Wes was the co-host of Big Fat Loser, a TV show as horrible as its name. He “helped” celebrities lose weight, normally by yelling at them while running shirtless by their side, as they keeled over and vomited mid-exercise. He’d tried to recruit me to season three of his show, promising to get me to a size four within two months. I hung up the phone on him, but not before keeping him on the line for fifteen seconds, while I alternated between laughing and munching loudly on a sleeve of Thin Mints.
Apparently, our last interaction had left him craving more.
“Howdy, Hallion.” He braced his elbow on the bar, next to my drink, flashing me a blindingly white smile. Hallion was the nickname the tabloids gave me for my antics. “Did I ever tell you I’m a fellow Texan, too?”
He had enough wax in his hair to sculpt a Madame Tussaud figure. I wasn’t talking young Dakota Fanning, either. More like Dwayne Johnson.
“You don’t have a mask,” I commented blandly.
“Don’t need one.” He shrugged, grinning wider, still. “You’re looking at a man who just donated 10k to help a veteran get his surgery.”
I examined the paint job on the ceiling, waiting for him to go away.
“D’you hear what I said?”
“Yes.” I scooped a cherry from my empty cocktail glass, sucking it clean of alcohol. “You said it a second ago.”
“I meant about both of us being Texans.”
“I’m not a Texan,” I said flatly, tying the cherry’s stem in my mouth and dropping it back into my hand.
“Oh, yeah?” He leaned closer, so I could truly appreciate the eye-watering scent of the five gallons of cologne he’d bathed in. “Coulda swore President Thorne was—”
“From Dallas, yes. But I was born in D.C. and spent the first eight years of my life there. Then my parents tossed me into a boarding school in New York, Swiss summer camps, British winter camps, and French soirees. Texan, I am not. A cultural mogul, however…”
I could tell from Wes’ vacant stare that I’d lost him at ‘culture’. Perhaps even ‘soirees’.
I’d spent some time in Texas over the years, never by choice. My parents would beg, bargain, and drag me “home,” encouraging me to attend local schools, stay close to the family. I always dodged their efforts. Texas was too hot, too wholesome. All in all, I considered myself a Texan no more than I considered myself a neurosurgeon. And besides, I knew why they wanted me around—it was better optics for them. Showed they at least tried to rein in their wild child.
“Tsk.” Wes clucked his tongue, his megawatt smile intact. His teeth couldn’t be real. In fact, I’d wager his biceps weren’t, either. “I’d be happy to give you a tour sometime. Though I was born and bred in Houston, I sure know Dallas inside out.”
“I’m not planning any trips there.” I stared at the bottom of my empty cocktail glass.
“Then maybe we can meet here, in L.A.” His elbow touched mine. I jerked back immediately.
“Busy schedule, eating all those pies.”
“Don’t be so touchy, Hallion. Business is business, yeah?” He ran a hand through his hair, but that thing was stiffer than concrete. “I thought you’d make a great contestant.”
“You’d make a great taxidermy,” I drawled.
“Tell you what. I’ll work around your schedule. I really think we could benefit each other.”
He was just another person who saw me as a walking, talking meal ticket. He was just another user, and possibly an abuser. People like Wes reminded me why I’d sworn off men. They all wanted something, and that something was never to have an actual relationship with me. I was their leg-up. Their key to unlock an opportunity.
My stomach churned.
I want to go home.
Tragically, I didn’t have one. The mansion was a stack of expensive bricks and nothing more.
“I’ll have my PA contact yours.” I hopped off the stool.
“I don’t have a PA,” he said, confused.
Neither do I. That’s the whole exercise, Einstein.
I signaled Frederik for the check. Screw Keller. I was tapping out. He could mingle with Perry, who did, in fact, sport great new highlights that complemented her cheekbones. I tossed them one last look. Perry’s friends were now asking Keller all kinds of questions about his juicery. He was basking in it. Was I the only one who was upfront about his fake job?
I paid, tipped Frederik forty percent, and made my way out, weaving through people who tried to stop me for a chat. Wes followed me eagerly. He’d officially graduated from a pain in the neck to a stalker.
“Wait, where are you going?” He tried to put his hand on my shoulder. I hissed, shaking him off almost violently.
Don’t touch me. Do not touch me. Never touch me.
“Home.” I quickened my steps. My heels slapped the dark floor.
I loathed myself for forgetting to grab a jacket on my way out of the house. I could use something to cover my boobs with, ensure my breasts weren’t peeking out of the corset. Though now that I thought about it, said boobs weren’t feeling so constrained anymore. Just oddly cold. I looked down and realized why—my right breast had torn through the fabric. It was literally hanging out. Flapping in the wind like a half-mast flag just as I was about to exit the hotel and call myself an Uber.
Gasping, I frantically tried to tuck it back into my dress.
“Man, oh man.” Wes chuckled, leaning against a nearby wall. “Looks like the ladies came out to get some fresh air.”
“Shut up.”
I made a beeline to the hotel reception to see if I could borrow someone’s jacket. There were so many people. Everywhere. And the mask made it impossible to see anything. I ripped it off my face and dumped it on the floor. Panting, I looked around me.
Jacket. I needed a jacket. But this was L.A. People hardly walked around in layers.
A voice beside me soothed, “Don’t be so angry, Hallion. Let me drive you home.”
“No, thanks.” I folded my arms over my chest and strode faster. I was almost at the reception.
“If you ask the concierge for a jacket, they’ll know what happened and sell the story.”
I stopped cold in the middle of the lobby. Wes knew he had my attention.
“Do you really want to be humiliated again? Especially after the pizza stain story Page Six published about you.” His voice slithered behind me, sinking into my skin like claws.
He was right. If I admitted my dress had burst, it could be leaked. Hera would have a fit, and my parents… God knew what they were going to do. Cut off my allowance. Force me to move to Texas.
I had no actual life skills, other than peeling tangerines in one long piece. Which was impressive, but not exactly the kind of stuff you put on your résumé.
I whipped around, sizing Wes up, still protecting my modesty by resting my arms over my chest.
“I don’t trust you.” I squinted.
He raised his palms up. “You should. You’re President Thorne’s daughter. A national hero. I’d never hurt you. Do you think I’m that dumb?”
The answer, unfortunately for Wes, was yes. But since he gave himself more credit, maybe I should do the same. Just for tonight.
Every bone in my body told me it was a bad idea, but I wasn’t exactly swimming in options.
“Promise me no funny business.”
“Promise me a photo-op, and you’ve got yourself a deal. I need to get back on the headlines before season five premieres.”
I closed my eyes, breathed hard. I was furious.
“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive to be seen with a curvy girl when your job is to make people thin?” I opened my eyes, smiling innocently.
“So, about that.” Wes let out an exaggerated sigh. “I might’ve gotten a rep as a fat phobic after one of my episodes went viral. Can you believe this woke bullshit?”
Great. So I was officially his “some-of-my-best-friends-are” token. I wanted to scream.
“One coffee on Rodeo Drive.” I raised my finger in warning. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“Fine, but you can’t look like you’re revolted by me,” he bargained. “People need to think you’re having a good time.”
“If I had those kind of acting chops, I’d be winning Oscars, not advertising acne creams on Instagram.” I let out a sarcastic laugh.
“C’mon now, Hallie.”
I sighed. “I’ll be ordering a pastry.”
“I’ll tell the valet to get my car.” He winked and pointed at me. I, in return, flipped him the bird.
Wes ambled out of the lobby, swaggering like he owned the place. Minutes later, he returned to where I was standing tucked in a discreet alcove not too far from the entrance. It was a fairly secluded spot. My heart was racing, threatening to tear through my skin.
No one could know about my wardrobe malfunction.
“Goddamn, how much longer is it gonna take?” Wes craned his neck to see if his car had arrived. “My Tinder date is waiting down the street.”
My phone started buzzing in my fist. Keller, undoubtedly. I couldn’t answer, because I was firmly covering my breasts with my arms, and also because I was still riding the petty train of anger from him talking to Perry Cowen all the way to Beefville.
It was taking a long time—longer than it should—for Wes’ car to arrive. Every time he tried to start a conversation, I blocked it with, “Can we not?”
Finally, Wes announced that his car was waiting for us outside. He grabbed me by the elbow, ushering me to the entryway.
“Don’t touch me!” I whimpered, hating my voice, how lousy and whiny it sounded in my ears.
It all happened so fast from the moment we stepped out in the open. I let go of my boob, slapping his hand away. The flashes of the cameras hit me all at once. Instinctively, I raised my hand as a visor for my eyes. My right boob swung in the air and said hi to the dozen or so paparazzi photographers Wes had clearly invited here to catch us leaving together.
Oh, fuck.
I was so going to get shit about it from the forty-ninth president of the United States.
AKA, Dad.
Anthony John Thorne.