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Bliss by Danyel Smith
An Excerpt From Chapter One
Chapter:1
Sleek and pinned-back as a ballerina, Eva strode through the Great Hall of Waters, efficiently hiding hurt. She was a living ad for sexiness and blithe self-sufficiency, an earthbound overlord of sun and stars. Eva was at the Lost City Resort on Paradise Island in the Bahamas, and Eva had to pee.
She clicked past a casino’s smoked windows and stepped into a lobby restroom of the Coral Towers. In a mirror, Eva checked her quick grimace for smudges, then, from the knot at her nape, deftly pulled bangs across half one eyebrow and fully over the other.
I look good. It’s all about singularity, attitude, and lotsa panache. Plus the sit-ups. And the Tuscan pollen face cream with olive oil.
Eva took a long glance at the doors guarding toilets. She tightened up, decided to hold it. Decided the tension would keep her on her toes.
Her cell chirped. A 206 number flashed on the caller ID.
Home calling.
Eva’s father.
She watched the number until it faded. Eva’s new phone fit in her palm like a secret, and she could reach out and be reached wherever she was in the world. Absently, she ran her thumb over the phone’s buttons. Eva believed the cell tripled her productivity and her freedom.
She walked through the Corals toward The Lagoon Bar & Grill, which had been closed to the public for the night to house Showcase Savoir Faire. Eva wasn’t one to sweat promptness. It wasn’t a priority in the music industry. But on this night, she was desperate to get to a show, and with its bright lights, The Lagoon shone like a sanctuary. Eva felt thin-skinned and distracted by the independence of her insides. But if she could get to the showcase in time to handle what she was supposed to as associate general manager of Roadshow Records, and get there looking flawless, it might matter less that she was probably pregnant.
In the Coral Lounge Atrium Lobby, Eva’s cell rang again and she quickly answered the familiar 212 number. “It’s Eva,” she said airily, like the caller should be lucky for the connection.
“All on track?” It was Eva’s boss, Judeo-Spanish Sebastian, calling from New York. Judeo-Spanish was the first thing that came to mind about Sebastian because he always talked about Judeo-Spanish history and how, among other honors, Judeo-Spanishness should have a month of its own. He was raised in Arizona, spoke fluent Español. He went to mass on Easter Sunday and Christmas Eve, and demanded a kosher town house at the same time he demanded ebony vertical blinds. He loved to turn cocktail conversation into an homily about how he was a true Sephardic, a converso, a sabatista descended from Jews forced to convert to Catholicism and flee Spain way back in Columbus’s time.
God bless him, Eva often thought. But it’s old.
“Yep,” Eva said to him, “all on track.”
“Sunny’s hype? And you’re sure about these changes to the show, this—”
“I’m sure.” Don’t say “hype,” when you’ve never been, in your life. You hired me to oversee the so-called urban acts so you wouldn’t have to attend Showcase Savoir Faires. Let me do my thing. Sunny was Roadshow’s barefoot, yoga-preaching, tie-dyed, incense-burning superstar singer. Sunny was Eva’s responsibility.
“I don’t have to tell you how much rides on this,” Sebastian said. “It’s not just the money, though it is that . . . it’s Sunny . . . she could . . . you know her contract situation better than I do.”
Don’t patronize. “It’s all going to work out. I’m sure of it.” Almost.
“Everybody’s contracts are about up—yours . . . mine.”
Yours pays you out in the millions. Mine— “It’s fine, Seb, all fine. I need to—”
“Go, go! We’re pulling for you back here, Evey. You’re the moneymaker.”
My name is Eva. The tink-tinkle of a nearby fountain caused Eva to tighten up again. But to pee would stab her with the fact that she should be taking the pregnancy test she had in her suite. It would put her in warm wet touch with a life-and-death decision. She walked past another restroom.
“See you when?” Sebastian broke the silence. “Day after tomorrow? Evey?”
“Yes, Seb, for sure.” Eva hated Sebastian’s wheedle. Why wheedle from a position of power?
“You’re my girl,” he said atypically, like she might confirm her loyalty. “You know that. My ace.”
“I’m at the venue,” Eva said. He’d set off an alarm in her brain. She thought he might be overcompensating for something, or that he’d somehow peeped her weakness.
Plus, Eva was actually in front of a store at the Crystal Court: duty-free shopping, local stoneware, and lavishly printed Bahamian picture books. She stared through the window with her jaw tight. Eva heard Sebastian say, “Hit me back later,” as she took in the store’s main display—a basket stuffed with two magnums of champagne, and a tray of chocolates big as a briefcase. The shrink-wrapped basket sat above a sign: the ultimate gift: pure indulgence.
Eva had one on the vanity in her suite. Card signed, ron.
Dead cell still at her ear, Eva stared at the package.
That lazy motherfucker.
I got your ultimate gift.
Bliss:Part 1 |
Bliss:Part 2 |
Bliss:Part 3 |
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