Bad to the Bone (7 page)

“I'll call you.” She stood up. “That's the best I can do,” she added.

Instead of being angry, which would have made it easier for Esme to push him even farther away, he smiled. “It's good enough for me. I'd say we're making progress.”

“And I'd say I've got to take Lydia back to school.”

With those words, she fled, but stopped for a brief moment at the door to look back, to see if he was watching her. He smiled, poured himself a glass of pinot, and, in a silent salute, lifted it and drank.

Damn him. Did he have to be
that
fine?

“Holy shit, that's Audrey Birnbaum!”

“Audrey! Hey! Over here! I love your new single!”

“Audrey Birnbaum! Can you autograph my tits? Please?”

Flashes of light from cameras and cell phones lit the night as Lydia followed Audrey toward the Python Club on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood, with Kiley trailing close behind. A long line of would-be partygoers snaked down the sidewalk behind a neon pink velvet rope, but Audrey clearly had no intention of waiting her turn. Instead, Lydia watched with admiration as Audrey ducked under that rope by the door and blew a kiss to the photographers before a beefy bouncer waved the three of them inside, through the club's double brass doors adorned with a swirling design of naked bodies.

Lydia had planned carefully for the night. She wore an orange and white Romeo and Juliet Couture sundress with a Sew What? crocheted cropped sweater, both of which she'd
found in Kat's closet. Kiley had gone more low-key, in jeans and a sleeveless blue blouse. Her hair was up in its habitual ponytail, and the only makeup Lydia could see on her face was a swipe of lip gloss. As for the star of the show—Lydia was under no delusions: it was because of Audrey that they were able to bypass the masses and the cashier inside—Audrey wore a green Imitation of Christ miniskirt, a vest with nothing underneath it, and four-thousand-dollar Prada gladiator sandals Lydia had seen in
Vogue
. Her many tattoos were visible; Lydia reminded herself to tell Audrey about Esme's extraordinary freehand skills with the tattoo needle. Maybe she'd want another one, though Lydia couldn't imagine where she might fit it.

“Bloody pops,” Audrey muttered as they headed down a dark corridor lit only with recessed purple black lights.

“What's a pop?” Kiley asked.

“Paparazzi,” Audrey explained. “Vultures. Everywhere I go. I have no privacy.”

“But if you had privacy you wouldn't be famous,” Lydia reasoned. “And you love being famous, right?”

“Don't want to talk about it, sweets,” Audrey insisted.

Lydia turned to Kiley—they shared a shrug as Audrey tugged them toward the main room of the club. Kiley rolled her eyes, which made Lydia roll her eyes right back. It had taken a lot of work to talk Kiley into coming out with them. All she wanted to do was sit in her guesthouse and moon over Tom and how they'd agreed to see other people while he was in Russia, which wasn't really what Kiley wanted at all.

Honestly. When it came to boys, Kiley had the sense of a bonobo.

Dance music throbbed from the balcony above the main room, whose walls were lined in faux snakeskin. Round red-lacquered candlelit tables dotted the space in a twisting arrangement of intimate seating areas. Three cages hung suspended from the ceiling. Inside each one, a hot, sweaty, nearly naked guy rocked out to the beat.

“You been here before?” Audrey yelled over the music.

Lydia and Kiley both shook their heads.

Audrey chucked her chin toward the cages. “Those are the Hot Dog Boys.”

“I read about them!” Lydia exclaimed.

She had, back in the Amazon, in an air-dropped copy of
InStyle
. The Hot Dog Boys were the male equivalent of the Pussycat Dolls, and the auditions to become one were just as rigorous. Each guy had separate billing: Plumper, Meatier, and Juicier. Lydia wondered if they came with relish and mustard.

Audrey swept her hand toward the stage. “You'll see. They do a big show at midnight. My label just signed 'em. They look good, they dance their asses off, and they really can sing.”

“They don't mind dancing in cages?” Kiley asked.

Audrey didn't answer, but from looking at them it was pretty clear to Lydia that they didn't mind at all.

Suddenly, a middle-aged guy in jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt materialized in front of them. He had thinning hair and the hard arms of someone who found his way to the gym on a regular basis. “Ms. Birnbaum, what an honor. Seymour Simon, I own this place.”

“With P. and Ashton,” Audrey filled in. “I know.”

“Can I escort you and your friends to the VIP room? Stay out here, you'll be mobbed. You and your lady friends want to
dance, let me know. I'll call Rodney or one of the other security guys.”

Audrey nodded. “Lead the way. Bring us some Taittinger, love. And keep it coming.”

“My pleasure.”

The VIP room was upstairs, and enclosed in glass with heavy python-print drapes. At the moment the drapes were open, which allowed ordinary club attendees to gawk at the celebrities inside. Simon showed them in, and Lydia immediately picked out some of young Hollywood's biggest names hanging out on massive pillows in various animal prints, or sitting at low black tables that held plates of food. There were caviar and toast points, prawns wrapped in bacon, Kobe beef satay on a stick, and several kinds of sushi and sashimi. Half a dozen other people were talking, laughing, or dancing. A super model known for her
Sports Illustrated
cover was smoking a joint with a guy Lydia didn't recognize.

“Food!” Audrey yelped happily. They settled down behind a table, and Audrey immediately reached for some of the sashimi. “Then we'll do some lines. It's the only thing that gets me to stop eating.”

She happily filled her plate with an array of food, and then excused herself to go say hi to that girl from
Juno
. From what Lydia could hear of the conversation, Audrey had invited her backstage at some concert in San Francisco, and they had bonded like sisters.

Lydia grinned. This was the life to which she could easily become accustomed.

She felt Kiley nudge her. “By lines, did she mean cocaine?”

“Don't know. I guess we'll find out.” Lydia tried a piece of
tuna sushi. It was the best she'd ever tasted. Not that it could compare to a peacock bass she'd caught and cleaned herself, but still.

“You aren't going to…” Kiley's worried voice trailed off.

“Kiley. Think. I've got powders and potions that'll make whatever she's got look like talcum powder, remember. I'm not even tempted by plain ol' coca leaves. Though there were plenty of times in the rain forest when we'd use it. It's real good for altitude sickness.”

Audrey bopped back over to them. “Ellen says that when we go dance, we gotta get her.” She tasted one of the crackers covered with caviar and nodded approvingly. “Decent. But it's better in Russia.”

Two gorgeous guys entered the private room and made a beeline for them. One Lydia recognized—Payton Jeffries, bald and tattooed, was the lead singer of Clone, a neopunk band with a huge following. The other guy, tall and model handsome, with dark, spiky hair and broad shoulders, Lydia didn't recognize. He was hot, though. She wouldn't mind getting to know him.

“Audrey B!” Payton exclaimed happily. “I heard you were in town. Singing at the RMAs, right?” He wrapped Audrey in a bear hug.

“With Platinum,” Audrey confirmed, then slung her arms around Lydia and Kiley Lydia was thrilled, and grinned wildly. Payton introduced the hot guy with him as Matt Kingsley Matt rubbed his square chin and pointed a finger at Kiley.

“I know you from somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” Kiley said.

“No, seriously, I do. Weren't you at Chris Martin's birthday party in Malibu?”

“Chris Martin—like, Coldplay Chris Martin?” Kiley laughed. “Hardly.”

He folded his arms. “Well, I
do
know you.”

The five of them sat around and ate, and polished off two bottles of champagne. Mostly, Payton and Audrey talked about the upcoming awards. Payton's new album was up for Album of the Year; his band would also be performing. When the second bottle of champagne was gone, he motioned to the waiter to close the heavy drapes to give them some privacy. When the curtains were closed, he took a vial of coke from his pocket.

“That's probably not a good idea,” Kiley cautioned.

“For them, maybe,” Audrey said, indicating the people on the other side of the curtain. “In here, nothing is illegal, sweets.”

Kiley didn't look convinced. “I just went through Platinum's trial with her, and she nearly lost her kids over drugs. I'm sorry, but if you do that, I have to leave.”

“Every party loves a pooper, that's why we invited you, party pooper!” Audrey sang. “We'll go to the ladies', where we can get fucked up in private.” She stood up and held out a hand to Lydia. “You coming?”

Lydia couldn't help it—a little thrill ran through her. Not because she was attracted to Audrey; the girl thing just did not appeal to her. But Audrey was a superstar. She could party with anyone. And the person she had picked to hang out with was Lydia. On the other hand, Kiley looked kind of panicked. Lydia didn't want her friend to get all upset. But she didn't feel as though she should have to babysit Kiley, either.

Lydia's fingers entwined with Audrey's. “Sure,” she said. “I'd love to come.”

“I wish I had a place where I could do this all the time,” Audrey groused. “I'm staying at the Four Seasons. They have, like, coke police there.”

“I've got a big mansion to myself,” Lydia told her.

“You do? How?”

“My aunt's in San Francisco, it's her place. And I promise, I'm not the cocaine police. In fact, I've got some powder from the jungle in Brazil that'll make you forget all about coke.”

Audrey's eyes shone. “You do?”

“Sure. You want to check it out?”

“Shit,” Audrey exclaimed. “I'll fucking move in!”

“Done deal. I've got the guesthouse, you can have the main house,” Lydia offered.

“You're on.”

Shit. She was serious. How cool was that? Hey, it would be an adventure. And if there was one thing Lydia loved, it was an adventure.

Someone opened the drapes again, and Kiley peered out at the faces looking in. Black, white, Latino, they were uniformly young and hip. Many of them glistened with sweat from the dancing going on downstairs. Sure, they were gorgeous, but Kiley didn't care. She was alone now—the others were in the bathroom doing who knew what, except for Matt, who had gone over to the bar for a cocktail. She twirled the straw in her Diet Coke. She didn't want champagne, or any of the great-looking food set out on the tables. She wasn't even in the mood to be here anymore. In fact, she was sorry she'd let Lydia talk her into coming.

All she could think about was Tom. His flight had already landed in Moscow, she figured. She checked her utilitarian Timex. It was just after ten here in Los Angeles, and it was eleven hours later in Moscow. That made it just after nine in the morning. Was Tom asleep? Or was he in some café with
Chloë Sevigny? Would they have dinner together tonight? What about Jessica Simpson? She imagined the three of them laughing and drinking vodka, with all these Muscovites coming up and asking for autographs.

She sighed. She did not want to be one of those girls who obsessed about her boyfriend all the time: was he cheating, did he want to cheat? It was so demeaning. She had hoped that between taking care of the kids and going to her new high school, she wouldn't have time to worry about Tom. But he'd only been gone for less than one day, and already she knew that no matter what she was doing or whom she was with, she was going to obsess. That was just the way it would be.

How long was the shoot again?

“Hey.”

Matt came back, carrying another Diet Coke and a shot of tequila. “Don Julio. Tequila of the gods.”

He set both down on the table and rejoined her. “Which would you like?”

“I'll do the Diet Coke.”

“Then I'm the tequila.” He rapped the shot glass on the table, then raised it to Kiley. “To my new friend in her too-cool jeans.” He drank the whole shot, then wiped one finger across his lips. “Ahh. That could turn anyone into an alcoholic.” He snapped his fingers. “I'm ready to hang with the lowlifes. Wanna go downstairs and dance?”