Page 90 of Score
Desiree pulls me in for a tight hug, the same jasmine perfume she wore back in college familiar and comforting. She used to sport braids, but now her hair is shorn so closely I see her scalp. It throws her angular features into striking relief. The heavy listlessness from the last few days lingers, but I’m glad I pushed through it to come support my girl.
“Good to see you, too, sis,” I mumble into her shoulder. “Loved the movie.”
Six feet tall barefoot, Desiree pulls back and peers down at me, hope and pride shining in her brown eyes. “For real, Tee? You liked it?”
“I believe I saidloved. Don’t take words out my mouth.” I reach for her hand and squeeze, willing her to believe me. “It’s your best, Ray. I’m so happy for you.”
“This calls for celebration!” Her grin widens. “Dinner after?”
“There’s food here,” I laugh, gesturing around the minimalist space and grabbing ginger ale and a fancy hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray.
“Now, Verity, you know we celebrate with grease and calories.”
We’re still laughing when the director Peter Shu makes his way across the crowded room to join us.
“We did it,” Peter says, beaming at Desiree. “And they love it.”
“You brought it to life,” Desiree replies, ever humble.
“It was a great script,” Peter says, turning his attention to me. “Verity Hill, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Hi.” I discreetly swipe at my mouth for any stray crumbs. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’re working on that Canon Holt biopic, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I run a suddenly sweaty palm over the slinky material covering my hip.
Is this dress too revealing? Does it say serious writer whom you should definitely work with someday?
“I’m hearing great things about it,” Peter says before turning back to Desiree. “Can I steal you for a second? There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Um, sure.” Desiree glances at me, brows knit. She knows I hate parties. “Will you be—”
“I’m fine.” I give her a gentle nudge. “I’m gonna mingle for a bit. Grab me when you’re ready to go.”
Desiree’s face brightens and she follows Peter, flashing me a quick grin over her shoulder as she goes.
“Mingle, my ass,” I mutter, dropping the smile and kicking off my shoes as soon as they leave. I lean against the wall and my hand strays to the neckline of my dress where I’ve pinned the small heart pendant Mama was wearing the night I lost her. As one of her few belongings salvaged from the fire, it holds tremendous sentimental value, but it has also become my talisman when depression encroaches. I stroke the sharp point and the rounded edges, letting it ground me. This unassuming trinket is an anchor that helps me stay present when my mind wants to wander in social situations.
“Wow, Verity,” a guy drawls from beside me. “You look even better than the last time I saw you. Didn’t think that was possible, but I guess winning a Golden Globe does lend a certain glow. Congrats, by the way.”
Tall, with dark hair, blue eyes, and too-white smile, he presses one shoulder into the wall I’m slumped against, his heated stare roving over my body in the fitted dress, lingering on the skin exposed by the low-cut bodice. I squint at him, taking in his athletic build in well-tailored slacks and sports coat. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t be sure.
“Um, thanks,” I reply cautiously. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
The too-white smile dies and he straightens, his expression outraged.
“Are you serious?” He scowls.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, injecting as much sincerity into the apology as I can. “I meet a lot of people and—”
“And I guess you fuck a lot of people?” he snaps, his tone turning nasty. “You fuck so many guys, you forget their faces?”
“Actually, I usually prefer fucking girls, so not that many men make the cut. For me tonotremember you when there are so few…” I shrug and sip my ginger ale. “You don’t happen to have a very small dick, do you?”
“Bitch,” he snarls. “I don’t care if you won ten Golden Globes, you don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’d be fine not talking to you at all. You’re the one who came over here like I’m supposed to recognize your dick on sight.”
