First Kiss (15 page)

Keith

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Possibilities

Dear Keith,

Let me be perfectly clear: I would rather go on the Fear Factor bug/entrails/indeterminate organism diet for the rest of my life than race Tonya Harding to the finish line for a stupid reality show gig. PS You're fired.

Air Kisses, Kiki

Scrubbing off the Fango mud was backbreaking work. Kiki hunched over the vanity for what seemed like an eternity. The mask exfoliated in loose flakes. Scraping old paint off a windowsill would take less effort.

As she rubbed, rubbed, and rubbed some more, it occurred to Kiki that, despite her best efforts to convince herself otherwise, money woes were still front and center.

Finally, she erased every green speck, the results better than she expected. Her face was blemish free, healthy looking, as smooth as a baby's bottom, and flushing with a pink glow. But the state of her finances? Not so rosy.

Even with the deep discount, staying at Affair was beginning to add up. The room charges alone would be a tidy sum. Extras still had to be factored in, too. And last night's whirligig ride? Hardly cheap. Cabs, strippers, and booze could drain some serious dough. The same could be said for greedy bitches. After all, paying off Sarah Ann Duckworth had cleaned out more than half of the Gucci boot box stash.

And what about the American Express bill? Hello! It was still floating around unpaid. Ditto last month's rent. Anxiety began to build as the impossible situation crystallized in Kiki's mind. Then she felt it. Right in her gut. Her stomach all of a sudden had no bottom.

The regrets began to pile up. Like that pithy e-mail she'd sent to fire Keith Bush. In a scramble, she powered her laptop and zapped a second missive to calm the waters.

Keith, I can't believe you haven't called me. Wasn't that last e-mail I sent hilarious? I'm always joking like that. Find me a good comedy! Your client always and forever, Kiki

Well, she might go crawling back to Keith Bush, but he could forget about this Surreal Life business. Hmm. What about a guest spot on Law & Order ? That show needed to cast several extra speaking roles for every episode. Not exactly a dream job but the money would tide her over, and it had nothing to do with elbowing Tonya Harding out of the way for a gig. Yes! That was a fantastic idea. And Kiki was perfect for it. Of course, the casting people would take one look at her and say Dead hooker or Hooker's friend . But that's because the show had those types in every script. How hard could it be to stretch out on a sidewalk and pretend to be a corpse? Or wear a micro-mini, smack gum, and deliver lines like, "I knew that john was bad news. He gave me the creeps. I told Angel to stay away, but she needed the bling to buy her kid braces."

Until then, though, Kiki needed to find an income Band-Aid. Maybe her father could throw some extra money into her monthly care package. A million years ago, Kiki had a trust fund. Inherited at twenty-one. God, whose idea was that? Just because she could legally buy a drink didn't mean she could manage a large sum of money. She shopped, she traveled, she "invested" in a jerky boyfriend's loser business, she let another jerky boyfriend "play the market." It hadn't taken long for the inheritance to disappear altogether. Luckily, her father understood that succeeding as an actress took time. That's why he didn't mind sending out the occasional monthly check. Okay, it was pretty much a regular monthly check. But whatever.

Kiki took a deep breath and called her father. She hated to ask her family for money. Especially at her age. In a perfect world, she would be firmly established by now. But life had dealt her one crushing blow after another. The Miss America loss. That beast of a starter husband. Those All My Children producers who killed off Jeannette. And now this media debacle surrounding Tom Brock. The fact that Kiki could soldier on at all was a testament to the indomitable human spirit. So a little gift from Daddy Sonntag was hardly a handout. Really. If anything, it was a celebration of her plucky nature.

"Hi, Daddy!" Her voice climbed up the scale to little girl intonation the moment he answered.

"Kiki, baby, how are you?" He sounded happy to hear from her. But fatigued as well.

"I'm okay," she said. "I've been better, though. But I'm hanging in there. You know me." It was true. And just cryptic enough to wedge an opening.

"I hope it's not money trouble bringing you down because I can't help you there anymore."

The import of her father's words automatically weighed down the almost weightless cellular. Suddenly, the mobile felt as heavy as a brick in her hand.

Her father blathered on. Something about depleted mineral reserves, falling stocks, and capital needs for the winery. She basically stopped listening once she realized that her monthly checks were now a relic of the past. The question begged itself again: Why did everything bad always happen to her?

"What do you think about your brother getting married?" The edge in his voice told Kiki that her father seemed to be struggling with the idea. That was strange. Usually, anything Roman did (pee standing up, graduate from college, work for the family business) qualified as the best thing to happen since Viagra passed the FDA trials.

"I'm happy for him," Kiki managed to say mechanically. But she didn't have time to be happy for Roman. She was too busy worrying about herself. "I have to go, Daddy. I'll check in later." And then she hung up in a snit, a move driven more by fear than mere selfishness.

As she lay there on the bed, completely dejected, an internal thunderbolt hit, rocking her solar plexus. Danni . Oh, God! Kiki had completely forgotten about Danni. Hmm. But she could wait. The girl had hospital drugs and a George Clooney look-alike at her disposal. She was fine. In fact, Kiki would gladly trade places with her.

Suddenly, it dawned on Kiki that she was filthy. All those cab rides. The hospital visit. That barfly stint at Camisole. Ugh. If Kiki were a germ-phobic, then she would definitely be in a straitjacket by now. This much was true: The wild night needed to be washed away.

Maybe the answers to some of the endless problems ahead would come to her under the steam jets. The Mistress Hideaway shower was one of those built-for-two numbers. Sexy? Perhaps. If you liked that sort of thing. But Kiki was more into sheets with a decadently high thread count. Anyway, the main problem with the shower was that she couldn't get it nice and steamy. This was supposed to be luxury? Beyond annoyed, she stepped out, wrapped a towel around her body, and called Fab's cell. Indeed. The owner should be aware of such failings.

"Fab Tomba."

"I'm trying to take a shower, and I feel like I'm in Antarctica! It won't get hot and steamy!"

He sighed with amusement. "Good morning, Kiki."

"Oh, good morning," she chirped. "By the way, thanks for the candy."

"My pleasure. You raised a quality concern. It's my duty to satisfy."

Kiki melted a little bit. There was topspin on his phrasing of satisfy .

"So," Fab began, his voice lazy, almost teasing, "as I understand it, you're having a problem getting hot in your room."

Kiki stood there dripping wet in the towel, feeling half clean and all the way foolish now for calling. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way."

"And which way is that?"

Kiki felt a flush rise from her neck to her cheeks. "You make it sound like I have some kind of sexual issue."

"Oh, I would never suggest that," Fab said earnestly.

"Because I don't."

"Of course not. Quite the contrary. You appear to be very accommodating in your approach to that area of life."

Kiki blanched. "I'm accommodating ? Exactly what is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Fab laughed a little. "We don't seem to be on the same semantic wavelength this morning."

Were they ever? She and Fab always seemed to be on the verge of a knock-down-drag-out. One wrong word, one misplaced phrase, one awkwardly stated sentiment, and there could be blood on the walls. His. Hers. Theirs. God, Kiki hated it. But she loved it, too. The source of the tension was truly delicious.

"No," Kiki said, unwilling to let it pass. "I want to know what you meant by accommodating ."

"What do you think I meant?"

"I don't know. But it sounds insulting."

"That's an interesting reaction."

"Okay, I'm in no mood to be psychoanalyzed again. As it relates to someone's approach to sex accommodating is a loaded term. I mean, the slut in high school who gives blow jobs in the parking lot could be described that way."

"This is a small hotel, Kiki," Fab began. "No incident, no matter how minor or seemingly insignificant, escapes my attention. I'm aware that you slept outside your room during the wee hours. I'm also aware that extra linens were requested for your suite."

"Oh, really?" Kiki remarked, somewhat gleefully.

"How very Orwellian of you." She paused a beat. "But as it turned out, I slept in my room like a baby, and the extra linens weren't necessary. Luckily, there are some girls out there who know how to hold out for a little romance. So I suppose you know that I ran into one of your old girlfriends last night."

"Yes, I saw the security tape. And I'm happy for Tiffany Lynn and the barmaid."

"Kirby's hardly a barmaid ," Kiki shot back. "Actually, he thinks you're a bit on the girlie side."

"That's just because I once refused his challenge to an arm-wrestling contest."

"What's wrong?" Kiki trilled. "Afraid to lose?"

"No. Afraid to hold hands with him. One thing might lead to another. I should just confess now. I never went to Camisole for the dancers. It was the bartender all along."

Kiki smiled. He did it every time. Made her blow a gasket one minute and repaired the damage the next.

"I think it was all those fancy moves," Fab went on. "You know, the ones that prove he spends hours and hours with the Cocktail DVD on slow-mo."

Kiki laughed.

"And believe me," Fab continued. "I'm not the only guy who's noticed. It's only a matter of time before Camisole is exposed as a gay bar."

Now Kiki completely lost it. "Would you please stop?" she begged, barely getting the words out. "Oh, my God. If Kirby knew you were saying this, it would be so over for you. By the way, I need to find him a new job. Any ideas?"

"Let's see what to do with a lifetime bartender who can juggle and bench-press a Toyota NASA! I've got a friend there. He can start tomorrow as a rocket scientist."

" Fab !" Kiki scolded. But she was giggling throughout her mock protest. "I'm serious. I adore Tiffany Lynn. And don't think you've escaped a serious cross-examination about her. But I'll wait to do that face-to-face. Anyway, I think she and Kirby make a darling couple. I want them to get married so that I can be in their wedding, which is really saying a lot because I'm so beyond the whole bridesmaid thing. But for Tiffany Lynn I would get back in the mix."

"Didn't you just meet her for the first time last night?" Fab asked.

"Yes, but there was tequila involved, which totally fast-forwards a friendship," Kiki said. "Anyway, we've got to get Kirby on a better career path. Strip club bartender is not husband material."