First Kiss (18 page)

"Now I'm intrigued," Kiki murmured. "Why do you think he's so scared of a hand on his penis? You know, Chad's got some serious sexual hang-ups. Between this and the crying after he comes"

"I know!" Suzi-Suzi thundered. "I tried to look it up on the Internet, but I couldn't find anything. Now I know it's weird. I mean, everything's on the Internet these days. That's where I go to get my horoscope."

Kiki stretched luxuriously. God, it felt so good to have sex. Especially after such a long dry spell. It'd been months and months. Now she felt like a nymphomaniac, because getting Fab back into this room as soon as possible was her very reason for living. Hmm. As goals go, this was hardly one that Stephen Covey would endorse as representing one of the Eight Habits.

Suzi-Suzi blathered on. "My life is way too complicated. Why does God punish me? I pray for simple things. I want a boring modeling job like, say, bathing suits or nursing uniforms, and I want a guy who, after he shoots his spunk, doesn't act like me whenever I watch Terms of Endearment ."

"Hey, why not hire a sex therapist," Kiki suggested.

"Chad would never go for that," Suzi-Suzi grumbled. " 't can't even get him to agree to couples counseling."

Kiki chuckled. "That's a new one. Couples counseling for a married man and his mistress."

"Oh, not just us," Suzi-Suzi said. "I told him that his wife should be there, too. We're all in this together, and it's time to start dealing with the issues."

Kiki gazed out the window for a moment to make sure that there was an outside world and that she wasn't living in the same alternative universe as Suzi-Suzi, who truly had no idea that having a married boyfriend was well, just wrong .

"I suppose I could fib about the sex therapist," Suzi-Suzi muttered. "You know, just say we're going to a friend's place for dinner, casually bring up sex during the conversation, and just let things go from there."

Kiki pulled a face. "Uh, sweetie, I don't think Chad's going to announce to someone he just met that he cries when he ejaculates and that he's got a phobia about hands on his tallywacker."

"Oh, well, I'm sure that I can work it in," Suzi-Suzi said earnestly.

"Don't you think he'll be furious at you for bringing it up?" Kiki asked.

"Oh I never thought of that." One beat. "I should definitely wait for him to bring it up. And I still think the pretend dinner is the way to go. Where do you find one of these sex therapists? The only one I've heard of is Dr. Ruth, and I imagine she's quite expensive." Suzi-Suzi gasped. "Speaking of money, I need a job. Did you ever find out the name of that agent?"

"No," Kiki said, her voice drenched with instant apology. "I thought about it this morning, but then before I knew it, I was having sex with Fab. I'll find out today. I promise."

"Do you realize how lucky you are?" Suzi-Suzi gushed. "I mean, Fab is a great lover, and he doesn't cry in bed. That is so rare. At least in my experience."

Kiki yawned and stretched. "Do you ever just sit around and think about all the guys you've ever slept with?"

"I try not to," Suzi-Suzi said. "I've been with some really kooky men. Normal on the outside, but get them in the bedroom, and it's, like, 'Paging the psych ward.' Did I ever tell you about the guy who could only get an erection if I dressed up like Batgirl?"

"Yes," Kiki replied. "That was Chad last Halloween."

Suzi-Suzi was silent. "Oh, that's right!" One beat. "Okay, this is ridiculous. We totally need a sex therapist."

"I don't know," Kiki mused. "It's just kind of in-teresting to reflect. There's a wild new trend now in publishing. Women are writing sexual memoirs detailing everything . I'd never do that, but it might be interesting to have to relive each guy in order to write about him."

"Oh, my God," Suzi-Suzi cut in. "I saw this woman on one of the morning shows who wrote a whole book about her anal sex experiences. She was completely in love with her own butt. By comparison, Chad seemed almost normal."

Kiki gave the subject some philosophical focus. "You know, on second thought, I would never write a book like that. These are the people I slept with . I mean, it's so self-indulgent. And there's no insight. Nobody's learning anything that can improve their life. I don't even think it's that entertaining. It's like the sex version of some old person who wants to tell you what they ate that day. Pointless really."

"I suppose you're right," Suzi-Suzi agreed. "But your book would be way better than mine. They'd make yours the next Red Shoe Diaries . Meanwhile, Chad and I would end up on Comedy Central."

Kiki giggled. "I don't know about that . I suppose there have been a few memorable ones." Her mind tripped back. "In high school I had this boyfriend my junior yearJaron. Oh, my God. Phenomenal kisser. I wanted to make out with him all day. And I did. We were always getting caught under a stairwell or outside in the parking lot. He had a Dodge Colt that was so small, but it didn't matter." She windmilled her legs in the air to get a few Pilates moves in for the day. "College was like, whatever. Most guys I knew stayed drunk those four years. When I took that acting class, though, the first year I moved to New York, there was this guy named Yaz."

" Yaz ," Suzi-Suzi repeated dreamily. "I love that name. Why can't I date a Yaz?"

"Oh, you would definitely want to date this one. Not just a stud. A super stud. He could do it like nobody's business. But you know, it was almost too much. He just went on and on and on. Finally, I'd be like, 'Enough already! I'm getting sore, and I don't want to miss Beverly Hills 90210 .' I dated a Chad once, too. He was okay. That man was obsessed with my breasts. Flattering up to a point. And then it's like, hello, there are other parts to my body. Wait a minute. Now that I think of it, he had a weird thing after he came, too. He would leave really really fast. Like a fireman who just heard the three alarm bell or something. Maybe that's just a weird sex thing with guys named Chad"

Suzi-Suzi remained silent.

Kiki blabbed on. "There was this guy Johnny, too. He was the IRS agent who helped me straighten out that mess after I didn't file for three years. Pretty much blah as a lover, but he sure did love to cuddle."

"That sounds nice," Suzi-Suzi murmured from a million miles away.

"What are you doing?" Kiki demanded.

"Oh, sorry. I jumped online to look up sex therapists, and there are so many in New York. If all these people make a living at this, then we're in a city with some serious sexual problems. Oohhere's a woman who does hypnosis sexual therapy. That sounds like fun. While he's under, maybe she can get him to stop slobbering so much when he kisses."

Kiki rolled over onto her stomach. "Okay, I am such a terrible friend. Do you realize that I have completely spaced out and forgotten about Danni?"

"Oh, please," Suzi-Suzi said, dismissing the subject altogether. "I talked to her before I called you. She's back at home, has a date with the George Clooney doctor tonight, and can start dancing again sometime next week. Danni Summer is fine. We are the ones with problems."

Kiki felt better now. She had just parted her lips to reply when a second call beeped in. The number didn't ring any bells. "I've got another call. Let me know how the hypnosis thing goes." She clicked over. "Hello?"

Heather Vandercamp was on the line. Another summer bride, and a quasi-friend from a hundred years ago who really dug deep into the past so she could have eighteen bridesmaids. Ridiculous with an upper case "R."

"Kiki, how are you?" The voice was all faux distress. "It's Heather in Seattle. I had to call as soon as I heard."

Ugh. The Tom Brock Affair. God, she kept forgetting about it. Of course, it did happen to be the reason why she was ensconced here. "Heather, please," Kiki said reassuringly. "That situation is a complete joke. I barely know Tom Brock. 1 am friends with his wife, though."

" You're friends with Kirsten Brock?" The tone suggested that such a development ranked up there with other impossibilities like a straight husband for Liza Minnelli or an Oscar for Pamela Anderson.

"Of course," Kiki lied. She kept her tone breezy. "We've been laughing about this. As soon as the maelstrom dies down, we'll be able to go shopping again."

On the other end of the line, Heather Vandercamp was silent. Then she got to the point. "That's good." But clearly she didn't think so. "Kiki, I have some disappointing news. My mother is convinced the wedding has gotten too big. It kills me to do it, but I have to go on a bridesmaid diet." She laughed a little. "In other words, lose a few."

Kiki just lay there, fuming, the theme from Jaws playing inside her head. So the bridal sharks were circling. First Misty Dallin and now Heather. "Are you telling me that I'm out?"

"Deciding who to cut was torture ," Heather said.

"And there were so many girls to considermy sisters, my cousins, my closest friends, girls at the office." She sighed heavily. "I wish I could have fifty bridesmaids."

Kiki couldn't take another word. "Heather, get over yourself. On my who-gives-a-shit meter, your stupid wedding registers a flatline. That's how little I care about it. My concern is the nonrefundable super-saver airfare to Seattle that I already purchased. And that god-awful dress I bought. Not to mention the gifts, which I ordered way in advance from Tiffany and Co. so they could be mono-grammed. By the way, personalized items can't be returned. And 1 don't believe for a second that your mother is making you cut bridesmaids ." She put all her emphasis on the plural. "It's probably just me. I bet you have seventeen in the ceremony now."

"Actually," Heather said tartly, "it's still eighteen. I brought in an alternate to take your spot."

"Bitch!" Kiki screamed.

"Scandal whore!" Heather shot back.

Kiki hated to go nuclear on a blushing bride, but the girl had gone too far. "Heather, you should be smart about things and plan a wedding in direct proportion to how long the marriage will last. I give it just a few months, a year at best, so you should really consider one of those late-night Vegas chapels with the Elvis impersonators."

Heather drew in a shocked breath, then recovered to snipe, "Is that what you did when you married that rich man who escaped from the nursing home?"

"Walter might've been old and disgusting, but at least he wasn't gay! Darling, you've been watching too much Will and Grace ."

"Kippy is not gay!" Heather shrieked. But it was obvious that this outraged defense had scratched her throat more than once.

Kiki gave a tinkling little laugh. "Kippy is prettier than you are and manages an Ann Taylor store. Do the math, sweetheart. One plus one equals queen of denial ." And then she hung up, obliterating Heather Vandercamp from her life.

The moment Kiki rose up, her eyes fell on the New York Post hanging halfway off the nightstand. Damn the Internet. There was no such thing as local news anymore.

Quite suddenly, she felt like a caged animal, locked up in this tiny suite, waiting zombie-like for something interesting to happena phone call, a meal, another visit from Fab.

Of course, this couldn't go on much longerthe whole hibernation bit. Today's news was mainly a rehash of the day before yesterday's news. And as for yesterday, nothing really happened. Okay, so they booted her out of Stella McCartney. It's been covered. Ancient history. No way this nonsense could last another news cycle.

Kiki swiped on some lip gloss and dressed quickly. It wouldn't be wise to leave the hotel, but she could camp out in the lobby for a refreshing change of pace. Besides, Fab might wander by. And that alone was reason enough for a location switcheroo.

The elevator creaked down to the first floor.

Kiki stepped out to an ugly scene between Fab and a gorgeous younger woman. Luckily, he hadn't seen her. She scooted off to the side to keep it that way. With interest that stretched on to infinity, she sized up the situation.

The Girl: Twenty-one years old, tops. And that would be ancient, too. Probably younger. Hopefully , old enough to vote. She had the same exotic features as Fabthe dark hair, the dark eyes, the insanely effortless beauty. Somehow she'd managed to squeeze into a tight little baby tee with I'm bored with you emblazoned across her chest. The shirt came up short above a skirt that should've been a belt, exposing enough bare belly to prove the bitch could drop and give you five hundred crunches and never stop smiling. Definitely Miss Universe-worthyby way of a vice rap for prostitution, of course. In those nosebleed high heels, the only thing missing from her hooker act was the lamppost prop. How could a woman walk around dressed like that? It was disgusting.

The Boy: Her boy. At least a short time ago he was, all wet and steamy in the shower. Now he was red faced, agitated, and front and center with a tramp who made the back alley girls rounded up in the vice squad paddy wagon look like a cotillion raid.

If feelings matched skin tone, then right now Kiki would be a raging jungle green. But this time it had nothing to do with Fango mud and everything to do with jealousy.

"You're not staying in this hotel," Fab was saying. He beamed a look to kill over the girl's shoulder at a smug, smirking party-boy type lurking several steps behind.

Kiki recognized him. It was Zac Toledo, basically the male version of Paris Hilton without the trust fund. The columns tracked his moves. And they were easy to track because they didn't change up very often. He club-hopped, he danced, he slept around.

"We were here last night," the girl hissed. "The bed's already been broken in, so what does it matter?" She challenged him with wild, angry eyes.

Fab's face became a kaleidoscope of feelings revealed: hurt, anger, guilt, regret, disappointment. The whole gamut.

"Don't worry," the girl went on bitterly. "I'm sure Zac didn't do anything to me that you didn't do to my classmate, Tiffany Lynn." She grinned, because she knew that her verbal cruise missile had hit its target. And blown him to smithereens.

Fab conflicted metamorphosed into Fab devastated.

That's when Kiki knew for certain. That's when her heart started to break, too. Because he was as easy to read as a child's big-letter storybook.