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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Search for Style"  Angela may be very stylish, and her mask-like sobriety gives her an air of mystery and gravity. But like a lot of models Gianna has known, she is actually pretty vapid. Her conversation is full of Oh my Gods! and You knows, and she can't maintain a train of thought for more than half a minute before lighting off on a digression. So a story about a fashion shoot in Malibu veers into a story about meeting Paoli Viani through a mutual acquaintance, which then sends her careening onto a tangent about a movie project that she was up for but which fell through. None of these stories reach any kind of climax or point before being interrupted. The clincher comes, though, when you ask her if it's true she's a part-owner in DAUM now, and she only bites her thumbnail and grins coyly at you. This more or less confirms your suspicion that that financial interest, if it exists, is a payoff of some kind. There might be some "fun" in adding Angela to your coven, but Sydney is talking like she wants you and her to be people who are fairly "normal," and Angela would definitely not qualify as "normal." Once you've decided not to pursue Angela, you close the call as soon as you decently can. * * * * * Tuesdays are days you can go in late, for they open with Beta period, which is Gianna's planning period. Tyler doesn't like it, but Gianna always has some kind of excuse, like she had to pick up her dry cleaning, or make a deposit at the bank, for coming in well after the first bell. Today you're fifty minutes late getting to school, because you spoiled yourself with a bath and hot, soapy pussy rub. It puts you in a good mood, and you're able to slide through your three classes (long though they are) without wilting. The toughest is Acting I, the class with Becky. You have to pretend that she is more or less a stranger to you, which makes you feel guilty, and you can't help but see resentment in the hooded glances she casts at you. It doesn't help that she is clearly uncomfortable in the class, being very self-conscious. Neither can you miss the glances and smirks exchanged behind her back by the other students who, though they are not really much more talented than Becky, at least have an ambition, an enthusiasm, and a comfort that the new girl clearly lacks. You can tell it's only going to get worse, too, and you strongly suspect that Sydney, once she has abandoned Becky's body, will not be going back to it. She comes to see you when school is over, but only to confirm that the "poker party" is still on, and to get directions to it. You give her a time and address. * * * * * "—ten days past their own deadline before we even heard back from the HOA," Samantha Morrow is saying. "Corey asked the contractor why they were so late giving us approval, and he said the guy who was supposed to give it was out of town and had just got back. But come on!" She rolls her eyes. "In that case, give us the freaking approval before you leave town!" She is sipping Chardonnay from a fluted glass, and you can't help seeing a resemblance between it and her. Her face, like the glass, is very long and narrow, and made narrower by her blonde hair which, parted in the middle, hugs the side of her face. Her eyes are slanted under arched eyebrows, and her nose is long. Her mouth, though small, is full, and only discloses the tips of her teeth when she talks or smiles (which isn't often). She is fascinating to look at, having the same withdrawn, mysterious, and vaguely Egyptian look as Angela, but cast in porcelain white-and-blonde, which makes her seem even more exotic. She's much more intelligent, too, and when Brittney asks her about the cost of the new pool that she and her husband are putting in, she talks intelligently about the finances and the loan they took out, and about the decisions behind it. "When we went to buy a house," she explains, "there was nothing in our range we could afford that already had a pool. But we made sure when we did buy a house that there was room to put one in. Corey'd already done some research on what they cost and what they'd add to the value." She takes a sip of wine. "I don't even know that we're going to get much use out of it," she says, "but we figure it will add at least fifteen percent to the value of the house, which is a couple of times more than the cost of putting it in." You and she and Brittney are hanging out in the kitchen while the poker game proper is being played in the roomy den a couple of doorways over. Eight people seemed a bit much to squeeze around a table, so it's a game of "family stakes" (as Brittney put it) with each couple sharing a pot—except for Brooke Perry, who insists on playing with her own money against her own date. So you three women are in the kitchen while Samantha's husband, and your and Brittney's dates, play for the honor (and wealth) of your couples. Brittney is asking for the name of the Morrows's pool contractor when Paul comes in. I his dark jeans and bomber jacket, he's looking handsome and dashing in a moody kind of way, and you thrill as he puts a hand on your butt and smooches the side of your head. "Where's Becky?" he asks as he turns to the fridge to get himself another beer. "On her phone in the living room. We're a little too old for her, Paul." He gives you a quick, hooded glance, then stumps out of the kitchen again. Brittney leans in on you with a girlish grin. "Where did you two meet?" she asks. "You didn't say when you introduced him!' "A coffee shop." You can't help preening a little: Brittney had instantly recognized him, though had waited until she was alone with you in the kitchen before confirming he was "the" Paul Griffin. "I was on my laptop, he was on his. He was looking for a place here in Calabasas, and he just came out and asked me if I could recommend a good apartment complex." You smile as you take a sip of your own wine. "And the next thing he was asking you out," Brittney says. She slaps you in the shoulder. "Get out!" "We exchanged numbers." "So has he found a place?" Samantha jumps in. "Who brings his teenage daughter on a date?" she asks, and her tone is caustic. "He said she's mature for her age," you reply, "and that she wants to do 'grown up' activities. I think this is a little too grown up." "More like she wants to be out with college guys," Samantha sniffs. "Corey has a niece who—" And just like that, she is off again, talking about Corey and herself and their own lives and doings. So you've learned quite a lot about them in a surprisingly short period. They are personal trainers—a claim you'd credit just by looking at her. She is very slim and toned, showing off strong but tapering legs in a pair of tight jeans, and visible abs peek out through the narrow gap between the top of her jeans and the bottom of a white t-shirt. Her boobs are on the small side, but they have a defined bulge beneath the tightly stretched fabric of her shirt. Her husband, too, looks trim and fit, and is tall, being a shade over six-two, by the looks of it. (Beside him, the other men look a little runty.) But they are not "merely" personal trainers, Samantha has been at pains to make clear, but "full-body/full-mind health consultants" to a select number of wealthy clients. They have even, she says, designed workout facilities for certain clients with the aid of an architect. She's telling you about a hiking trip that they took to Oregon—though it was also in the nature of a business trip, as they were investigating possibilities for extending their services to include "health and exercise excursions"—when her husband comes in. Unlike Paul, who had merely detoured to your side while making a trip for the fridge, Corey makes straight for his wife. He gives her a handful of poker chips. "What's this?" she asks. "Your turn," he says. "I'm losing bad in there. It's brutal." "This is all we have left?" she demands in unbelieving tones as she stares down at the chips. "I told you it was brutal." "Jesus, Corey—" "Your turn. Unless you want to go home." "Not with this." She sets her glass on the countertop, and stalks from the kitchen with an impatient toss of her head. "So who's winning in there?" Brittney asks. "Paul is." Corey gives you a direct look. "Is he a professional?" "I don't know." "I'm feeling hustled." His tone is even but unhappy. "How's everyone else doing?" Brittney asks. "Jeremy's doing okay," he assures her. "Joel's down a little, I think. Brooke's just about busted." He gives you another direct look. "I think she's giving her money to your guy." You'd not be surprised. Brooke Perry—who works for Brittney at Bruges—is probably playing footsie with Paul. Hell, she's probably got her leg wrapped around his. "What's he working on now?" Corey asks you. "Who, Paul? I don't know," you say. "I think he's, uh, between projects." Corey's brow furrows as he takes a beer out, pops the top, and knocks back a mouthful. "If he wants something steady," he says, "he should talk to Samantha and me." Your eyebrows go up. "Are you also TV producers?" He makes a face. "No, I meant if he wants steady work, not acting gigs. He told me he's done a lot of work with personal trainers. He knows the stuff." Your eyebrows arch higher. "Are you suggesting he work for you? As a trainer on your staff?" "I'm suggesting a partnership." Corey pushes back another slug of beer. "A guy like that would be great PR. And like I said, he knows the work." Next: "Poker? I Hardly Know Her!" |
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