Party Girl: A Novel by Anna David

agent me over to his side means my point hasn’t a hope of getting through. So, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my part and can now eat and drink guilt free. What’s another hour of my time? I lift my glass and clink his with a smile.
    “Cheers,” I say.
     
    As Chad pays the check—the-move-the-bill-to-his-side-and-shake-his-head-as-I-start-to-object move—I start worrying about how I’m going to get out of this night’s good-night kiss. No matter how many people tell you that just because a guy’s taken you to a nice dinner, he doesn’t think you owe him some tongue at the end of the night, those few moments of horribly awkward conversation about how delicious the chicken was or how early yoga starts tomorrow morning say otherwise. As I’m debating whether it might be less awkward to simply make out with him for a minute and get it over with, Chad suggests we go somewhere else for a drink.
    I shake my head, calculating that if I have to make small talk for another hour, I may peel all of my cuticles off my fingers out of anxiety and general unhappiness.
    “What about Guy’s?” Chad asks, hitting a soft spot. It’s the one bar in L.A. that I actually like and it’s so tough to get into that being a girl doesn’t even help. “I’m on the list.” I’m sort of surprised that Chad has the cachet to pull off Guy’s, but I shouldn’t be. The doorman probably dreams of being the next Johnny Depp, and is under the mistaken impression that Chad can help make that happen.
    During the car ride over, Chad gets on his cell phone, which would normally horrify me but I’m actually grateful to the person on the other end of the phone for saving me five more minutes of pretending to seem interested. It seems to be another agent on the phone, because I’m hearing Chad talk about Ashton and packaging fees and Orlando Bloom in a way that I can tell he thinks might impress me. And, truth be told, if it were a guy I was attracted to, it might well have.
    When we pull up at Guy’s, Chad hands the car over to the valet, and an enormous black burly doorman opens the velvet rope and waves us through. I spy my friend Bill Kirkpatrick at the bar, with an assortment of shot glasses filled with various and sundry liquids in front of him. Bill and I were good friends in college but for some reason we don’t ever hang out in L.A., which is unfortunate, seeing as he’s the only friend from college that I’m still in touch with. So Bill is a major breath of fresh air after two hours of Chad Milan. I poke Chad’s arm and point to the bar.
    “That’s my old friend Bill,” I say, starting to step through the throng and in Bill’s direction.
    “I know Bill Kirkpatrick,” he says. A pause, and then, “I hate Bill Kirkpatrick.” There’s always the chance of this with Bill, as he’s never afraid to piss people off.
    “A girl I dated was two-timing me with him,” Chad continues, glaring at Bill.
    “That sucks,” I say. “Oh, well.” I know this is a coldhearted response but the truth is, I need a break from Chad and this discovery seems to provide it. Particularly when a guy in a three-piece suit—clearly another agent—slaps Chad on the shoulder by way of greeting.
    “I’m just going to go say hi to Bill,” I tell Chad as he starts chatting with Three-Piece-Suit Guy. “I’ll be over there.” Chad nods as the other agent guy hands him a cocktail.
    Then I make my way over to Bill, who glances past me, toward Chad.
    “Oh, God. Please don’t tell me you’re here with Chad Milan,” he says. Bill likes to act protective of me, but the way he typically expresses this is by telling me that the guys I hang around with are complete idiots. “He’s such a tool.”
    I don’t refute the statement and Bill slides down a stool to make space for me at the bar, nodding his head in the direction of a guy whose back is to us. “I’m here with my friend Rick. We’re matching each other, shot for shot.” Bill