SIX
get a grip
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I AWOKE TO a pestering tapping on my left shoulder. The sensation made me want to backhand whoever it was, and my eyes flew open.
"Why the fuck are you touching me?" I screwed my eyes shut once more, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on.
Go away, I internally yelled at the sensation of pain.
"Because we're here," Giselle stated, and I cracked open one eye, staring into the green tinted honey pots that were hers.
She smiled softly and ran a hand through my hair, her expression both understanding and apologetic.
I almost felt bad for cursing at her, but she didn't seem to care because she had already left my side.
She left the car door open wide for me, and I cracked my stale joints as I rose from my position in Isaiah's car. A Porsche, while aesthetically pleasing, was not good for back seat sleeping.
Everyone had already exited the vehicle, and I scrambled to shut the door open before walking towards Tristan.
My eyes were then graced with the breathtaking vision of an enormous beach house. It was larger than my own, and well on its way to being as big as Rosie's.
I couldn't place my finger on the girl's name, but she had money.
Celebrity type money.
That was the Cove for you, a place for the excessively wealthy with paper to spend and a lifetime to do it.
Rosie sniffed, her blue eyes surveying the property.
"How adorable," she said snobbishly.
Even if it was bigger than her own she would've said that. She would say anything to downplay anyone whose success matched or exceeded that of her own-or her family's, rather.
Tristan pushed the door bell, turning around to give us all a wary glance.
This girl could've been a psycho, and then we were all fucked at the hands of Ezekiel Liu.
I saw it now, splattered on the cover of every newspaper, magazine, and social media outlet that mattered.
Six wealthy teenagers murdered in cold blood while on vacation.
Except maybe they'd use a more catchy headline than that, I don't know, I wasn't into journalism.
A dark skinned girl opened the door, with large braids falling down her back.
She nearly hit the top of the doorway, she had to be at least six feet tall. She was wearing a pink silk robe tied tightly at her waist with matching bottoms and expensive looking fur slippers covering her feet. The shape of her face was angular but beautiful, in an artistic way. It was the type of face you'd want to paint over and over, because if you looked from a different angle it changed.
If you thought I looked like a model, or Rosie, those thoughts would be put to shame with one glance in the direction of the girl standing in the doorway.
I couldn't help but feel like I've seen that striking face somewhere before.
Her eyes were a startling light brown against the color of her skin, and she looked at us with scrutiny.
I realized she was probably just as wary of us as we were of her. She certainly didn't expect the whole gang when she spoke to Isaiah earlier.
Remembering her manners, she widened the large glass door. "You must be Zeke's friends. Come in, if you will." She plastered on the biggest smile in all of Hollywood, showing the pearly whites of her teeth.
We entered into a well kept and modern living room, which would have been normal except for the fact that it was eerily empty.
God, was this a scene straight out of a trashy horror movie?
"Uh," Isaiah scratched the back of his head with a dubious expression, "where's Zeke?"
"Oh! Forgive me." She laughed, robotic and tinkly, as if it had been practiced over and over again.
She turned on her heel and disappeared down a staircase, her black braids swinging behind her animatedly.
I looked around her beach house, at the framed pictures depicting sea landscapes and stuff.
Tristan laughed. The sound made all of us jump.
"We could die, like right now," he said.
And for some reason, the thought made me giggle too.
We could literally die, right now.
In a horror movie scene.
I swear there were hidden cameras in every corner of this beach house.
The girl returned a few seconds later, dragging a disoriented Zeke who was only clothed from the top up.
His black boxers were on display, and I couldn't help myself from staring. The stereotypes which surrounded his ethnicity were definitely not true, at least not in his case. He didn't put Isaiah to shame, but he came damn close.
Suddenly, Rosie's obsession with him wasn't so pathetic.
"Zeke. You scared us half to death, what the fuck happened?" I slapped his arm, the sound echoing through the house.
He simply smiled lazily, rubbing the spot where I had made contact with him. "Samara here was so good at taking care of me, in more ways than one."
If Samara had been fair-skinned, I'm sure her entire body would have been a deep shade of red. My jaw hung slightly open, and I shut it quickly.
He did not.
They did not.
If he was alluding to what I thought he was . . .
Rosie's expression flickered with rage, and then it was gone just as quick as it came.
Everyone looked shocked, but then again, I'm not sure why we were.
Zeke was a static character who exhibited the same behavior without fail.
"Oh God," Samara exclaimed, a manicured hand flying to her forehead. "He doesn't mean it like that. Why don't you all sit, so I can explain. Please?" she added, gesturing towards her couches.
I tugged Zeke over with a little more force than necessary, forcing him to sit down and snatching his shirt from his hand. I threw it over his body, and was two seconds away from twisting it and smacking him well across the face with it.
Idiot.
"Well?" Giselle raised an eyebrow, crossing her right leg over her left.
"So, I was walking along the boardwalk, on my way home. My parents had gone out for a date night, and as bad as it is, I was craving a funnel cake. My mom would die if I told her I ate one of those things."
"I saw him on the boardwalk, walking like he had a whole bottle of tequila to himself. He looked about my age, so that made me more concerned. I asked him if he was alright, and he simply winked. Then the next second, he turned around and threw up off the side of the boardwalk. I couldn't just abandon him because he looked two seconds from blacking out."
"So I brought him to my car and tried asking him where he came from, or if he had friends, or if he had any way of getting back to wherever he came from. He just passed out in the passenger seat, so I brought him here and his damned phone was dead. I charged it, and that's when I saw the missed calls from you guys." She finished her story, pursing her lips.
It sounded like a credible story, especially the part with the wink. It was something Zeke would do, and I relaxed when I came to the conclusion that she was just trying to help.
Rosie, however, was not convinced. "Yes, that all sounds so great and kind, but what about his little slip up about you helping him in more ways than one?" If looks could kill, Samara would be six feet under.
Samara looked embarrassed. "He was really agitated when he woke up, and I brought him some water and a few Advils. When I came back, he . . . his . . . little friend was standing straight up painfully. So I assisted him with his . . . problem. Only with my hand though."
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I cringed, shaking my head. At least the girl was honest.
Isaiah and Tristan let out the loudest and hardest laughs I've ever seen them do, not sobering up for a solid three minutes.
Giselle just kind of let her mouth hang open, and Rosie... well you can guess how Rosie reacted.
"Isn't that rather . . . low of you? Handing out favors to random people you meet? I wouldn't be at all surprised if he offered money for your services." Rosie laughed harsh and sharp, her fingernails digging into her palm.
Get a grip, girl.
Samara immediately reacted to this. She straightened up, and her embarrassment turned into a cold, reserved anger.
"I'm sorry, you seem to be implying that I'm a prostitute. Or that I need his money. You clearly don't know who I am. As for the handjob? With the way you're reacting, it seems as if you've done a lot more than that for him, and he's over there about to fall into the tits of the pretty girl with the wavy hair over there." She said this with a thin smile, pressing her full dark lips into a line so tight I thought it would snap.
Rosie Peppler always needed a good old smack down a couple pegs, and it felt damn good to see it come from someone other than me. I lived for this type of drama, and had there been tea sitting on the glass table in front of us, it would have been sipped dry.
"I like her already!" Giselle exclaimed with a giggle, earning a glare from Rosie.
I shoved Zeke away from my body.
"Excuse me, you seem to not know who I am. And making assumptions is rather childish of you, isn't it? I'm Rosie Peppler, and all this," she gestured to the house, "I can make go away with the snap of my fingers."
If there was one thing I hated the most about Rosie, it was this side of her.
She loved to use her social position and money to attain anything she coveted, and flaunted it in everyone's face all the time. She was always better than you, even when she wasn't, and she was sure to let you know it. I, for one, was glad that her weak comeback wasn't even close to as hot as Samara's earlier statement.
Samara lifted a slender brow. "Rosie Peppler . . . As in Randy Peppler's daughter?" she asked.
The recognition added a gallon of air to Rosie's already inflated ego, and she smirked. "Yep."
"Hmm. I'm Samara Fontaine. Our parents worked together on a collection, not too long ago. Or rather, your father helped with my mother's collection. I'm sure he was credited, somewhere." Her eyes never left Rosie's, and the tension in the room was palpable.
Her mother, Sammie Fontaine was just as high up as Rosie's dad in the fashion world.
My mother had worn a few Fontaine pieces to different galas, and they were all stunning. And of course, the exquisite designs and fabric came with a hefty price tag.
That explained the familiarity of her unique face-I was positive I'd seen her on the cover of either Vogue Paris or British Vogue. And rightfully so, she was mesmerizing to look at.
"Alright," I clasped my hands together, "maybe we should go." I stood up, but no one followed.
Rosie had began to speak.
"That's right." Realization clicked in Rosie's head. "You were the face of that line. It's a shame how forgettable your face is, I do apologize for not recognizing you until you name dropped so gracefully."
"Right, because your generic white girl blonde hair blue eyed look is just so memorable. I'm signed to DNA Model Management, the same agency as Naomi Campbell. And for the record, you name dropped first."
"Okay, Sienna's right, time to go." Tristan stood up, hauling Zeke's weight up.
Zeke was half asleep, oblivious to the cat fight his existence had created.
The rest of us followed suit, Giselle nearly yanking Rosie away from their pointless argument. If they were men, it would boil down to them arguing about who had the bigger dick.
I smiled kindly at Samara, giving her my silent thanks. Any girl who was woman enough to stand up to Rosie was a friend in my books.
She stood up like the proper host to see us out, but not without giving Rosie a disgusted once over.
God, if this is what the industry was like, I'm so glad I didn't let me mom force me onto the runway. I so did not have the patience for this, my temper was too short.
"Thank you, Samara. I apologize on behalf of Rosie and Zeke," Isaiah said with a charming smile.
He was tall enough that he gave her one or two inches, and the way she was smiling back at him made my toes curl.
"It's absolutely no issue." Samara batted her full lashes before shutting the door.
That was the most dramatic thing I had experienced in a while, and that was saying a lot considering the school I went to and the people I knew.
Rosie was still fuming, the tips of her ears red with rage. She was so pathetic it hurt.
"Maybe this isn't the right time," Zeke mumbled, stumbling on the steps, "but that was quite possibly the best handjob I received in my life. No offense, Rosaline."
Zeke would probably regret saying that the next morning when Rose refused to touch him ever again. That was, if he even recalled the tonight's events by the time he slept off the alcohol in his brain.