Finding It Page 8

  Bishop explains the significance of the symbol and asks me if I have any tattoos.

  The blush that stains my cheeks is reflexive. Although a year has passed since my wild night in Cannes, when, fuelled by copious champagne cocktails and Jett Jericho’s compelling philosophy, I staggered into a tattoo parlor and came out inked.

  “Oh-ho!” Bishop cries gleefully. “Methinks I smell a tramp stamp.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Out with it.” He makes a regal rolling gesture with his hand. “Regale me with the tale of your descent into debauchery, sparing none of the sordid details.”

  With Poppy listening, I tell Bishop Raine about one of the most humiliating events of my life.

  “I lied to my ex-fiancé and told him he was my first lover. A few days before our wedding, we were at our favorite wine bar when we ran into Travis Trunnell, an arrogant jackass I slept with while I was in college.”

  Bishop waggles his eyebrows and grins. I can almost hear the “Yeah, baby, yeah,” in his head.

  “Travis brought his drunk, idiotic college roommate to the wine bar with him that night. Drew.” I wrinkle my nose when I say his name. “Drew remembered me and told Nathan, my ex, all about my late night booty call with ‘his boy’ Travis.”

  “You dirty girl!” Bishop crows.

  “Not really,” I protest, my cheeks warming. “Nathan ended our engagement. Naturally, I was devastated, but my best friend convinced me to go on the honeymoon anyway.”

  “Did you?” Bishop asks.

  “Did she?” Poppy grins and raises her champagne flute in tribute. “Abso-bloody-lutely.”

  We clink glasses.

  “I was on the beach in Cannes, nursing my broken heart and a few champagne cocktails, when I met Jett Jericho. He gave me this whole speech about transformation and regeneration, about going down in flames and rising up from the ashes.”

  Bishop snorts and rolls his eyes.

  “What? His speech was very empowering.”

  “Go on, Vivia. Tell the rest of the story.”

  “Anyway,” I continue, trying to ignore Poppy’s posse, listening with rapt attention. “Jett said—”

  “Jett said!” Bishop scoffs, rolling his eyes again.

  “Jett said I needed to do something bold, something brave, something that would symbolize my regeneration.”

  The bobbleheads slant me a withering we-are-so-bored look, and I suddenly question my wisdom in sharing a story about a time when I was totally off my game, fragile and confused.

  “Go on, Vivia,” Poppy encourages. “Tell him the best part.”

  “Long story short, I was drunk and Jett was persuasive—very persuasive. I woke up the next morning with pink hair and a tattoo.”

  “Come on then. Don’t be shy.” Bishop sits up, leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees. “Let us have a look at the life transforming tattoo.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Wha’?” Bishop cries. “Only a wretched, heartless tease would begin a joke with no intention of sharing the punch line.”

  “I can’t.”

  I fix him with an intense let-it-go-please stare, but he merely grins his wicked, wily, charming grin.

  “Go on then. How bad can it be? Show us.”

  I lean close to Bishop, cup my hand around his ear, and whisper, “I can’t show you my tattoo because it is located in a private area.”

  Bishop looks at me, eyes wide, mouth agape. I know what he is about to say before he even moves his sexy lips.

  “You tattooed your privates? You are a dirty girl!”

  The bobbleheads stare at me, noses crinkled, lips curled in disgust. The ripped Rugby player cracks his knuckles and grins. Poppy slaps Bishop.

  “Stop it, Bishop! Leave Vivia alone!”

  “Don’t blame me,” Bishop cries in mock outrage. “Blame Jett Jericho and his perverted persuasive philosophy. What possibly possessed him to convince Vivia to tattoo her privates? I always thought he was a trifle…outré!”

  “Very funny!” I laugh. “Almost as funny as that scene of you shoving baggies of heroin up Sage Roman’s ass in Audition at the Apollo.”

  “Ouch,” Bishop says, reaching his hand around his back. “Could someone pull the knife out of my back? Brutus?”

  A cocktail waitress arrives with a new bottle of champagne—compliments of Boujis and Brava TV—and Poppy’s posse loses interest in my ass tat tale.

  Bishop, however, does not.

  “So what did you have tattooed on your bum? An inspirational saying or culturally significant symbol?”

  “It’s a cartoon sushi roll.”

  “A sushi roll?” Bishop tilts his head and squints as he tries to unravel the mystery of my ass tat. “Is that a metaphor for humanity’s cohesion and inter-dependence?”

  “No.”

  “Ah-ha!” Bishop laughs, slapping his knee. “You were being esoteric in using the sushi roll, right? It wasn’t meant to be literal, but rather abstract. Sushi is often served with Agari, green tea. Agari literally translated means, ‘Rise up.’ Ergo, sushi represents your rise from the ashes, regeneration.”

  His explanation of the meaning behind my sushi roll ass tat is so fucking brilliant and so much more inspired than the real meaning, I am tempted to agree with him.

  “Nope.”

  Oh my God! I’ve never felt more infinitesimally insignificant and ignorant as I do right now—speaking to Bishop Raine about my ridiculous cartoon sushi roll tattoo.

  “Well,” he says, leaning back and crossing his ankles again. “Are you going to illuminate, enlighten, edify me with the significance of your transformative tattoo?”

  I tell him about Raw, the sushi restaurant I worked at to help pay my college tuition, and about the ridiculous T-shirt with cartoon sushi rolls and the slogan, “I like it Raw” that I had to wear. I tell him how much I loved wearing my Raw T-shirt because the naughty, stupid slogan made me giggle like a fifteen-year-old, and how much my ex-fiancé hated, I mean gut-level-loathed it.

  Bishop listens quietly, his gaze fixed on my face like two black laser beams.

  “So what you’re saying is your fixation with cartoon sushi rolls was originally motivated by your indentured servitude to crass commercialism, but when you met the illustrious and enlightened Mister Jett Jericho, your fixation underwent a transmogrification into a symbol, an icon, if you will, representing liberation from the matrimonial shackles that threatened to strip you of your individuality.” Bishop takes a deep breath. “In essence, the sushi roll now represents your rebellion against the subjugation of your sex.”

  Transmogrification? Fuck me. If I weren’t in love with Luc, I would hock my MacBook, buy a VW Van, and follow Bishop freaking Raine around the world just so I could listen to him utter brainy words like transmogrification. He’s a word nerd’s orgasmic dream.

  “Yes.” I cross my legs and twist my ponytail around my finger. “That is precisely what I was saying.”

  Chapter 9

  Sex, On My Mind

  By the time I teeter out of Boujis and into Poppy’s waiting limousine, I am as giddy as Wynona Pathlow at an olive farm. I have consumed enough expensive champagne to make my un-tattooed private parts feel warm and fuzzy—shit, even my non-private parts feel warm and fuzzy. I did shots with Mandy Cohen, the president of BravaTV, and persuaded her to allow me to interview the cast of Brash Brits. I negotiated an interview with Bishop Raine. And I have pretty much sealed the deal on an eternal and abiding friendship with Poppy Whitney Worthington.

  The promised interviews have restored my battered pride and salvaged my career. Bishop’s shameless flirting has stroked my ego and left me feeling rawther horny. Who needs a British Airways flight? I am so high I could float to Paris!

  We are about to pull away from the club when someone raps on the limousine window. The window magically opens and
Bishop leans in, grinning and reeking of sex appeal.

  “Fancy a lift, Bishop?” Poppy asks.

  “Brilliant.”

  He doesn’t wait for the driver to open the door for him—scoring major unpretentious points with me—folding his long, lanky body into the limo and closing the door behind him.

  Poppy moves to the seat opposite, leaving Bishop and me to sit together.

  I can feel his hot leather-clad leg pressing against my bare thigh. Despite my rock star fixation, I’ve never felt a man in leather and it’s kinda sexy. I wonder if I could get Luc to wear a pair of leather pants?

  I snort.

  “Wha’?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “I’ll bet you are a Scorpio, aren’t you?”

  I look at Bishop. “Yes, how did you know that?”

  “You’re mysterious, sensual, charming, and a little crazy—hallmarks of a Scorpion.” The limousine passes beneath a street lamp and golden light shines on Bishop’s shaggy tasseled hair, making him look like a fallen angel. “And…I googled you.”

  Bishop Raine googled me? How is that even possible? Maybe someone slipped a roofie in my Veuve Clicquot and I am stoned out of my mind. Maybe I am hallucinating. Or, maybe I am still in the pokey. Maybe another inmate shanked me and I am tits-up. Maybe Bishop really is an angel, and this limo is taking me to that big party in the sky.

  My head suddenly feels too heavy for my neck, my eyelids too weighty to keep open. I have not been roofied or shanked. I am tipsy—which sounds ever so much nicer than drunk. I close my eyes, rest my head, and listen to Bishop’s hypnotic voice as he chats with Poppy. His warm leather-clad leg pressed against mine, the limo’s rhythmic sway, and the patter of raindrops on the roof lull me to a very warm, very happy place.

  “Vivia? Vivia, darling, you need to wake up now,” Poppy whispers, gently shaking my shoulder. “We’ve arrived at the Rubens.”

  I try to open my eyes, but I feel like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson deadlifting four hundred pounds. My eyelids are that heavy.

  “I don’t want to go to the crappy old Rubens. Please don’t make me. They’re a bunch of meanies.” My words come out tangled, my tongue thick and furry like I inhaled Poppy’s faux fur shrug in my sleep. “Can’t I just sleep in your limousine?”

  Bishop laughs. A bloody booming laugh.

  “Shhhh.”

  When I open my eyes I see why Bishop’s laughter sounded so unusually loud. My head is resting on his shoulder—and I have drooled, a little.

  No! This isn’t happening. This. Is. Not. Happening. I sit up and lift my head off of Bishop’s shoulder.

  Sober now. Completely sober.

  Well, almost sober.

  “Sorry about that,” I mumble, making a quick swipe of my damp chin.

  “Not at all.” Bishop grins.

  “Bishop, be a darling, won’t you?” Poppy opens her door, and raindrops plop on the leather upholstery. “Help me walk Vivia to her room.”

  Bishop opens his door, hops out, and holds his hand out to me. I stare at his long, slender be-ringed fingers and wonder what the mega-Zen, sober star thinks of my sloppy antics. My bruised pride will not let me take his hand. I have my dignity.

  “Thanks,” I say, looking up at him. “I’ve got this.”

  Bishop steps back, and I step out of the limo.

  Either I drank more tonight than I realized, or London’s Public Works Department installed moving sidewalks while I was in Boujis.

  I miss the curb completely. Bishop wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me to him, saving me from making a humiliating face-plant on the moving sidewalk.

  Sweet Christian! What a sight that would have made—me spread eagle on the sidewalk, Louboutins kicked off, sparkly dress around my waist, while Buckingham Guards secretly snapped pictures from the palace windows.

  “Steady on, California Girl,” Bishop whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. “Maybe you should have stuck to lime water.”

  His whiskers tickle and I giggle.

  “Right then,” Poppy says, linking her arm through mine. “Onward and upward.”

  I am still giggling when I spot a tall, muscular man standing in the rain, collar of his black trench coat turned up, framing his angled, handsome, dark face. A raindrop pelts my right eyeball, the world turns blurry, and I blink until the Mr. Gorgeous Trench Coat comes back into focus.

  Holy. Shit.

  “Luc!” I pull out of Bishop’s grasp and stumble over to my boyfriend, throwing myself into his arms. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you.”

  Luc hugs me and then steps back. His gaze flicks from me to Bishop and back to me again.

  “Obviously.”

  If the shock of finding my boyfriend standing in the rain outside my hotel wasn’t sobering enough, his cool, pseudo-accusatory tone is like having a bucket of ice water poured on my face. Now this is a right royal cock-up.

  “Luc,” I say, gesturing towards Poppy and Bishop, “these are my friends, Poppy and Bishop.”

  Did I just classify Bishop Raine as a friend?

  “Hey mate.” Bishop holds out his hand. “You must be the Frenchman.”

  Thank you, Bishop.

  Luc shakes Bishop’s hand.

  “Viv is barking mad for you,” Bishop says, winking at me. “You’re all she talked about tonight. Luc. Luc. Luc.”

  Viv? Shut up, Bishop! Shut up!

  Luc smiles, but it is one of his tight, I-am-tolerating-you-for-propriety’s-sake expressions. Luc is unfailingly polite and polished. Sometimes, it makes me feel gauche.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Luc.” Poppy links arms with Bishop and pulls him back to the limo. “We’ll leave you two alone. Talk to you soon, Vivia.”

  Luc wraps his arm around my waist to steady me. We walk into the hotel, cross the lobby, and get into the lift. I expect Luc to pin me to the wall and give me a little love in an elevator, but he just stands beside me staring at the control panel.

  I peek at him out of the corner of my eye and my heart dips to my heels. Damn, he’s fine. His hair, damp from the rain, is tousled. I want to reach over and brush the hair from his tanned forehead.

  “I missed you.” I reach for his hand and lace my fingers with his. “A lot.” His hand is so cold. “Were you waiting a long time?”

  I look at him full-on and my heart dips again.

  “Long enough.”

  He pierces me with his smoldering gaze—only it’s not a sexy smolder; it’s an angry smolder. Stubble covers his angular jaw, giving him a slightly dangerous appearance.

  “Luc, you’re not jealous of Bishop are you?”

  “Should I be?”

  The elevator dings and the doors slide open. A liveried porter is waiting to board the elevator. He steps aside, letting us pass.

  Luc follows me down the dimly lit hall. I fumble in my purse, trying to find my room key. My hands are shaking so much my lip gloss and iPhone fall out of my purse and onto the floor. Luc scoops them up and dumps them back into my purse. He sticks his hand in my purse, pulls out my room key, and slips it into the lock.

  “Après vous,” he says, holding the door open. “S’il vous plâit.”

  Formal French. He is pissed.

  I step into my room, turn on a small lamp, and stare at the bed. A massive bouquet of pink roses, tied with a black bow, rests on my pillow.

  “Did you bring those with you all the way from Paris?”

  “Non,” Luc says, shaking his head. “I phoned the Concierge from the airport.”

  Luc. Generous, thoughtful, larger-than-life romantic gestures Luc. Maybe Fanny’s right. Maybe I should ditch the writing gig, marry Luc, and have a herd of dark-haired French babies.

  “Merci beaucoup, mon amour.”

  Even in Louboutins, I have to stand on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He tastes good—like rain and romance—and smells good, too.

  L
uc stops kissing me so suddenly, I have to put out my hands to balance myself. He moves over to the sitting area and shrugs out of his trench coat. He tosses his coat on the couch and takes a seat in a wingback chair. Luc is always impeccably dressed, but tonight he is GQ-sharp in a black pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, and charcoal tie.

  He leans back, stretches one leg out in front of him, puts an elbow on the arm of the chair, and presses a finger to his temple, staring at me in a way that is both erotic and disconcerting.

  Sometimes, when we reunite after several weeks apart, I feel like a schoolgirl—nervous, shy, and awkward. Standing in the middle of my hotel room in a skimpy, sparkly mini-dress and nosebleed high Louboutins, buzzed from doing shots with Mandy Cohen, my legs feel long and gangly and I don’t know what to do with my hands.

  “Parlez-en à moi, Vivia?” Luc’s low, husky voice is like foreplay, slow and seductive. “Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé ce soir?

  “What happened tonight?” I repeat his question in English, a feeble stalling tactic. “What do you mean?”

  Luc stares at me.

  My nerves kick into overdrive and I start blathering. I tell Luc about Detective Inspector Mangina, the bogus stalking charges, my serendipitous encounter with Poppy, Big Boss Woman’s ominous-sounding text, the Brava party, and scoring interviews with the newest Bravalebrities and Bishop Raine. Omitting only one teensy-weensy detail—Bishop sticking his tongue down my throat—because it’s a trivial detail, really.

  I mean, Bishop’s kiss meant nothing. Nothing. The kiss was probably just all part of his Yeah, Baby-Rock Star shtick. Sticking his tongue down someone’s throat is just his enthusiastic Mockney way of saying hello. That’s my story, at least, and I am sticking to it.

  Luc is still staring at me, like he knows I am holding back, like he knows Bishop and I played hide-and-seek with our tongues in the VIP lounge at Boujis.

  Ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly know. Could he? Maybe he can smell Bishop’s cologne, or lime water, or my rotten stinking guilt.

  Please God, please let me get away with this one little indiscretion and I promise I won’t kiss another man as long as we both shall live. Amen.