Reunion Girls (24 page)

In answer, Finn silently reached for her hand.

They were quiet for a long time. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, but Lara lay there, wide awake now, fully cognizant of every throbbing pain in her head and every rumbling wave in her stomach. She had not been exaggerating to Privi. This was indeed worse than the last time. But it had been worth all the discomfort . . .

The trouble started just minutes after Dean Paul left. Room service brought up three bottles of Cristal.

Lara shouted at the attendant when he rolled the cart inside, "Sir, there's been a mistake. Get that out of here!"

Gabrielle rushed to intercede. "Don't pay any attention to her," she told the young man. "She has these episodes from time to time. It's very sad." With that, she pressed a crisp fifty-dollar bill into his hand.

The attendant left happy.

The cart stayed.

Babe popped the first bottle. She screamed as the cork exploded, fizz shooting out like a geyser, drenching the floor.

Gabrielle stood waiting with her glass, practically jumping up and down in anticipation. "Me, me, me!"

Babe, the de facto bartender, took care of Lara next.

But Lara refused. "No way. I swore to myself after the last time. I almost died. I'm serious."

"You have to take one sip!" Gabrielle demanded. "I have a toast!"

Babe nodded encouragingly and held out the glass.

Reluctantly, Lara took possession of it. "Okay.
One toast.
But that's all."

They formed a circle, a troika of Dean Paul Lockhart survivors—the tall, patrician blonde, the edgy, striking brunette, and the beautiful Black American Princess. Together they raised their glasses.

"In the words of Willa Ford," Gabrielle began.

The name didn't ring a bell. "Is she a poet?" Lara asked.

Gabrielle smiled. "Um . . . sort of."

Babe laughed.

Lara could tell she that was on the outskirts of an inside joke. "What?"

“She was a poor man's Britney Spears for five minutes,” Babe added.

Lara was still confused. "Well, this should be interesting."

Gabrielle cleared her throat. "I'm paraphrasing, so bear with me. Okay. Here's to the men we love to love . . . here's to the men who passed on us . . . screw the men, let's drink to us!"

From that first sip, Lara was a goner. It was a sentiment that she could really drink to. And she did.

With the opening of the second bottle, Babe stepped up to recite the brilliant toast, and she put her own spin on it. "Here's to the men we love . . . here's to the men we can't trust . . . screw the men, let's drink to us!"

"Yes!" Lara squealed, thinking of Joaquin Cruz and downing her glass. She was the first to demand a refill.

And then came the ritualization of bottle number three. Lara's turn at the invisible podium. By now, she was buzzing like a chainsaw, silly and loopy and thrilled to be with her friends of yesteryear. She raised her glass, but every time she started to speak, an attack of the giggles sidelined her.

Gabrielle was laughing so hard that her body shook. "Baby girl, you've got to get through it. Now stop. Be serious."

Babe looked at Lara, then back at Gabrielle. "I don't think this girl can do it."

"Yes, I can!" Lara insisted. "Just don't look at me. If I make eye contact, I'll lose it again."

Babe turned to the exit.

Gabrielle focused on the balcony.

And then Lara took in a deep breath. "Here's to the men who . . . wait a minute . . . let me start over . . . here's to the . . . you know what . . . forget all of that." Her words were slurring a bit, but she knew what needed to be said. "There's only one part of this toast that really matters. Do you know what I mean?" She stood up on the coffee table, wobbling a little. “Screw the men, let's drink to us!"

Babe and Gabrielle screamed in unison.

Even as tipsy as she was, Lara could sense her eyes widen in disbelief. "Oh, my God! I said
screw!
" And her champagne glass went bottoms up in celebration of the act.

Babe and Gabrielle moved fast to negotiate her down from the coffee table.

"You are one drunk bitch," Gabrielle told her, making the horrible word sound like a term of endearment. "Keep both feet on the ground. Okay, baby girl?"

Lara's head began that awful spinning sensation. "Am I your bitch?" she asked. "Isn't that what they say?"

"Yes, girl," Gabrielle answered, putting an arm around her shoulder. "You're my bitch."

Lara reached out for Babe. "And you're
my
bitch."

Babe tossed over a look of amusement. "And you're the whitest girl I've ever heard try to talk black."

Everybody howled with laughter, and the slumber party rocked on.

Remembering the endurance trick from that night at AKA Bomb Threat's house in East Hampton, Lara raided the minibar and chased down a can of Red Bull.

Babe commandeered the stereo, choosing a satellite station that specialized in hits from early Y2K. It was a nonstop mix that brought back a flood of college memories. “Hey Ya!” by OutKast. The disco twirler “Waiting for Tonight” by Jennifer Lopez. The anthem "In Da Club" by 50 Cent.

Gabrielle ordered a feast from room service, one of almost every single item on the menu. They sampled each dish greedily, and the sustenance went a long way toward soaking up some of the alcohol in their empty stomachs.

Baby Bear kept a discreet eye on the activities but mainly tried to avoid them altogether.

The room service carts were wheeled into Gabrielle's bedroom. Then everybody stripped down to undies and big T-shirts (courtesy of AKA Bomb Threat's drawer) and piled onto the king-size mattress to finish pigging out.

Babe dunked a luscious lump of lobster into melted butter and chunked it into her mouth. She stretched out to grab one of the empty Cristal bottles. "I've got a question for Lara."

Gabrielle's perfectly waxed eyebrows perked up with interest.

Lara experienced a subtle sense of dread as she wondered what could be coming down the pike.

"We got you to say
screw,
so I'm hoping you'll just continue this evolutionary shift into the trashy girl we always knew was dying to break out of that prep school shell." Babe grinned. She held the champagne bottle by the neck. "I've heard that Joaquin Cruz is . . . big. You're the only one in this room who knows for sure."

Lara just sat there. She may have been drunk, but she was still mortified. A blushing heat rose to her cheeks. "I can't talk about this! No matter how much I've had to drink!"

"We're your bitches," Gabrielle pressed. "Just give us a hint. Come on, this is a pajama party. We're supposed to talk about men and sex. It's a rule. I think it's officially in the girl code."

Lara covered her face with her hands, then played peek-a-boo just long enough to say, "It's
huge"
before diving headfirst into the pillows.

There were squeals of laughter.

"Jake is big, too," Babe said. "But that man is just a memory now. I'll never let him near me again."

Lara rose up, her giddy mood deflated. "The same goes for me. Not with Jake, I mean. That other louse. What's-his-name."

Babe and Gabrielle searched Lara's face.

She told them about Joaquin's friendly rivalry with Eddie Azzar and their sick game's accompanying private Facebook page.

"The Top-Shelf Club?" Babe repeated incredulously. "How about the Sleazebag Society? What a misogynistic pig. His mother must have done some kind of number on him growing up. Why else would he have such contempt for women? And the scary thing is that he hides behind all that charm and those slick seduction moves."

Lara shook her head. "It makes me feel like some kind of desperate woman who got bilked by a grifter."

"You shouldn't feel that way," Babe said firmly. "This isn't the kind of man that you look at after the fact and go, 'What the hell was I thinking?' Joaquin pushes all the right buttons. I've seen him do his thing at parties around town. You'd have to be inhuman or a lesbian not to respond. How was the sex?"

"The earth moved," Lara said matter-of-factly.

Babe shrugged easily. "Well, at least it wasn't a total loss. I've slept with more than a few creeps who were terrible in bed. Now that's when true regret sets in. Realizing that you put yourself through hell and couldn't even get a decent orgasm out of the deal."

"Are you nervous about ending up on that Facebook page?” Gabrielle asked.

Lara said nothing. But the fact was, fear of that gnawed away at her.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of that," Babe announced.

Lara was moved by the protective tone in her voice. "What do you mean?"

"I know a computer geek. He helped me set up a file transfer program for special projects. This kid can do anything. I'll have him crack into that page, destroy it, and leave a special little message for that son of a bitch."

Lara couldn't stop the smile from curling onto her lips. "But isn't that illegal?"

"Technically, yes," Babe admitted. "So is cheating on my taxes. I still write off every trip to the spa as a work-related expense. Relax. This is a no-sweat gig. My guy can get through any firewall or intrusion-detection software. Consider it blasted out of cyberspace."

Lara smiled gratefully at Babe. There was something she wanted to know, though. It could possibly cast a pall on the camaraderie, but she decided to take the chance. "Dean Paul seems to have accepted the idea of your book project."

"What book project? His family put an end to it."

Lara and Gabrielle traded meaningful glances.

"That movie star mother was the real trump card. But we hashed out our problems tonight, and things are fine between us. It was a cheap, moneygrubbing move on my part. I'll admit that. Still, I felt entitled. And I think he understands where I was coming from."

"It's all for the best," Lara said. "Your first book should be a celebration of your style and talent. When all was said and done, I think you would have regretted that book. Especially the way it got played up in the columns. You're an artist, Babe. A good artist. I've always thought of you that way."

Babe grinned wryly. "I've been a hack for so long that I don't know what it means to be an artist anymore." She turned to Gabrielle. "You're awfully quiet."

There was a beatific smile on Gabrielle's face. "I'm just listening. I love this. Us, I mean. All defenses down... and we're... here for each other. I can't explain the feeling. It's just really nice."

Babe yawned, stretched, and fell back onto the bed.

Lara dropped next.

Then came Gabrielle.

Shoulder to shoulder they lay there, gazing up at the ceiling, giggling like schoolgirls at a sleepover.

It was Babe who started the call-and-response game. "Okay. Secret celebrity crushes. Everybody fess up. Mine's Ryan Gosling.”

"George Clooney," Lara said.

"Brad Pitt," Gabrielle chirped.

"Long hair or short?" Babe asked.

Gabrielle thought about it. "Long."

"Okay," Babe began. "Let's see . . . Uh . . . the first time you had sex. Who was it and where did it happen?"

"You first," Lara said. She nudged Babe playfully.

"Chad Lafferty. I was fifteen. He was the ticket taker at the multiplex. We did it in his brother's Dodge Charger." Babe bumped Lara.

She hesitated a moment. "Believe it or not, my first time was with Dean Paul. At his apartment."

"Wow," Babe said. "That explains a lot. Gabrielle, what about you?"

"Morgan Atwood." Her voice had an edge. "We were sixteen. It happened in his bedroom on a Saturday night when his parents were out of town. And if you go to
TMZ
and read
Star
magazine, you can learn every thrilling detail. Straight from the source."

There was a pregnant pause.

Babe broke it. "One more—scariest experience of your life. I guess mine would be the time I got mugged at gunpoint. I was running on the Williamsburg Bridge. Three years ago. The guy was high. I really thought it was over for me."

"Oh, God!" Lara exclaimed. "I can't imagine that kind of violation." She mulled the question for her own answer. "I suppose my scariest experience would be getting lost at the beach when I was four. My parents couldn't find me for two hours. I'll never forget that. I had nightmares for years."

"Gabrielle, you're up," Babe said.

But not a single word was spoken. The silence ticked away.

Babe yawned again. "She must have fallen asleep."

Lara sensed otherwise and turned to see for herself.

Gabrielle's eyes were wide open. She looked terrified . . .

Lara was shaken from her reverie by the distinct aroma of the cure as Privi came shuffling into the bedroom with the magic recipe—a steaming cup of beef bouillon and a glass of cold whole milk.

Privi glanced at the sleeping Finn. "You're the one who's supposed to be resting."

"It's just a catnap," Lara whispered. "He'll wake up any minute and start asking about his grilled cheese sandwich."

Privi muttered something under her breath and walked out.

Lara adjusted Queenie's blanket.

The telephone blasted to life.

She reached for the cordless, which forced her to face the bouillon and the milk. Not an easy confrontation. "Hello?"

"I left messages on your mobile phone and with your housekeeper." It was Joaquin. "Why haven't you called?"

"I've been under the weather," Lara said.

"I could come over and give you a sponge bath."

She had hoped that the sound of his voice would do nothing for her, that all of her desire for Joaquin Cruz would have simply evaporated. But none of that was true. In spite of everything she knew, Lara still wanted him.

"Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"So tell me what can I do to make you feel better. I'll do anything, baby. Just say it."

Go to hell.
Three little words. So easy to say. So appropriate to deliver. Oh, God, she wanted to tell him exactly that! Yet what came out of her mouth was entirely different. "Tomorrow."

And then Lara hung up and began to sip on the bouillon. She planned on taking in every drop. The milk, too.
Come on, cure. Work your magic. I need to get better. Fast.