Party Girl: A Novel by Anna David Page A

gestures to the shot glasses, most of which are still full. Just then, Rick turns around and I realize with a jolt that Rick is Rick Wilson. As in Rick Wilson, the former child star who I’d been almost preternaturally obsessed with in eighth grade.
    “You’re Rick Wilson,” I say, before I can help myself. With famous people, you’re supposed to act like you don’t know who they are or, if you happen to, that you’re not all that impressed by what they do but are quite interested in getting to know what they’re really like as a person. When it’s an extremely famous person, it’s easy to remember this. But if it’s someone decidedly less known, I get initially confused and think I actually know them. I once saw Gregory Hines walking down the street in New York and greeted him with a “Hey, how are you?” because I thought for that minute that he was, like, one of my grade school teachers.
    Rick, for his part, looks altogether thrilled to be recognized. It’s actually possible that he hasn’t worked since the mid-’80s. “I am,” he smiles, tiny but perfect teeth shining under his full lips. “And, though I don’t recognize you, I wish I did,” he says. He leans past Bill to brush my cheeks with his lips. Bill glances from Rick to me.
    “Shot?” he asks, but before even waiting for an answer, he slides one over to me and one over to Rick. Somehow when Rick says “Cheers,” it doesn’t bug me.
    And that’s around where everything starts to go slightly hazy. Or maybe it’s after the second round of shots, or the third. All I know for certain is that eventually we make our way through the glasses on the bar that had once been full. The bar gets extremely crowded and then it seems to thin out. I wonder why Chad hasn’t bothered to come over to where I’m standing and decide that he’s being really rude. Bill helps support this theory.
    “He brought you here and doesn’t even have the balls to suck it up and come over and have a drink with us?” he asked. “What a tool.”
    Rick nods, continuing to make heavy eye contact with me. And then I come up with the ideal solution for getting out of kissing Chad Milan and into kissing Rick Wilson.
    “Why don’t I tell Chad I looked for him everywhere but couldn’t find him?” I ask Bill while Rick is in the bathroom. Guys isn’t exactly a massive nightclub—it is, essentially, one room—but Bill nods supportively.
    “You should,” he says. “Rick is definitely into you. Just call Chad when you get home and tell him that when you couldn’t find him, you got another ride home.”
    I’m not sure exactly how this plan is communicated to Rick but the next thing I know, I’m making my way toward the bathroom, being careful to make sure Chad isn’t looking in my direction, and then out the back exit, where I then crouch by the side of the building like I’m the female James Bond or something.
    “Let’s get you home.” Rick smiles as he walks outside. Grabbing my hand, he leads me to a black BMW parked in the back and opens the door for me. I slide in and unlock his side, remembering that some guy once told me that he knows a girl is going to sleep with him if she unlocks his door. Rick notes that his door’s unlocked with a wink at me as he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car.
    “Are we all clear?” he asks. “Any sign of your guy?”
    I look around and see only valet parkers.
    “I think we’re good,” I say. “But just to be safe…” I slide down the seat, so that my legs and butt are on the floor of his car and my head is on the seat. From this angle, I can’t help but notice the bulge in Rick’s jeans. He glances down at me noticing, and winks. I laugh, and continue to when he looks around, jokingly furtive, as we pull in front of Guys and out onto Beverly.
    “I think we made it,” he says, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “It’s not always easy to escape from the claws of a smarmy agent.”
    I slide