Page 28 of Hard Limits

Carole-Ann from housekeeping passed me a drink, something pink with fruit around the rim. I knew everyone on the third floor now, by sight if not by name, plus I’d spoken with a few people on the first and second floors too. Nobody had a bad word to say about working at Dunnvale, which was one reason I’d decided to stay for now.

“Aw, I love your necklace,” she said. “It’s so pretty.”

“Thank you.”

The necklace? That was the other reason. I thought Mr. Vale had forgotten my birthday, but he hadn’t. After I returned from my final errand on Monday, a trip to pick up a new suitcase because baggage handlers at LAX had destroyed the last one when he flew back from Maryland two weeks ago, I’d found a small box on my desk, gift-wrapped with a bow on top. Real ribbon, not the plastic kind. There was no card, only a note. Happy Birthday, Meera.

Mr. Vale had bought me jewellery. A beautiful ruby-and-diamond key on a gold chain. I recognised the name of the jeweller, and I knew this little trinket would have cost him more than he paid me in a month. I’d leapt up to tell him it was too much, that I couldn’t accept it, but he wasn’t in his office. Nor had he shown up yesterday, or today. But after I’d received several grouchy emails, including one that had kept me in the office until nine p.m. last night, fighting with the printer, and another that sent me all over LA looking for a “silk scarf with peonies” for his mom, I figured I’d earned the damn necklace.

And Carole-Ann was right—it really was pretty.

Charlotte put another drink in front of me, this one green.

“Oh, thank you, but I’m only having one.”

“What? But it’s your birthday.”

“I need to drive home.”

“Take a cab. Is your car in the parking garage at Dunnvale?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be fine there overnight. The security guys are good.”

“But—” Cabs were expensive, yes, and I didn’t love riding the bus with strangers either, but I couldn’t hide away my whole life. I was meant to be having fun tonight. “Okay, okay, I’ll have another drink.”

“That’s more like it. There’s a tab, and birthday girls don’t pay for their own cocktails—order anything you want.”

One more drink turned into three, and the Pink Panda served food too, rice dishes shaped into cute little animals, pandas and kittens and teddy bears, so I wouldn’t have to eat dinner tonight. Three drinks turned into four, possibly five. They were so sweet and fruity—they couldn’t have that much alcohol in them, right?

More girls appeared, dainty cocktails turned into pitchers of margaritas, and Selena climbed onto the table and began singing an out-of-tune version of “Drunk in Love” to a guy she’d met at the bar five minutes previously. I hadn’t had fun like this in a year, maybe even in forever. I used to go out with Meera, but we’d never let our hair down too much in case my father’s spies were watching. He’d have been furious if he heard I was indulging in liquor.

Oh, how the angel has fallen.

Hmm… That was a great song—“The Angel has Fallen” by Indigo Rain, Meera’s favourite band. And there was a microphone…

“Selena?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I share your table?”

“Oh, of course.”

By eleven, euphoria had turned into nausea, I’d slurred my way through several songs with Selena on backup, my ankle throbbed where I’d twisted it climbing off the table, and I’d begun to wonder if perhaps my father had been right about one tiny thing.

Alcohol sure did have a lot to answer for.

I stumbled into the ladies’ bathroom and puked into the nearest toilet. Hell, that tasted gross. My throat burned, and some of the vomit got on my hair. With a hideous reflection in the mirror as my witness, I was never drinking again. I tried to wipe the mess away with a paper towel, but I mostly just smeared it around. Dammit. Dammit!

I needed to go home.

Take a shower.

Why did my mouth still taste so bad?

I rummaged in my purse for gum, mints, any kind of food, but something was wrong. What? What was wrong? My phone was there, my wallet, my… Where were my keys? When I shook my bag, there was no comforting jingle.

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