“That place is pretty good,” she agrees. “Craft cocktails, right? Or there’s that other one.” She snaps her fingers as if this will help her recall the name.
“Areola,” Michael finishes for her. “Now that place”—he whistles—“that place is insaaane,” he says, dragging the word out into about four syllables.
Steph is nodding.
I have to ask: “There’s a club called Areola?”
“Oh yeah, it’s like—the hippest place in LA,” she says. “Oh.” She deflates a little. “No, babe, I think it’s not Areola, that’s a nipple, right? I think it’s Ariela?”
“I mean, that’s a pretty big difference,” I note with a serious nod.
“Ariela,” Michael agrees, laughing as he avoids my gaze.
“Have you two gone?”
“Us? Come on,” MC says with a tight cough like of course we have. “We—well—no. We wanted to, but they don’t even open until like nine? I think, babe? Is it nine?” Steph nods as she attempts to extract crushed garbanzo beans from Morgan’s hair. “And that’s . . . that’s really late. I mean, not for us, but you know, for Morgan.”
“She doesn’t sleep well with a sitter, or God we’d be all over that place.” Steph does a grinding little dance in her chair. “It would be off the hook.”
“Off the hook,” he agrees. “Causing some trouble is what we’d be doing.”
“Areola,” I say, grinning. “Amazing.”
? ? ?
My phone chimes on the seat next to me as I make a left onto Santa Monica Boulevard. I ignore it, letting another Monday-morning commuter in front of me and waiting for the light to turn green so we can all move another twelve feet before it changes again. It will never stop bewildering me that a four-and-a-half-mile trip takes almost an hour.
I’m just about to reach for the dial on the radio when my phone chimes again . . . and again . . . and again. I glance over at it, the screen facedown on the seat, and mentally calculate the rest of my drive. In California it’s illegal to use a cell phone while driving, so it’s against the law to read or reply to any text messages. I’m about to tell myself I can wait when it goes off again.
And again.
When the light turns red, I slip my phone onto my lap and unlock the screen to reveal a slew of missed calls and messages from Becca.
My passcode isn’t working and I can’t get in the building.
Security says he can’t let me in.
Ok Tarah and Kyle can’t get in either.
What’s going on?
I can’t get into my email???
CARTER
911 EMERGENCY FIRE WHATEVER.
CALL ME NOW
I dial, listening to the phone ring through my Bluetooth.
“Carter.”
“Hey.” I accelerate, moving through the intersection. My heart is doing a weird dance in my chest. “What’s going on?”
“No idea.” Someone says something in the background, and Becca gives a quiet “Okay.” Louder, she says to me, “Check your email. We have a meeting at a building in West Hollywood. I’ll see you there.”
And then she’s gone. Bewildered, at the next red light I open my email program and find a two-line company-wide memo from CTM containing an address and instructions to be there by nine thirty.
Beyond that, nothing. Instead of heading straight, I turn right onto La Cienega.
? ? ?
Parked in an underground lot, I emerge and stare up at the glass-and-steel building. It looks like any other sleek new office structure; no identifying names or logos mark the front courtyard.
The only thing I can imagine is that we’re moving offices, or that something horrible has happened to our own building . . . but I’ve heard nothing on the news. And Becca—calm, collected, and immediately responsive ninety-nine percent of the time—hasn’t answered my follow-up call.
I’m hit in the face with a blast of refrigerated air as soon as I step inside, and combined with the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, it awakens something instinctively New Yorker in me.
It’s settling, oddly.
Turning down a marble hall, I check my phone a final time before slipping it into my pocket. A circular reception area is just ahead, topped by a set of large screens with the words Price & Dickle, and the logos and movie posters of some of the actors they represent, moving in and out of focus.
My pulse trills in my throat.
P&D recently moved. Is this where they’re located?
Off to the side is a smaller, temporary table with a paper sign that reads CTM sign-in taped to the top, a beautiful blonde sitting behind it, and two uniformed security guards hovering nearby.
Are we moving offices into the same building as P&D? The whole scene is odd enough to make me slow my steps; a red flare has just been shot up into the sky.
Warily, I approach the table and catch the attention of the blonde wearing a headset. Through my nerves, I attempt my best smile. “Hi, this is going to sound crazy, but—”
She’s all business: “You’re with CTM?”
I nod.
She looks down at her list. “Name?”
“Aaron,” I say, giving her my last name, then quickly clarifying, “Carter Aaron.”
She hums, flipping through a few pages. “Here we are, Aaron Carter.” She hands me a clipboard with several pieces of paper trapped there. “Did you know you have the same name as a Backstreet Boy?”
“Actually, you’re thinking of Nick Carter,” I say. “Aaron Carter is his younger brother. My name is Carter Aaron, not Aaron Carter . . .”
I can tell she’s already lost interest as she looks up at me beneath a set of gravity-defying false lashes. And who could blame her? I should not know the name of a Backstreet Boy’s younger brother. Except I do, because it’s something I’ve had to explain at least a dozen times in my life.
I push on, covertly glancing down at her list. There are a few names I recognize. Cameron from Literary, Sally from Foreign Rights, and a handful of others.
“Can you tell me why I’m here?” I ask.
“Fill out those forms,” she says, nodding to the clipboard in my hand, “then head to the second floor. Oh, and sign in, here.”
She hands me a badge with my name written across the front, and I reluctantly fill in the log. With a bland smile, she points me in the direction of the elevators. A guard swipes his badge to let me past the security gate, and once inside the elevator, I press the button for the second floor.
Pulling my phone back out, I send a quick message to Evie.
I think I’m in your building?
Something weird is going on.
Call me?
After a moment, a vibrant elevator chime tells me I’m on the next floor, and when the doors open I’m met by a smiling middle-aged woman and another set of matching security guards.
Okay . . .