The Podcast

Chapter 4

Tuesday Evening

Lightning fast, she responds to the texts as quickly as they come in, her fingers flying across the oversized screen of her phone.

Three sparkling peach drinks with gold paper straws dot the table between a closely packed group. They sit on powder pink and charcoal striped cushions, covered by a large fabric umbrella with fringe-like black licorice ropes. Cartier bracelets sit in stacks on thin tattooed wrists: the words 'No Fear,' a Pisces symbol, and the date an oyster-gray Frenchie named Coconut died. One girl, a blonde, is wearing a skin-tight baby tee—the printed words 'Nepo Baby' stretched between her breasts. Another is wearing a dusty rose silk slip dress, her small breasts exposed through the thin fabric, their size ensuring the look remains chic. The girl with the phone is wearing a pale blue denim corset, her full chest on display like an exposed shelf. But it's her hair that everyone sees first—a wild mane of chestnut curls. She personifies volume, never bashful or afraid to take up space.

"Romi, chill with the phone. It's Aperol Spritz hour, just relax." Nepo Baby twirls a gold paper straw in her mouth, dampening the end.

"Yeah," No-Bra pipes in, "you're addicted."

"I'm not addicted." Romi Amar aggressively types out one more message before shoving the phone inside her emerald green Bottega Veneta bag. She slips out a pearl-colored vape pen and brings it to her lips, inhaling deeply before continuing. "I'm just passionate. I have a business to run. You two should really find something that makes you want to work, you know?"

"Why would we want to do that?" No-Bra scrunches up her face at the thought, like she's just smelled something rotten.

"Well, I'm an influencer." Nepo Baby flips her stick-straight blonde hair over one shoulder in defense.

"What, with your twelve-thousand followers? Hardly." Romi scoffs, reaching for her Aperol Spritz, the glass slick with condensation. Born and raised in Southern California, this world is their playground. Make-believe is their reality. Daughters of studio executives and Oscar-winning producers, they didn't brave the journey out to Los Angeles to make it. They were born made.

"Bitch."

"I know what this is about." No-Bra leans back further into the outdoor couch, the soft crush of Malibu's waves at her back. Two small spots darken the dusty rose silk under each breast. Her tone is teasing. "It's about her."

"Her?" Romi's thick eyebrows slide too high up her forehead. Overdue for a Botox appointment.

"Don't play coy, Romi, we've known you since you were seven."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," No-Bra looks over at Nepo Baby, smirking, "tomorrow's Wednesday and you want to beat Sumner West."

"Ohh, yes. Of course. That explains why you're being such a bitch." Nepo Baby slaps her knee like it's finally clicked, the very existence of the universe.

"Ridiculous." Romi shakes her head, sucking down half of her drink. "I hardly think of her. And besides, there's nothing I can do about the fact that so many people just love hearing about disturbing and fucked up murders. The world really is full of freaks and creeps, you know? My podcast is nothing like that."

"Well, regardless," No-Bra leans forward, resting her forearms over her bare knees, her collarbones protruding further with the movement, "cheers to The Half-Jewish and may tomorrow's episode knock that ice princess bitch off her throne!"

"I'll cheers to that!" Nepo Baby taps her glass with No-Bra, Romi joining in, the sound of the clinking glass zapping like a jolt down her spine. Romi isn't used to the snare of envy. So foreign she can hardly admit it to herself. But it's there, coiled tightly in the back of her throat, in the furtive glances toward her phone. The girl born with everything in her lap has finally found the one thing she can't have just because she wants it. Something Daddy's money can't buy.

The number one show spot on Podster. Because everyone knows that spot belongs to Sumner West.