“Those fucking bitches. Who do they think they are, coming into the office all pretty and young and looking like Victoria’s Secret models?” Skye raged as she squinted over the steering wheel and sped through the rain-splattered streets of West Hollywood. “How could Howard hire them? What could they possibly have that I don’t?”
Work ethic, Dawn thought but didn’t say. She was amazed Skye had kept her job this long and was at a loss on how to console her friend, who was driving way too fast, considering she had yet to figure out how to turn on the wipers.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dawn said, even though she believed the opposite. “He’s probably just looking for a little fresh eye candy.”
“But I'm the eye candy,” Skye whimpered, unable to enjoy showing off her new car. “That’s been my job for ten years.”
Dawn bit her lip. Ten years was a long time to hold anyone’s attention, even with Botox and a boob job.
“Maybe they have some skills you don’t have,” Dawn suggested. She knew Skye’s days were numbered. Why would the head of a prominent venture capital company keep a lazy, entitled, self-absorbed, over-paid assistant who viewed her job as an inconvenience when he could have two, young, enthusiastic assistants for the same price? She struggled with whether to tell Skye she was obsolete, but ultimately knew her opinion would be dismissed with a laugh. She would let her find out on her own and hoped her intuition was off. “Hasn’t your boss been after you to upgrade your skills?”
“Why do I need to learn new stuff? Why can’t I do what I do best?”
“Which is what, Tweeting and updating your Facebook page?” Dawn joked. She had once tried to explain the concept of IT people to Skye. But, her best friend refused to believe that the Big Brother IT people could monitor her every move, from her shopping and the downloading of music to IM-ing her friends. Skye thought it was as implausible as the American people electing an African-American president. Well, lo and behold!
“Funny,” Skye said in a sing-song, and then returned to the topic of the Twins. Like a dog with a chew toy, she just wouldn’t drop it. “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to get into Santa Monica City College. Bet they majored in ass-kissing. They were, like, taking notes and asking all sorts of questions and following me around all day. Frickin’ annoying!”
Dawn bit her nails as the car hydroplaned along the flooded streets. When Skye was upset, she drove fast which would be okay if they weren’t in a torrential downpour. Barely able to see over the dashboard, Skye refused to wear her glasses and squinted through the windshield at what was surely all a blur to her, even without inclement weather. She was a modern-day Mr. Magoo, causing accidents all around by driving while texting, making phone calls, and bopping to hip-hop. This was not a girl who could multitask at the best of times, let alone while vision impaired behind the wheel of a fast-moving vehicle. As Skye turned onto Melrose Place, she hit a median strip and scraped the rim of her tire.
“Jesus!” Dawn shrieked. “Your mother should have bought you a bumper car, not a Mercedes. You’re giving me whiplash.”
“I can’t see,” Skye whined.
“Try wearing your glasses,” Dawn said. “And turn on the wipers.”
“My glasses give me a headache,” she complained. “Besides, they’re for reading. My doctor never said anything about driving.”
“He obviously hasn’t seen you drive! Pull over so I can find the wiper switch!”
“We’re almost there,” she said, reaching for her iPhone.
“What are you doing?” Dawn shrieked again.
“Sending Chloe a text,” she replied. Evidently Skye wasn’t aware of a law against texting while driving in a hurricane.
“Give me that before you kill us both.” Dawn ripped the phone out of Skye’s hand. Moments later, they stepped out of the Mercedes and breezed by the paparazzi, who hovered around Koi like flies to shit, waiting for a glimpse of Paris Hilton or one of many other celebrities who still frequented the once impossible to get into sushi spot.
“Reservations?” the baseball-capped, long-leather-Matrix-coat wearing henchman-by-night/Bruce Willis wannabe-by-day inquired with an extra serving of attitude.
“Bar,” Skye responded, unwilling to waste an entire sentence on this knucklehead.
“Celebrating,” Dawn added, pointing to the Mercedes. “New car.”
The henchman tapped his pen on his clipboard and surveyed the girls. Skye yawned in his face. After eight years, his routine had grown old.
“Blow me,” Skye said and turned to leave. “Let’s go to Katsuya.”
The henchman quickly ushered them inside.