Jex Malone (32 page)

I do everything in my power not to choke on my pancakes, but can't stop my heart from doing a mambo.

“Yeah, right, I'm not free tomorrow night either. Too busy staying one step ahead of the law,” I counter, trying to play it cool. Then I get back to business. “No, really, there is something else I wanted to ask you.”

Cooper looks up, caught off-guard. “Go ahead,” he urges, now chomping on a pickle while doing that guy thing of cramming half of the rest of his food into his mouth in one move.

“I know it's none of my business, but considering how we're all kind of in this huge mess together, I figure there's no point in any of us keeping any secrets from each other,” I ramble. “So, I was wondering if you could tell me and the rest of the girls what was going on between your dad and Patty. She seemed really afraid of him, but it's kind of hard to tell from her notebook what was going on. He did seem angry a lot and I was thinking … ”

“Her notebook?” Cooper interrupts, his eyes now wide, runaway gravy sloshing over his fingers.

Me. And. My. Big. Mouth.

“Yes, uh, we can talk about that later,” I respond, thinking this time I've really put my foot in it now. I lean forward and let my new hair fall into my face like a curtain I am pulling shut—forever.

Cooper looks at me almost sympathetically, like he feels for me in this awkward moment and wants to make it better. For a split second I half expect him to reach over and push my hair back so he can look me in the eye, but he doesn't.

Instead he looks down at his hand and examines a gravy smear, wipes it on his napkin, and then reaches for his glass of OJ and guzzles half of it in one gulp.

“You guys have no idea how screwed up my family was in those days,” he says, looking down at his plate. “My so-called dad wasn't my real dad. My real dad never stuck around long enough to even know I existed. My mom had, uh, an active social life.

“Before my mom had me, she met Frank, who became Dad, and he had a motherless teenage daughter named Patty. They were never the most romantic couple, but I guess they figured since they were both alone with a kid, they might try to make a family out of the whole mess,” Cooper continues, speaking slowly as if he is trying to make some sense of the situation as he tells us about it.

Even Deva is uncharacteristically quiet.

“It was all right for a while, my mom says, but every time he lost a job, or the car broke down or something went wrong, he'd drink more and more,” Cooper continues. “I can still hear him yelling really loud and then breaking things around the house. He would punch his fist through a wall. My mom or Patty would be crying, I don't remember which one … just the sound of someone crying and it wasn't me.

“The night Patty went missing, Mom had decided to leave Dad. She couldn't take it anymore,” Cooper responds. “I remember him saying that if she ever left, she wouldn't get a second chance to try ‘that crap again.' We almost did leave the night Patty disappeared. Made it as far as down the driveway with some suitcases and then came back. Mom thought better of it.”

Cooper pauses for a minute and draws in a deep breath before glancing around the table as if to gauge public opinion. We all sit there silently, averting our eyes to our half-eaten food. I don't want to look at him and have him know how my heart is aching for him—for Ricki too, really—at this very moment.

It's too sad. It's too personal.

“About six weeks after Patty disappeared, Dad went really nuts,” he goes on. “He disappeared for days, drinking nonstop. The only sleep he had was when he'd pass out, and as soon as he came to he'd start drinking again, muttering something about his ‘poor lost little girl.'

“Then one night, he must have run out of booze or something because he got in his car and about three blocks from the house he missed the curb and crashed into a concrete irrigation ditch. The cops said he died on impact and was so drunk he probably didn't feel a thing.”

We sit in stunned silence. “Cooper, I'm really sorry about your sister,” Cissy says, finally breaking her silence.

Looking up, Cooper smiles at her. “Thanks, Ciss. It's okay. I'd rather know what happened than walk around for the rest of my life not knowing.”

Cooper looks down to hold back his tears. For once, I don't care about public opinion. I reach over and put my hand on top of his and he looks up and gives me a little wet-eyed wink. When I go to move my hand, I can feel Cooper put his other hand over it to keep it in place.

It's way past midnight when we cram back into the car and head into the pitch-black mountain ranges. I seem to remember from every old movie I've ever seen that crossing state lines and driving into a void becomes a point of no return. Does this make all of us fugitives?

We're barely back on the interstate when I look over my shoulder and see the three girls in the back seat sound asleep, heads resting on one another's shoulders. They look as peaceful as if they've fallen asleep while watching a movie piled into Deva's giant bed at one of the million sleepovers they've probably had together over the years.

For a minute, I am jealous of the bond they share and then immediately grateful that somehow I've been invited in to share in it a little bit.

“Don't fall asleep on me,” Cooper whispers, glancing at me with an intensity that makes me shiver. “I'm going to need some company on this drive or I'll fall asleep. You're it, baby.”

Baby?
I try to say something, but it goes down the wrong pipe and I half choke in response.

“Uh, sure, no problem, I'm not sleepy at all,” I finally manage to croak, gasping to catch my breath.

We speed on through the dark desert, barely encountering another car on the road. Hours later, the first signs for Los Angeles are in the distance and Deva suddenly snaps awake.

“Are we near Palm Springs?” she asks in a groggy voice. “There's this really great outlet mall right off the interstate. They have a Gucci store.”

“Deva, that's freaky how you can do that,” I laugh. “It's like three in the morning, so nothing's open. Go back to sleep; have a nice little dream about a new Prada bag or something. We'll wake you when we get to L.A.”

“L.A.,” Deva says with a sleepy sigh. “There's Kitson's, Barney's, and Rodeo Drive.”

“Oh my,” I add under my breath and Cooper laughs.

The others rustle a bit but don't wake up. On a second glance, I notice something else that brings quick tears. Nat has taken off her sweatshirt and draped it over Cissy to keep her from shivering. With the jacket off, I notice for the first time Nat's perfectly toned arms and how slender she is with just a T-shirt on. She has the body of an old-fashioned movie star with gorgeous curves.

“Geez, Nat, you little bombshell,” I whisper under my breath.

“What?” Cooper answers, looking at me quizzically.

“Uh nothing,” I answer quickly.

Deva suddenly leans forward through the partition in the front seats. “Hey, what have you two been doing to keep yourselves awake?” she teases, raising her eyebrows.

Los Angeles is just around the bend.

The sun's coming up as we approach L.A. when I hear Deva rustling for her phone, then saying to someone: “Reservations, please.”

“This is Deva Patel. I'll need a suite, and two queen beds—no, make that two king beds. Nice view, please. And not near the elevators. Oh, and can you go ahead and book a massage for about ten
A.M.
For four girls—I mean, guests. Thanks, and extra towels please! And yes, you can put that on the Patel American Express Black card. You have it on file.”

“Deva, who was that?” I ask as soon as she hangs up.

“The Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles at Beverly Hills, where else? I can't sleep in this dump of a car for another night,” Deva snorts.

She has a few instructions for us. “We can't pull up to the Four Seasons in this car. Are you kidding—a bunch of teenagers in a junker? No offense, Cooper—they're going to freak. They'll never let me check in. They'll think I'm an imposter,” Deva rants.

“We could stay at a Holiday Inn where no one looks at your vehicle,” I suggest. “Ever hear of Red Roof Inn? Motel 6? Mom and I once stole those little soaps from a really nice Ramada in Buffalo.”

“Why don't we just stay at the hotel from that movie
Psycho
?” Deva snaps back, closing her eyes and shaking her head in a silent scoff at the suggestion she stay anywhere but a five-star resort.

“Circle the block around and find a parking garage nearby,” Deva orders. “I'll catch a cab and pull up in that. In fact, I'll take Jex with me. They won't suspect a thing.”

I can't contain my smile because I am not in Kansas anymore, baby! Luxury, come to Mama!

“Hi, Alan,” Deva says to the dark, handsome, and dangerous-looking doorman at the Four Seasons who grins at her and says, “Miss Patel, so great to have you back. Can't beat this L.A. weather.”

Dumbfounded, I watch Deva stop for a moment of chitchat and then my eyes divert to a huge Russian doorman who lurks outside the hotel in case the paparazzi dares infiltrate in their pursuit of the ultimate celebrity shot. With a huge grin on his mug, he waltzes over to give Deva a giant smile.

“Of course, these guys have known me since I was practically a baby,” Deva says, introducing me as her friend J.

Like the letter.

No one blinks twice.

After all, this is Beverly Hills.

Walking a pathway lined with hundreds of red roses, the gold and glass double doors are opened widely by yet another doorman who tips his head at both of us in a greeting.

“Welcome back, Miss Deva,” he says, and I give him a knowing nod like I've also been here on and off when my schedule permitted, like spring break and teacher institute days.

Eyes peeled for movie stars, I gasp when I almost run headfirst into an uber-Hollywood stylist named Rachel (one name only) who's wheeling a rack of clothing through the lobby with the words “C. Diaz” written on the garment bags. Of course, Cameron is here to do interviews for her upcoming film,
Charlie's Angels 6: No More Ms. Nice Guys
.

With a little strut Deva has obviously practiced after watching too many fashion shows, she prances her way to the front desk where she has apparently stood a zillion times with her parents.

“Welcome back, Ms. Patel,” says Nadia, the gorgeous black-haired, ski-slopes-for-cheekbones, size zero check-in attendant.

Inhaling deeply to smell the deep purple lilacs that are in crystal vases everywhere in the lobby, I flick off my Dior sunglasses that Deva loaned me and keep my big trap shut. Deva whips off her Chanels and sweetly says, “Nadia, it's lovely to see you, too.”

“Checking in with your parents?” Nadia says.

It's the moment of truth.

Parents.

What parents?

Keeping my smile glued on until my teeth begin to dry out, I ignore my racing heart.
Can Deva pull this off? Is some luxury hotel police force going to suddenly materialize and bust us? Will they call my father? Will they call my mother!