Excerpt from Followers by Megan Angelo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Florence," Orla said.

"Call me Floss!" Florence giggled. She pulled all of her hair over one shoulder and stroked it like a pet.

They were at an impasse: Floss didn't recognize Orla, and Orla didn't know who Floss was supposed to be. As Orla tried to decide what to say next, Floss's publicist—she had a publicist!—jumped in.

"Jordie from Liberty PR," he said. "You of course know Floss Natuzzi from the reality competition Who Wants to Work at a Surf Shack." His voice had a defeated sort of hum, like he no longer got up in the morning hoping people would take him seriously. Orla could envision the half-finished law school application on his desk at home. "She's also a fixture on the Akron fashion scene," Jordie added, "where until recently she lived with Columbus Blue Jackets star Wynn Walters."

"The Athens fashion scene?" Orla said.

"Sure, let's go with that," Jordie sighed, at the same time Floss said loudly, "No, Akron. Akron, Ohio."

Jordie shot Floss a look, then laughed and threw his hands up. "Yes, Akron," he said wearily. "It's mostly, ah, underground. Very avant-garde. LeBron James..." He trailed off purposefully. It wasn't a lie; he had merely said the words "LeBron James." Orla nodded appreciatively. He would do well at law school.

She looked at Floss, who seemed not to be listening. She was peering down at the printout Orla was standing on, then back up at Orla's face. As Jordie tugged her toward the next reporter, Floss seemed to realize something. "Wait," she said, blinking, looking back. "Omigod."

Orla waved at her stupidly.

"Come inside, then," Floss called over her shoulder. "I want to talk to you." She tottered off on her heels. Orla watched as Jordie stepped forward to pull something off Floss's wrist. It was Orla's own yellow hair elastic. She had left it on the sink that morning.

"What, you know her?" Orla heard the waif say, sullenly. Out of some instinct, Orla didn't respond. Floss was only the last to arrive at a party for dog shirts in Midtown, but she was clearly someone to someone, and she had told Orla to come inside. Orla didn't have to talk to the waif anymore.

* * *

The girl at the door with the list was unimpressed. "I'm a personal guest of Floss Natuzzi's," Orla said again. "She'll be so upset to hear about this." The girl just looked behind her, waving someone forward. Orla stepped back to let an Afghan hound in a beret and its handler walk through.

She walked along Fifty-Seventh Street and found she could see into the event, which spilled into a courtyard fenced in by wrought iron. Floss was just a few yards away, talking to a short, sweaty man with his shirt buttons mostly undone.

Orla put her face to the bars and hissed into the party. "Floss!"

Floss looked up. She turned away from the man while he was still midsentence and came trotting over to Orla. "What are you doing? I said to come inside."

"They wouldn't let me," Orla said. "Can you get me in?"

Floss looked down at Orla's scuffed ballet flats and murmured, "Those, probably." She took a glass of champagne from a waitress and slid it through a gap in the fence to Orla.

"You can't—" the waitress began, and Floss fixed her with a cold smile. "Did they resolve the oyster situation yet?" she asked the waitress. "Would you please find Gus and find out? I'll wait here." The waitress scurried away.

"Who's Gus?" The champagne glass felt so delicate in Orla's grasp, she had to focus on not crushing it.

Floss rolled her eyes. "There's no Gus." She drained her champagne and motioned for Orla to drink hers down. "Wait there," she said.

Three minutes later, Floss was walking toward Orla, one arm in the air, hailing a cab. When one stopped, she stood there blinking at it until Orla stepped forward and opened the door, then stepped back to let her in first.

Excerpted from Followers by Megan Angelo. Copyright © 2020 by Megan Angelo. Excerpted by permission of Graydon House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.