Page 5 of You Give Wine a Bad Name

Unfortunately, Lila’s text with the video clip of Angel had now left a sour taste on my tongue. I turned my phone towards Angie so she could see what I was looking at.

I huffed in disgust, rolling my eyes as I watched the footage. “Another nepo baby raised with a silver spoon in her mouth and a sense of entitlement to match. I bet she’s got an ego the size of California and probably uses autotune or lip-syncs her lyrics.”

Angie raised an eyebrow. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

I shrugged, a little annoyed that I’d let the video get under my skin. “I just don’t get it. Why do people go crazy for these stars who haven’t worked a day in their lives? My sister’s a huge fan of Angel, and I always thought she was smarter than that.”

Angie’s expression shifted, her eyes narrowing. “You’re being pretty judgmental there. You don’t know anything about her.”

I was caught off guard by her sudden defensiveness. “If she’s not fake, then why does she wear that mask? It’s probably a different woman in each city, and no one would even know the difference.”

“You're all wrong," she said, her eyes flashing as she stood up. She reached into her purse and tossed some bills onto the counter. "Angel is an artist. She’s serious about her craft. You know nothing of the industry, or of her."

Her indignation struck me, an echo of something fierce and protective that I recognized in myself. The air between us crackled with electricity, the intensity of our exchange igniting a fire I hadn't anticipated.

"Done wasting my time here," Angie continued, her words holding a finality like the punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. She turned on her heel, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder as she stormed out.

However, in her haste maneuvering around a large group, I saw her bag tumble from the crook of her arm, dropping onto the floor. But she didn’t pause or look back, and the door swung shut behind her.

I bolted from behind the bar and hurried after her. Grabbing the small clutch off the floor, I followed her outside. The cool night air wrapped around me as I burst through the door, chasing her fading silhouette. She was moving quickly, like a wisp of smoke carried on a determined breeze.

"Angie! Wait!" My voice cut through the quiet street, but she didn’t stop.

Just ahead, the glint of a car's polished surface caught my eye under the jaundiced glow of the streetlamp. Angie opened the back door of the vehicle.

"Back to the Montage," she told the driver, her tone firm, as she slipped inside.

The door shut, and the car pulled away from the curb and soon disappeared into the dark belly of the night. Meanwhile I’m still standing on the sidewalk, holding her purse, consumed by the weight of my mistake that has just driven off into the night.

***

“Damn it,” I muttered, gripping the wheel of my Ferrari, knuckles white against the black leather. Angie's purse sat on the passenger seat, a small, silent accusation of my lapse in judgment. The neon glow of Los Angeles blurred past as I navigated through the serpentine streets.

The opulent resort loomed ahead, and I pulled into the circle drive. I've never been one to shy away from confronting my mistakes, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I made this right. One bad review could tank a business these days, and it was a risk I was determined not to take. Besides, something about Angie made me curious about why she’d gotten so upset at my remarks. The woman was a mystery I found myself wanting to solve.

“Welcome to the Montage. Will you be staying with us this evening?” The valet said as he opened the door of my vehicle, giving me a slight bow in the process.

“No, just dropping something off,” I replied, handing him the keys. “I shouldn’t be long.”

“Very well, sir, take your time,” the man replied.

The bellman opened the doors to the hotel’s grand entrance and a whoosh of cool air greeted me as I stepped inside the marbled interior. I’d been here often to dine and attend various gala events, but I still hadn’t grown accustomed to lavishness on this scale.

"Can I assist you, sir?" The pretty front desk clerk asked, batting ridiculously long false eyelashes.

"Um, yeah. At least, I hope so." My voice sounded alien to my own ears in the hushed elegance of the lobby. "I believe this belongs to a guest. Her first name is Angie, but I’m not sure of her surname. I didn’t feel comfortable opening her bag to look through her wallet. She left it at my establishment a little while ago.”

"Would you like me to return it to her room?" Her question hung in the air between us. Now was the moment of decision.

“No," I asserted, the word firmer than I felt. "Please call her room, if you don’t mind. I’d actually like to speak with her."

"Very well, sir." She nodded. “Let me just give this to my manager, and if we can confirm that the woman you are looking for is staying with us, I will see what I can do.”

“That would be much appreciated, thanks,” I replied.

The clerk disappeared through a doorway, and I drummed my fingers on the counter. It was close enough to closing at Sunset Vines that I’d felt comfortable leaving Vanessa, my other bartender working tonight’s shift, in charge; hence, I knew that the impatience I felt had nothing to do with business but everything to do with whether or not Angie would agree to see me again.

Finally, the clerk returned, a broad smile on her face.

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