Dark Wild Night

Dark Wild Night by Christina Lauren




For Eddie, our Superman





Chapter ONE


Lola

I MENTALLY DRAW THE panels of the scene before me as we follow the receptionist down the marble hallway: the woman wears six-inch black heels, her legs go on forever, her hips shift with each step.

Her hips shift left.

Her hips shift right.

Her hips shift left.

My agent, Benny, leans in. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” I lie, but he just snorts in response, straightening.

“The deal is all drafted, Lola. You’re here to sign, not to impress anyone. Smile! Today is the fun part.”

I nod, trying to trick my thoughts into agreement—Look at this office! Look at these people! Bright lights! Big city!—but it’s a wasted effort. I’ve been writing and drawing Razor Fish since I was twelve, and every single second of the fun part, to me, has been creating it. The terrifying part is walking down a sterile hallway lined with glass-front cubicles and glossy framed movie posters to sign a seven-figure contract for the film translation.

My stomach seems lodged somewhere in my windpipe and I go back to my safe place.

Her hips shift right.

Her hips shift left.

Her long legs span from the earth up to the clouds.

The receptionist stops at a door and opens it. “Here we are.”

The studio offices are almost obscenely fancy; the entire building feels like the modern equivalent of a castle. Every wall is brushed aluminum and marble; every door is glass. Each piece of furniture is either marble or black leather. Benny leads us in with confidence, crossing the room to shake hands with the executives on the other side of the table. I follow him in, but when I release the glass door it swings closed heavily, and the jarring gong of glass abruptly meeting metal echoes through the room—a sound broken only by two startled gasps coming from across the table.

Fuck.

I’ve seen enough photos of myself in stressful public situations in the past three months to know that, right now, I don’t look ruffled. I don’t duck my head and apologize; I don’t slouch or wince even though, as soon as the door slams dissonantly shut, I’m tied into a hundred thousand knots inside. Apparently, I’m just good at hiding it.

The New York Times gave Razor Fish a brilliant review, but found me “aloof” during an interview that I’d believed to be spirited and engaging. The Los Angeles Times described our phone call as “a series of long, thoughtful pauses followed by single-word answers” whereas I had told my friend Oliver that I was worried I’d talked their ear off.

When I turn to face the executives, I’m unsurprised to find they both look as polished as the architecture. Neither woman across the table says anything about my less-than-subtle entrance, but I swear the slamming echo reverberates throughout the room the entire time I walk from the door to the table.

Benny winks and gestures for me to sit down. I find a soft leather chair, smooth my dress over my thighs, and carefully take a seat.

My hands are clammy, my heart thundering. I’m counting to twenty over and over to keep from panicking.

The panel shows the girl, chin up, with a ball of fire in her lungs.

“Lorelei, it’s wonderful to meet you face-to-face.”

I look to the woman who’s spoken and take her offered hand to shake. Her hair is blond and glossy, perfect makeup, perfect clothes, perfectly expressionless. From my early-morning creeping on IMDb, I’m fairly sure she’s Angela Marshall, the executive producer who, with her frequent collaborator Austin Adams, fought to win the rights to Razor Fish in the bidding war I didn’t even know was happening last week.