Reckless (4 page)

“José, if I look like a trannie after this, you better have a dress that fits Nick.”

“O ye of little faith.”

Perhaps.

José takes his time preparing the items, sharpening the pens and setting the other items neatly against the duvet. After turning on some Latin pop music, he begins.
 

He works fastidiously, wetting my hair and trimming it with styling sheers. If having José apply my makeup concerned me, seeing him chopping my hair is terrifying. He appears to know what he’s doing, though, and he doesn’t take much off.
 

After the trim, José blow-dries and curls my hair into a bombshell blowout. I’ve never seen my hair look so bouncy and shiny.
 

“Wow, José. Did you go to CIA beauty school?”

“I had three older sisters. With that many girls in one home, you become an expert in women’s beauty whether you want to or not. I guess most guys would see it as an annoyance, but I saw opportunity. My sisters and her friends were always blowing money on these old women to screw up their look, so being the young entrepreneur that I was I started studying women’s beauty and charging for my services. I got a lot of shit from friends, but I always had a fat bankroll, and I never had to worry about dates.”

I suddenly like José. Imagining him sitting in a small Rio apartment, reading women’s fashion magazines, I smile.
 

He spends the next several hours transforming my face. Trays of teeth whiteners fitted with blue lights are jammed into my mouth. Pens scratch my face and lips. Pads and ointments scorch my cheeks. He finishes by applying faux eyelashes. Like the social outcast transformed during the last half hour of a teen movie, José presents me in front of the mirror. If only I had a prom dress and a baluster staircase to descend.

José crosses his arms, staring at my reflection. “What do you think?”

I can barely take it all in. I almost don’t recognize the woman before me. She’s a blonde femme fatale: seductive pin-up girl hair; cat-like eyes, plump wet lips, pearly white teeth. The kind of girl you keep your man away from.

“Wow. I never knew I could look so . . .”

I want to say hot or smokin’ or some other adjective denoting glamour, but the words never come.

“We’re not done yet,” he says. After a long-overdue French manicure, acrylic nails are applied to my fingers. “The heels I’ve picked out for you are closed toe, but I’ll give you a pedicure in case you get lucky.”
 

I nearly kick him in the face.

My torture doesn’t end there. Just when I think my marathon makeover is complete, José waxes my legs.
 

Shrieks.
 

Burning.
 

Gritting teeth.

When finished, he brazenly asks, “Do you need a Brazilian wax?”

“Do you need a bullet in the groin?”

That shuts him up.

José opens the closest. Inside, a skimpy cocktail dress hangs. It’s basically a black nightie with lace to cover the cleavage and sternum. He twirls it around to reveal the deep V cut in the back.
 

How scandalous.
 

I hesitate to try on such an opulent dress. My newfound confidence wanes. Aren’t those dresses reserved for prom queens and trophy wives?
 

I check myself in the mirror again. I do look stunning, but maybe it’s all too much. What if I really look like a clown?

José hands me the dress and tells me to hurry. “I’ve left tape on the counter.”

It’s a good thing I stay in shape because the dress is tiny. At least I’ve got that going for me. Now to tape the devices to my body so that they aren’t detectable. The sheath style of the dress doesn’t leave me many options. I tape the mic between my breasts so the bulge can’t be seen and the recording device to my inner thigh. I wedge the earpiece as far back into my ear canal as I can. José zips the back of the dress and tells me I look like a million bucks.
 

I can’t disagree.

And lastly, after a tortured day of being poked, prodded, and stung, the final item is placed before me.
 

The heels.
 

I feel giddy stepping into the black stilettos, and yes, they even have those coveted red bottoms. I don’t care that Louboutins are too expensive for a cocktail waitress to be wearing. If he asks, I’ll say a boyfriend bought them for me.
 

Is he still in the picture? No, Diego, it seems he only knew how to please a woman outside the bedroom.
 

Ha! Listen to me. I sound like such a whore. But I kind of like it. Besides, this is all pretend. Miranda Hill could never pull off an outfit like this or talk to a man like Diego; however, tonight I’m Caroline Davis. And let me tell you, she’s one feisty bitch you don’t want to cross and a girl who always gets what’s she’s after. Girlfriends hate her and boyfriends want to bang her.
 

Yet don’t think she’s an easy lay. Getting her panties to drop requires effort from a refined gentleman who understands the delicacies of a woman’s body and the fine intricacies of her complex mind.
 

Are you that kind of man, Diego?
 

We shall see.
 

A keycard slips into the front door. I hear Nick’s voice. “It’s almost eight, are you guys about ready to—” Nick stares at me. “Go?”

I’m not sure if his mid-sentence delay is a good thing or not.

“Do I look okay?” I ask. “Is it too much?”

“No,” he says. “Diego will like it.”

What does that mean? Diego will like it, but I don’t? Why are the good ones always so ambivalent and vague? Just tell me I look hot!

Nick speaks into his mic. “Can you hear me?”
 

His voice crackles in my ear. “Loud and clear.”

The last squirts of highly flammable hairspray keep my curls in check. I hope it’s a nonsmoking event. Otherwise, I may go up in flames.

I leave with Nick so José can start to get ready.
 

Nick drops me off at a back entrance to the hotel.
 

“Look for Regina,” he says. “She’ll get you set up. Tell her you’re a friend of David’s. That’s who I told her I was.”

“Does she know why we’re here?”

“No. She’s being paid well to allow you to work for a night. People who are paid well don’t ask questions. That’s why they’re paid well. She shouldn’t be hard to find.”

I start to get out of the car. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll do great.”

I close the door and start heading down the walkway. In the heels, the cobblestone path is a meandering deathtrap.

“You do look beautiful in that dress,” I hear Nick say in the earpiece.

I smile. “Thanks. I guess this means I have to listen to you all night long.”

“I’m stuck in your head whether you like it or not.”

Nick’s right in more ways than one.
 

As the car pulls away, I wave.

I approach the metal door and knock. A young girl, who barely looks old enough to be a teenager, opens the door. She struggles to put on an earring. “Necesita ayuda?”

Nick tells me, “She’s asking if she can help you.”

“Si,” I say. “English?”

The girl nods. “Are you waitressing or attending the event?”

“Waitressing.”

She looks me up and down. “Could have fooled me. Come in. We’re getting ready now.”

I gesture to the jewelry in her hand. “May I?”

She hesitates a moment before forking the jade earring over. I try sliding the jewelry through the hole in her ear, but it won’t go. She bites her nail.
 

“I hope they didn’t close up,” she says.

I turn her around. “How old are you?”

She thinks. “Fifteen.”

She’s probably thirteen.

“I think you’re going to have to go without earrings tonight and get them pierced again. Sorry.” The girl is on the verge of tears. I want to help, but I’m not here to be anyone’s mother. “Do you know where I can find Regina?”

The girl points down the hall to a closed door with a small metal plaque in the center: Gerete General.

“Thanks,” I say. “And don’t worry about the earrings. You look beautiful. Very sophisticated.”

I make an O with my thumb and middle finger. The young girl smiles and drops the earrings into her purse.
 

Approaching the door, I knock and wait.

“Entre!”

I twist open the door. A heavyset woman sits behind a cluttered desk. “Hi, are you, Regina?”

“That’s me. You must be Caroline. David got you this job, right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever waitressed before?”

“Um, no.”

“It’s pretty simple. You’ll be carry champagne through the courtyard and serving it to guests. You don’t have to talk to them, sell them on anything, or take payment. All you have to do is keep the glasses from spilling. When you run out, return to the kitchen to get more.”

“Sounds simple.”

“It is. I’ll get you a tray and plastic flutes to practice with. The event starts in about twenty minutes, so you’ll have to learn as you go.”

Regina shows me the proper technique for carry the tray. After a couple of spills, I think I have the hang of it.
 

The fundraiser is held in the courtyard. I meander among the crowd. A Spaniard sings from a stage flooded with pink light. A trio of trumpet players carries the melody. Guitarists take turns performing solos.
 

Offstage, the men are all the same: middle-aged moguls in tuxedos with receding hairlines. Only the women vary from the aged wife to the tall, skinny model. They all seem to get along, as if open infidelity is a part of their mores.
 

I saunter through the crowd, feeling invisible except when a guest lifts a flute from my tray.

“Any sign of him?” I whisper.

“Not yet,” José says. “It’s only twenty minutes past nine so he could—wait a minute. I think I just spotted him passing through the cloister. Hold on. There’s a crowd blocking my view.”

I stop and wait for José to confirm the target. My arm throbs hoisting the full tray.

“I see him,” José says. “He’s in the courtyard.”

“Where?”

“Behind you. Don’t look yet. He’s staring at you, Miranda.”

“Must be the blonde hair,” Nick says. “That’s got to be rare, no?”

“Um, there’s a couple of blonde models,” José says. “But they all look Swedish.”

“Will you just tell me what to do? I can’t stay frozen in one place or it will look weird.”

“Fine. Turn around slowly,” José says. “Make eye contact with him and offer a playful smile.”

“Where?” I say, turning.
 

That’s when I see him. He’s underdressed in a grey jacket with no tie and a pair of blue jeans as if he’s making a statement. His hair is dark and wavy. He takes the last sip of his champagne and begins to walk towards me.

The tray wobbles in my fingers.

“Remember to smile,” José says.

I have trouble doing anything.

Diego’s stare doesn’t waver as he approaches. I never realized that such charisma, confidence, and prosperity all could be captured in one set of brown eyes before now. He ambles halfway across the courtyard without the slightest rush in his step.
 

His stare is intense.
 

I’m forced to look away.
 

When my eyes return to him, he’s standing in front of me.
 

He sets the empty flute glass onto my tray.

“I do believe I am out,” he says.

I gesture with the tray. The glasses rattle under my nervous hands. “Would you like some more?”
 

He takes a glass without answering.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

Nick begins feeding me the story. “Tell him you’re from America. California.”

“I’m from Los Angeles.”

“And what is a beautiful girl from LA doing in a Cusco hotel serving me champagne?”

Beautiful? He actually said beautiful!

As Diego complements me on my dress, Nick speaks. “Tell him you’re a model and you were doing a job in Peru, but your manager dumped you with no way back to the States and now you’re earning money for a plane ticket.”

Something about the story strikes me as ridiculous. I trust my instincts instead.

In a playful voice I say, “I went on vacation and never left.”

Diego laughs. “I went on a vacation and never left. I like it. Though cocktail waitressing is no way to spend a vacation, no?”

I let my head drop to one side as I continue speaking. “I guess I haven’t found the right guide.”

“Nice,” José whispers. “That’s much better than Nick’s shitty cover story.”

I smile. It takes everything for me not to laugh.
 

Diego’s hand brushes my hair and comments on how soft it is. I appreciate his interest, but I’m worried about the earpiece. If he pushes the strand of hair covering my ear much farther, he might see the device.

I start to back away from him.
 

“Watch out, Miranda,” José warns. “Behind you!”

Too late. Something huge crashes into me. The tray flies out of my hand, lifting flute glasses into the air and spilling champagne all over my dress.
 

The glasses shatter against the walkway.
 

The music stops.
 

The chatter ceases.
 

Everyone looks at me.

The man who bumped into me staggers around. He’s too drunk to even manage walking.

Diego snaps his fingers. “Sacalo. Ahora. Rapido!”

“Esa perra corrio hacia mí,” the drunk yells.

Diego approaches the man and shoves him. The drunk’s feet can’t find purchase on the ground. He tumbles into a bush. Huge men descend from the peristyle. They grab him and hoist him in the air. He’s carried off like a sack of rice.
 

Everyone stares at Diego.
 

Attendants rush towels to him.
 

To my horror, his grey jacket and white shirt are drenched in champagne.