Read Online Party Girl: A Novel by Anna David - Free Book Online
Authors: Anna David
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Biography & Autobiography, Contemporary Women, Los Angeles (Calif.), Celebrities, Rich & Famous, Women Journalists, Recovering alcoholics, Ex-Drug Addicts
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what with exercise addiction being so rampant. It must be a Jewish holiday or something. I’m so out of it that I barely notice when someone else comes into the gym. Then I look up, catch this person’s eyes, and immediately pray for a time machine and the opportunity to be anywhere else.
“Hi, Chad!” I all but scream to Chad Milan in such a fake-cheerful voice that I’m immediately shocked it’s come out of me. My head races through some shadowy reflections of coming into my apartment this morning after Rick dropped me off and rubbing moisturizer on my chapped chin. Did I freaking call Chad the way I’d planned to, or did I pass out before getting to it? Suddenly, I’m positive I did. I remember almost fainting with relief when I got his voicemail. All of these thoughts zip through my mind in the amount of time it takes me to smile winningly and ask, “Did you get my message?”
Chad nods and stops beside my treadmill. “Yeah, I did,” he says. “And forgive me for not calling you back afterward.”
I’m about to tell him that it’s okay when he walks over to the Stairmaster and adds, “It’s just that since I’d gone outside to find you and saw Rick holding your hand and leading you to his car, it somehow made your message about how you’d looked everywhere for me seem less convincing.” Then he gets on the Stairmaster and starts it up. And I say nothing. There is no retort. There is just Chad Milan, an empty gym, and my utter horror. Chad doesn’t say another word, and even in my state of complete and utter humiliation, I admire him for having the balls to put me in my place like that. Now I actually understand why a girl might be attracted to him , I think as I slink out of the gym moments later.
8
My first instinct when I see Stephanie standing at my front door, swigging from her flask with Jane in tow, is to tell her that I don’t feel like going out tonight. I just feel off—more so than usual—and could probably use a quiet night at home. But for some reason this thought doesn’t even make it out of my mouth.
“Ready to pre-party before Steve’s?” she asks and I nod.
Steve Rosenberg parties tend to be massive gatherings of successful studio executives, directors, and B-list actors at his enormous house complete with basketball and tennis courts. There’s no way tonight can happen without Alex.
“Want some Mexican food?” I ask Jane, who knows that “Mexican” refers to Alex’s coke, whereas “Italian” means getting it from this wannabe former wise guy named Joey. “Breaking the fast” is code for scoring from Vera, this Jewish woman whom I met at a party. But since Alex is the only one of the three who delivers, he tends to get the bulk of our business. Jane nods, so after giving each of them an Amstel Light, I page Alex. My mouth literally starts watering after the beeper pause when I punch my digits into the phone and press pound and I think I can actually feel my serotonin levels rise as I hear the long beep that tells me my phone number has been read. People’s anticipation of coke can be so Pavlovian that I know a guy who says he has to go to the bathroom as soon as he calls his dealer since the coke he buys is always cut with baby laxatives.
At seventy bucks a pop, Alex provides the best deal in town for door-to-door service but his coke sometimes tastes and smells so strongly of gasoline that, as it makes its way up your nose and begins its drip down your esophagus, you can’t help but envision the tanks it was stored in for its trip from Mexico. Inevitably someone will always complain when we’re doing Alex that they feel like they’ve strolled down to the nearest 76 station and started inhaling directly from a pump and someone else usually points out that inhaling gas probably isn’t that much worse than inhaling pure cocaine.
Alex is as timely as ever, and twenty minutes to the second after he returns my page, his Toyota Tercel pulls into my building’s
“Hi, Chad!” I all but scream to Chad Milan in such a fake-cheerful voice that I’m immediately shocked it’s come out of me. My head races through some shadowy reflections of coming into my apartment this morning after Rick dropped me off and rubbing moisturizer on my chapped chin. Did I freaking call Chad the way I’d planned to, or did I pass out before getting to it? Suddenly, I’m positive I did. I remember almost fainting with relief when I got his voicemail. All of these thoughts zip through my mind in the amount of time it takes me to smile winningly and ask, “Did you get my message?”
Chad nods and stops beside my treadmill. “Yeah, I did,” he says. “And forgive me for not calling you back afterward.”
I’m about to tell him that it’s okay when he walks over to the Stairmaster and adds, “It’s just that since I’d gone outside to find you and saw Rick holding your hand and leading you to his car, it somehow made your message about how you’d looked everywhere for me seem less convincing.” Then he gets on the Stairmaster and starts it up. And I say nothing. There is no retort. There is just Chad Milan, an empty gym, and my utter horror. Chad doesn’t say another word, and even in my state of complete and utter humiliation, I admire him for having the balls to put me in my place like that. Now I actually understand why a girl might be attracted to him , I think as I slink out of the gym moments later.
8
My first instinct when I see Stephanie standing at my front door, swigging from her flask with Jane in tow, is to tell her that I don’t feel like going out tonight. I just feel off—more so than usual—and could probably use a quiet night at home. But for some reason this thought doesn’t even make it out of my mouth.
“Ready to pre-party before Steve’s?” she asks and I nod.
Steve Rosenberg parties tend to be massive gatherings of successful studio executives, directors, and B-list actors at his enormous house complete with basketball and tennis courts. There’s no way tonight can happen without Alex.
“Want some Mexican food?” I ask Jane, who knows that “Mexican” refers to Alex’s coke, whereas “Italian” means getting it from this wannabe former wise guy named Joey. “Breaking the fast” is code for scoring from Vera, this Jewish woman whom I met at a party. But since Alex is the only one of the three who delivers, he tends to get the bulk of our business. Jane nods, so after giving each of them an Amstel Light, I page Alex. My mouth literally starts watering after the beeper pause when I punch my digits into the phone and press pound and I think I can actually feel my serotonin levels rise as I hear the long beep that tells me my phone number has been read. People’s anticipation of coke can be so Pavlovian that I know a guy who says he has to go to the bathroom as soon as he calls his dealer since the coke he buys is always cut with baby laxatives.
At seventy bucks a pop, Alex provides the best deal in town for door-to-door service but his coke sometimes tastes and smells so strongly of gasoline that, as it makes its way up your nose and begins its drip down your esophagus, you can’t help but envision the tanks it was stored in for its trip from Mexico. Inevitably someone will always complain when we’re doing Alex that they feel like they’ve strolled down to the nearest 76 station and started inhaling directly from a pump and someone else usually points out that inhaling gas probably isn’t that much worse than inhaling pure cocaine.
Alex is as timely as ever, and twenty minutes to the second after he returns my page, his Toyota Tercel pulls into my building’s
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