Page 94 of Hold Still

I sneak an avocado toast point off a tray and leave Felicia to walk around. I need to keep moving, otherwise I’ll jump right out of my skin. A waitress approaches. “Gazpacho?”

“Sure.” I take a shot glass filled with the chilled soup. Smiling at various luminaries, I nod and keep moving.

The air changes and I know, without turning, that Ozzy’s here. Late, which suits me just fine. Placing a now-empty dish on a high-top table, I suck in a breath and turn around slowly. He’s across the room from me, looking as hot as ever. Sunglasses, a white T-shirt, bracelets around his wrist and ripped jeans—the quintessential rockstar. And hanging off of him are two bimbos.

I blink.

He has his arms around each of the tall, skinny blondes. He laughs, living large. My scalp prickles and I make my way to a quiet corner. Knowing I can’t keep staring at the blank wall forever, I turn around and look at the floor. Maybe I can remain out of the way until they announce the finalists for the national contest. And then escape without having to interact with him at all.

Ozzy’s belly laugh brings my head back up. On their own accord, my eyes travel in the direction of his laugh, and land on the trio, who now are talking with the President of the Project. He stands with his legs apart, and one of the women has her hand on his abdomen.Bitch.

I stifle the urge to run over to the trio and scratch the bimbos’ eyes out. Well, he’s the one encouraging them, so I add Ozzy’s name to my shit list. How could he do this to me? He of all people knows how important this night is to me—how much rides on it not only for myself, but for my mother.

“Looks like he’s having a good time,” Felicia notes, her eyes filled with pity.

Jumping at her sudden appearance, I cover my reaction with a nod. Wanting to disabuse her of the need to pity me, I say, “Do you know when Peggy’s going to speak?”

She glances at her watch. “I think the President’s Address is within the next half-hour or so.”

How am I going to endure thirty more minutes of this torture? Maybe I can hide out in the ladies’ room. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find the restroom.” Not waiting for her response, I head in that direction.

Once inside, I plop down in the little seating area and take several deep breaths. Wanting to appear busy in case someone should enter, I fish out my lipstick and hold it in my hand. Cover story in place, I rest my head against the wall. No sooner do my eyes close than the door opens, so I sit up. In walk the two bimbos who complete Ozzy’s outfit.Great.

“I felt his nipple rings,” one giggles.

The other replies, “I heard he has his junk pierced, too. Can you imagine?”

Cackling, they head into the stalls. Ignoring the belly flops occurring in my stomach, I mutter, “Why, yes. I can imagine.” All too vividly.

Their chatter carries to the anteroom, but I can’t make out their words. Knowing my sanctuary has been invaded, I drop the lipstick back into my purse and escape.

Straight into a broad chest.

“Oh!” I bounce back.

A very familiar musky scent—combined with the sharp aroma of whiskey—invades my nostrils and I know, without looking up, who that chest belongs to. With slow movements, my eyes run from his boots, up his legs and straight to sunglass-covered eyes. Who the hell wears sunglasses at night? Oh, I know. Some douche nozzle who needs to cover up the fact that he’s drunk at the biggest event in my career in years.

“You’re drunk.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

Biting my lip, I say, “Excuse me.” Because, what else can I say?

In response, his stance widens and he flips his sunglasses to the top of his head. His pupils are pinpricks. I close my eyes against the evidence that he’s high as well.

“I thought you were different, but I was wrong.” He bends down, the pungent smell of whiskey almost making me gag. He slurs, “You’re just like Teresa. Since you don’t have the balls to break up with me ‘cause you’re in love with another guy—not that we ever were really dating, only fucking—I’m doing the honors. Have a nice life.”

Each one of his words hits its target, directly on my heart. He doesn’t know the threat Matt poses, or the pressure I’m under. Not understanding his reference to Teresa or another guy—and tamping down my desire to go postal on his drugged-out ass—I remain silent. This is for the best.

Giggling precedes the sound of the door opening and the two bimbos head toward their prey. I don’t say another word and scurry as far away from him as I can get, but not before I hear him smack their asses and their responding sexy squeals.

Safely ensconced back into a corner, I check the time and pray for this to be over. The lights blink, indicating the speeches are about to begin. An announcer asks everyone to take their seats. I scan the room until I find Ozzy and his blondes, and find a chair as far away as possible.

Felicia stands up at the front and, when her eyes light on me, she motions for me to join her.Crap. Plastering a smile, I walk over to her and sit. “Thanks, Felicia.”

“Couldn’t have our star graphic designer hiding in the back.” She nudges me in the side, wearing a grin.

I should say some witty retort, but my brain is fried. I want to throw myself into Ozzy’s armsandbeat him upside the head at the same time. Instead, I nod and open a program I didn’t design.

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