“Yeah.”
The music blows up again, leaving no room for conversation, and I’m grateful. We soon emerge from the residential side of the city and head into the more industrial area, passing motels and cafés and office buildings. Soon we’re crawling through traffic.
“I hate trying to find a spot to park,” Rachael complains, despite pulling into a parking structure, accelerating up three levels, and then pulling into a free spot—diagonally. “Now let’s hit the stores!”
I still don’t know what a promenade is.
We make our way back down to the ground while I trail slightly behind. Rachael and Meghan are walking way too fast, and I’m quite happy with walking slow to take in my surroundings. I follow them around the corner and onto the next street. And it’s then that I discover what a promenade is—it’s a huge pedestrian-only street cluttered with designer stores and expensive restaurants and flashy movie theaters—the kind of overrated entertainment complex that I usually hate.
“Eden, meet Third Street Promenade!” Rachael says, and I cringe. “My favorite place in the whole city of Los Angeles. You can’t beat it.”
“Same,” Meghan adds. They must both be either insane or just extremely mainstream and cliché. Of course they love this wonderful, fantastic promenade, because they are girls. Pretty girls. It’s only natural for them to grow attached to a place like this, for it to become their safe haven.
“This is so cool,” I say. My voice is so dry that it’s blatantly obvious I’m lying. I attempt to chirp up, so I clear my throat and keep going. “How far does this place stretch?”
“Three blocks!” Rachael glances at her watch and then waves her hands around erratically. “Now come on, we’re wasting shopping time!”
God. Shopping is one of the worst pastimes to ever exist, unless it’s scouring the shelves of a bookstore. I don’t think Rachael and Meghan are into that type of shopping. This is confirmed when they pull me into American Apparel.
“You’re basically a tourist,” Rachael says, “so you should probably knock yourself out. I need a new pair of pants, so I’m gonna go find some.”
“I need a new bra,” Meghan comments.
They both strut off without another word, leaving me alone in this huge store to do something I hate—shop. Admittedly, I could do with some new outfits for the summer, so I man up and begin rummaging and sifting through racks and rails of clothes. Eventually I find a cute skirt and an Aztec-print top that can both pass as acceptable. I decide to try them on for size, and I groan when I discover the line by the fitting rooms.
“Eden,” Rachael says as she approaches out of nowhere. “Get outta this line.”
I stare at her. “What?”
“Because—” she says, but then stops when the woman in front of me turns around to look her up and down. Rachael grasps my elbow and pulls me away. “Because,” she says again, “there are fitting rooms at the back of the store that are closed, but we always use them anyway. Beats waiting in line. C’mon, I’ll show you.” With a pile of pants over her arm, she directs me through the store to the very back corner. “I need to finish looking, so just come find us when you’re done or whatever.”
When she twirls off again, I find myself staring at a white door with a sign informing me that it is, indeed, closed to all customers. I don’t know if Rachael is playing a joke on me or something equally as cruel, but I glance all around to make sure the coast is clear before slipping inside. I feel scandalous. I’ll try the items on quickly and then get out of here as fast as I can, before I get caught. It’s quiet besides the sound of the lame store music, and I slip into the first cubicle I come to. My heart is racing and I have no idea why. Reaching for my shirt to pull it off, I hear a giggle from the cubicle next to mine, and my entire body freezes as my breath catches in my throat.
“Stoooop,” the voice whisper-giggles. It’s so light and so quiet that it’s barely audible. It definitely belongs to a female.
“Babe,” a male voice murmurs, low and firm. There’s the sound of lips smacking. Or skin and lips. I can’t tell the difference.
“What is that you’re wearing?” the girl asks. More smacking noises. “Is that Montblanc? It smells like it.”
“No, it’s Bentley,” the guy answers. I sniff. There is an amazing scent of cologne lingering in the air. “Come here.” Even more smacking. A body thuds against the wall of my cubicle, and I try not to exhale as my hands hover in midair.
The girl laughs. “What are you doing?”
“What?”
“Whatever it is you’re doing right now. It feels nice.”