Free Meant for Me by Faith Sullivan Page B

writer’s block. The better you look, the more credible our story becomes.” His hand is on the small of my back, just about skimming my ass as he ushers me out the door.
    I’m outraged. All I want to do is give him a piece of my mind, dig in my heels, and refuse to budge. I’m on the verge of throwing a full-on tantrum when the elevator bings and the door slides open, revealing a car full of trendy twentysomethings. Exposed midriffs, tattoos, and piercings are intermingled with Rolex watches, designer jeans, and thousand-dollar handbags. I’m certainly not in Kansas anymore.
    They look us up and down before a svelte blonde with an immaculate Brazilian blowout steps aside to let us on. Apparently we passed some kind of test. Will boards the elevator like he owns the place, dragging me along with him. In my heels, I stumble over the grate, but luckily Will’s hold on my waist keeps me from face-planting into a dude wearing a leather jacket that’s probably worth more than my car.
    “Somebody’s still a little tipsy,” the guy chides, holding his Starbucks cup aloft. “Looks like you two had one hell of a night.”
    Everyone snickers and I am mortified. The guy even fist bumps Will with his free hand. Being young and hot in L.A. isn’t gratifying. It’s humiliating. I’ve never felt so objectified in my entire life. I want to go off on this guy’s scrawny little ass, but Will grabs my finger, giving it a squeeze. I glare up at him as he imperceptively shakes his head. I don’t care if standing up for myself is a major faux pas. The drivel spewing from this guy’s mouth is beyond rude. It’s offensive.
    “We did, bro. We did.” Will cocks an eyebrow, to check out the leggy brunette the guy is with. “I’m sure you can say the same.”
    “Life’s too short to sleep alone. You know what I’m saying?” He slides his hand up the back of the brunette’s gauzy shirt, as if to claim his territory, as Will continues to eye her up. She stands there stock-still, looking bored. I can’t see her eyes because they’re hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, but she doesn’t seem to be batting an eyelash, even though they’re talking about her like she’s not even there.
    “Can you imagine the type of orgy we could have in here if we stopped the elevator?” chimes in another guy who looks like he could be a freaking Abercrombie model.
    “Now that’d be fucking hot,” responds a tall, mocha-skinned girl standing next to me, licking her lips.
    Just when I’m at my breaking point, the elevator bell rings twice, sliding open to reveal the lobby. I take a deep breath as I step out, trying to calm my rattled nerves. Is everyone in L.A. so sex-obsessed? I jump when I feel someone’s hand lightly skim my ass as everyone moves out of the elevator. I quickly turn around, but I can’t tell if it was a girl or a guy who felt me up.
    “Welcome to Hollywood, Ivy,” Will says with a smirk. “Where your looks are the biggest commodity you possess. I think you wound that whole elevator up the minute you stepped inside. You’re going to have this town eating out of the palm of your hand.”
    “Will, stop making it sound like I’m sexual catnip,” I protest, following him toward the restaurant.
    “Ivy, baby. I’m not making it up. You’re a force to be reckoned with. I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy or what, but you’re emitting these vibes that are fucking irresistible. You’re going to be giving every guy within a ten-foot radius a painful case of blue balls.” He dodges as I try to smack him, laughing wholeheartedly at how flustered I am.
    “Name, please.” The hostess gives us the once-over, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. She long-limbed and glowing like she just stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog.
    I feel so self-conscious. Will has to be playing another one of his mind games. There’s no way anyone’s looking at me when there are so many beautiful people walking