Page 144 of Ripped & Shipped
Serge. Okay.
Drake presses a button on a panel near the front door. A voice comes through. “Yes, sir?”
“Ella Mae is ready to leave. Bring her car.”
“Yes, sir.”
Drake turns toward me. I step closer to the door and turn the handle.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Drake. Thanks for having me over.”
He leans onto the wall in a pose that would look awesome if I were someone else and my heart weren’t threatening to jump out of my chest and do a little impromptu berserk dance of dread around the foyer.
“I have to tell you, Ella Mae. I’m a bit disappointed.”
“I hear you. Life’s full of disappointments,” I blurt. “But we have all weekend to catch up and what not.”
I don’t even know what I’m saying.
My car pulls up and I turn and walk out the door.
I don’t think I take a full breath until I’m about ten miles away from Drake’s house and halfway back to my hotel. It’s then that it dawns on me—I’m in LA. The ocean is literally right there. I pull into this smaller parking lot right off Pacific Coast Highway. Sand has blown onto the pavement. It’s all so California. I fish around my purse for some coins to feed the meter, and then I take my shoes off and allow my feet to touch the beach for the first time since I got here.
Ahhhh. Something loosens in my chest the moment the warmth of the sun-baked sand shifts between my toes. I take a deep breath in and out. Then I walk down along the shore, letting the tide lap over my feet and up my ankles while I stroll without purpose. I head south for about a half-hour, then I turn around and walk back.
My mind flashes to the interaction with Drake at times, but I send those thoughts out on the waves. I need this time to decompress. I partly came on this trip to get perspective. I deserve to take this afternoon to myself without letting thoughts of Drake and his seemingly misguided intentions filter into what I so desperately need.
After an hour on the beach, I grab a smoothie at a spot closer to my hotel. Then I drive back and take a nap. When I wake, it’s still light out, but obviously evening. I’m sure the people who were coming over today are at Drake’s by now, but I’m in for the night. I do a live with the view out my hotel balcony as a backdrop. Then I change into my Kardashian-inspired loungewear and order room service.
When Chris texts later that night, I text back that I’m exhausted from a long day and I’ll touch base with him tomorrow if I get a minute between events. I just can’t face him yet. What’s worse? I know I might crack once I hear his voice, and I don’t want to get into any of the details until I’m back home—if ever.
Does Chris need to know Drake might have maybe flirted with me? Probably not. No good can come of confirming his suspicions. It’s not like I flirted back. Nope, I called my bestie and hightailed it out of there. What’s done is done. I just need time to put the whole situation fully behind me before I face Chris.
I spend the next day sightseeing and getting completely styled to the hilt for tonight.
This time, when I drive up the private road leading to Drake’s, I’m sure I’m not the only partygoer here. The music is loud enough to hear from out front. Couples and well-dressed individuals walk toward the door. My heart beats faster with excitement instead of nervousness this time.
I knock, but no one answers, so I push the door open. Elegant people fill the foyer and the great room. The crowd spills out toward the patio. Who knows where Drake even is in the middle of all this.
I walk in, making eye contact and smiling with anyone who looks at me. Guests are drinking, taking selfies together, leaning on furniture in poses that feel so iconic and borderline cliché. The atmosphere vibrates with the energy of all the who’s who mingling and chatting. There’s this feeling that this is the place to be and these are the people to be with.
“Ella Mae!” I hear Drake’s voice from the patio area.
I walk out toward him. Once again, he moves in for a hug. Then he loops his arm around my waist like it belongs there. It doesn’t, so I sidestep and give him a winning smile in exchange for my personal space.
I’m still riding the calm of my day alone and drawing from the high of being recognized at the airport and at a bistro in Santa Monica today. I’ve let any feelings and thoughts about my time yesterday with Drake go. We’re starting from scratch.
“Come with me,” he says. “I want to hook you up. You’ve been on my mind ever since you took off.”
I smile at the people watching us. I think I recognize a few of them. If he wants to hook me up, he could just start right here, with these people. But he’s already headed in toward the kitchen, so I take off after him.
The light over the stove is on in here, and a few built-in cabinet lights give a soft glow to the opposite side of the room, but otherwise, the kitchen’s surprisingly dark and empty compared to the rest of the house.
I step in further, wondering where Drake went. I thought he came this way. The din of conversation in the next room filters through the wall. Music thrums throughout the house.
Suddenly, he’s right there, coming around the door of the open pantry. He steps up to me and nearly cages me in against the island. His breath smells a little fermented. He may have had a few drinks tonight.
I try to move out of the spot where he’s enclosing me with his arms outstretched on either side of me with his hands gripping the island, but he protests.
