Bad to the Bone Page 6

  “What a world,” Kiley agreed.

  “Can I ask you something about that?” Matt plunged on without waiting for Kiley to respond. “Was she guilty? Because from what I read and saw, she was guilty as hell. Isn't that what the judge said before they lost the evidence?”

  Kiley put a finger to her lips. “I'd really rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I mean, she's my boss.”

  “Smart girl.” Matt grinned at her.

  “What about you? Are you a singer?”

  “Can't carry a tune in a bucket,” he admitted cheerfully, then reached for a piece of the octopus sashimi. Kiley had tried it before and found it a bit chewy, but Matt seemed to relish it. “What I really love is the beach—anything having to do with the ocean—”

  “Me too,” Kiley exclaimed. “Actually, anything under the ocean.”

  “You scuba?”

  “I'm learning.” Kiley shifted back onto her pillow and started to relax. She liked this guy. It was fine to talk with him. Wasn't it?

  “Well then, we have something in common. The other thing I'm crazed for is photography. Wish I could make my living at that. I'm taking classes at Santa Monica College.”

  Kiley smiled. What a nice guy. “You're a student, too.”

  “Part-time. I pay the bills by modeling.”

  “My boyfriend's a model,” Kiley said, and then immediately second-guessed herself. If she and Tom weren't exclusive, could she still call him her boyfriend?

  “I've got it!” Matt Kingsley cried, snapping his fingers again. It was a cute habit. “I don't know you from the trial. I know you from Marym's birthday party up in Malibu. You were there with Tom Chappelle.”

  Marym was a stunningly beautiful Israeli model and a good friend of Tom's. He'd taken Kiley to the model's Malibu beach house for her birthday party. Even then, Kiley had felt insecure and jealous, certain that Tom and Marym had wanted to hook up.

  Jeez, what was wrong with her?

  “That was me,” Kiley admitted. “Great party.”

  “It was, yeah. So … you and Tom have a thing going on, huh?”

  “He left for Russia this morning. To shoot his new movie, Kremlin Cowgirl.”

  “We did a project together last week for Zac Posen,” Matt said. “Tom was really jazzed about the movie. Hey, did you know that Marym is going to be in Russia for part of the shoot?”

  No. Kiley had not heard that. “What?”

  “Yeah, crazy coincidence, huh? Marym's shooting a Vogue Italia cover there next week. I'm sure Tom told you all about it.”

  “Oh, sure. I don't mind. It's cool.”

  She hated herself for lying—she prided herself on being an honest person—but she couldn't bear to admit that the guy she loved was most likely going to see his former girlfriend, who just happened to be one of the top models in the world, in Russia. And he hadn't bothered to mention it to Kiley.

  “Great. It's cool that it's cool. Sure you don't want to head down to dance?”

  Why the hell not? It certainly didn't do her any good to sit up here in the VIP hothouse obsessed about Tom and the Israeli bombshell doing the wild thing in the middle of Red Square.

  The music from downstairs was piped into the VIP lounge. Lily Allen's voice came through the sound system. Lydia would be able to find her.

  Matt rose, reached out a hand for Kiley, and helped her to her feet. He held her hand all the way down the spiral staircase that led to the packed dance floor. But when he put his arms around her waist to dance, it didn't feel as if he was hitting on her. She just relaxed and swayed to the music with him.

  “So, where is it you do go to school?” he asked, after they'd danced for a while in comfortable silence.

  “You have to promise not to laugh.”

  He took one hand from her waist and raised a palm. “On my grandmother's life—and my grandmother rocks.”

  “Okay then. I'm still in high school.”

  “High school,” he repeated.

  “High school. I'm a senior. At Bel Air High.”

  Okay. She'd said it. And the floor had not opened up and swallowed her whole.

  “Not laughing,” Matt said, although he looked as if he wanted to. “So you're what—eighteen?”

  “Seventeen. Eighteen in a month.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” he assured her, slipping his hand around her waist again. “We should hang out sometime,” he added casually. “Go to the beach.”

  She stiffened, and he seemed to read her mind. “Hold on. I know Tom's your guy. But that doesn't mean we can't be buds. Like Tom and Marym. Right?”

  “Right,” she agreed.

  But even as she said it, her mind was not on hanging out with Matt at all. It was back on Tom and Marym in Red Square—outside Lenin's Tomb, to be precise. Walking hand in hand.

  In some ways, that vision in her mind's eye hurt even more than imagining the two of them in the clinch.

  Kiley let herself into her guesthouse, kicked off her Cons, and padded into the bedroom where she kept her laptop. She'd ended up having fun with Matt. They'd even made a date to go to the beach on Saturday. He was easy to talk to and comfortable to hang out with. That was good, since Lydia had spent the whole night practically superglued to Audrey. When Kiley had briefly gotten Lydia alone, she'd asked if Lydia was doing drugs. Lydia had laughed and reminded Kiley that she did not need to imbibe any local pharmaceuticals because she had her own, which were vastly superior, and besides, she didn't believe in using them for recreational purposes. As for giving some to Audrey, though, that was another story.

  So, okay, maybe Lydia wasn't doing drugs. But it was clear to Kiley that hanging out with someone as famous as Audrey was its own kind of drug to Lydia, who was loving every minute of it. She got confirmation of that feeling when Lydia told her that Audrey was going to be her houseguest for RMA week.

  “Do you have to ask Kat?” Kiley wondered.

  “Don't ask, don't tell” was Lydia's response.

  She grabbed her laptop from the desk and sat cross-legged on her bed to check her e-mail. Surely there would be something from Tom. Her eyes flicked down the list of messages. Spam, spam, and spam. Something from Esme about the schedule for the Rock Music Awards. Something from her best friend back in La Crosse.

  Nothing from Russia. Nothing at all.

  Well, it wasn't as if she couldn't reach out to him herself. What difference did it make who was in touch first? She put in his Gmail address and began to type:

  Hi Tom—

  Hope your flight was great and that you're over your jet lag. I've been trying to picture you there in Russia but honestly I can't imagine what it's really like, so please send me lots of pix.

  Everything here is fine. I went to the Python Club tonight with Lydia and her new best friend, Audrey Birnbaum. Yes, that Audrey Birnbaum. It was fun.

  Well, it's late so I think I'll hit the hay. I miss you and think about you all the time—

  Kiley frowned. I miss you and think about you all the time?. It was true, but that didn't mean she should say it. She erased the line and instead added: I miss you and think about you. Then she nibbled on her lower lip, trying to decide how to sign off. Love? Hugs and Kisses? Sincerely?

  Nothing seemed right. So she just signed her name and hit Send before she could chicken out.

  After she brushed her teeth, washed her face, and crawled into bed, she found she couldn't sleep. Something was bothering her. A lot. After waiting all these years when it seemed as though everyone else was already having sex, she'd finally found the One. Even then, she'd waited before making love with him. When they'd finally done it, it had been so perfect—like every dream she'd ever had about it, and then some.

  But—what did it say about your relationship with the One when you didn't even feel secure enough to write “Love” on your e-mail to him?

  Whatever it was, it couldn't possibly be good.

  “Thank you, thank you. I just love it!”

  “My pleasure,” Esme told Luanna Venice, an entertainment lawyer who had just sat perfectly still for nearly two hours while Esme created one of her patented freehand tattoos just above Luanna's right ankle. Luanna had asked for a depiction of the scales of justice, but with that special Esme touch. Esme had done the scales in an outline of black and white, but then had added books to one of the scales, and, knowing Luanna had recently had a baby, a family holding hands to the other.

  “What do I owe you?” Luanna asked. “I know you had to change your schedule to fit me in.”

  Luanna had lustrous streaky gold hair, which she shook with a carefree, too-well-practiced gesture. If she wasn't a lawyer, Esme thought, Luanna could have been a model. It was just so Hollywood—to look like you were playing a lawyer on TV instead of actually being one.

  Entertainment lawyers made a mint, that much Esme knew. Unlike, say, her friend Jorge's father, Roberto, who had chosen to do public interest law, which meant he was never going to make anything close to a mint. Jorge was determined to follow in his father's footsteps.

  “It's a thousand,” Esme said matter-of-factly even though the idea of someone dropping a thousand bucks for a tattoo was still a bit shocking to her.

  Luanna was already reaching into her huge designer bag. “Great. Cash is okay?”

  “Cash is fine.”

  “So here you go.” Luanna counted out bills with a well-manicured right hand. “Ten hundreds, and two more for you. I can't wait for my friends to see this.”

  “You remember how to care for it, until it heals?” Esme asked nonchalantly, as if she received two-hundred-dollar tips every day.

  Luanna grinned and tapped her bag. “I've got your information sheet, it's also up on your Web site, and you made me repeat it two times. I
'd say I'm covered.”

  “Infection is bad for business,” Esme pointed out. “I haven't had one yet.”

  Luanna laughed. “Well, I don't plan to be your first. Just give me a dozen of your business cards and get ready for your phone to ring.”

  Esme pointed Luanna to a small table in one of the two tattoo-application rooms she'd put into this office space. On that table was literature about her business and a stack of business cards. The whole thing still seemed unreal—that after years of doing tattoos either in her parents' house in the Echo or just taking her equipment with her, she had rented actual office space, signed an actual lease, and opened up an actual business that had a phone number of its own and a listing in the business directory downstairs. “Esme Ink” is what she called it; she and Jorge had dreamt the name up together, enjoying the play on words. If it wasn't for Jorge, Esme wouldn't have any of this. He had already turned eighteen, and could legally sign paperwork that Esme, who was still a couple of months shy of eighteen, could not.

  The office itself was fairly spartan. There was a tiny waiting area with two chairs, a coffee table, and some art books to inspire potential customers. There were two rooms for tattoos, since the office had formerly been a dentist's office, and two dentists had shared the space. Esme was using only one of the tattoo rooms at present, and had some vague thoughts about maybe subletting the space to another artist. But this whole project had come together so quickly that there'd been no time even to pursue that notion. Just getting up and running was complicated enough. There were licenses to apply for, inspections to secure, and then, there was the actual time of being at the shop. All the work wasn't even close to being finished. In fact, Jorge was supposed to arrive at any time with some sort of addendum clause to the lease that he wanted the landlord to sign.

  Her parents were also supposed to stop by later. This was one of their rare days off from the Goldhagens. They were going to visit some friends of theirs from Mexico who worked downtown at a clothing manufacturing company, and then come to Century City to see Esme's new place of business.

  It would be good to have Jorge on hand, she thought. Her parents, Alberto and Estella—especially her mother—had been dead set against her leaving school to start her own business, even after she promised to get her GED. They did not work as hard as they did for her to be a high school dropout, they'd told her. She was such a smart girl, she'd gotten excellent grades, she would get a scholarship and be the first person in their family to go to college. How could she throw all of that away?

  Esme felt a gnawing of guilt in the pit of her stomach. For the zillionth time she questioned the decision she'd made. She was letting her parents down. But opportunity had knocked, and she couldn't turn it away. At the rate she was going, by the time she was twenty-one, instead of graduating from college, she'd have enough money saved to buy her parents a fabulous house far, far away from Echo Park. Then, she told herself, they would finally appreciate the choice she had made.

  Anyway, her parents loved Jorge. Maybe having him here when they showed up would deflect some of the criticism that was inevitably coming her way.

  Once Luanna had the cards, Esme walked her to the front door of her studio. It was two-fifteen, which meant she had a few hours before she had to go back to the Goldhagens' to take the twins swimming. After that, she was to meet Steven at the Kodak Theatre, where the performers for the Rock Music Awards were rehearsing, to go over exactly what Esme, Lydia, and Kiley would be doing to help out.

  “Thanks again,” Luanna said, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her yellow pin-tucked Michael Kors shirt. “I definitely will send some people your way.”

  “Great,” Esme replied with a smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you love your tattoo.” She had the post-tattoo gab down cold. Would Luanna come through with some referrals? Who knew? But it made sense to be polite to everyone. You couldn't charge what she charged and be a surly bitch. Esme had learned that in show business, everyone acted as if they were your best friends, even though tomorrow they wouldn't remember your name.

  No sooner had Esme shown Luanna out, and deposited the twelve hundred dollars in a wall safe Jorge had insisted she install, that there were three quick rings on her buzzer telling her Jorge was downstairs at the locked glass door. She buzzed him through, then checked herself in the small waiting-room mirror—she wore a sleeveless red ruffled silk top with a cinched elastic waist, tight jeans, and high, strappy sandals from a boutique on Melrose. No more shopping at the “All Shoes $9.99” store in the Echo for her. She went to let her friend in.

  He bounded out of the elevator wearing a backpack—Esme knew it had to be weighty with textbooks—and carrying a laptop computer in a black case. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt under an open red shirt, and there was a grin spread across his face. He'd recently had his hair trimmed, Esme noted. He looked good. On the skinny side, yes, but there were muscles under that shirt, she knew. He wasn't nearly as tall as Jonathan, nor as traditionally handsome, and yet somehow he managed to be a chick magnet—her girlfriends were always hitting on Jorge.

  “Here for a tattoo?” she joshed.

  “No ink on this skin, chica. No tats is the new cool.”

  “I hope you're wrong—that would put me out of business.” She opened the door; he followed her inside. “How's college?” Jorge was a year ahead of her in school, and had started his freshman year on a full-ride academic scholarship at UCLA.

  “College is to high school as a fresh peach straight off the tree is to ten-year-old canned fruit. I think I had that question on my SAT,” he joked.

  “So you love it,” Esme translated.

  “I do,” he replied. “I'm taking an Eastern philosophy class, which is amazing. Great professor. Studied with the Dalai Lama. I'm planning a trip to Tibet next summer.”

  “You didn't tell me that.”

  “You've been kind of preoccupied with your own la vida loca,” he pointed out.

  That was true, and she felt guilty about it. Here Jorge was, helping her every step of the way even though he, too, had been dead set against her dropping out of school, and she had spent zero time asking about what was going on in his life.

  That's going to change, Esme vowed. “You want coffee?”

  He plopped down onto one of the bright orange plastic chairs in the waiting room. “Yeah. Also, half of what you made today.”

  “Oh, you shakin' me down now?” Esme teased as she poured a cup and handed it to him. She had a coffee station set up for customers, and a small plate of fancy cookies that no one ever touched.

  Esme slid into a chair next to Jorge. “Okay, so tell me all about you.”

  He sipped the hot coffee carefully. “What, now I'm supposed to make up for lost time?”

  “Seriously,” Esme insisted. “I want to know.”

  “Okay. The Latin Kings are doing a benefit for the SAJE—”

  “What's that?”

  Jorge shook his head. “You haven't been away from the hood for that long. Strategic Actions for a Just Economy. All these yuppies are moving into the old neighborhood, driving up rents, driving our people out of their homes.”

  “Why would some rich gringos want to live in the Echo?” Esme wondered. “I don't get it.”

  “Oh, maybe you didn't hear. The Echo is hip now,” Jorge said archly. He took a paper out of his backpack and handed it to Esme. “Your new sublet clause. You're safe if you want to share the space.”

  “Thanks. What would I do without you?”

  “I often ask myself that. When're your parents coming?”

  As if in answer to that question, the buzzer sounded again, long and insistent, as if the person trying to get in was in a terrible hurry.

  “Gee, you wouldn't think they'd be so eager to get up here,” Esme muttered. She was really not looking forward to having her parents there. She went to the intercom and pressed Talk.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Esme!” her father cried. He sounded breathless. “Let us in! Hurry!”

  Esme pressed the button to unlock the door downstairs and traded a look with Jorge. Whatever was up couldn't possibly be good.

  Two hours later, a pale-faced Esme was sitting with her parents and Diane Goldhagen in Steven's home office. The twins were up in their bedrooms playing with their state-of-the-art dollhouses; their swimming lesson had been canceled. Steven was on his way from the Kodak Theatre so that he could be part of this meeting.