Fallen

The girl smiled. “We can ride up together.” Scarlett followed her from the restroom, and they both headed toward the last elevator where the two men had gone a few minutes before.

The girl entered a code and then pulled out a compact and a tube of lipstick, using the tiny mirror to begin applying pink gloss to her lips. “At least they pay well, you know?” she said.

“Pay well,” Scarlett parroted.

Are you sure about this, Scarlett? You’re sort of acting like a crazed groupie.

No, this isn’t for me. This is for Haddie.

The girl looked at her suspiciously, her gaze sweeping from her feet to her hair. “First time?”

Scarlett widened her eyes and bobbed her head and the girl nodded, her expression morphing into understanding, her eyes returning to the small mirror as she slicked more gloss over her top lip.

“You’re lucky, then. It’s a tough gig to get. Don’t be nervous. They’re just looking for a good time. An anonymous good time that won’t end up all over the tabloids, you know?”

“Oh . . . uh, yes, right,” Scarlett said, a burst of nervousness prickling her skin. Tabloids. Which meant Hollywood. Which meant Royce. Maybe. Oh God, was this wise? What if he wasn’t there but part of his security team recognized her?

No, she was absolutely not going to do this. What had come over her? This was an awful idea. Terrible. She’d been swept along by her fear for her daughter, and then odd timing and a strange coincidence, including her choice of a black dress and—she glanced down at the girl’s similar shoes—red heels, but it was time to turn back.

The elevator doors opened directly into the entryway of the suite where a beefy man sat on a stool. The girl linked her arm with Scarlett’s. “Hey, Johnny.”

Johnny tipped his chin. “Teagan.”

“She’s new,” Teagan said, indicating Scarlett.

He eyed her, but nodded, and they both passed by, stepping through the entryway into the room beyond where men mingled with women all dressed in black like them.

“Have fun,” Teagan said, letting go of her arm and walking ahead of her into the thick of the party. Thankfully, the lights were low, and some type of strobe moved around, casting the faces in flickering colored light and ever-deepening shadow. Scarlett stepped forward, tilting her head so her hair covered half of her face. Bad idea. Time to go. Scarlett attempted to turn back around and head to the elevator car and then book it out of there, but someone walking by jostled her, causing her to falter and step forward. “Sorry,” he mumbled drunkenly, attempting to right her.

She turned her head. “It’s okay,” she said as he moved past. On the other side of the entryway, the elevator doors slid closed. The men who she recognized walked by her, involved in their conversation, stopping right near the elevator, to the left of Johnny, and Scarlett backed into a shadowy corner, waiting for her chance to leave unnoticed. Crap.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. Her skin felt overheated. She was an interloper.

You wanted this, didn’t you? This is a bold stroke of luck, don’t you think?

She wasn’t sure.

Seize the day, Scarlett.

A ribbon of purpose wound through her. She was here, she might as well see what was what. Music played, something sultry and instrumental, and laughter rose, along with the clinking of ice in glasses.

There was a door to her right and Scarlett heard the unmistakable sounds of sex. She moved away, just far enough that the moaning and skin slapping were mere background noise to the moody saxophone strains, and then stepped behind a man as he walked by, heading deeper into the party. She’d circle around and hope that when she returned, those two men had moved away from her escape route.

There was a bar, green LED under-lights casting the area in a strange, alien glow. Scarlett took one of the glasses of champagne from a tray, holding it up near her face as she entered the room beyond. She did a double take when she saw a famous Hollywood director sitting on a sofa, laughing, a young woman on each knee.

Scarlett looked away, jolting when she saw the man sitting on the other end of the couch, alone, head hung low. He looked up and their gazes locked. Royce Reynolds.

His eyes widened and he stood, moving toward her. “Scarlett?” he asked, voice slurred. His gaze jumped from one feature to another as if he was trying to piece her together, to decide if it was really her. “Scarlett?” he repeated, and she was honestly shocked he’d recognized her much less remembered her name.

“Royce,” she said. She couldn’t believe this. She was standing there with Royce after all these years. She’d found him, she had so many questions, she wasn’t sure where or how to start. “I, hi—"