Is Grayson with her?
Where is he?
I ignore them as best I can, keeping my eyes straight ahead as I stride for the doors, trying not to trip on the skyscraper heels Harper insisted I wear. The bouncers don’t ask us any questions or check our IDs— they just clear a path and let us walk inside, where a hostess is quick to take our coats and lead us to our table.
The supper club atLimbois famous, thanks in no small part to a popular rapper who included a line about their cheese puffs in his latest number one hit. The ritzy upstairs restaurant caters to the LA elite, with a wine list longer than my arm and an ever-rotating food menu that even the harshest critics are hard-pressed to find fault with. On the surface, the space is completely refined and romantic — low lighting, marble embellishments, geometric pendant lights suspended from the ceilings at asymmetrical angles.
But then you notice the opaque floor.
See-through and sound-proofed, the dining room offers unobstructed views of the raging club scene directly below us. It’s a jarring juxtaposition — quiet elegance sitting twenty feet atop the writhing sub-level dance floor, where the flashing lights and madly-spinning DJ tracks keep the masses enthralled. I suddenly understand the nameLimbo— this place is both Heaven and Hell, contained within a single space.
I imagine the people downstairs can make out our blurred shapes if they squint up at the ceiling.
I think I saw the bottom of Rihanna’s heels! It was amazing!
“How fucking cool is this?” Harper hisses as we settle in at the table.
“Pretty fucking cool,” I concede. “Though I feel bad for Masters.”
“He didn’t have to come.” Harper shrugs. “He’ll be fine at the bar.”
I look for my security guard and find his hulking presence leaning against the sleek bar across the restaurant, his ever-watchful eyes scanning the room, his large hand gripping a glass of ice water. I sigh.
“I’m sure they could add a chair to the table…” My head tilts in thought. “But then he’d have to listen to us gossip about everyone in this restaurant.”
“Did you see Chris Pratt in the corner?” she murmurs, eyes darting surreptitiously at the tables around us. “And I’m almost positive that’s Ashton Kutcher, over there.”
I nod, trying not to let it show that I’m freaking out a bit, just being in such company.
“Admit it,” Harper whispers, leaning toward me. “Your life is pretty damn cool, Kat Firestone.”
She isnotwrong.
When the waiter returns, Harper orders a glass of wine. I stick to water, managing to play it off as another attempt at sobriety. We eat a delicious meal — fried zucchini flowers, shrimp risotto, and fresh fruit parfait. It costs a truly outrageous sum, but with a full stomach and a happy heart, I don’t mind a bit as I sign the check. We decide to hit the bathroom before we descend the steps to Hell, knowing the club stalls downstairs will be far more crowded than the ones up here.
Harper turns sideways to examine her body in the mirror. “God, I’m stuffed. Suddenly regretting the skin-tight dress. You can see the outline of my food-baby through the fabric.”
Better than myactualbaby,I can’t help thinking, staring at my own stomach.
“I should’ve worn my fat pants with the elastic waistband.” She frowns at her reflection. “Next time.”
“I thought you only broke those out on Thanksgiving?” I roll my eyes. “You look amazing. Relax.”
I’m touching up my lipstick when I hear the sound of the bathroom door swing in. Stiletto heels click irregularly against the tile floor, as though the girl wearing them is having trouble walking a straight line. When she steps into sight, her lips painted the trademark blood-red shade I recognize from a message she once scrawled on my dressing room mirror, I realize two things immediately — she’s highly intoxicated, and she hates me with a vehemence I’ve never before witnessed. I turn slowly to face her.
“Helena.” My voice is soft. Behind Helena, Harper’s eyes dart to mine, a question in their depths. I shake my head slightly, so she doesn’t interfere.
“You,” Helena slurs, stumbling closer. “You are a littlebitch.”
“And you’re a little wasted.”
Her perfect features, even prettier in person, contort into a mask of fury. “You stole everything from me.Violet.Grayson. You took it all.”
“I didn’t steal a damn thing from you, Helena. I never would’ve gotten your part, if you hadn’t screwed it up in the first place,” I remind her.
She’s past the point of listening.
“You’ll be sorry,” she promises, leaning closer. I can smell the alcohol on her breath, see the abnormal size of her pupils, refracting the mellow light of the bathroom like dark glassy pools. Clearly, she’s out of rehab — and off the wagon.