by Melody Mayer
Billy licked some sauce from his pinky. “Or maybe I'll have to tie you down.”
Well, this was going really, really well. At least he was saying the right things, which was a damn lot better than where he'd been on the issue before. It was a lot easier to get someone to say yes when that person was in the habit of saying yes. Very promising. Tonight she and Billy would seal the deal. And Luis would barely be a—
No. It couldn't be. Lydia peered toward the front of the restaurant, where someone who looked a lot like Luis was picking up a to-go order.
He turned. It was Luis. He was looking right at her.
Damn. Of all the shit-ass luck.
When Luis recognized her, he popped a pair of earbuds from his ears and walked confidently toward her and Billy's table. “Well, well. If it isn't the great Lydia Chandler? What a surprise. You've got good taste in restaurants.”
“Actually, my boyfriend picked it,” Lydia said, feeling incredibly uncomfortable to be in between these two guys in one room. She quickly introduced Billy to Luis, explaining that Luis was the country club pro who'd given Jimmy his first lesson.
The two guys shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” Billy told him politely.
“You too,” Luis agreed. “You play?”
“I surf a little and played soccer in high school. But no golf.”
Lydia watched the two guys with trepidation. Surely Luis would have the good sense not to do or say anything to indicate that their relationship went beyond a country club acquaintanceship.
All he did was tell them to enjoy their meal.
“Sure,” she agreed, keeping a cheerful look on her face and reminding herself that she owed Luis exactly nothing.
“Have a wonderful night. See you at the club sometime. Billy, you're a lucky guy. She's really something.” A discreet bell sounded, and Luis headed back to the counter to pick up his to-go bags.
“Lydia's ‘really something'?” Billy echoed.
“Oh, you know me, always joking around at the club,” Lydia said lightly. “It helps relax Jimmy. He's such a tense kid, and he really wants to be good at golf.”
Billy nodded and sipped his Kingfisher beer in its green can. Meanwhile, Lydia fumed. What was Luis doing making a comment like that?
She excused herself to go to the bathroom and caught up with Luis on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.
“I thought I could count on you,” she told him. “To be discreet.”
Luis laughed. “Hold on. All I did was come in for some takeout.”
“Lydia's ‘really something'? ‘You're a lucky guy, Billy'? That's takeout?”
“You need to relax, Lydia,” the golf pro told her. “I wasn't born yesterday. And now, I'm going home to eat this delicious food.” He gave a little wave and headed toward his Spyder, parked right behind Billy's red Saab by the curb outside the restaurant.
It was almost as if he'd intentionally pulled into the spot right behind them.
“Luis!”
He looked up as he opened his front door.
“Tell me—did you follow me here, Luis?” Her clenched throat raised her words half an octave.
She didn't feel any better when Luis didn't answer. Instead, he shook his head ruefully, got into the car, and drove away.
Kiley knocked on Bruce's white-painted door, now stripped of the rock-and-roll posters that used to adorn it. Nothing. She knocked again, louder. Still nothing. She knew he was in there, though, because she'd been smart enough to put a piece of tape between the door and the jamb earlier. If Bruce had snuck out, the tape would have been torn. It wasn't.
“Come on, Bruce. It's me, Kiley. Don't be a pain in the—”
The door swung open. There stood Bruce, in a pair of jeans and an old Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. When Kiley had been preparing for the reality show, she'd come across rampant Internet rumors that this Bruce was the offspring of that Bruce. Now she was aware that Platinum herself had fueled the speculation for publicity purposes.
Once upon a time, back when the rock star had been the mistress of her own domain, Bruce's room would have approximated a federal disaster area. Now, in the colonel era, it looked like a plebe's quarters at West Point. Everything was neat, the bed perfectly made with hospital corners. There were no stray objects or even discarded clothing on the floor.
“Welcome to San Quentin,” Bruce growled. “And if that asshole tells me to secure my bunk and police the area, he's getting Ex-Lax in his blood pressure meds.”
“Why didn't you open for me when I knocked?”
“I thought you were him.”
Kiley sympathized with Bruce. The colonel had turned the kids’ world upside down and sideways with his overnight imposition of military discipline. Under the ancien régime, Bruce had been granted total autonomy and complete freedom. Not that total freedom was good for a fourteen-year-old, either.
“Are you confined to quarters?”
“Until next Wednesday. He didn't like the way I mowed the back lawn. I did it back and forth, he wanted it on the diagonal crisscrossed like the outfield at goddamn Dodger Stadium. We have three goddamn gardeners, why am I out there working?”
“Um … to learn discipline?” Kiley asked weakly.
“I hate that asshole.” Bruce leaned against the doorframe. “What do you want?”
“Number one, I'd recommend you cut back on the swearing. It could get habit-forming, and the colonel won't be happy. Can I come in?” Kiley asked. Bruce moved out of the way with a petulant look on his face, but Kiley plunged ahead. “So, let's talk about getting you sprung.”
For the first time, Bruce showed a modicum of interest. Kiley couldn't blame him. Here it was, seven o'clock on a Saturday night. Bruce was a party animal who had a lot of young friends who were as into music as he was. Because of Platinum's connections, they could always get great tickets to see whoever was in town. Kiley knew he was a huge Yellowcard fan. That band was playing this very evening at the Hollywood Bowl; Bruce was missing the show because he was confined to quarters. He couldn't even sneak out, since the colonel controlled the electronic gate at the bottom of the driveway and an impenetrable hedge surrounded the rest of the property.
Bruce kicked his door shut, then put a pair of combative hands on his hips. “Okay. Talk to me. What's your great idea to get me off death row?”
“The colonel is paying for me to take scuba lessons.”
“Please. Take him along and fill his air tanks with ultra-long-lasting sleeping gas.”
“I don't think that's possible. He wants you to learn, too.”
Bruce snorted out a laugh. “That's a joke. He thinks because he wants me to do it, I'm going to do it? Believe me, I'll do the opposite of what he wants.”
“That will only piss him off even more. Which would only result in even more time confined to quarters.”
“Too bad. I'll never do what he wants. I don't want to give him the satisfaction.” Bruce folded his arms and set his jaw.
Kiley expected this reaction.
“Fair enough. I was going to invite you and your friends to come along when my friends and I go diving at Catalina Island, but if you can't scuba—no point. I could make a really great case for the colonel to let you come with us. Too bad. It would be an all-day thing.” She turned and headed for the door.
“Wait!”
Bingo.
Kiley looked over her shoulder. “Yeah?”
Bruce pursed his lips. “You really think that if I get certified the colonel will let me go on dives without him?”
She knew better than to bullshit him. “I think you've at least got a shot. He can't be in two places at once. If it was me in your shoes, I'd take my chances.”
“Huh.” He seemed to be considering his options. “When does class start?”
“Tomorrow, at the club. Adult pool. Eleven o'clock. You want a ride?”
“Let me think about it.”
“You do that,” she agreed.
“Just wonderin
g …” He scratched the soul patch he was attempting to grow below his lower lip. “How cute are your friends?”
“Very. 'Night.”
She walked out and closed his door behind her, hiding a proud smile. Maybe all this time in Los Angeles was turning her into a mistress of manipulation just like everyone else. If she was a betting girl she would have wagered the estate that Bruce would be in the pool with her tomorrow.
Not that she owned the estate. But still.
The colonel pushed his rook forward one space. “Check.”
“Ah. You attack. This calls for more vodka, no?” Without waiting to see if her opponent agreed, Anya tilted the three-quarter-full Flagman bottle and poured two generous shots.
“Pour away. Vodka did not help your side in the cold war, it won't help it now,” the colonel cracked.
“What do you know of cold war?” Anya asked.
“I was with the marines in the middle of it. At Camp Pendleton.”
Anya twirled a pawn between her slender fingers. “So? My father was on B-4 class submarine during Cuban Missile Crisis, deployed off coast of California. He had missile aimed at your Camp Pendleton. Also San Diego, Long Beach, and Los Angeles where we sit. My dad one tough guy. You lucky to be here to play chess with me.”
“Oh, really?” the colonel retorted. “Last time I looked, the United States of America was still the United States of America, and the Soviet Union was consigned to the dustbin of history.”
“Civilizations rise, civilizations fall. Na zdorov'ya. To your good health. And to rise of new Russia.” She clinked her glass with his, downed the vodka in one big shot, and then moved a bishop to block the assault by the colonel's rook. “Is no more check for you. Is same bad move made by Big Blue against Garry Kasparov. Is now check for me. Good luck, Colonel, you will need.”
Kiley stood at the bottom of the stairs—she'd been heading down to the kitchen to get something to eat, but the sight of the colonel and Anya hunched over the chessboard with a vodka bottle between them had stopped her dead in her tracks. The chessboard they played on was magnificent, built right into a white marble coffee table, with large classic ivory pieces and two small wells for captured chessmen. The colonel and Anya sat on matching upholstered eggshell velvet chairs with intricate carvings between the legs. Rays of late evening sun shone through the west-facing windows. She realized that since the colonel and Susan had arrived at Platinum's household, this was the first time there had been any social visitors at all.
Anya and the colonel were not just golf rivals?
She cleared her throat.
“Good evening, McCann.” The colonel offered his usual greeting.
“Good evening, Colonel.”
“Hello, Kiley,” Anya told her. “I defeat colonel on the golf course, he offered me return match on chessboard. Of course I accept. Nothing more fun than to defeat American opponent. He is on verge of humiliation. Is good, no?”
Oh. Now it all made sense. Anya had met someone as competitive as she was.
“I was on the way to the kitchen,” Kiley explained. “Colonel, is there anything you'd like me to do tonight with Sid or Serenity?”
“I don't think so, McCann. How'd it go with Bruce?”
“I think I've convinced him, sir.”
The colonel beamed. “Excellent, McCann. Outstanding. I knew you had it in you. Why don't you take the evening off?”
The colonel had just offered her a night off, without prompting? Usually, Kiley had to clear her free evenings forty-eight hours in advance.
“What about Sid and Serenity?” Kiley knew better than to look a gift evening in the mouth, but maybe the colonel would take notice and cut her some future slack for being responsible.
“Fear not, McCann. The missus took them to visit her ding-a-ling sister, supervised by Ms. Johnson. Dinner at Mel's Drive-in.” The colonel named a small chain of low-priced fifties-style Los Angeles diners famous for serving their kids’ meals in cardboard cars.
“Mel's Drive-in is poison. Additives, grease! This is not food for children!” Anya was incensed.
“Affirmative. But the kids picked it and the social worker approved it. Whose move is it?”
“Is your move, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Anya. McCann, what are you standing there for? Do you need an invitation? I just granted you liberty for the night.” He winked at Anya. “Now skedaddle before I change my mind.”
Kiley was in a state of shock. The colonel was grinning, and Anya was giggling like a fourth grader who'd just heard a mildly dirty joke.
“Thanks. Sir,” she added hastily.
Kiley passed through the living room to the kitchen as inconspicuously as possible, stopping only to snare a ripe Bartlett pear from the fruit bowl on the round bleached blond wooden table before heading outside to the Lotus. An intoxicating evening of freedom awaited her. Whom should she call?
“And the sex was amazing,” Lydia concluded, dropping a giant picnic basket onto an oversized rattan ground covering that she'd just spread carefully on the grass outside the Hollywood Bowl in Griffith Park. With just a couple of phone calls, Kiley and Lydia had arranged this impromptu picnic so that they could listen to Yellowcard without dealing with the crowds or the expense of buying scalped tickets.
Kiley heard the crowd roar as Yellowcard launched into their hit “Ocean Avenue.” She grinned, because it seemed almost as if they were cheering Lydia's love life. Lydia and Billy had finally done the deed. Successfully too, it seemed.
“Did you compare him to you-know-who?” Kiley asked.
“Luis? I told you, I'm not even counting Luis,” Lydia insisted. “I will now and forever state that Billy Martin is the first boy I ever had sex with. And no one can prove otherwise.” She opened the picnic basket and started extracting the plastic plates and wooden utensils that had been packed on the top. “Honestly, Kiley. When I was in Amazonia, I got the tribal shaman to blow some of that powder up my nose that they use for coming-of-age rituals. I used to consider my first time doing that the high point of my life. I thought I had turned into a crocodile. Not anymore.”
Kiley laughed. “I'll take your word for it.”
“Who's that psychologist guy, the one who said that sex was the root of all human behavior?” The plates and utensils out, Lydia went to work on the food.
“Freud, you mean?”
“Him. Yeah. You know, he was right. I don't know why the whole world isn't doing it all the time.”
Lydia stretched languorously. In low-slung aqua short-shorts and a ribbed white tank top, she practically exuded sensuality in a way that made Kiley feel uncomfortable. She'd worn Target jeans and a faded brown T-shirt, and knew she exuded nothing. Maybe she should lose five pounds. Or ten.
God. How long had she been saying that?
“And then the third time—”
What? “You did it three times?” Kiley exclaimed.
“Nope. Four.”
“Wow, I didn't even know that was possible.”
Lydia leaned back on her tan, bare arms. “Of course it's possible. You just need to decide who you want to make it possible with. Tom or Jorge. Or both. At the same time, maybe.”
Kiley blushed at the thought. “Don't you think it would help if I figured out who I wanted to be with before I have sex with either one of them?”
Lydia shrugged. “You could do a comparison test. Where is Tom, anyway? I thought he was back from Florida.”
“We saw each other at the club, but we've been playing phone tag.”
“You should be playing tag-team aerobics,” Lydia opined. “He couldn't come tonight?”
“I called him. His older brother Tanner is stopping at LAX on the way home from Hawaii or something. He went to have a drink with him at Encounter.”
“His loss.” Lydia sniffed. “Anyway, Esme is coming with Tarshea and Jorge. So there'll be backup for you.”
“Jorge isn't backup!”
“And Anya is straight.”
>
Kiley was still chuckling when Billy, Esme, Tarshea, and Jorge—the other attendees at this impromptu picnic/rock concert—arrived at their picnic spot. They'd met down in the parking lot by Cahuenga and trudged up the steep hill together.
“This is fantastic!” Tarshea exclaimed, taking in the meadow. Dotted across the hillside were other picnickers on blankets. Some of them had come fully equipped with burning torches to provide illumination and lawn furniture for comfort.
“Nothing like it in Jamaica?” Jorge asked.
“No, mon!” Tarshea told him. “And no bosses to give me and Esme the night off, either.”
“Well, welcome to America.”
Lydia introduced Tarshea to Billy, and Kiley stood to offer him a hug. After hearing Lydia's description of the activities of the night before, it was kind of hard to make eye contact. She hugged Jorge, too, as a roar went up inside the Bowl. Yellow-card started “Inside Out.”
“How often are there shows like this?” Tarshea asked Billy. She was wearing jeans and a gray blouse that Kiley recognized as belonging to Esme.
That was so thoughtful of her. Tarshea must have arrived without many clothes.
“About every other night,” Billy told her. “Sting is playing next week. I think there's a reggae show toward the end of the month with Bunny Wailer.”
“We must go,” Tarshea declared. “That is the best music in the world.”
Lydia was digging into the picnic basket and unpacking various containers. “Y'all have to taste the iced lobster thermidor. I asked Paisley to make it. She was so happy not to be cooking with Anya's tofu that she put together our whole meal basket. There's baby red potato salad, cold leek soup, noodles in stone-ground sesame paste, and a whole bunch of other stuff.”
“I brought my mom's flan, but this kind of puts it to shame,” Jorge said ruefully, nudging a Tupperware container with his forefinger.
“Don't go dissing your mama's cooking,” Lydia chided as she passed around the covered dishes. “Hungry?” she asked Billy.
“Oh yeah.” He kissed her.
The heat factor across the ground cover got a little intense, and Kiley looked away. She and Jorge locked eyes for a brief moment. His gaze was so warm, so welcoming. It would be so easy to be with a guy like him. When she allowed herself to think about it, she realized that the idea of sex with Jorge was not at all intimidating. She wouldn't worry about her thighs, or that her breasts were half the average Los Angeles cup size. He'd probably been with girls like her. Not like Tom, who probably only ever was with girls who were the physical equivalent of him. That is, drop-dead gorgeous. There'd been that statuesque Israeli model, with the black hair and violet eyes, Marym Marshall. They'd dated for a while. Kiley had even been to a party at her house. Kiley had felt like a troll in comparison.