Bad to the Bone Read online

  Kiley awoke in Tom's arms. His body curved around her, his lips buried in her neck. The bedding was a mess, the pillows on the floor. How had that happened? She smiled. Right. Now she remembered how it had happened. How long had she been asleep? She craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the clock radio on the nightstand without waking Tom.

  “Hey,” he whispered hoarsely. “What time is it?”

  “Can't see the clock.” She turned in his arms so that she was facing him. “Did I wake you?”

  He kissed her forehead. “Sleeping is overrated.”

  “But you have to get up so early.” With an international flight at eight, he'd have to be at LAX by six. That meant leaving the hotel at five.

  “My ticket's first-class, courtesy of Worldwide Pictures. I can sleep on the plane.” He reached over and adjusted the Bose clock radio so that he could see the face. “It's just ten. Time's on our side.”

  “Ten,” Kiley repeated dully. That meant they had only seven more hours. “Do you still need to pack?”

  “Did it already. Not taking much. You know me, I'm still a farm boy at heart. Mmmm. I'm going to miss this.”

  He tugged her toward him and started stroking her bare back. She nuzzled into his warm, hard chest, wondering what he meant by “this.” Did he mean he'd miss sex? Or did he mean he'd miss her? If he meant her, why hadn't he said “I'm going to miss you”? But he couldn't mean he'd miss sex—that would be laughable. He could hook up with half the former Soviet Union if he wanted to. Why shouldn't he? It wasn't as if they'd ever talked about being monogamous. Not that Kiley would ever, ever, ever have sex with another guy while she was involved with Tom. She didn't want anyone else. But that didn't mean Tom—

  “Uh, Kiley?”

  “What?”

  “Something is going on with you.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Yes, something. Is it Platinum? Is it the kids?” He rolled over onto his back and regarded her thoughtfully in the moonlight.

  “No, no, they're good. Surprisingly good, actually.”

  “What is it, then?” He gently massaged her right shoulder. “You're so tense.”

  She knew what she wanted to say, but she didn't dare. “Please don't have sex with anyone else while you're in Russia. All those amazing Russian girls, with their cheekbones and clingy dresses and would you please take me to America, you rich and famous American model, I'll do anything for you? When they smile at you, please don't smile back.”

  There was more. She wanted to ask him if he loved her. But that was even more out of the question. Too awkward. Too blunt. Too needy. She had zero experience with this kind of thing. Why hadn't she thought to ask Esme or Lydia how to handle it? Not that Lydia would be able to help. She'd basically torpedoed things with Billy. Esme—Esme would know what to do.

  “I'm fine. I was wondering how you think it'll be, working with Chloë Sevigny?” Kiley asked, going for casual. Chloë struck her as a sexy free spirit, someone daring. Someone who might just get involved with her handsome costar.

  “Great. The table read was awesome. We're on the same flight. It'll give us a chance to get to know each other better.”

  Swell.

  “And now that Jessica Simpson is doing a cameo—”

  “Say what?”

  Tom's brows knit together. “Didn't I tell you about that?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. I thought everyone knew. She's this big star who shows up out of the blue on opening night to help Boris get the honky-tonk off the ground. Supposedly she met him when he used to be a Moscow cabdriver. That's the backstory She plays herself.”

  “I guess it won't be a stretch, then,” Kiley managed.

  “Guess not. I haven't met her yet but my agent says she's a sweetheart.”

  Kiley tried to recall the last things she'd read about Jessica Simpson. Was she still with the Cowboys quarterback? Lydia would know—she always knew all the celebrity gossip. Even if Jessica was involved with someone, what if she also wanted to be involved with Tom?

  First a country full of beautiful women. Then Chloë. Now Jessica. Kiley felt like barfing. She glanced downward at her very visible, slightly rounded stomach. Jessica's stomach was washboard flat. So was Chloë's. She reached for the sheet and tugged it upward to cover herself.

  “Don't,” Tom said, reaching for her hand, which held a bunched-up hunk of sheet. “You look so beautiful in the moonlight.”

  “I'm cold,” Kiley lied, and settled the sheet over both of them. “We'll text each other, right?”

  “Yeah, sure. I'll be really busy, though, and I'm not sure what kind of cell reception I'll get over there. So if a few days go by and you don't hear from me, it won't mean that I'm not thinking about you.”

  Maybe he really would be thinking about her, but Kiley knew she'd be thinking about him more. She'd read somewhere that in every relationship, one person always loved more, and the other person was loved more. If that was true, then it was clear to her who loved more in her relationship with Tom. She hated that, feeling all insecure and needy. She felt certain that it had to be wildly unattractive. She felt just as certain that a guy like Tom wanted a girl who didn't need reassuring. Why couldn't she be more like Esme, who was never insecure when it came to guys? If she could just be more like Esme, this whole situation would be so much easier. She asked herself: What would Esme do?

  The answer was obvious. And it made a whole lot of sense, especially if she could deliver it in the most offhand, casual tone she could muster.

  Kiley was standing her ground.

  “So I was thinking. While we're apart? It's perfectly fine to see other people.”

  He cocked his head sideways a bit. “That's what you want?”

  She wanted to scream the truth: no! But he wasn't saying he didn't want to see anyone else. And if he wasn't saying it, how could she?

  “I just don't think there should be this pressure.”

  He looked confused. “Pressure to what?”

  “I know how it is on a movie set. Well, I mean, I've read about it. It becomes its own world for a while. That's the world you'll be in. And that's okay with me.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure.” She forced herself to smile and kiss him lightly. “It'll end, you'll be back, and we'll see what we see.”

  “If that's what you really want…”

  He pulled her close again and kissed her temple, then closed his eyes. That was when she realized that he was dozing off again. How could he? She'd just given him a green light to hook up with whomever, and he was perfectly fine with that idea.

  Soon she heard him snoring softly. It was a long, long time before Kiley could sleep too. When Tom's wake-up call came, he went in to shower while she stayed in bed, sadder than she'd ever felt. When he finished and pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and an ancient brown leather bomber jacket that had once belonged to his dad, Kiley was dressed and waiting for him. She'd made coffee in the suite's coffeemaker, and handed him a cup.

  He took a long sip, then put the coffee down. “You don't have to leave. Why don't you go back to bed?”

  “I do have to leave. I've got school, and the kids, and it's too sad to be here without you.”

  Whoa. That was honest.

  “Hey.” He used a forefinger to tilt her face up to him. “I won't be gone that long.”

  “Sure, I know. And I'll be so busy I won't even realize you're gone.”

  So much for honesty. Talk about telling a big, fat lie.

  They left the suite together. The hotel grounds were empty at this hour, almost as if it was a movie set. Kiley thought that if it had been a movie, it would be some chick-flick weepy where the heroine—her—won't admit how much she loves the hero.

  A black car was waiting for Tom at the hotel entrance. Tom handed his bag to the waiting driver, a thin middle-aged man with steel gray hair, who put it in the trunk. Then Tom snaked his arms around her and kissed her. “I'll miss you.”

&nbsp
; “I'll miss you too.” She kissed him again, then broke away quickly fumbling for her car-check tab in her purse so he wouldn't see the tears that were welling up in her eyes. She forced herself to smile brilliantly and wave as the car pulled away carrying Tom and her heart with it.

  “May I have your attention, please?”

  Steven Goldhagen banged a spoon against a martini glass and then held the spoon overhead, motioning for everyone to settle down. There were over a hundred people in the banquet room at the Beverly Hills Hotel for the production luncheon for the Rock Music Awards, and there didn't seem to be much of a response to Steven's request for the noise level to drop to where he could easily be heard.

  Esme leaned toward Lydia. “They ought to let him talk. He's paying for everyone's lunch.”

  “Maybe they're talking about how good it was,” Lydia replied. “Course, four months ago I was eating monkey meat, so almost anything that comes out of an actual kitchen tastes good to me.”

  It was Friday afternoon; Esme and Lydia were at the RMA kickoff luncheon at the Pink Palace, which was what everyone in Hollywood called the venerable Beverly Hills Hotel. With the award show coming on Saturday night, Steven had decided to do a morale-building luncheon for the entire production staff. At breakfast that morning, while Esme was getting Easton and Weston ready for school, Steven had expounded on his theory of show business as a team sport. That is, it was as important to build morale in your employees as it was to keep morale high on a basketball or soccer team. Hence this luncheon, for which Steven and the other producers had pulled out all the stops.

  The room itself was decorated beautifully. One of the nicest banquet spaces in the hotel, it had a huge crystal chandelier and a ceiling that was easily three stories high. There were four long tables where crew members sat; each table was covered in a custom-made RMA tablecloth. Along the walls were posters from the five previous RMA shows, plus television monitors that replayed memorable moments from them. Esme had seen quite a few of these, and especially remembered the Carlos Santana and Coldplay jam a few years back. At each person's seat was a commemorative Rock Music Awards program, plus a small bag of swag. Esme had checked hers out. There was a unisex tank wristwatch, a pen-and-pencil set, and a small video recorder that could record up to thirty minutes. Everything was engraved with the latest RMA logo.

  As for the food, it was just as impressive as the décor They'd started with cold oysters on the half shell, followed by a delicious tomato-spinach soup that somehow had been poured so that there were separate swirls of orange tomato and creamy green spinach liquid. Then came the main course, fresh rock-fish caught that same morning by Santa Barbara Island and helicoptered to the hotel (this Esme knew because she'd been in touch with the caterer to help coordinate the event), plus an icy cucumber-and-dill salad from the hotel garden, and pommes frites—which was a swanky way of saying they served french fries. There were white and red wines from Napa and Sonoma counties. Dessert had been a dozen different kinds of mini donuts from Sweet Hole on Sunset, currently the place for dessert in Los Angeles. Esme had eaten half a dozen of the delicious confections. The best had been the hazelnut cream.

  Now, as Steven still tried to get his crew to quiet down, white-jacketed waiters were pouring coffee from French press makers, as well as a variety of herbal teas. Lydia had opted for coffee, while Esme was content to finish her glass of iced tea. She smiled when Lydia plucked yet another mini donut from the platter in the center of the table. Lydia was one of those girls who could eat anything and everything—and she did—and never gain an ounce.

  “Blackberry,” Lydia reported as she bit into the tiny donut. “Lord, I have died and gone to heaven.” She washed it down with some coffee. “Too bad Kiley is missing this.”

  Esme had invited Kiley, too, but Kiley had opted to go to school instead. On the other side of Esme sat a chattering group of hairstylists, makeup artists, and dressers. It seemed that half of them were named Heather and the other half Kelly.

  It turned out that there had been some advantages to being Steven's personal production assistants, which was how Steven had told Esme and Lydia to refer to themselves.

  “If anyone asks, you're special assistants to the producer,” he'd instructed.

  One of the Heathers and one of the Kellys had asked immediately. The answer that Steven had provided was sort of a golden ticket. For the rest of the meal, Esme and Lydia were treated like demigods.

  Up at the head table, Steven had started a discussion with a bald man in an expensive Italian suit, so everyone had started talking again.

  Lydia looked at her watch. “I'm late to my English class.” She shrugged. “Oh well.”

  “You shouldn't just blow off school,” Esme said.

  Lydia's eyes widened. “Look who's talking.”

  “I already have almost all the credits I need to graduate.”

  “Almost only counts in blow darts, sweet pea,” Lydia said sweetly. “An ‘almost’ high school diploma doesn't count.”

  Esme turned away. She didn't want to think about the fact that she'd dropped out of school. It was bad enough that she'd disappointed her parents; she really didn't want to be teased about it by her friends, too. Besides, as she'd told her tearful parents, she had a plan. She'd take the test for her GED, and it would be just the same as if she'd spent her whole senior year trolling through Bel Air High with the offspring of the rich and powerful, without having had to actually endure the experience.

  “Hey, did I tell you I'm going out with Audrey Birnbaum tonight?” Lydia asked, interrupting Esme's thoughts.

  “Twice.” She put a forefinger to her lips. “Shhh. Steven's ready.”

  Finally, the crowd was silent, and Esme swung her eyes to her boss, one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. As usual he'd dressed down, in jeans, a blue work shirt, and a baseball cap to cover his balding pate.

  “Welcome to everyone, and everyone welcome. I'm Steven Goldhagen—and I'm producing this year's show. I'm glad you're part of my team. We've got a ton of work to do before Saturday night, but you wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could deliver. Each and every one of you, whether you're a gaffer or a best boy, a hairstylist or a dresser, a set painter or a special assistant to the producer, is important to this production.”

  “He's talking about us!” Lydia said excitedly.

  “So, you know what you have to do. Don't plan on much sleep between now and the show. We'll start sound checks tomorrow, costumes on Wednesday, dry tech Thursday, dress on Friday, and show on Saturday. And this goes without saying—stay out of the swag room. That's for our celebrities. I know it's tempting but I don't have time for nonsense.”

  Esme knew about the swag room, where clothing and cosmetic companies, electronics companies, designers, shoe manufacturers—anyone who'd benefit from having a celebrity use their gear or even be thought to be using their gear—would donate a huge lot of their best merchandise as giveaways to the stars. Esme had heard that celebrities could go home with tens of thousands of dollars' worth of gear. Designer jeans, Wiis and Xboxes, vacation packages to Vegas—it was all there for the asking and the taking. The official name for a swag room was a “gift lounge,” but the operative effect was the same. Whatever you called it, loot was what you left with.

  “So that's about it,” Steven continued. “Work hard, work out your own problems with the supervisors, and chill on the autograph and photo requests. I promise you a kick-ass wrap party when the show's over. See you at the Kodak.”

  Steven gave his crew the thumbs-up, and they responded with a cheer and a standing ovation. Clearly the worker bees of Hollywood weren't used to being treated this well, and they really appreciated it.

  “This is going to be fun,” Lydia said. “Do you know what we're going to be doing?”

  “I think we're on door duty to start, starting tomorrow,” Esme replied.

  Lydia raised her eyebrows. “What's that?”

  “The show's at the Kodak Theatre in
Hollywood. Same place they do American Idol finals and the Oscars and the Daytime Emmys. We'll be with security at the front door,” Esme explained. “You can't get in or out unless you're on the list.”

  Lydia pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Why would security need us with them?”

  “I don't know—'cause we're cute?” Esme replied. “This is Hollywood. None of it makes sense.”

  “We can get our friends in, though, right?” Lydia asked. “I told Flipper he could stop by.”

  “Lydia! Not the first day.”

  Esme was emphatic. Sometimes she wondered how Lydia had been raised, how she got all these crazy ideas. Then she'd remember, and decided it all made sense.

  Lydia sighed. “Okay, okay. Can you give me a ride back to school now?”

  “Sure. Just let me go to the—”

  “Esme. You're here.”

  Esme froze. She knew the voice before she saw him. Jonathan Goldhagen. She knew she shouldn't be surprised. This was his father's event, he was an up-and-coming indie movie star, and he'd be a presenter on Saturday night. She'd wondered if he'd be at the lunch, and couldn't decide whether she wanted him to be or not.

  Her heart pounded. She was hopeless to stop it. All she could manage for him was, “Hi.” “Hey. You got a couple of minutes? I'd like to talk.” Esme shook her head. “Gotta take Lydia back to—” “I can wait,” Lydia assured her. She rose, and hugged Jonathan hello and goodbye. “Meet me in the lobby,” she told Esme. “Take your time. I'll wait.”

  Lydia didn't wait around for Esme to respond, but took off toward the main doors to the hotel behind most of the rest of the crowd, leaving Esme and Jonathan practically alone with the small army of hotel cleanup staff that was already at work on the aftermath of the luncheon.