Bliss (14 page)

The guy took pity on her, and went off script. “Says here you're twenty-one. If you were nineteen, I could write off the attitude as youthful ignorance. Twenty-one means you're an adult. You have to take this seriously. Get a lawyer. Have him argue the margin of error in the borderline reading. You might get the charge expunged, do community service, and get your license back sooner. Or stick with the attitude, and never drive again.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“If I were you, I'd reconsider who you are surrounding yourself with or your lifestyle. I've seen smart pretty girls throw it all away for their lowlife friends. You're damn lucky you didn't kill anyone tonight. This could have gotten real ugly,
fast
.”

That stopped her cold. He was right. What if she had hit someone?

The officer went back on script. “I'm giving you a copy of what you signed today, and have set up email and cell phone alerts about your court date. Sign one more time. And you're free to go.”

Free to go fuck up your life
, he didn't need to say. It was all over his face.

She was directed to another desk, where she collected her personal effects—her bag, which had been searched, her phone, and a receipt for her impounded car. Then she left the building and stood on the front steps, absolutely gobsmacked about the entire night.

She texted Warren. He replied that they left her key in the planter out front hours ago and hoped she was okay. If she ever heard from him again, she'd be shocked.

What now? Call a cab, go home, and cry herself to sleep?

She could call Sophia and unfairly ask her to absorb another load of Demi drama. But that was just too much to ask, even of her best friend.

She could call James and beg him to take her back, swear to him that she didn't care what he did with other women as long as he made her feel halfway human right now.

Demi dialed the phone. He picked up after one ring. “Hello, Dad? It's me.”

*   *   *

Richard Michaels pulled up to the station steps in his Mercedes. He didn't speak at first, just let her settle in and fasten her seat belt. She had a flashback to when he taught her how to drive. “Listen for the click!” She let the silence hang a bit. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, and tried to appear calm.

“Are you pissed at me, or at the cops for railroading me?” she asked.

“I'm furious at
him
!” he said. “You never got into any trouble before James.”
None you knew about, anyway
. “I don't know why or how, but I'd bet my house this is all his fault.”

Demi considered it. She could twist the situation around to blame James. He drove her to drink, etc. “James has nothing to do with it,” she said. “And now, I'm going to say something that will shock and amaze you. James and I broke up a month ago. He cheated on me. I found out and left him. I moved into God's waiting room by myself and I've been living there for three weeks. What else? I got fired today. Plus this situation here, which is probably the worst of all of it. Basically, it's been a very bad month. Before you jump down my throat, I didn't tell you about James before because I didn't want to hear you gloat, or start issuing life instructions. So don't bother doing that now. I'll get out of this car and walk home.”

The wheels in Dad's brain were spinning so fast, smoke might come out his ears. If Mom or Demi's stepparents were here right now, they'd pulled her into a hug. Dad would do the same, but in crisis, his fallback position was problem solver. First he'd yell. Then he'd solve. He used to make Demi take notes while he lectured, and then read them back for his approval.

Right now, though, Dad looked like he was trying to crush the steering wheel into powder with his bare hands. He didn't say a word for a full minute. She might have short-circuited his brain.

“Are we just going to sit here? Because I'm starving. I thought they had to feed prisoners every three hours. Don't believe the hype.”

“Did you actually get locked up?”
He speaks!

“If I say ‘yes,' will you buy me a burger?”

“Take me to this apartment,” he said. “Now.”

She gave him directions. While he drove the fifteen minutes to the Grace, she described what had happened with the arrest, and how long it took for the damn tow truck to arrive, the humiliation of walking into the station in handcuffs. “The digital fingerprint machine at the station was way cool,” she admitted. “No ink. Just press onto a tablet, and
bam
! You're in the system. Left here. It's the building on the right.”

The Mercedes rolled to a stop. “That building? It looks okay.” He looked around. “Nice flower boxes.”

“That's Wally's work. He loves a project. Ohh, you thought that when I said ‘death trap,' it'd be a junkie squat with broken glass and needles. No, Dad. I'm not an idiot, contrary to popular opinion.” She explained the apartment's unique history, and brought him up to see her place.

Catherine heard them coming up the stairs, and opened her door to say hello. Demi made the introductions, but Catherine didn't start up a conversation or invite them in (not that there was much room for guests in there; Catherine, it turned out, was a collector and her apartment was packed with stuff, which was why she described her place as “messy”). Her neighbor sensed something major was up. “You had some visitors before,” she said.

“Friends,” said Demi. “They were okay, right?”

“Lovely boys. Well, nice meeting you,” she said to Richard, and closed her door.

After a brief tour of Demi's one-bedroom apartment—he seemed to dig it, and grunted approvingly a few times—he asked, “How can you afford this place? Even with the death discount.”

“I saved up a ton living with James,” she said. “I've got fifteen thousand.”

He sat down on her brand-new couch, just delivered this week. “Good. You're going to need it. Lawyers aren't cheap. I'll help you find someone.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. I have conditions,” he said. “Relax, I'm not going to read you the riot act tonight. I'm sickened by all this, and that you moved without telling me. Does your mother know?”

“No.”

He seemed relieved. “I understand why you did it. You're an adult, and you want to live your life your way. I completely agree. That includes fixing your own mistakes. So you're going to pay for your lawyer, and all the fines. That fifteen thousand isn't going to last long, especially without an income. You should download a bus schedule. Write that down. There's probably an app.”

She just smiled at him. “I'll remember. I don't really have anywhere to go. Job interviews, eventually, and I'll take a cab.”

“You do have somewhere to go,” he said. “In exchange for finding you a good lawyer, you're going to come work for me. Thirty hours a week. You have to show up at my office every morning, and prove to me that you're okay.”

“I'm twenty-one. You have no legal right to tell me what to do. You can't say, on the one hand, I'm an adult and I can make my own mistakes. And then, on the other hand, boss me around.”

“You got arrested tonight for drunk driving!” he yelled. “You're
lucky
you got pulled over! You could have killed someone, or yourself. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but when you have kids one day, you'll understand. I reserve the right to boss you around until you get your shit together, which seems to be a long way off. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. Take the bus, not a cab. You need to reel in the spending. And quit lying to everyone about what's going on with you.”

He left soon after that. What else was there to say? If she refused to agree to his terms, her parents (all four of them) would stage an intervention, or put her under twenty-four-hour surveillance (they could do it; there were four of them, after all). She also knew he was right.

She took a long, hot shower, after which Demi fell onto her mattress. The train wreck of her life was just too mangled to contemplate any more tonight. She closed her eyes and expressed gratitude to the universe for keeping her safe and having people who loved her.

*   *   *

Ten hours later, at eight
A.M.
, she was up and dressed, ready to take the bus to her dad's office. She opened her apartment door. Propped up against the wall was an old bicycle with a red ribbon. An envelope was taped to the seat with her name on it.

Demi opened the envelope and read the note: “I couldn't help overhearing last night. Your father has a very loud indoor voice. Please use this in good health. I know it's a bit rusty, and it has only three gears. But it works, and I'd hate for you to have to take the bus, which often smells like urine. Love, Catherine.”

She folded the note, put it back in the envelope, and burst into tears. It was just so kind. Demi hadn't been on the receiving end of much kindness lately. It felt so good, it hurt.

 

8

how to be perky

The California trip cost $2,500 and Sophia had nothing—
nothing
—to show for it. Besides the financial hit, she had to quit her job, too. She just couldn't go back to CRUSH. If daily degradation was character-building, then her character was the Sears Tower. The thought of putting on her black minidress and high-heeled boots and dancing around like an escaped mental patient whenever a creep waved around a credit card just … no. She'd dodged enough hairy man hands for one lifetime.

Plus, Renee.

She hoped Renee's Hot Link ads inspired a million horny chats, and kept her so busy in LA that she never came back to Toronto again. In the nightmare version, Renee's career hawking toe fungus cream went bust, and she returned to Canada in humiliating defeat. A shell of a woman, bitter, haunted, she would pick up where she left off, taping sparklers to overpriced bottles of vodka and hating every one who came near.

Sophia would not stick around to see that. It was just too depressing. Her first call after touching down in Toronto was to Vinnie. Thank god, she got voice mail.

“Hi, Vin. It's Sophia. I just wanted to thank you for being a great boss. I learned a lot and…”

“Sophia,” he said, picking up. She forgot he had an old-fashioned landline answering machine. “You can stop right there. I know a kiss-off when I hear one. So you got a job in Lalaland?”

“Don't think so. It was eye opening, definitely. I'm not sure about my next steps,” she said. “But I can't come back to CRUSH.”

“Say no more. I don't blame you. You lasted longer than most.”

“Can you give me a reference?”

“Tell you what. I'll even make a few calls, see what's out there. You'll have a job in three days, tops.”

“Thanks, Vin.”

“Just stop by once in a while, say hello.”

Within two hours, restaurant managers and bar owners were calling
her
. Not the maître d' at the Canoe Club—Vinnie's reach didn't go that high—but the breadth of his connections was impressive. She set up interviews at a few well-known places. Cocktail waitressing would be better than bottle service in terms of money, hours, and dignity.

She took the offer at a high-end lounge called Bar 111. It wasn't the coolest place or the most expensive (which would have meant bigger tips). What appealed to her were the customers: old rich geezers who smoked cigars, sipped scotch, talked about foreign exchange rates, and complained that “the Internets” made the younger generation fat, lazy, and stupid. Stuffed shirts vs. sleazebags? No contest.

On her first night, Sophia arrived early, eager to make some money. She had to replenish her coffers after the LA trip ASAP if she were going to get new head shots (a common request from casting agents), or move out of her studio apartment, which she'd been thinking about for a while. Which upgrade first? A year ago, she wouldn't have hesitated to say “head shots.” But now she wavered. That said a lot.

Her new boss, Josie, a kittenish redhead with a vine tattoo winding around her neck and collarbone (and probably lower), had her fill out the necessary forms before handing over her new uniform: a maroon minidress, super tight on top with a flouncy skirt that made Sophia think
slutty figure skater
. It was a big step up from slutty biker chick. Progress!

*   *   *

“Hey, doll face, come on over here!” said a gray-haired dinosaur with a silk tie as she walked by his table. He wore a smoking jacket (he kept it in the coat room to slip into for his “toddy”).

New place, same old shit.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, dodging a wrinkly hand as it reached for her hip. The old men moved in slow motion, which made avoiding the pinch-'n'-slap a snap.

“What're you doing here, honey? You should let some man take care of you, buy you chocolates and cars. Not too much candy, though. Don't want to get fat!”