First Kiss (11 page)

Fab grinned and gestured to the pitcher of mojitos .

Kiki nodded yes.

He did the honors for round three, drained his faster than a gunslinger in a hot saloon, pushed the dining cart away, and leaned back onto the bed, propping himself up with his elbows. "I have to admit I was wrong about you."

Kiki chased some of her drink down, too, the tingle officially turning to buzz. "What do you mean?"

"I figured you for this impossible princess type who has to be the center of everyone's universe."

Kiki stretched out to join Fab. "Hey, I'm too busy being the center of my own universe."

Fab's eyes locked onto hers, left, and then locked again.

"I'm writing a book," Kiki blurted, as much to Fab's astonishment as to her own.

His brow shot up with real curiosity.

She was practically head over heels now. For a man to be half drunk, lounging on a bed with a woman, and expressing unfeigned interest in a subject that had nothing to do with getting naked well, it was pretty amazing.

"What kind of book?"

Kiki felt a certain shyness creep up. It was one thing to share her secret dream with Suzi-Suzi or Danni. When it came down to each other, no one in their group ever stood in judgment. How could they? The truth was, all of their lives were a bit of a mess Kiki with her current, multilayered crisis, Suzi-Suzi with her so-called modeling career and married boyfriend, and Danni with her paradoxical status as a Christian stripper.

But Fab's opinion could possibly have an impact. Who would've thought that Manhattan's reigning playboy had the capacity to deep-think? Give him limited access and arm him with a half-fact/half-fiction tabloid piece, and the man could spin analysis worthy of Freud.

"An autobiography?" Fab pressed, still waiting for an answer.

Kiki waved off that idea. "Oh, God, no. Don't you find all these people writing memoirs annoying? Everybody thinks that their life will make such an interesting book, and it's just not true. The remainder tables at the bookstores are proof of that. Mine would have a pinch of autobiography. But not the whole thing. I mean, I'm not going to devote an entire chap-ter to the time somebody stole my Wonder Woman lunch box."

Fab nodded agreeably, smiling. "So a bit of autobiography and what else?"

"It's kind of difficult to pin down," Kiki murmured. "Basically, the angle I'm taking is postmodern observations from a pretty girl's perspective." She giggled. "Hey, maybe I could lead a new wave of feminism."

Fab seemed genuinely enchanted by her revelation. In fact, his face appeared to be lit from within. "How much have you written?"

"Oh, not very much," Kiki said. "I've jotted things down here and there. I'm really just conceptualizing it right now. But who am I kidding? I'll probably never finish. I mean, how many people have said, 'I'm writing a book' and never made it to the last page?"

Fab threaded his fingers behind his head and kicked back, stretching out completely. Through the sheer fabric of his white, French-cuffed Gucci shirt, his washboard stomach was evident. So were the trails of dark tangled hairs that started just above his navel and gathered thickness on their way down to there . "Tell me," he whispered intimately, "I'm intrigued. What kind of observations does a postmodern pretty girl have?"

Kiki eased back onto one elbow. She was facing him, their bodies parallel, and when he casually shifted to the same position and reached out to lazily claim a few of her fingers, the gesture had a certain effect on her central nervous system. "There are so many," she managed, a bit breathlessly. "I wouldn't know where to start. Give me a subject."

"Marriage." He dropped the hot topic without warning.

"Okay marriage . . . well, I've done it once, so obviously, I'm for it you know, in theory. But you made that comment about me marrying for money which okay, it's true to a degree"

Fab laughed.

" But . . . and this is where the pretty, sexy girl gets maligned in our culture everybody thinks that we're gold diggers. Well, you know what? We are. But not exclusively. What about the women who are successful in their own right? They want a rich husband, too, because when they do get married, they want to quit working and stay at home with their babies. To me, that's just greedy. I mean, they're already self-sufficient, but they're still trying to land a rich guy. Meanwhile, girls like me are out there barely hanging on. We need the rich ones."

Fab bobbed his head to the beat of her twisted logic. "That's an interesting take. I'd keep reading."

Kiki beamed. "And you're not even the target audience."

"Don't be so sure. Some men might read your book just to glean some insight into the general psyche of the pretty, sexy girl."

"You really think so?"

Fab nodded yes. "Do you have a literary agent?"

"No. I have a television agent, Keith Bush. I assume that he's still my agent. You see, he never returns my calls."

"That should change after today," Fab said. "You're front-page news."

"Ughdon't remind me. Of course, that is the reason I'm here. And I might not have met you otherwise. I guess I shouldn't complain."

Fab's thumb caressed the inside of Kiki's palm. "You don't hear me complaining." He was moving things forward. It was a come-on. But it didn't feel like one. And this is how men like him woke up with women like her whenever they put their minds to it. After a few beats of silence, he added, "You should take advantage of this media situation. Why not turn lemons into lemonade? Put your idea for the book down on paper. I know some agents. I'll put you in touch."

Kiki rose up. "Are you serious?"

"Very. The natural progression of a scandal like this is that for about five minutes, everybody wants to be in business with you. So be ready and make sure that it's something you want. Otherwise, you'll end up on a reality show like Big Brother ."

She nodded severely, appreciating his counsel.

"But how does this kind of notoriety have anything to do with being an author?"

"It doesn't," Fab said matter-of-factly. "But you've captured the interest of the media. Publishing can be a crazy business. Sometimes getting a book deal has nothing to do with being a writer. I'll make a few calls tomorrow and find out how you should proceed."

Kiki felt downright giddy. She looked at Fab, and suddenly, he was a Popsicle that she wanted to lick from top to bottom. He actually believed in her. She reached out to rest one hand against the side of his face in a way that was heartfelt yet still invited more. "Where did you come from?" She knew her eyes were shining as she said it.

"Downstairs," he deadpanned. "I own this joint. Remember?"

In one rapid-fire movement, Kiki straddled Fab's hips and pinned his arms over his head. "Okay, mystery man. You've put me on the shrink couch tonight, and I know nothing about you."

Fab craned his neck to take in the scene, her hands trapping his wrists, her knees locked onto his hips. It was as if he couldn't believe what she was doing to him. "Kiss me," he whispered. "And maybe I'll tell you where I was born." His mouth lolled open with great expectations.

Boom ! Kiki's heart took off. That quick. That automatic. She eased down to meet his lips. There was desperation in the move. A certain panic. Because she knew that where there was a beginning, there was also an end. But for now she simply grabbed hungrily at the moment, ravenous for the sensation, for the taste, of Fab Tomba.

The kiss went further than she intended. Her legs twitched weakly, and as she lay plastered against him like Scotch tape, she could feel his arousal swell against her stomach. Kiki pulled back from his mouth but lingered around his neck, completely dazed, eyes half closed, breath coming in soft little pants. "Oh, my God," she murmured.

" That was an incredible first kiss," Fab whispered.

She rose up just enough to make eye contact, then collapsed on top of him in a fit of laughter. "You've got Fango mud all over your face."

Her cellular rang.

Kiki silently cursed the intrusive device even as she instinctively reached for it.

With good humor. Fab began to flake off the dried mud.

Kiki giggled, saw danni calling on the screen, and picked up with a hushed, "I can't talk right now. I'll call you"

But sound of Danni sobbing cut her off mid-sentence.

Kiki's stomach dropped. Something was very wrong. Suzi-Suzi could wail about almost anything. The final episode of Sex and the City had sent her to bed for three days. But Danni was always solid as a rock. "Where are you?" Kiki asked, her voice calm but firm.

"I'm at Lenox Hill Hospital," Danni cried.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected] vshelton@kleinschmidrbelker

Subject: Potential Fashion Debacle

My Fellow Bridesmaids,

Let's just get it out in the open, shall we? I'm the official outsider of this group. If choosing the sister of the groom isn't a decision arrived at by gunpoint, then tell me what is. That being said, allow me to be the voice of radical honesty. I consider myself to be somewhat of a professional bridesmaid. I'm in FIVE weddings this summer alone. Agony! And the idea of yet another ghastly bridesmaid dress is more than I can endure. The mere thought has driven me to put two pharmacists on speed dial (a girl needs options, and why limit yourself to one antianxiety medication?). Anyway, how about a pact? We must agree NOT to march down the aisle looking like Barbara, Louise, and Ir-lene Mandrell from the tragic 80s. Fab dresses only!

PS Vivien, this will be a challenge because you're so tall. But think of all the drag queens who manage to find dresses that make them look fantastic. No worries.

All My Best, Kiki

The cabdriver eyeballed a strange look into the rear-view mirror.

"It's a treatment mask," Kiki explained, not shy about showing her annoyance. "Deeply cleansing. Now please just get to the hospital as fast as you can. This is an emergency."

She sank back against the seat, worried sick about Danni and biting nervously at a nail as the taxi raced toward Seventy-seventh Street on the Upper East Side. First, Kiki had no idea why the girl was at Lenox Hill. And second, Danni had a phobia about hospitals. Her Achilles' heel. A million years ago, she had been engaged to a dreamy surgeon who called off the wedding after she showed up at the church. Ever since, Danni had suffered mild panic attacks anytime she walked inside a hospital, a doctor's office, or even a living room while someone was watching ER .

Once more, Kiki tried Danni's cellular, praying the call wouldn't ring into voice mail again. But it did. She hurled the phone back into her purse, then fished it out again to dial Suzi-Suzi. More voice mail. "God!" Kiki screeched. "Does anybody answer their phone anymore?"

Her face was cracking under the dried Fango mud. It hurt to speak, and her lips felt as parched as the Mohave Desert. Actually, she was supposed to sponge off the mask before it began to dry. But Kiki, in an effort to keep stress-induced breakouts to a minimum, sometimes allowed the product to set like concrete. Besides, tonight the mask was pulling double duty as a slam-dunk disguise. No creepy photographer would ever recognize her in this goop.