Bad to the Bone (16 page)

“It's Lyrik with a
k
,” the curvaceous brunette told Kiley and Lydia, shaking her long chestnut hair off her shoulders with what was obviously a practiced gesture. “I'm Jocelyn's assistant. When I'm talking, pretend it's her talking.”

Lyrik with a
k
had eye-popping breasts and wore a tight pink T-shirt with what Kiley assumed were the designer jeans of the moment.

Not that Kiley had any clue what designer that might be. She'd been around Hollywood long enough to know the drill. One day you were the designer everyone just had to wear. The next day you were consigned to the sale rack, or to one of the many high-end preowned clothing shops that sprang up around the city. From there, it was just one more step down to Goodwill.

Kiley and Lydia were one floor up from the actual Kodak Theatre, in a cavernous room that right now contained nothing
but a pile of large boxes stacked against one wall and stacks of folding tables. There was also a pile of red and black Rock Music Awards tablecloths on the floor, and a huge stack of oversized canvas bags with the signature red and black Rock Music Awards logo.

It was Thursday, late afternoon; the awards show was just forty-eight hours away. Lydia had actually gone to school that day—she seemed to miss more than she attended—and afterward Kiley had driven them here and parked in the underground lot at the Renaissance Hotel, adjacent to the theater.

Esme had called and told them where to be and when to be there. Kiley had pressed for more information about what was going on with Esme's parents, but Esme had been terse. All she said was that she'd meet them at the Kodak and she'd get there when she got there.

As for where they were, they were in the swag room of the awards. Or, as Lyrik put it, “At least it will be after you guys get done with it.”

“The high-end freebies,” Lydia translated, with relish for said freebies apparent in her tone.

“For the VIPs. That lets you two out. Damn. How did this happen?” Lyrik glared at a chipped nail on her left hand.

“I'd just like to point out that insulting the volunteers is not real productive,” Lydia drawled sweetly.

Kiley stifled a laugh, but Lyrik stayed all business.

“I wouldn't be joking when you two figure out how much work there is. Your job is to set up the tables, set up the clothing racks when they get here, cover the tables in tablecloths, and unload all those boxes. This chart should help you. Don't mess it up or you'll have to start at the beginning. I'm serious.”
Lyrik thrust a sheet of paper at Kiley, then looped some of her lustrous hair behind one ear and peered around. “I was told there were three people working in here. Where's the third?”

“Our friend Esme isn't here yet,” Kiley explained.

“Fun, fun, more fun for you.” Lyrik smiled at them, showing white teeth too glistening to not have had the help of a laser.

“What if we get hungry?” Lydia asked.

“Craft Service downstairs is for VIPs only,” Lyrik reminded them. “There's a table set up outside with some stuff for you guys. Or maybe there's vending machines. I'll check back.” She pivoted on her four-inch sunshine yellow open-toe pump and left.

“Vending machines? We get to use the vending machines? Did you see the spread for the VIPs? We got to eat at Craft Service yesterday.” Lydia was very unhappy.

Kiley knew it wouldn't help their cause to mope. She looked at the instructions Lyrik had given her. “Okay. We start by setting up the tables in this order. And the tablecloths. Then we go to boxes marked one through five, and put one of everything that's inside them into the Jewels and Pinstripes bags over there.” She pointed to the stacks of bags across the room.

“What else?” Lydia asked, peering over Kiley's shoulder at the list.

“After that we tackle the other boxes. That's stuff that doesn't fit in the bags, and we're supposed to arrange it on the other tables. Might as well get started.”

Kiley led the way to the tables and started unfolding them as Lydia looked at her with a strange grin.

“What?” Kiley asked.

“Or maybe we should go downstairs and listen to Audrey
rehearse her duet with Platinum,” Lydia suggested. “Audrey'll take us with her to eat. Cuz that warm lemonade in the machine looks way too much like pee. Did I ever mention that the Amas drink sheep piss for certain ceremonies?”

The way Lydia's mind worked never failed to amaze Kiley She saw a couple of box openers leaning against the wall, picked them up, and slapped one into Lydia's hand. “I'll do the tables. Go to work.”

Unstacking all the tables, setting them up, and covering them with tablecloths was no easy task. Lydia actually joined in once she saw how tough it was, and Kiley was glad they'd both dressed down in official RMA staff T-shirts and jeans. Once the tables were set up, and the clothing racks rolled in, they set up a two-person assembly line with the boxes, walking down rows of the huge black and red bags and dropping one item at a time into them. Kiley took it in stride, but Lydia's eyes practically turned green as she parted with each item.

“A turquoise necklace by Fabulously Forty. A Swarovski crystal-embossed clutch purse from West Egg. A Bodog poker set. A certificate for a free cross-country flight on a private jet. Another certificate, this one for a free full set of Vera Bradley Signature luggage. Oh—look at this! A pink Cartier Tank Francaise watch.”

“Is there a particular reason you're doing a play-by-play?” Kiley stuffed a portable cosmetic palette with the RMA logo created by Bobbi Brown just for this occasion into one of the bags.

“You think they'd notice if we took one of those?” There was longing in Lydia's voice.

“This is not your aunt's closet,” Kiley pointed out. “You can't borrow a swag bag.”

“I know.” Lydia sighed. “Life is just not fair sometimes.” She leaned against the table and picked up their instruction list, scanning the items they were supposedly going to find in the other boxes—the ones that wouldn't fit into the swag bags themselves. “Dang, Kiley, did you see all this other stuff? Shoes from Delman—they get to just pick what they want. Jeans made to order from paper denim and cloth. A motor cycle jacket from Armani Collezioni—”

Kiley folded another gift certificate into a bag. “You might want to go look up ‘covet’ in the dictionary.”

“Well, if you found my picture next to it, I'd be proud,” Lydia said, holding one of the Cartier watches against her wrist. “And God bless America.”

Kiley took a swig of water, then held the bottle to her face. The room was hot; evidently no one felt the need to turn on the air-conditioning for the worker ants. She looked over at the sea of boxes they had yet to unpack. “We need more help.”

“Esme,” Lydia said absentmindedly, admiring the clutch purse.

“More than Esme, I mean. Like six more people or we'll be here all night. That doesn't mean I'm not worried about her.”

“Her parents, you mean,” Lydia clarified. “You'd think someone with as much money and power as Steven Goldhagen could protect them, wouldn't you?”

“I know you think money and power fixes everything, but it really doesn't.”

“Almost
everything, and might I add that you are in a real snotty mood, girlfriend. Missing Tom?”

“Yeah,” Kiley admitted. “But I don't think Tom's missing me.”

She hadn't intended to get into it with her friends, because she didn't want to sound weenie and insecure, even if she
felt
weenie and insecure. But now that the subject had been broached, she couldn't avoid it. If she did, Lydia would just wear her down.

She filled Lydia in on the photos Matt had shown her of Marym and Tom kissing in Moscow. “I can't compete with a supermodel,” she concluded.

Lydia idly wrapped a Chanel chain belt through her belt loops. “Now, see, you always do this—put yourself down. If Tom wanted to be with another girl, he'd be with another girl.”

“He
is
with another girl,” Kiley exclaimed, hurt coloring her voice. “That's the whole point! And put that belt back.”

Lydia reluctantly took the belt off and added it to a swag bag. “Maybe that was just an ‘Oh, hi’ kind of kiss.”

Kiley dead-eyed her. “Like I can't tell the difference between that and the real thing?”

Lydia considered. “Well, you could text Tom and ask him about it.”

“There is no way—” Kiley began, but she never got to finish, because Lydia had spied Esme walking in and was already crossing the room to greet their friend in her usual exuberant fashion. “We're so glad to see you, sweet pea!” Lydia exclaimed, enveloping Esme in a bear hug.

Kiley joined them. She saw the fear and sadness in Esme's eyes, something that no hug was going to cure.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

“It's terrible,” Esme replied. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “My parents are gone.”

An hour later, Kiley was sitting with Esme and Lydia on a yellow and white couch in the hospitality suite at Shutters on the Beach. Many of the out-of-town stars for the RMAs were staying at the very beautiful and very upscale hotel on the beach in Santa Monica. Because of that, there was a hospitality suite on the third floor, with a balcony overlooking the pristine beach and azure ocean. They'd called Steven beforehand and he'd told them they could finish up the swag room later. As long as it was done by the end of the day, there'd be no problem.

The hospitality suite was a penthouse hotel suite turned into a low-key, high-end hangout. It featured a table laden with gourmet food—jumbo prawns, lobster salad, rack of lamb—and a chef to oversee it. But the girls passed on the food and took only coffee. Since almost everyone was at the theater for rehearsal, the suite was nearly empty.

Esme brought them all up to date. Her ex, Junior, was essentially arranging for a “coyote” to smuggle her parents back into Mexico. It had to be done that way because if her parents were caught, they would never be allowed to immigrate legally.

“But as long as they're not caught, they can apply to come back?” Kiley asked hopefully.

“They can apply,” Esme told her. “But a guy I know in the Echo who was born here? It took his parents six years before they could come. The shortest wait I ever heard of is nearly three years. There's a lot of people who want to come to
America, Kiley. Think about it. When someone's looking to get out of Nigeria, or the Philippines, you think they try to get into Cuba? No. They want to come here.”

“I kind of know what it feels like,” Lydia said softly. “I mean, my mom was just here. But I missed her as soon as she left. I don't know when she'll get back here. And my dad?”

Lydia sounded so sad that Kiley swallowed down a lump in her own throat. When she thought about the situation both her friends were in, separated from their parents by international borders, she felt selfish and self-indulgent for moaning about Tom and whom he might or might not be kissing. Yes, she certainly had issues with her own parents—especially her father when he hit the bottle. But to
know
she couldn't see them even if she wanted to? That would be really, really hard.

“You can go to Mexico and visit, can't you?” Kiley asked Esme.

“Yes.” Esme stared into her coffee as if reading tea leaves. “But it's not the same. They won't be a part of my life here. I could get married, and they wouldn't even be able to come to my wedding. Now that
La Migra
has their photos, they'd be too afraid.” She looked up. “Steven Goldhagen is being so wonderful, I can't even tell you. He says he's going to get my parents jobs at one of those upscale resorts where Americans go on vacation. He's got a friend who owns one in Puerto Vallarta.

“I'm seeing all three of us there for a vacation!” Lydia exclaimed. “How fun would that be?”

“And I'm making enough money to fly down to see them,” Esme added.

“See? Your tattoo business is smart,” Lydia told her.

“I don't have to pay if I don't want to,” Esme said. “Steven and Diane said they're good for a ticket every two months.”

Kiley was impressed. “You work for a saint.”

Esme nearly smiled. “Steven would tell you that Jews don't have saints, but you're right. He is a wonderful man.”

“You think he's doing it because you were seeing his son?” Lydia wondered.

“Not hardly,” Esme replied. “For one thing, Jonathan and I are long over. I don't know what we are anymore. He's doing it out of regard for my parents.”

Lydia lifted her sandal-clad foot and nudged Esme's shin. “And you, sweet pea.”

“There is a catch. A big one,” Esme said.

For the life of her, Kiley could not think of what it could be. “What is it?”

Esme set her coffee cup on the pale blue and daffodil yellow mosaic coffee table. “You know how my parents were so against me dropping out of school? Even though I'm making all this money?”

Kiley nodded. Frankly, she'd been against it, too.

“Well, Steven says the whole deal is predicated on my graduating. Because it's what my parents want for me.”

“What about Esme Ink? Your business?” Lydia asked.

“At first I was thinking I'd have to close it down. If I decide to go to school, that is. But then Jorge suggested I hire some other tat artists and only work there for really big clients. Maybe even raise my rates.”