it to the hospital yet, so it had been a poor, unprepared nurse who’d pushed me in a wheelchair out to a waiting car, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about the horde. I’d braced myself for a question or two, but nothing like what hit me. They’d bombarded me.

How does it feel to be the only survivor, Miss St. Lyons? Like shit.

How did you manage to escape the plane and get on the seat cushion? By levitating, jerk.

What did you see when the bomb exploded? People dying, asshole.

Did you get to say goodbye to your parents? Fuck you.

“Hello? Are you still with us?” Blair smirked as she waved her hands in front of my face.

With nausea rolling around in my stomach, I bolted out the door of the Java and Me and stopped at my car, chest heaving like I’d run a marathon. I sagged against my car.

An airy voice came from behind me. “I don’t mean to pry, but that Blair’s a meanie who gets way too many lip injections and tummy tucks. FYI, she’s older than everyone thinks. Rumor is she paid ten thousand dollars to get a fake birth certificate that makes her ten years younger, which would mean that instead of the thirty-three she claims, she’s really forty-three. Which is like ancient in LA. And don’t even get me started on her