SLEAZE: A Hollywood Comeback Story (Book #1)

Chapter 10

I’d been awake for nearly two hours by the time Sophie barged into my bedroom. I lowered my laptop screen as the door swung open and looked up at her from where I lay in bed.

The contrast between how she’d looked at the bar last night and her present state was yet another reminder of what an evilly deceptive invention makeup was. Without her blush and lipstick, Sophie’s face was pale and drawn, made worse by smudged remnants of mascara still clinging to her drooping eyes. Her hair was wet and dripping onto the navy dress that she’d worn the night before, the water turning the gauzy material black. I cringed as I thought of her using my kitchen sink to wash the vomit from the strands that now fell in stringy clumps around her face.  

Sophie hesitated, clearly trying to decide if she wanted to ask how she’d ended up at my apartment or pretend as if nothing had happened at all.

“Have you seen my phone?” she asked after a moment, and I rolled to the edge of my bed, swinging my legs over the side as I sat up.

“Oh, good morning, Sophie. Thanks for knocking, come on in. Glad to see you didn’t die on my couch.” I said with feigned politeness.

Sophie rubbed an eye with the back of her hand, leaving a shadow of black liner around her cheekbone. “I wasn’t that bad.”

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “You’re kidding me. Are you still drunk?”

Sophie shook her head and I watched droplets of water fly from the ends. “I was just tired.”

I scoffed and got to my feet. “Give me a break. You were halfway to black out by the time I got to the club.”

Face hardening, Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “I remember everything.”

“In that case, when can I expect the fifty dollars I had to pay to get the cab cleaned?”

“Take it from Michael’s commission if you ever get me a job,” she snapped and then sighed. “You are so weird.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Sophie frowned and started running a finger up and down the side of her dress, focusing on a spot in the fabric a few inches below her rib cage. I watched as horror clouded her expression and she cried, “Oh my God, I’m so screwed.”

“What?”

“My dress!”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, confused by her sudden panic.

Sophie turned slightly so I could see her profile. “Do you see it?”

I squinted and took a step forward. Even with my contacts in, I couldn’t tell what she was pointing at. “No, I don’t know what you’re—“

“Are you drunk? There’s a giant rip in my dress.”

Sophie moaned and buried her head in her hands as I scratched the back of my neck. If we were looking at the same thing, the hole was less than a centimeter wide. “Can’t you just take it to a seamstress or something?” I suggested.

“There isn’t enough time,” Sophie’s muffled reply came from behind her fingers.

“Time for what? I thought celebrities never wore the same thing twice, anyway,” I joked and Sophie looked up from her palms to glare at me.

“Do you know why that is, Parker?”

“Rampant vanity and high credit lines?”

Sophie ran a hand through her drying hair, leaving behind a shock of light golden frizz. “Yeah, the vanity of the designers who lend us their samples and hold our reputations as collateral until we return them.”