Dollhouse (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

Kamille

“M
ilo, let’s have a smile!”

“Who’s your new girlfriend, Milo?”

“Hey, honey, aren’t you that model?”

Kamille blinked as the paparazzi’s cameras flashed brightly in her face, disorienting her. Making her way down the red carpet, she instinctively reached for the arm of Milo Donovan, the model—well, not just any model, but the hunky underwear model whose latest ads, which were
this close
to being porn, were all the rage now—and tried not to wobble on her six-inch stilettos.

Milo jerked around. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he said under his breath.

“I’m Kamille. Kamille Romero. Giles introduced us like a minute ago.”

“Giles who?”

“Your agent and my agent?”

“Oh, right.”

“Hey, Milo! How long have you guys been together?” a paparazzo called out.

“How about a kiss?” yet another shouted.

Milo waved at the reporters and hurried into the club, leaving Kamille standing there alone. Okay, that wasn’t
too
humiliating. And did the reporters think she was his girlfriend?
Weird.
She headed into the club as well, wishing she had brought a date. Since she’d broken up with Finn (his reaction to Simone’s cell-phone pix of him with the red-haired slore had told her everything she needed to know), she hadn’t been seeing anyone seriously. But even Kass or Simone would have been better than coming here alone.

Although she hadn’t technically come alone. Giles had picked her up in his awesome silver Rolls and brought her to this event, which was a launch party for a new clothing line by the fourteen-year-old daughter of an aging pop star. Kamille had never been to a launch party before. She had barely even known what a launch party was, before Giles.

Really, she owed him so much. In less than six weeks, she had gone from having exactly zero job prospects, unless she counted working at her mom’s restaurant, to being a famous model. (Well, maybe more like “on her way to becoming famous.”) And in addition to starting a real career and making real money, she was enjoying a total lifestyle upgrade as well, hanging out at fabulous restaurants, fabulous clubs, fabulous parties. She wasn’t exactly a fixture in the scene, and she didn’t know many celebrities—yet. But she was getting there. It was what she had always dreamed of, ever since her father’s death and the subsequent upheaval. Soon Kamille wouldn’t have to worry about maxed-out credit cards or having to shop at consignment stores ever again.

Speaking of Giles . . . where was he, anyway? He had introduced her to the completely rude (but insanely hot) Milo out front and then disappeared to take a call, leaving her to trail behind the male model on the red carpet like a stray puppy. Kamille tried to remember if she had ever been on a red carpet before. Maybe just once, when she was three or four, when her father had been nominated for an Oscar
.
She barely remembered her brief, confusing foray past the noisy gauntlet of reporters as her father held her tightly in his arms. She recalled blinking sleepily at the flashbulbs—she’d skipped her nap that day—and feeling so uncomfortable in her crinkly gold taffeta dress.

Inside the crowded club, Kamille glanced around. The fourteen-year-old fashion designer (it was hard to think of her that way . . . she was
so young
), who was sporting one of her creations (a skintight red maxidress that made her look like a giant LEGO), was gyrating on the dance floor with a dozen drunk teens as a giant clown rode by on a tricycle (WTF?). A waitress in a tank top and thong and nothing else came by and offered Kamille a tray of what looked like raw octopus tentacles. Kamille couldn’t say no fast enough. What she really needed was a drink. The bar. Where was the bar?

“Are you lost?”

Kamille turned around at the sound of the friendly male voice and found herself staring into the most amazing pair of blue eyes, ever. The eyes went with a chiseled jaw, curly blond hair, and big, muscular shoulders. God, who
was
this guy?

“Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” he went on.

Actually, he looked kind of familiar. “Do I . . . know you?” she asked him hesitantly.

“You do now. I’m Chase. Chase Goodall.” He held out his hand.

Chase Goodall . . . Chase Goodall . . . And then it came to her.

“You’re the baseball player!” Kamille exclaimed. “You play for the Dodgers, right? I’ve seen you on TV.” She’d also seen him in Simone’s
Hunks of Major League Baseball
calendar, at her apartment. Simone had made some crass comment once about spending a fun night in with Chase’s picture and her favorite dildo. Kamille shook his hand.

Chase grinned. “Guilty. And you’ve gotta be an actress or a model. You’re way too beautiful not to be.”

Kamille felt herself blushing. “I just started modeling. My first ad just came out, for this French perfume called Lolita, but you probably don’t know it, since you’re a guy and all,” she babbled.

“Wow, congratulations! Hey, let me get you a drink. What’s your poison? Wine? Beer? Appletini?”

“An appletini sounds great, thanks.”

Chase put his hand on her elbow and steered her to a nearby booth. The brief contact felt warm. And pleasant. She sat down, and he sat down next to her—not so close as to make her think he was a creeper, but close enough so that she could smell the faint, woodsy aftershave on his skin. Yum. Within seconds, one of the half-naked waitresses appeared and took their order.

“So who are you?” Chase leaned toward Kamille and stared intently into her eyes.

“Oh! I’m sorry! I’m Kamille Romero.”

“Kamille Romero. Are you related to Robbie Romero? Lakers forward?”

“Hmm, not that I know of. But my mom’s Kat Romero, she owns Café Romero on Santa Monica. And my stepdad, well, he doesn’t have the same last name, but he’s Beau LeBlanc, and actually, he used to pitch for—”

“Beau LeBlanc,
seriously
?” Chase cut in. “He’s like a legend on our team. Wow, I would love to meet him sometime. How long has he been your stepdad? Is it true he likes to eat steak and mashed potatoes for breakfast?”

Kamille laughed. “Yeah, he’s a freak.”

“No, it obviously works for him. What’s he doing now?”

“He’s like semiretired, semi not. He works part-time as a roving instructor for minor league teams, and as a scout for the majors, too. My mom has her restaurant, so Beau helps out a lot with the house and the dogs and the younger kids in our family. My sister Kyle and my stepbrother, Benjy, they’re sixteen, and my stepsister, Bree, she’s ten.”

The waitress returned, practically brushing her massive, jiggly boobs against Chase’s face as she bent over and set their drinks on the table. To his credit, he never broke eye contact with Kamille. In general, he seemed oblivious to the wave of rabid female attention radiating his way, not just from the slore server girl but from most of the women in the room.

Of course, Kamille was aware that she was similarly the object of much of the
male
attention in the room. Much of the
straight
male attention, anyway; the rest of it was going to Chase. Suddenly she realized that the two of them were kind of the “it” couple at this party. Not that they were a couple, but still.

The realization made her feel giddy. And at the same time intensely self-conscious. Like, how obvious was that nasty zit on her forehead? And did she look fat in her new LBD?

She took a sip of her drink. Vodka was an excellent antidote for . . . well, just about anything. “So. How do you like being a baseball player?” she chirped. Okay, so vodka was
not
an excellent antidote for lame getting-to-know-you questions. She took another, much longer sip.

“I love it. I love pitching. Most days, I feel like the luckiest guy on earth. What about you? How do you like modeling?”

“It’s still so new,” Kamille admitted. “Mostly, it’s kind of amazing. I mean, just this summer, I was waitressing at my mom’s restaurant and wondering what to do with my life. And then I met Giles—he’s my agent—and he got me the Lolita ad. He’s trying to line up more jobs for me, too, like this one with Flower Power jeans. And well, of course, I get to go to lots of fun parties. Like this one.” She finished off the rest of her appletini. “I’ve got to admit, though . . . I was so nervous during the Lolita shoot. Like I didn’t know what I was doing. That’s dumb, right?”

“Nah, I go through that sometimes before a game,” Chase said. “When it happens, I find a quiet corner and pray. It totally works.”

Kamille started. “You . . . pray?”

“Yeah. My faith is pretty important to me. My parents raised me that way. They’re the best.”

“Mine, too!”

“Yeah? I’d love to—oh, excuse me, I gotta get this.” Chase picked up his cell. “Hello?
What
time’s the flight? Oh, sorry, I lost track of the—yeah, I’ll be right there.” He turned to Kamille. “I really apologize, but I’ve gotta run. I’m doing this charity thing in Wisconsin tomorrow morning. It’s for kids with leukemia. I’ve gotta be at LAX in, like, twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes! Ohmigod, go!”

“Not before I get your phone number. That is, if it’s okay for me to take you out to lunch sometime.”

Lunch, dinner, a trip to Cabo . . . anything.
“Sure, that would be great,” Kamille said, forcing herself to sound casual versus, say, easy and/or desperate. “It’s terrific that you’re doing this thing for the kids. And I’m glad we met. It was fun hanging out.”

Chase nodded and smiled. “We’ll definitely do this again.”

As Kamille typed her phone number into his phone, she wondered how she had gotten so lucky. Chase was gorgeous, kind, and thoughtful. And a famous athlete. And he went to church. And he had a close-knit family. And he did charity work for sick children.

There was no question about it. She was in love.

Chapter Twelve

Kass

“Y
eah, being a one-L is definitely a challenge,” Mike told Kass. “It’s really true what they say. The first year of law school’s the toughest. My contracts professor is such a hard-ass, he makes people cry. In class. And not just the girls either.”

“That’s insane,” Kass said, taking a bite of her Yucatán veggie burger. It was Friday at lunchtime, and the outdoor café overlooking South Figueroa Street was packed with USC students. “So what kind of law are you interested in? Litigation? Tax law? That’s where all the money is, right?”

“Actually, I want to specialize in international human rights law. There’s a lot of bad stuff happening in the world, and I want to help. Money’s not a priority for me. I mean, sure, you gotta be able to pay the bills. But I don’t need to be a gazillionaire. It’s more important for me to give back, make a contribution.”

“Really?”

Kass regarded Mike with interest. She had met him through Lovematch.com, the online dating site her crazy sister had convinced her to try, and this was their first date.

So far, so good. Mike was cute (except for the weird mole on his chin, but who was she to be picky?) and supersmart. And he wanted to do human rights work.

In any case, he was certainly better than the other four guys she’d met up with through Lovematch. The first one couldn’t stop talking about his ex-girlfriend. The second one wanted to know if Kass could help him score some Vicodin. The third one was married and only interested in NSA (i.e., no-strings-attached). The fourth one explained that he lived with his mother and that the two of them were kind of a package deal (which was
way
too
Psycho/
Norman Bates for Kass’s taste).

Mike glanced at his watch and signaled the waitress for a check. “I have to run. I’ve got torts at one-thirty, and the professor is
not
cool about lateness. So can we do this again? I had a great time.”

“Definitely,” Kass said, meaning it.

Mike leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “Listen. I like you, and I feel like we have a connection. So before we go out again, there’s something I want to tell you about me. Something important.”

“Um, sure.” Kass wondered what the big secret was. Maybe he was a celebuspawn? Or a closet Republican? As long as he wasn’t married, or addicted to pain meds, or . . .

“There’s a side of my personality that not many people know about,” Mike went on. “I like to wear women’s underwear. In fact, I’m wearing some right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not gay. I’m not even bi. My therapist says it’s a very normal expression of my inner femininity. I hope you’re cool with that.”

It took Kass all of her self-control not to start swearing . . . or cracking up . . . or both. “I’m really happy for you that you’re into your, uh, inner femininity,” she managed to say after a moment. “It’s, uh, kind of a lot for me to digest right now. Can I think about it and call you?” Which really meant,
Can I not think about it and not call you?

“Yeah, of course!” Mike handed the waitress some money and stood up. “Maybe we can go shopping together at Victoria’s Secret sometime! Just kidding!”

“Ha-ha, funny!”

After Mike left, Kass finished off her iced tea and stared moodily at the streetscape, the cars, the people passing by. A guy and a girl had stopped on the sidewalk and were kissing passionately. Ugh. Why was everyone in the world in love except for her?

Kass thought about what just happened with Mike. She would have been even more shocked by his revelation, except that her other Lovematch dates had been disasters, too. Was she ever going to meet Mr. Right? Mike had come so close to being second-date material, only to pull his deep, dark, deal-killer secret out of a hat. Did all guys have deep, dark secrets? Were there any nice,
normal
guys out there?

She reached into her purse for her car keys and was about to get up when she spotted a familiar face across the crowded café patio. Eduardo from her econ class. He was sitting at a table with a girl—no, now he was alone, because the girl was looking kind of pissed off and leaving. Was she his girlfriend? Were they having a fight?

Since the beginning of the semester, when Kass had first met Eduardo, she had seen him in class and had several friendly conversations with him about economic stimulus packages and such. He hadn’t repeated his original coffee invitation, though. Kass wondered if he was waiting for her to ask
him
out for coffee. Or maybe he just wasn’t interested anymore—especially if he had a girlfriend.

Eduardo glanced up and noticed Kass watching him. She averted her gaze and pretended to be very busy counting the keys on her key chain.
Crap, he thinks I’m stalking him,
she thought.

“Hey!” Eduardo waved and walked up to her table, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down in the chair where Mike had been just a minute ago, in his pink satin G-string or whatever. “How’s it going? Did you just get here, or are you on your way out?”

“On my way out. How are you?”

“Good! Well, except for my psycho lunch date.”

“Aw, I’m sorry. Girlfriend problems?”

“Girlfriend? No way. She’s . . . well, I met her through this dating website. Turns out she’s got issues. She got mad at me because I wouldn’t meet her psychic to make sure we were meant to be together.”

“Seriously?” Kass giggled. “That’s so funny, because I just had a bad date, too. With a guy I met through Lovematch.com. He’s into—well, never mind. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Kass told him. Eduardo raised his eyebrows. “Huh. Well, at least he was honest about it.”

“I guess? I’m beginning to think online dating is a big, fat waste of time.”

“Yeah, I’m with you there. I think I’d rather hang out with friends.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Kass gazed at Eduardo. He was so cute. And he seemed like a great guy. What would it hurt for her to ask him out? As friends?

Kass picked up her napkin and folded it into quarters. Then eighths. “So, speaking of hanging out . . . have you seen the new Woody Allen movie?” she said casually.

“No! I’ve been wanting to check that out.”

“Me, too! So do you want to . . . I mean, are you free, like . . . I don’t know, maybe this weekend?”

“I’m actually going out of town. My cousin’s getting married in Palo Alto. But I’ll be back Sunday night. How about then?”

“Sunday night’s perfect. As long as it’s late-ish, like eight or nine?”

“Late-ish is good. It’s a date, then.”

“As friends,” Kass said with a smile.

“As friends.” Eduardo smiled back.

When Kass left the café a few minutes later, she was still smiling. Why was she in such a good mood all of a sudden?