Page 1 of Your Sweetness

SAMMY JO

Two Years Ago

I hated parties,and I was a caterer. It was a tough spot to be in.

A girl stumbled toward our catering van from the mansion nestled along the rocky coastal cliffs of Half-Moon Bay, California. She squinted at the orange-yellow sun dropping into the ocean at the end of the earth. It was an idyllic view, but this party was anything but idyllic.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked. The backpack over one shoulder pulled her small frame off balance.

Her eyes were wild, but her movements were sluggish like she just woke up. At four-thirty in the afternoon. My co-worker, Annie, and I exchanged a look. These fucking Silicon Valley tech parties were a shit show. I swore to myself this was the last one. I was taking that Seattle restaurant job and getting the hell out of here. I was done.

“Um, can I use your phone to call my agent? Mine won’t turn on.” She held up the black screen.

The girl shook but tried to stand tall, so I set down the box of prepped vegetables and pulled her closer to the van, keeping a hand on her elbow. We were off the main drive but likely still being recorded by the security camera mounted to the side of the grand front portico.

I lowered my voice. “You don’t look okay. Did something happen in there? Do you need help?”

“No, no. I just need to call my agent for a ride, but my phone died.” She repeated the obvious as she gripped it tight and pushed the side button like it would magically turn on. There was probably some signal blocking force-field invented by these guys that was electrocuting my brain right now. Ugh.

“You know, if something happened, it’s not your fault, and you should tell someone.” I didn’t want to push, but my girl-safety radar was pinging hard.

These tech-bro dickheads. Sanctioned by iron-clad non-disclosure agreements, these parties were a scene of money-fueled debauchery, the likes of which I had only seen in movies before working for a caterer in San Jose. These weren’t the product launch events that smacked of middle school dances with boys on one side and girls on the other.

These over-the-top events happened at remote mansions high in the mountains or along the coast. Men who got rich overnight spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on wine, food, drugs, and entertainment of all sorts. The parties were supposed to help them blow off steam from their hard work on innovations to better mankind. Talk about a God complex. From what I saw, these parties were about blowing something else.

As caterers, we brought the food, cooked on-site, and left. It was always the same. Drinking and music by the pool. A dozen men in their twenties and thirties in a big group inside the house, lounging on pillows or sofas with one or two women in various states of undress, snuggled to each of them. Creepy. Who knew what was going on elsewhere? I signed the required non-disclosure agreement, kept my head down, did my job, and accepted my paycheck.

“I’m okay. I need to think, remember it clearly,” she said. I doubt she realized she just confirmed that somethingdidhappen.

“What’s your name?”

“Pamela. Pam. It’s my mom’s name.” Pam looked around, her eyes shifting from one thing to the next.

“Pam, how old are you?”

She bristled, and her eyes met mine with something … panic? Then determination. “I’m old enough. I’m an adult. I just need to get my ride.”

A guy approached from the front circle drive, staring at his phone. Wow. He looked more like an underwear model than a brogrammer, and he made those jeans look good. His hair was mussed like he’d been running his fingers through it, and a navy-blue T-shirt stretched across his muscled chest. He had a sharp jawline and straight nose under a strong ridge of eyebrows, and he had the sexiest hands. Yes. The sexiest hands. Damn, why did assholes have to look so good?

Maybe hewasa model. These parties crawled with models, usually female, though. Pam, who was thin and stunning, looked the part, and though she claimed to be an adult, I would bet she hadn’t been one for long.

“Hey, did any of you see a black Mercedes pull through here? My car service says they arrived, but I can’t find them.”

“Lucas, right?” Pam closed the distance between them. “From the pool last night. You helped my friend when she fell.”

“Right. You’re …”

“Pam. Um, are you leaving?” Her face bloomed with hope.

“Yeah. Do you need a ride?”

“That would be awesome.”

“What about your friend?” He gestured toward the house.

“I asked her. She wants to stay, but I need to go.”

I eyed this Lucas. “A few cars are parked around the corner. Your car may be there if you want to check.”

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