The Thrill of It

Chapter Twenty-One

Harley

Slut is a dirty word.

Slut is a loaded word.

Slut is for microscopic miniskirts and tramp stamps and tottering red plastic high heels. Slut is for ripped t-shirts sliding down shoulders, for shots drunk off of bellies, for names written on bathroom stalls.

Slut is for loose girls. For easy girls. And it is only for girls.

That’s why I hate the word. As I shower and shampoo my hair, I think about how I want to eradicate it from the English language. I want to extradite it, handcuff it, lock it up in the backseat of a sedan and shove its head below the window where no one can see it. As I turn off the water and grab a towel, I think about a thousand billion Sharpies blotting slut from every dictionary that ever existed in any language.

Just the word itself sounds dirty. Even if it meant kitten or unicorn it would still sound like a guttural insult.

As I zip open my makeup bag, I picture a counter revolution, I imagine girls taking back that word, co-opting it, owning it, declaring it theirs. “Oh, Sally! You’re such a funny slut!”

But see, there’s nothing tramp-stampy or bathroom-wall-worthy about the dress Cam bought me, the event I’m going to, or the way I look when I am Layla. I blow dry my hair, apply my makeup and zip up the champagne dress. I am classy, I am a prize, I am worthwhile.

The only slutty thing I’ve ever done was mess around with Trey.

And he’s history.

Grabbing the tattoo concealer I picked up this morning from the make-up counter at a nearby department store, I cover up the red ribbon on my shoulder.

Erasing my mom, erasing Trey. I am back to me.

Kristen barricades the doorway. She presses her palms on each side of the frame, feet out wide, forming an X.

“I can’t let you go,” she tells me.

“Kristen, I’m fine.”

“This isn’t you. You told me you were done with that.”

“Well, I’m done with being done. I’m back. And I have a job to do, so I really need to go,” I tell her in a firm, clear voice.

“Harley,” she says, sounding wistful as she shakes her head once. “Tell me how I can help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I don’t know what to do, but I know this isn’t what you want.”

“Actually,” I correct. “It is what I want. It’s the way for me. And if you don’t move I’m going to be late for a very important fake date that will net me a few thousand dollars for rent,” I add, figuring that will convince Kristen to move.

She doesn’t.

I sigh heavily. “Kristen, I appreciate this. I truly do. You’re trying to stage an intervention or something, and I will grant you mega BFF points for that. Seriously, you have earned a big-ass friendship bracelet or something. So thank you. But this is my choice, and I am fine with it, and I really need to go because there is a car waiting for me.”

She sags and relinquishes her post, holding her arm out in a defeated gesture.

“Thank you.”

“Wait. Tell me where you’re going. Just in case something goes wrong.”

“What? You think Mr. Stewart is going to shank me?”

“I have no idea! But it would just make me feel better if, god forbid, something happens to you.”

“Fine,” I relent. “I’ll be at the Parker Meridien.”

Then she wraps me in a hug. “I love you, Harley. I do. I know this is your choice and I don’t like it, but I’m still your friend and I won’t stop being your friend even if I disagree, okay? You need to know that. I will be by your side.”

The back of my eyes sting and I suck in the tear that threatens to ruin my perfectly applied mascara. “Don’t make me cry,” I whisper and squeeze back. “Oh, and that was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. So thank you for being a friend.”

Her friendship is the closest thing I’ve ever felt to some kind of love.

Inside the air-conditioned town car, it’s as if I’m in a capsule, transporting me in its secure, hermetically sealed spaceship to a better planet. One where these messy things called feelings no longer prick me like porcupine quills. On the planet I’m rocketing to, we strip ourselves of emotions. We are stronger, safer, better like that.

Cam shakes his head in admiration. He drinks me in from top to bottom and back again, that appreciative gaze operating at full wattage. Dressed in black pants and a bright purple shirt, he’s holding a worn paperback, and his grin is so wide he’s like a neon sign of Vegas waiting in the lobby for me.

Seeing him is like a hit, an inhalation, a relief. A faint drifting off to someplace else, where no sounds permeate my ears, where no sights invade my vision, where I take a drink of something blue and sugary a waiter brings me, and nothing in this heartless city, no boys, no blackmail, no mom, no naked men in halls, no affairs I didn’t want to know about, no secrets, no empty spaces, can ever touch me.

“Mmm. Perfection, Layla,” Cam says and hearing him say my name is like lightness, like a whisper that fades away into nothing. Into sweet oblivion.

He plants a delicious kiss on my cheek, and it feels as if he’s transmitting bionic powers to me, and they’re surging through my blood, turning me invincible.

“Mmm,” Cam says, taking a step back for another view. “I knew this dress would accentuate all the assets Mr. Stewart likes in a girlfriend.”

“Speaking of, anything I need to know about the job?”

Cam gives me the download. “He loves elephants. Okay? Elephants are his passion, and he is a huge supporter of Save Orphaned Elephants. He’s being honored as one of the Gold Level Givers. He has the head table and you’re his girlfriend. Anyone asks what you do, you’re a model. That’s all you need to say. You’re a model, you’re crazy for him, and you care so very deeply for the plight of the orphaned elephant,” he says, placing his hand on his heart.

My lips curve up in a conspiratorial grin. “I can do that.”

“I’ll be kicking it at the bar on the second floor. Nothing is going to go wrong, but just think of me as your buffer, if you need me.” He slaps the paperback against his other palm. “Now, you do your thing, I’ll do my thing. Because I just got to the good part in Bridget Jones’ Diary and I’m dying to see how it all plays out.”

“You’re reading chick lit?”

“It’s just a damn good story. Get your pretty ass upstairs. He’s waiting at the hotel bar and you’ll go up to the ballroom together. Arm in arm, baby. Arm in arm. You stay by his side all night long and make us proud, baby doll. Now, no more cheek kisses from me, because I don’t want you smelling like me, I want you smelling like a beautiful model who loves elephants.”

At five-eight, I tower over the squat and balding Mr. Stewart, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s hooked his hand possessively around my waist, and he taps my hipbone now and then, as if this is our longstanding little lovers gesture. We are at the front of the ballroom, near the stage, and we don’t have to mingle because everyone wants to mingle with him – the guest of honor and his model girlfriend. Black-tied waiters circle and offer sparkling drinks in champagne flutes. I politely decline. Mr. Stewart does as well, then returns his attention to a portly businessman next to him who’s discussing a recent news story about elephants. I nod thoughtfully as they chat, squeeze Mr. Stewart’s arm now and then, bat my eyes, and gaze adoringly at him like a proud girlfriend. I am giving it more than 110 percent and Cam will be thrilled with my report card, since Mr. Stewart is clearly besotted.

“It’s terribly sad, isn’t it?” the portly man says.

“That’s why we want to earn as much as we possibly can to save the African elephant from extinction,” my date says. “It’s so sad how close they are to being wiped out. It’s a genocide of animals and all for their tusks to be made into useless little trinkets and statues.” He turns to me. “Don’t you agree, my sweetheart?”

I nod wholeheartedly, bring my hand to my heart. “I want to live in a world where I don’t have to say to my kids someday, ‘This is where the wild things were.’ I want to say ‘This is where the wild things are.’”

“I couldn’t agree more,” the businessman says and wipes a small tear from his eye.

Someone clinks a fork against a glass and the sea of glamorously attired men and women in tuxes and evening gowns turns to the stage.

“Thank you so much for coming,” a woman in a modest black dress says after clearing her throat. “We are so grateful for all of you, and we hope you are having a wonderful time. Before we sit down to eat, we want to extend a heartfelt thank you to one of our most generous supporters, Mr. Stewart.”

The crowd claps and the chandeliers cast a warm glow around the cavernous ballroom as all eyes turn to the man next to me. He takes a quick bow, waves, and then slips his hand around my waist again. I plant an adoring kiss on his cheek.

He looks at me and smiles, a wide, happy, gooey smile that tells me I’ve earned that big-ass tip since he believes so thoroughly in the illusion I’ve created for him. I am his girlfriend. For tonight, I am absolutely his girlfriend.