by Melody Mayer
Esme hadn't told anyone. Not Lydia and Kiley, certainly not her parents, not even Jorge. She was too humiliated; would gladly have paid all the money she had saved from doing tattoos just to erase him from her memory. But since that was impossible, she was damn well going to move on with her life. He would never, ever, ever have the satisfaction of knowing how much he'd hurt her.
Which was why she and Jorge were on Pico Boulevard near Century City Plaza, riding up the elevator in a nondescript office building with Miranda Olsen from Tip-top Realtors. Miranda specialized in small-business commercial real estate, or so her ad in the Yellow Pages claimed. She was in her mid-thirties, Esme guessed, with strawberry blond curls, and skin so white that Esme noticed she had no hair on her forearms.
“It's the fourteenth floor,” Miranda explained as she stabbed the number fourteen on the grid with one short, clear-nail-polished fingertip. “Actually it's the thirteenth, but they skipped that number because it's so unlucky.” She tossed her hair off her face, sighed, and looked pointedly at her watch.
Great, Esme thought as she shifted her weight to ease her throbbing feet. The red suede pumps she'd bought at Shoe Show—“All Shoes Ten Dollars!”—were giving her blisters; she could actually feel them forming. This was the seventh place that the realtor had shown them. All Esme wanted was a decent space to rent for Skin Art, as she was thinking of calling her tattoo business.
Jonathan. Jonathan who?
Convincing Miranda that two brown-skinned teenagers with a business plan—fortunately Jorge was already eighteen years old—were serious about renting decent commercial real estate wasn't exactly Esme's forte. Miranda had started out showing them the crappiest places, such as a commercial building in Los Feliz with a rusting façade on the outside and garbage overflowing in the hallway.
Esme, who was still in a foul mood because of the J-word, had been ready to slap her for treating them as if she was doing them a favor. Fortunately, Jorge had intervened and charmed her into taking them here.
“And this space is going for five thousand a month,” Miranda said as she led the way off the elevator and down the generic hallway.
Esme nearly gasped. Five thousand? A month?
She'd been thinking three thousand, tops. Who knew how many clients she'd have? And if she spent all her profit on rent, what was the point of taking the place at all?
Esme was ready to turn it down before even seeing the space, but Jorge squeezed her hand and cocked his head forward as if to say: Let's at least look at it.
They stepped into what was obviously a very small former dentist's office.
Miranda power-walked through the room, which didn't take long. She rattled off vitals at top speed. “Two electric dental chairs, two sinks, one small bathroom, counter space—I think it's perfect for you,” she chirped. “What do you think?”
What did she think? The space was fine! Okay, it was in a generic building and it had zero hip factor. But that really didn't matter. Esme knew from Jonathan that some of the most important producers and stars with their own production companies had offices in nondescript buildings just like this one. It was a Hollywood thing.
But…five thousand dollars? How was she going to swing five thousand dollars?
Jorge smiled at the Realtor. “Why didn't you just show us this in the first place?”
“I thought we'd work our way up,” Miranda replied, handing Esme a clipboard with a pen the color and weight of gold. Esme felt nearly Jonathan-having-sex-with-Tarshea-level nauseated at the thought of signing the lease.
“What about advertising, insurance, taxes?”
Answering as if she'd been expecting the question, Miranda said, “For now you should talk to the other tenants in the building about basic coverage and taxes. As for advertising, you can use the spot on the sign out front that Dr. Laramie used. He had this space before you,” she added confidentially. “Ran away with the dental hygienist.”
Esme looked at Jorge. He shrugged. “The space is great. You just have to know this is what you really want.”
What did she really want? Her parents would be furious when she told them that she was dropping out of school—she hadn't let that bombshell fly yet. Did she really want to do that? She knew she didn't want to do senior year back in the Echo with the gangbangers and the gritty poverty. But she wanted to go to Bel Air High even less. So what the hell did she want?
Jonathan.
No, dammit. She did not want him. And she did not want to continue to work for his parents, where she would keep running into him when he came to see her roommate, Tarshea, and every single time it would be like opening the wound again.
Miranda rechecked her watch. “I really do have other appointments.”
“Can I have a day or two to think about it?” Esme asked.
Miranda pulled the strap of her oversized white leather bag higher on her bony shoulder. “For the record, this place is a steal, so don't blame me if it's gone by the time you call,” she replied.
When they reached the sidewalk, Miranda pressed yet another one of her cards into Jorge's hand and took off for the parking garage. When she was gone, Esme convinced Jorge to stop into a small café called Clementine next door to the office building, insisting it was her treat. They both ordered coffee and the muffin of the day—soy banana—and took it to a small table near the back.
“Let's not talk about the lease just yet. How does it feel to be living back home?” Jorge asked as he poured sugar into his coffee.
Esme thought for a minute. “Weird” was what she finally came up with. In some ways it made her feel like a failure. But that was crazy, since she was making sick dinero. But she could feel her mother's sad eyes on her all the time, could see the censure in the set of her father's tense mouth.
“It's hard for my parents,” she added, her voice low.
“They want more for you.”
Right. Esme already knew that. They thought she had blown the biggest opportunity of her life. She knew Jorge didn't agree with the changes she'd made, either, but he was too good of a friend to come right out and say so. Should she tell him about Jonathan? What if he just said, I told you so, chica? She would feel even more like shit than she already did.
“I didn't just decide to stop being a nanny because of the money,” Esme finally said. And then she told him about walking in on Jonathan and Tarshea.
“No sabes que tienes hasta se va,” Jorge murmured, sipping his coffee.
“You don't know what you've got till it's gone,” she translated. “You mean you think I'm going to miss him now, eh?” She swore under her breath.
“I meant he was going to miss you,” Jorge said gently. “And what about the twins? Adults keep walking in and out of their lives. How do you think they're gonna feel about you just disappearing?”
“They love Tarshea,” Esme replied. “Diane loves Tarshea. Jonathan definitely loves Tarshea. It's a lovefest. No one will miss me.”
“I don't believe that.” Jorge bit into his muffin. The look on his face—somewhere between shock and disgust—made Esme crack up.
“It's bad?”
“The worst thing I ever tasted,” Jorge managed, and he washed the bite of muffin down with a huge gulp of coffee.
Esme threw hers away. As they walked out of the café, Jorge looped a sinewy arm around her shoulders. “Just remember, chica. You can't run away from your problems.”
“Do not do that psychologist bull with me,” Esme warned.
“You got it,” Jorge agreed. They reached the door. Before he held it open for her, he added, “If I can say just one more thing about it.”
Esme folded her arms and gave him the evil eye. “Well? Go ahead.”
“Wherever you go, Esme … there you are.” Tom opened the door to his suite at the Hotel Bel-Air sporting their logo-embroidered terry cloth bathrobe, which fell open to reveal his tanned washboard abs and a pair of faded, low-slung jeans.
“You look like a model,” she accus
ed, teasing him.
“Oh, I just play one on TV,” he joked, and pulled her into a kiss. The kiss got hotter. She could feel Tom's hand inching under her T-shirt. And she liked it. A lot. But she stepped back and put a palm on his chest. “The recreation portion of the activities will have to wait.”
“Until after you call your mom,” Tom concluded. “Got it.”
Kiley sat in the taupe Italian leather desk chair and pulled out her phone. “I so do not want to make this call.” She had to try once more to clean up in the aftermath of the bomb that was the Universe exposé.
“What's the worst thing that can happen?” Tom asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Thermonuclear war?” Kiley ventured. “Dragging me back to La Crosse by my ponytail?”
He yanked said ponytail playfully. “Just call.”
Kiley pressed the speed-dial number. It rang three times before her mother answered.
“Hello?” Her mother sounded tentative, unsure, as if somehow even making the choice to answer the phone could turn out to be a bad thing.
Kiley did her best at sounding upbeat. “Hi, Mom!”
“Kiley? Oh, thank goodness. I thought it was one of those reporters again. Do you have any idea what your father and I have been dealing with?”
Kiley winced. She could imagine: reporters on the phone, on the doorstep, in the grocery store. Friends and coworkers during the hours in between. All asking too-well-informed questions about every private McCann vice. Jeanne's panic disorder, her father's drinking, the piece-of-crap house they lived in—a photo of which had been printed in the Universe right next to a photo of Platinum's mansion, with the caption THIS IS HOW FAR PLATINUM'S NANNY HAS COME.
“I can explain about the story, Mom.”
“How could you do that?” her mother asked, voice tightening. “We raised you better.”
Well, that one scored a big fat bull's-eye at the heart of Kiley's guilt.
“I'm sorry,” Kiley said, and she truly was; she knew how badly she'd handled this. “It's just been crazy here. And I had really hoped that the sleazy guy who wrote the article wouldn't really print it—”
“Well, you thought wrong. They made us sound like horrible, stupid people. They said I had a nervous condition and they called your father an alcoholic!”
Well, um, her mother did have a nervous condition and her father was an alcoholic. But pointing out that this part of the article had been factual did not seem to be the way to go at the moment, especially since Kiley could hear the increased speed of her mother's raspy breathing, a sure sign she was heading straight for a panic attack.
Kiley tried to talk her down. “Just breathe, Mom. You're safe now. There's nothing to worry about.”
“Kiley?” Her father's sandpaper voice rasped in Kiley's ear. He must have taken the phone from his wife.
Kiley closed her eyes. This was really, really not good.
“What?” Tom whispered.
“My father,” Kiley mouthed at him. “Hi, Dad,” she greeted him. “I know you—”
“Do you have any idea what you're putting your mother through?” he asked.
Now that she'd heard a complete sentence, she realized her father was slurring his words, meaning that he was already drunk.
“I'm sorry,” Kiley said. “Things got out of control.” Tom reached over and squeezed her hand.
“You're a snot-nosed brat, Kiley,” he brayed. “Ungrateful little—”
“Give me the phone!” Kiley heard her mother exclaim.
“Shut up,” her father hissed. “I'm gonna give her a piece of my mind.”
Kiley felt as though she was about to have her own panic attack. “I admit I should have told you ahead of time,” she said, careful to keep her voice even. “But I am not responsible for that article.” She wanted to detail that she was blindsided too, that the Universe had manipulated her, that Platinum really was improving, and that technically, Kiley had made all the right decisions.
But her mother would hyperventilate way before Kiley could ever get through that story, and her father was too wasted to listen. Or care.
In fact, after braying at her for another five minutes, her father hung up on her. Just like that. Kiley was left with a dead phone in her hand, until Tom gently took her phone from her and put it on the desk.
“I should have told them.” Kiley let the guilt wash over her as she stared unblinking at the Victorian-inspired molding on the ceiling.
“Come 'ere.” Tom tugged her onto the bed with him. “Your parents will forgive you. As far as the Hollywood gossip mill goes, they're already onto the next thing, I guarantee it.”
She leaned into him. “You're right. I just …I feel bad. Like I let them down.”
“You're too hard on yourself.” Tom used two fingers to bring her face to his and kissed her lightly. “You do not appreciate the Kiley I know.” He kissed her again. “She is genuine, and sweet and smart and sexy because she doesn't try to be, in a town where that's about as rare as natural hair color.”
Kiley laughed. “They gave me streaks during the TV show. I can't even claim—”
But she never finished the sentence. Because Tom's hand was tangled in her hair, his lips were burning into hers, and she never, ever wanted it to stop. This time she had no doubts, or insecurities, or fears that he was the gorgeous model and she was just some ordinary girl from Wisconsin.
She'd weathered the storm of Platinum's trial. She'd overcome her panic underwater. And she was here with Tom because that was what they both wanted.
When he tugged her T-shirt over her head, she didn't stop him.
“Yes?” he whispered, peering into her eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
“So, when they say Up All Night, do you think they mean up all night as in sex? Or up all night as in we never went to sleep?” Lydia asked as Kiley pulled Platinum's new silver Prius (purchased, Kiley had told Lydia on the drive to Malibu, because she thought she'd get good publicity for it) into the line of cars leading to the temporary valet stand.
They were at the rear side of a massive beach house of unbleached wood; the front of the house faced the ocean and was not accessible by car. This beach house belonged to the parents of a girl in what would be their senior class at Bel Air High. Her name was Heidi Van Meussen. Her father, Alex Van Meussen, was the genius behind all the Pixar cartoon movies. Lydia knew this because she'd done her research before the party. According to an article she had unearthed in Los Angeles magazine, the Van Meussens owned homes in Bel Air, Malibu, and Hawaii, and had also recently purchased a castle in Scotland. Their Malibu beach house was “cozy,” only ten thousand square feet, and was nestled between homes owned by Steven Spielberg and Barbra Streisand.
“I think it means what you want it to mean,” Kiley replied as she inched the car closer to the valet stand.
Lydia flicked her eyes at her friend. “Not that you care, now that you and Tom are doin' it.” Kiley had informed her of this on the way to Malibu too. Lydia wanted details, which Kiley refused to provide.
“Well, I doubt that you're going to jump some guy you just met on the sand,” Kiley said. “But I have no idea what these other girls will do.”
“I might jump two or three guys,” Lydia mused as Kiley pulled the car up a little farther. “I've decided that variety is the spice and all that. I hooked up with Billy too soon. Now I just want to have fun.”
Lydia found she actually meant it. Yes, she felt terrible about Billy. Yes, she had messed up. And yes, she missed him. But on the other hand, she had a lot of years of no-boys-at-all to make up for. Maybe she just wasn't cut out for a serious relationship right now. At least, that was the theory her mother had floated just this morning at breakfast.
Her mom also talked about going back to the Amazon again, which didn't surprise Lydia one bit. She knew that her mom's stay in L.A. would be temporary. Her parents loved each other too much to live apart.
Now, she peered out the window
at the valet, who was holding open the door of the Jeep in front of them. “How tacky is that?” she asked rhetorically.
The valet attendants from Play Valet, which was the hot valet service of the moment, were all female and all gorgeous. They wore yellow bikinis and high heels. Lydia had nothing against either the bathing suits or the pumps. But to wear them so that you could hold open doors for people?
“Why did I come?” Kiley asked, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I don't like any of the girls we've met at that school so far—”
“Well, that's why, sugar plum. Everyone in our class can't be a big ol' pile of puke like Staci, Amber, and Zona—finally!”
Kiley pulled the car up to the valet stand. A girl with jet black hair extensions down to her ass held open the car door. “Welcome to Up All Night!” she chirped. “Your car keys, please?” She handed Kiley a claim ticket and got in the car to drive it off to who-knows-where.
Lydia eyed Kiley as they headed down the wooden pathway that led around the house and down to the beach. “Are you wearing a bathing suit under your jeans?”
Kiley had on one of her usual outfits—no-name jeans and a white tank top—and her hair was in its habitual ponytail. “Nope.”
“But it's a beach party,” Lydia pointed out. She herself had on a hot pink crocheted Bizmark string bikini under a sheer pale pink lace babydoll top over low-slung D&G white capri jeans.
“Rag on me all you want for having body issues,” Kiley said. “I am not wearing a bathing suit in front of a bunch of size twos.”
“One of these days we are taking you swimsuit shopping,” Lydia insisted. “And get something cute that shows off your curves.” She smiled at a cute blond boy who swerved around them, then looked back at her with appreciation. “I bet Tom likes those curves.”
Kiley smiled. “No, I am not telling you anything.”
“Well, what kind of best friend are you?” Lydia groused. She saw one of the few Latina girls in their class walk by with her boyfriend. But that Latina girl was the daughter of a huge action-movie star. “It's weird, isn't it? That Esme isn't here?”