Evil Editor showed Jessica Biel out of his penthouse condo. His birthday party, attended by numerous celebrities and his minions, had finally ended. Never again, he thought, will I stage this event in my own place. What a mess. Animals, all of them. He stepped into his bedroom.
"You're still here?!" he exclaimed.
"We're your birthday present," they said in unison.
EE scanned the bed. His old flames. Julia Roberts. Angelina Jolie. Amanda Peet. Miss Snark. Eva Longoria. Hallie Berry. And Maria Sharapova. "Listen," EE said. "I'm another year older. "There's no way I can handle seven women anymore."
"Well then, you're just going to have to choose," Eva said, fluttering her eyelashes.
EE looked them over, each set of eyes more hopeful than the next. Finally he said, "Okay, okay, I choose . . . Angelina. Sorry, kid . . . you're the one who'll have to leave."
"You said she'd be here, Evil. You promised."
"Well she wasn't. Now go home."
"I'm not going home. I don't want to be alone."
"Look, George, I don't give a flying fuck what you want. But you're not going to not be alone by being with me. Now leave."
"All right. All right. I'm going. I got what I came for, anyway."
"You did? What?"
"This glass stiletto I found under your bed. All I have to do is find its mate."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." EE showed George to the door and triple-bolted it behind him. Three locks should be enough for tonight. Thinking better of it, he turned back and locked the rest.
He returned to the bedroom and stepped into his walk-in closet. Sprawled beneath the rack of trousers, clad only in a single glass stiletto and stinking of gin, was the last straggler.
There's always one.