Have to Have It

by Melody Mayer

  “I'm just a farm boy from Iowa who stinks of shit in the spring.” He casually draped an arm around her shoulder. “Cow shit, that is.”

  Kiley laughed and let herself melt against his body. “My grandma used to call that the smell of money.” He kissed the top of her head. “But maybe I should ask you to take a shower.”

  Kiley was shocked by her own words. Had she really just said that? It sounded so flirtatious, so seductive, so—

  “How about if we take one together?” he suggested. His voice sounded thick with desire.

  Holy shit. Red alert! Red alert! Kiley sat up and drained her drink. “Um” was all she could think of to say.

  “Kiley” Tom pulled her close and gently kissed her. It was wonderful. The kisses continued, becoming more passionate. Who had invented making out? That person was a genius.

  “Shower?” he murmured into the nape of her neck.

  “I—I—” she stammered. Then he was kissing her again, and she never, ever, ever wanted it to stop. He reached for the bottom of her T-shirt, to pull it over her head. Should she? Would she?

  Hell, yes, she decided, and pulled the T-shirt off herself. Then she was in his arms again, his hands tangled in her hair, and he was kissing her the way she'd always dreamed of being kissed.

  It happened so fast. Tom stood up. The next thing Kiley knew, Tom had lifted her in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. Thank God for all that farmwork, she thought giddily; the guy was strong.

  He carried her into the bedroom and gently laid her down atop his French silk burgundy quilt. He pulled off his own T-shirt, and Kiley was looking at the ripped abs that millions of girls had seen on a fifty-foot billboard on Sunset Avenue. They had wanted him. She, Kiley McCann of La Crosse, Wisconsin, had him.

  He kissed down her stomach. Kiley shut her eyes dreamily. How many girls had Tom carried into this room, this bed? How many girls had he made moan and groan the way that girl— whoever she was—had moaned and groaned the night Kiley had been trying to sleep in the suite next door?

  Her eyes popped open. She turned her head. Evidently some photos had slipped out of Tom's photo album, because two or three were strewn across his wooden nightstand. Lost in the bliss, Kiley didn't pay them any attention … until one caught her eye. Tom. With Marym. Their arms around each other, obviously a couple. Kiley sat up so quickly she practically knocked Tom off the bed.

  “What?” he asked, obviously concerned.

  “I … I …” She gulped hard. “I don't think I'm ready for this.”

  Tom rolled over onto his back, one hand thrown behind his head and his hair flopping boyishly across his forehead; he looked about as perfect as a boy could look. He stared up at the ceiling. “I would have appreciated it if you'd told me a little sooner.”

  “I didn't know a little sooner.”

  Silence. He rolled toward her. “Okay then.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, of course, really,” Tom said. “I want to make love to you, Kiley, but only when you want it to happen.” He reached for a lock of her reddish brown hair. “Did something happen …?”

  Yes. Marym used to be your girlfriend, or maybe she's still your girlfriend. If I have sex with you, what will it mean? This is way too much, way too fast for me.

  She didn't say any of that. Instead, she just said, “No, nothing.”

  Tom wrapped her in his arms. She felt his heart beating against hers. She realized she was probably the biggest idiot in the entire Los Angeles area for not going through with it.

  Gee, she thought glumly, Mom would be so proud.

  Thank God. They're all asleep.

  Just like Kiley, as a rule, Esme did not drink. But after the day she had had with the twins and the boys from hell (as she'd decided to call Ham and Miles), she was craving a double shot of tequila. She sat in a beach chair at the ocean's edge, under the inky black subtropical night sky. One of the few clouds hid the moon. It was just her and the water; the warm waves coming ashore gently washed over her ankles. She knew there were four different places within five minutes' walk where she could get not just a double shot of tequila, but any other alcoholic concoction she could think of or the bartender could invent for her. The problem was, she was too damn tired to even think about moving.

  The incident at the wacked-up relay had been just the beginning. There had been farting contests, food fights at lunch— Ham had even faked his own drowning in an effort (largely successful) to freak Esme out. By midafternoon, when the boys were running off in different directions from their scheduled activity at the arts and crafts shed, taunting Esme to catch them, Esme had been wishing that she'd never been asked to come on this so-called vacation. The worst part of it was how the twins had been influenced by the Silverstein boys, instead of the other way around.

  There was no possibility of complaining to the parents, either. The Goldhagens and the Silversteins had elected to go on an excursion to Dunns River Falls, supposedly the most beautiful waterfall on the island, and then to a reggae club in Ocho Rios that was apparently never frequented by tourists. Which was just so damn nice for them. At least someone was having fun—the someone certainly wasn't Esme. She had had to take charge of all four kids right through dinner (a disaster that had resulted in another food fight, this one involving curried goat) and then through after-dinner activities (Esme had reluctantly skipped the magic show for a kids' bingo game, where Ham had insisted he was the winner even though he wasn't, then flung his bingo chips at the social director). The only saving grace was that both sets of parents were willing to have their butlers stay on duty. Esme suspected that was only because they realized that if they gave her no free time at all, she might revolt.

  “Hey.”

  She turned to the soft, Jamaican-inflected voice behind her, and recognized the male silhouette. It was Winston, the guy who'd run the wacked-up relay and so many other of the kids' activities since then. Though he'd spoken harshly to Esme at the pool, she had actually come to like the guy. He didn't have an easy job (she could relate), and he just did his best to do it well.

  “Esme, right?” he asked.

  “I was until today,” Esme joked. “Now you can just call me exhausted.”

  Winston chuckled and knelt beside her. “I hear ya, girl,” he agreed, letting his accent sing. “Tink-a me doin' it day after day, with all these spoiled American children. I try to keep up de good front, but dey don't know the meaning of ‘'nuff respect.’”

  “'Nuff respect?” Esme wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.

  “It's an expression we use down here,” Winston explained. “Means people are equal, I respect you if you respect me. Mind if I sit?” He indicated a beach chair that had been left out, maybe twenty feet away.

  “Sure, join me,” Esme said. She was happy for company that was over the age of nine, as long as Winston didn't expect a brilliant conversationalist.

  He dragged the chaise closer and sat facing Esme. “Hope you don't mind. I saw you come down here and took de liberty of ordering— Ah, it looks like it is arriving. Hello, Kara!”

  “Hello, Winston!” A smiling Jamaican woman carrying a tray above her head on her right hand and a folding table in her left came bounding down the beach, easily balancing both. “Ready for a midnight snack for two?”

  “Perfect,” Winston told her. “Thank you.”

  “'Nuff respect,” the tall, slender waitress replied as she expertly opened the folding table, then put her tray down on it. “Fresh prawns on ice, a cold artichoke with hollandaise and truffles, ackee in case your friend is adventurous, and a split of champagne on ice with two glasses. Enjoy, and have a wonderful evening here in Jamaica.”

  “What's ackee?” Esme asked as Kara departed. She suddenly realized how hungry she was, having spent more time at dinner being a cop than eating.

  Winston laughed. “Sort of like our national fruit. But you don't eat the fruit. Just the part around the seeds. You cook it, that's why it looks like scrambl
ed eggs. Try a quips.”

  Esme looked blank.

  “A quips … that's patois for a little bit.” Winston took a spoon and spooned up some ackee, then offered it to Esme.

  She tasted it, letting the fruit roll around on her tongue before swallowing it. “It's delicious.” She dug the spoon in and took another bite. “Do you think I can get ackee in Los Angeles?”

  He poured champagne into the two flutes before he answered. “You so upful! I suppose so, at a West Indian market. You'd have to look.”

  “What does ‘you so upful’ mean?”

  “You're an upbeat kind of girl,” Winston intoned. He took a sip of the champagne. “Dom Perignon. Only the best for our guests. I can see I have to speak speaky-spoky wid you.”

  Esme laughed. “Sorry. No clue what you just said.”

  “Speaky-spoky means English that is talked in America,” Winston explained. “When a friend goes to America and comes home speaking all proper, we say that's speaking speaky-spoky.”

  The prawns looked tasty. Esme took a whole one and popped it into her mouth. “We kind of have the same thing in the Echo,” she told him. “Where I live. Well, where I grew up.”

  “Where you live now?” Winston asked.

  “Just a sec, I'll tell you. Suddenly I'm famished.” After several more prawns, a few more bites of ackee, and some of the artichoke dipped in the heavenly hollandaise sauce, Esme found herself telling Winston the story of how she came to work for the Goldhagens and live at a huge estate in Bel Air.

  What the hell, she thought. She'd never see this guy again after this so-called vacation was over. It was a pleasure too to be talking to an actual grown-up. That had been a rarity throughout the day.

  As she finished her story, she saw Winston reach into his pocket. “You like a ganja?” He held up an enormous marijuana joint wrapped in thin white paper. “We call them spliffs.”

  Esme laughed. “So do we. When they're that big.”

  “You mind?” he asked.

  “Umm … not really. But not for me.”

  Winston struck a match to the spliff, then lifted it to his lips and inhaled deeply. The bittersweet smell of Jamaica's finest filled the air.

  “You sure you don't want some? This came from a cousin's property up in the Blue Hills. You'll be paying respects to my family.”

  “I don't think so,” Esme said with a chuckle. “But you go ahead.” She regarded him in the moonlight. “So, they don't mind if you hang out with the American nanny?”

  “Not a-tall,” Winston assured her, then exhaled a mouthful of ganja smoke, the fumes curling out his lips and into the ocean air. “Here in Jamaica, everyone has playtime.”

  “Well, I wish we had that philosophy in America.” Esme sighed. “My life is more like: the people I work for get playtime, I get kid time and kid overtime.”

  Winston threw his head back and his full-bodied laugh rang through the salty night air. Esme had enjoyed talking with him, and had a newfound appreciation for ackee. But hanging out with a Jamaican guy who was getting high on her very working vacation didn't seem like the best idea in the world. She didn't want to go back to the Goldhagens' vacation house smelling as if she'd turned into a Rastafarian, a member of that Jamaican religious sect for whom marijuana consumption was pretty much a more-than-once-a-day ritual.

  “I should go,” Esme said, swinging her legs around to the side of the chaise. “Thanks for the feast; it was great.”

  “My pleasure.” He took another hit off his spliff “How long you stayin'?”

  Esme didn't actually know. The Goldhagens had been vague about how long the vacation would last, because Steven had a number of network pitch meetings for new show ideas. If one of those pitches had to be rescheduled, they might have to return to Los Angeles quickly. Of course, with the private jet, they were not at the mercy of the regular airlines' schedules. “A few more days,” she said.

  “Well, if you'd like to see some of the island, it would be my pleasure. I can tell you're not one of them,” Winston told her.

  “One of who?”

  Winston grinned. “You know exactly what I'm talking about, girl. You're not one of them. You're one of us. 'Nuff respect, Esme. And good night.”

  “Thanks, Winston. You made my night. I mean it.”

  Winston saluted by taking one more deep toke; Esme headed up the beach toward the Goldhagens' house. The resort employee was right. She wasn't one of them, and never would be. This trip was driving that point home more than ever.

  “Jeez, Lydia, what are you— Stop the car. Put your foot on the— No, the brake!” Billy bellowed.

  Lydia slammed on the brakes of Billy's classic 1967 Mustang convertible, and the car stopped with a jerk so powerful that, but for the seat belt/shoulder harness combination, Lydia and Billy would easily have been thrown against the windshield.

  Lydia smiled at him. “Okay, I stopped. Now what?”

  “Now what?” Billy echoed. “Now you can find yourself a new driving teacher! You scared the hell out of me.”

  It was late the next morning, and Lydia was getting her first driving lesson, having picked up her permit earlier at the California Department of Motor Vehicles. Fortunately, Anya was taking Jimmy and Martina to the pediatrician for their annual checkups, followed by a visit to the dentist for their biannual cleaning. (Lydia wondered what there could possibly be for the dentist to clean. The children were permitted no sugar or soda, and had to brush their teeth with Sonicare electric toothbrushes when they woke up, after every meal, and before bedtime, plus floss to Anya's exacting standards. The biggest danger to their dental health, Lydia figured, was that the enamel of their teeth would be worn away by the time they each reached middle school.) The good news was, Lydia didn't have to be home for the children until after one o'clock. Then they were all going over to the country club.

  Billy had decided that the expansive parking lots at Santa Monica College would be a great place for Lydia's first lesson. Since the college was on intersession, it was pretty much deserted. No pesky vehicles to get in Lydia's way.

  Things had started out well, and Lydia had proved to be an apt pupil. Though she'd inched around the parking lot for the first few minutes, it wasn't long before she'd figured out how little she needed to turn the wheel for the power steering to kick in. She even tried to use her turn signals when she was going either right or left.

  Twenty minutes into the lesson, Lydia asked the fateful question: “Can we go out on the street?”

  Billy had been negative on the notion—it was too soon. But Lydia had cajoled and charmed him—between steamy kisses— assuring him that she really could handle it. Her final winning argument had involved a well-placed right hand on his left upper thigh, not to mention an eyeful of what was just underneath her secondhand Anna Sui eyelet top. Then she'd whispered in his ear: “Oh, Billy, I've killed a feral pig with my bare hands and I once drank goat piss during a shaman's learning ceremony— without throwing up, I might add. Do you really think I'm scared of Santa Monica Boulevard?”

  Lydia personally suspected that it had been her hand on his thigh (or his sneak peek at the lace of her La Perla push-up bra), as opposed to her argument, that had nearly caused him to relent. She'd gunned the Mustang's engine—it roared with every one of its three-hundred-plus horsepower. Driving on the street was going to be much more fun than digging for grubs.

  And then, just when Lydia figured she had spun her web perfectly, Billy had made her crazy by turning her down. “Another hour here. Maybe tomorrow, if you don't make any mistakes.”

  Oh, the boy was just maddening! He had way too much self-control about everything. Her eyes narrowed. If there was one thing Lydia hated, it was being told what to do. It made her think of a time when she was eleven and a couple of the Ama kids, Cuznco and Myrine, had invited her to go into the rain forest for a monkey hunt. She'd only ever been monkey hunting with one of the senior tribal leaders, never just with other kids.

  Wh
en her father heard that there were going to be no adults on the hunt, he'd put his foot down (impressive, since his foot was clad in handwoven hemp sandals; his only pair of real shoes had been stolen by a tribal leader disgruntled about his wife's pregnancy—and Lydia's father's refusal to do anything about it). In any case, Lydia could not go on the hunt.

  Myrine and Cuznco thought it was hilarious that Dr. Chandler wouldn't let Lydia come with them. Lydia found that horribly embarrassing; she told her dad that she was just going to go down the river to try to trap a yellow-spotted Amazon River turtle for dinner.

  When Dad said fine, Lydia got her carefully whittled blow-gun, tucked it into her clothes, and hiked into the rain forest by herself. For two hours, she crouched carefully in the jungle, waiting for the perfect target. She came back triumphant, not with a turtle, but with a fat squirrel monkey slung over her shoulder by its tail. She insisted on butchering it herself.

  Needless to say, that was the last time her father forbade her to go hunting with her friends. Almost needless to say, Billy's telling her that she couldn't drive on the streets of Los Angeles seemed a minor setback compared to past parental decrees.

  “Fine,” Lydia chirped, not one to be thwarted so easily. “I'll simulate.”

  With that, she pushed the transmission into drive and zoomed across the parking lot. She cut the wheels this way and that, rounding one light stanchion, edging past a Dumpster with only inches to spare, reaching forty-five miles an hour at one stretch, and then braking to a perfect stop just before they slammed into a guard gate between the parking lot and Pico Boulevard.

  That was when Billy shouted at her to stop the car and told her that she scared the hell out of him and she ought to get a new driving instructor.

  She batted her eyelashes, which were normally pale blond like her hair but at the moment were coated with three layers of Black Night Denova Lash-Pump mascara, which was sold only in Australia and was so sought after that there was normally a three-month waiting list. Lydia had spied it atop a gift basket sent to her aunt from ESPN. Having recently read about the mascara in Allure, she was dying to try it. So she'd deftly extracted the mascara from underneath the gift basket's red cellophane cover, then rearranged the cellophane so that her aunt wouldn't be able to tell that anything was missing. Lydia reasoned that at least she would put the mascara to good everyday use; Aunt Kat wore it only when she was on camera.