Friends with Benefits (21 page)

His eyes went to Esme. “I care about her. A lot. And I think . . . I
hope
. . . that she cares about me, too.”

She does,
Esme thought, returning his gaze.
So much.

Cleo was ignoring the tugs on her leash, so Diane swooped her up. “Why didn't you just tell me?”

“Because of exactly what's happening right this minute.”

Diane stroked Cleo's fur during a silence that, to Esme, felt as if it went on forever. Finally, she spoke. “It's been a long night. I need to give this some thought. We'll discuss it tomorrow, Esme.” She nodded at Jonathan, indicating that he should move out of her way.

He held up a finger. “One last thing. Easton and Weston adore Esme. Firing her would be the worst possible thing you could do to your own daughters.”

“Thank you, Jonathan. But I don't need you to tell me how to raise my children.”

He didn't budge. “My
sisters.
”

There was a beat before she said goodnight and carried her little dog away with her.

Jonathan closed the door and turned to Esme. “You're safe.”

“How do you know?”

“I'll go to a higher authority.”

“I don't know that prayer will help,” Esme said.

“Trust me, Esme.” He pointed upward. “He's the one with the power around this place. That would be my father.”

She sank into the couch, digesting everything that had just happened. Jonathan sat next to her again. “Tomorrow when you get off work, let's do something.”

She eyed him warily. “What?”

“Something
public.
” He grinned. “Let's be crazy. Let's . . . let's skinny-dip on Venice Beach. Run naked down the Sunset Strip. Hell, I'm a little famous—it'll end up on
Entertainment
Tonight.
Then the whole world will know we're together.”

“Is that what you want?” she asked cautiously.

“Is it what
you
want?”

“I asked you first.”

He grinned. “Come with me.” He marched out her front door and stood under the basketball hoop, moonlight streaming down on him through the eucalyptus trees. He threw his hands wide and howled up at the moon: “Attention, Bel Air residents! I really, really,
really
like Esme Castaneda!”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Esme cried, giggling.

He pointed at her. “Say you really, really, really,
really
like me, or I keep going.” When Esme hesitated, he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Attention, Bel Air res—”

“Okay, okay! I really, really, really,
really
like Jonathan Goldhagen.”

In two giant steps he was with her, his arms around her waist. “Tomorrow we go public, yes?”

“Yes,” she whispered into his chest.

He cupped her chin and raised her face to his. “You do know why I'm doing this, don't you?”

“Because you really, really, really,
really
like me?” Esme teased.

“Bullshit. Because I need you to finish my damn tattoo.”

Esme punched his arm playfully. Then she kissed him, and the sweetness of it melted her heart the way the first Popsicle of the summer melted on her tongue. She was done with hiding, with being afraid. She and Jonathan were together. She would have to tell Jorge, and her friends. She would have to tell her parents. And Junior. None of it would be easy, but at least, at last, it would be the truth.

31

Goodbye, dreams. Goodbye, Scripps. Goodbye, Tom.

Being in Tom's suite at the Hotel Bel-Air was surreal. During the filming of
Platinum Nanny,
she'd been right on the other side of his bedroom wall, hoping and praying that she'd win and become Platinum's nanny so that she could stay in California. She had never in a million years dreamed that she'd end up with Tom, in his suite. Well, that wasn't true, exactly. She'd met him, and heard his lust symphony with some other lucky girl whose initials were probably
MM,
and she had
definitely
dreamed about it. But it wasn't one of those dreams that she ever expected would actually come
true.

While Tom made coffee in the kitchen, she wandered around, feeling nervous and awkward. Two bedrooms, Persian rugs on the floor, twentieth-century art on the walls, big-screen TV in the living room, full kitchen in Swedish modern, fresh fruit basket on the table. A side table in the living room supported a flat-screen computer monitor, keyboard, and small printer. It looked exactly the same as the suite next door.

She stared out the window of Tom's room, lost in thought. Finishing up at Platinum's had been easy. Under the watchful eye of a Bel Air detective, it had taken Kiley five minutes to change into jeans and her dad's bowling shirt, then pack all her belongings into her tattered suitcases. She made sure to take the house keys and Platinum's American Express card; she'd mail them to Platinum. Certainly she'd still be able to get her own mail, wouldn't she?

She tried to stop herself from crying as she closed the door to the guesthouse for the last time and the detective resealed it with yellow crime-scene tape. Then, it was a brief, silent drive from Platinum's mansion to the Hotel Bel-Air.

Tom found her staring out his bedroom window. “Want coffee?” he offered.

She shook her head. “It was really nice of you. To let me stay here tonight.”

“It's not like it was a tough decision, Kiley.” He turned her around and gently brushed the hair off her face. “You okay?”

“No,” she admitted. He wrapped his arms around her. Kiley wished she could stay there forever.

“The offer still holds, you know,” he said. “You can move in here. I'll take on the Wisconsin National Guard for you. Heck, I won all kinds of merit badges in Boy Scouts.”

God, he was so sweet. And she finally knew that he really liked her, just when she had to leave! It was so horribly unfair. But she had to face facts; there was simply no way for her to stay.

Sensing that she needed some time alone, Tom offered to go get a drink at the hotel bar. Kiley was grateful. She didn't want to break down in front of him.

He kissed her softly before he left. Then she sat down at the computer and logged on to Hotwire. There was a cheap flight the next morning from LAX to La Crosse, connecting in Minneapolis. She'd have to be at the airport at nine for the eleven o'clock departure. She booked and paid for it using Platinum's credit card, then printed out the boarding pass.

The only thing left to do was call Esme and Lydia, to tell them what was going on. Seeing as how it was two in the morning, she decided to wait until dawn. They weren't exactly conversations she was looking forward to having. She felt that ache in the back of her throat again. God, she was going to miss them so much.

She was just setting the alarm in the second bedroom for seven o'clock in the morning when she heard two quick raps at the front door.
Tom,
she thought immediately, and went to open it. He must have forgotten his key card.

She swung the door open. There stood Esme and Lydia. Esme was in jeans and a T-shirt; Lydia wore cutoffs and a Houston Oilers jersey cropped above her belly button.

“What in good God's name do you think you're doing?” Lydia demanded.

Kiley's jaw fell open. She was speechless.

“Why the hell didn't you call us?” Esme asked.

Kiley couldn't put the puzzle pieces together. “I— How did you—?”

“Tom,” Esme reported. “He just phoned Jonathan Goldhagen from the hotel bar—they met at the FAB party tonight— and Jonathan told me. I called Lydia, Jonathan loaned me his car, and I went to pick Lydia up. And . . . here we are.”

Kiley still didn't get it. “Jonathan woke you? For this?”

“Actually, no. He was with me when his cell rang,” Esme admitted, coloring. “We're . . . together.”

“Yessiree, it's been a fun night of surprises all around,” Lydia sang out. “Evidently Miss Esme here has been line dancing between the sheets with Jonathan since the
The Ten
party; somehow she neglected to tell us.”

“This isn't about me, okay?” Esme reminded her.

“And thank you, Kiley, for inviting us in,” Lydia added. “That is just
so
polite.”

Still bewildered, Kiley ushered her friends into Tom's suite. Instead of the couch, Lydia sprawled on the Persian rug, while Esme settled into one of the plush chairs.

“Nice digs,” Lydia commented.

Kiley perched on the armrest of Esme's chair. “It's unbelievable. That you guys came over here, I mean.”

Esme nodded. “Yes, it was.”

“How much did Tom tell you?”

“Everything, I think,” Esme replied. “Platinum's under arrest. Social Services took the kids. The mansion is a crime scene.”

Lydia rolled over, reveling in the lush rug. “Mmm, this feels sooo good. Tom said you're leaving town. That can't be true.”

Kiley fished the boarding pass she'd printed out from her back pocket and waved it at them. “The police told me I can't stay at Platinum's. It's officially a crime scene. I'm due at LAX at nine.”

“What, just like that,
adiós
?” Esme looked shocked.

Lydia sat up. “I never took you for a big ol' quitter.”

“Don't do this to me,” Kiley pleaded. “You're not making it easier.”

Idly, Lydia reached over to the coffee table and picked up an old copy of
People
that Tom had left there. It was from when
Platinum Nanny
was first announced; the rock star was on the cover. “They airbrushed the hell out of her in this cover shot.” She tossed the magazine aside. “Platinum's one sick puppy. She's got problems, you've got problems, all God's children got problems. You know what you do with a problem, Kiley? I'll give you a hint: cut and run is not the answer, you wimp.”

Lydia's words felt like a gut punch. “My job is over, Lydia!” Kiley cried. “How the hell am I supposed to stay here?”

“Duh, girl, get another job.”

“Not an option. It was hard enough convincing my mom to let me take this one.”

“You can't just give up without a fight,” Esme said softly.

“What are you, a capybara?” Lydia challenged.

“A
what?
”

“Cap-y-ba-ra,” Lydia intoned slowly, as if Kiley was six years old. “It's this animal in Amazonia that looks like a cross between a guinea pig and a mini-hippo. Ugly-ass thing. It's the biggest rodent in the world, but it's scared of its own shadow. Which is why as big and ugly as it is, it gets caught.”

Kiley shook her head. “And?”

“And it's not a fighter, Kiley. At the first sign of trouble, the capybara rolls over and plays dead. I've killed dozens of 'em. Good eating. Especially fried.”

Kiley hung her head. Lydia was used to taking care of herself in difficult, even deadly, circumstances. So was Esme— Kiley had seen where she'd grown up. But what was the biggest hardship that she, Kiley McCann from La Crosse, Wisconsin, had ever had to overcome? Her mother and her father? Gawd. Compared to Lydia and Esme, she really
was
a capybara.

Kiley took a deep breath. “Look, you guys are my friends and . . .” She gulped down the lump in her throat. “I really care about you. I'm not cutting out because I want to, you have to know that.”

For the next five minutes, she laid out all her concerns, one by one, in excruciating detail. She'd never be able to convince her mother to let her stay in Los Angeles. Where would she get money? Where would she go to school? Where would she live? The questions piled up like cars in a train wreck, except the train wreck was her life.

When she finished, Lydia scrambled to her feet. “Kiley McCann, you are so full of horse dooky.” She began ticking points off on her fingers. “Fact: you were supposed to be the corn-fed yokel joke of
Platinum Nanny.
The day we met you at the country club, there was a challenge that was designed for you to fail. Fact: you kicked ass anyway.”

“That was different,” Kiley muttered.

“No, it wasn't,” Lydia insisted. She took Kiley by the shoulders. “Amas never run from battle. Not men, not women. They're warriors. Kiley,
be a warrior.
”

Be a warrior. Right,
Kiley thought.

“All right, first things first,” Lydia went on, tapping a forefinger against her lips. “A place to live. Not here, obviously. Your mom would kill you if she found out, although it might be worth it. Why don't you stay with me?”

Kiley gave her a jaundiced look. “Oh yeah. That's what I always wanted to do. Get you fired.”

“I'll hide you,” Lydia declared brightly. “We'd have to be real careful, though. The not-so-merry matron of Moscow— otherwise known as Anya—knows I've been kinda veering from her schedule. And she had this big ol' list of all of Aunt Kat's clothes that I borrowed. And she caught me feeding Martina a milk shake, and—”

Kiley raised a hand to stop her. “It's not gonna happen, I'm not staying with you.”

“Esme?” Lydia prompted. “You want to step on in here?”

“I'd love to, but . . .” Esme scuffed her sneakers into the wooden floor self-consciously. “Diane caught me with Jonathan an hour ago.”

“Oops,” Lydia muttered.

“She might fire me; I don't know yet.”

“It doesn't matter, I'm not staying with you, either,” Kiley insisted. She looked at her watch. Two-thirty. She was bone-tired and ready for her friends to leave. All this was doing was prolonging the inevitable. “Listen, you guys, thanks for trying. I mean it.”

Instead of rising, Esme took out her cell phone. “I have an idea.”

“No,” Kiley joked lamely. “I am not working for Evelyn Bowers, I don't care how much she's paying.”

“After Junior's
cholos
beat up Jonathan, you were there for me, Kiley,” Esme reminded her as Lydia nodded. “Now do me a favor. Let me be there for you.”