'...and the guy DJ-ing is really hot so long story short, I'm going home with him! But I'm sure you won't have any issues going back to the hotel–'
Irina's very infuriating voice message got cut off by a giggle. Salma clenched her jaw, pulling the phone away from her ear. The text following Irina's voice note, from Sloane of course, wasn't any better either.
Sloane: Yeah good luck getting a ride :/ I've been waiting for a taxi for like fifty minutes since I left the Ferragamo venue...Milano is a shitshow tonight ugh :(
On any other day, she would've made a sarcastic comment about Sloane's boyfriend proving useless. Wasn't he supposed to be her designated driver or something like that? She abstained from replying with anything snarky to either of them and just proceeded to search for her agent's number; her last resort. Her brows creased when the call went straight to voicemail. The woman had no social life. Why was she not available?
'Hello, this is Catherina. Please leave a message, as shortest as possible. Cheers.' Her chirpy British accent always made her sound like she was Mary Poppins — the Julie Andrews version, clearly —, though her behaviour was often whatever the opposite of Mary Poppins' was.
Her fingers started tapping on the screen with far more desperation than normal.
Salma: Cat I'm fucking stuck at the Ferrari afterparty. If you read this try to send me a car.
No immediate reply. Catherina wasn't even online. Strange considering she was always on surveillance in case Salma somehow ended up having another Kate Moss moment, as she usually called them. A few coke scandals weren't even that bad.
Looking up from her phone, she made eye contact with the very creepy guy who'd been leaning against a car across the street ever since she came out to have a cig. She wasn't about to become a victim and end up in one of those mediocre True Crime podcasts, so she decided to get back inside and wait for Catherina to answer. Or ask for a car herself. Whatever. As she rounded a corner and got closer to the back of the club, because that was easier than going all the way to the entrance and risking being followed by the creep, she came to a halt when a frustrated 'Stronzo!' came from the direction she was walking towards.
Followed by a very, very, loud smacking sound. As anyone would, she raised an eyebrow and tried to check what the situation was. And—oh hell no. The night kept getting worse it seemed.
Pierre Gasly — the headache was already beginning — stood right by the door leading back inside, rubbing the side of his face with a hand from what Salma assumed had been a well-deserved slap courtesy of one of the other models she'd seen on the Ferrari show earlier.
Irina had ditched her, Sloane was useless, her agent was MIA and the guy who'd been pestering her Instagram notifications for months was there right in the living flesh. Amazing.
In all fairness, he did seem rather surprised when their eyes met when she resumed her walk. Not because Pierre didn't know she was there, it was hard to ignore Salma, and two models later, Irina too, the moment they walked right in front of him on the runway. He funnily asked Charles, who had dragged him to that fashion show in the first place, if Sloane would make a surprise appearance as well, only earning a death glare from the Ferrari driver. Pierre just never expected to be near Salma ever again, no matter how many times he'd tried to convince Sloane to make it happen again.
He could perform better a second time for sure.
She narrowed her eyes, setting her lips in a thin line when his previously pained expression twisted into a smirk with no such thing as effort. Society should've never allowed men to be that confident.
"Don't talk to me," Salma warned as soon as he opened his mouth to greet her, raising a hand to make it crystal clear.
Pierre, unaffected, continued. "I never forgot how nice you are," He smiled and she dropped her expression. "How are you? What a great coincidence to find you here."
Folding her arms across her chest, she eyed him uninterested. "What? The Instagram likes aren't working so now you're resorting to stalking? Would make sense. You reek of desperation."
He scoffed and took a step forward. Salma glanced away. "If you must know, my friend Charles who you are aware exists because he used to be very close to your friend Sloane, invited me to come with him today since his current girlfriend isn't a big fan of public events. I'm not stupid enough to waste the opportunity to mingle with models, you know." She didn't cease from ignoring him. "Plus: Ferrari. An athlete who happens to be a racing driver. It makes sense, come on." He insisted.
This did get her attention back on him. She rolled her eyes. "Athlete? Have you won anything else aside from the World's Ickiest Man Championship?"
"No, I'm pretty sure Max has also won that one. Should we ask Sloane to confirm?" She wasn't impressed with this back and forth. The way he smiled entertained was proving to be irritating. "I know the first time we met I didn't give my best performance, but you never gave me a chance to redeem myself."
"So you did receive the memo. Now get lost." With a hand motion, she shushed him away. As if he was a stray dog.
Unlike her, he was having a good time. "Fine, I'll get lost. But before leaving I have a question. Two girls are missing. Where is The Tall Blonde? And Miss Sympathy, of course. I didn't see her in the show." He cocked his head to the side.
"Sloane had to walk for Ferragamo and Irina decided to..." She cut her vexed ranting off and frowned. He wasn't her friend. "It's none of your business. Go."
Pierre sighed, his shoulders relaxing. He looked around, other than them and the stalky guy from across the street, there was no one else. "Were you leaving already? If you need a ride back to wherever you're staying, I don't mind." He offered. Her glare could bore holes into his brain.
"I would rather die."
"Okay," Pierre lifted his hands, innocently. "Look, if Sloane finds out I left one of her friends all alone in the middle of the night with Mr Creep over there," His head gestured at the same guy she'd been wary of before. "She's going to kill me, and her boyfriend lets me into his private jet during the season, I can't risk losing that, so please, just let me give you a ride."
She raised both eyebrows. He braced himself for impact. "So you don't have a private jet?"
"Are we in need of a private jet right now, dear Salma?" He smiled at her in a way he knew would send her over the edge. "Or," Pierre dragged the vocal with some sense of hilarity. "I can stay with you until I know you're leaving safe and sound. It could be our bonding time, getting to know each other a little better. Charming, yes?"
No, that sounded like one of the nine circles of hell. Her gaze made a quick round back to the creepy guy, then the vexing one in front of her. If she did end up as an episode for a True Crime podcast it would be better to be the murderer and not the victim. She tapped the ground with her boot, rolled her eyes resigned and let out a little huff. Pierre grinned.
"Don't talk to me," Salma pointed him with a finger.
He pretended to zip his mouth shut. "I'll be quiet, Your Highness." Maybe if he made it out alive he could brag about it. "Don't worry, I won't be embarrassing myself with you again." And he winked.
She thought he was very pathetic, and not in a good way.
They exchanged a look before he motioned with his hands, muttering ladies first, which earned him yet another sharp glare. She didn't end up murdering him, not on that specific night and not physically at least, but not for lack of desire.
---
a/n:
i'm gonna be honest the reason i'm doing this is because i miss writing my girls...the guys are there too i guess😐
