Dollhouse (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kyle

“D
ie, assholes!” Kyle yelled.

She tapped the screen of Beau’s iPad repeatedly, dispersing more grapefruit and strawberry bombs. They arced toward the killer zombies that were slowly stumbling their way toward her majestic princess castle. She had to kill the ones with the yellow eyes first, because they were the most powerful. The rest of them, the red-eyed ones, were useless—except when there was a pack of twenty or more, at which point their strength and speed increased exponentially.

Level three ended: 2,438 points.
Awesome.

As Kyle waited for level four to start, she thought about Kass, wondering if she had made it home safely. Kass had taken off about an hour ago to make the ten-minute walk to the house she shared with Kamille. Kyle had tried to get her to crash in her old bedroom, but Kass had insisted on sleeping at her own place . . . “in case Eduardo comes over, plus I need to fold the laundry and do my taxes.”
WTF?

Kass had also insisted on driving, but Kyle had very cleverly taken her car keys away from her and hidden them in the refrigerator, in a tub of Greek yogurt. It was the smart thing to do, considering that Kass had personally polished off about a gallon of Patrón.

Level four booted up. Kyle sat up straight and adjusted the beach towel she was wearing. (It was a warm night for November, and she’d taken a spontaneous dip in the pool just after
Double D-Lite.
) One of the red-eyed zombies lurched menacingly across the drawbridge. Kyle repositioned her earphones, which were blasting the game’s screeching metal sound track, and prepared to attack.

It was then that she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

She screamed and jumped to her feet. Benjy was standing behind her, smiling sheepishly.

“What the
fuck
?” Kyle shouted.

Benjy said something that she didn’t hear. She realized that she still had on her earphones. She yanked them off and repeated: “What . . . the . . .
fuck
?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Benjy apologized. “What are you playing?”

“Zombies versus Fruit Salad, if you must know,” Kyle replied testily. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, I live here? I just got back from—”

Kyle fake-yawned. “That’s fascinating. You can go now.”

“Yeah, well . . . you might want to know that my dad texted me before, and they’re going to be home in like five minutes. And I’m not sure how psyched they’re going to be when they see your party spread.”

“What party spread?”

“This one?” Benjy waved at the coffee table, which was littered with two Patrón bottles, two shot glasses, pizza crusts, a bag of Double Stuf Oreos, and half a joint.

Oops.

“Yeah, I guess I’d better clean that up,” Kyle agreed, massaging her temples. Her head was still spinny from the tequila, not to mention all the zombie-killing. “What time’s it, anyway?”

A car door slammed outside. Benjy glanced around, then began methodically picking up the items and stashing them under the couch.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kyle demanded.

“Saving your ass.”

“Huh?”

The front door opened. Coco and Chanel bounded down the stairs, barking. There was a peal of laughter—Kat’s—then Beau’s voice saying: “You think anyone’s still up, darlin’?”

“That wasn’t five minutes!”
Kyle whispered furiously to Benjy.

In response, Benjy clamped his hand over her mouth and tackled her to the floor, behind the couch. Kyle tried to wriggle away, but he was too strong.

“Stop moving!
Shhh!
” Benjy hissed in her ear.

Footsteps, more laughter . . . then Kyle heard her mother and Beau walk into the living room and sink down onto the couch. They seemed to have no idea that she and Benjy were on the floor right behind them.

“That was fun,” Kat said. “We should have a date night more often!”

“Date night’s not over yet,” Beau replied. “Mmm, come here.”

“What are you doing, Beau? The kids!”

“I’m sure Benjy and Kyle’re asleep by now. Mmm, you smell so good.”

“Mmm, so do you.”

Silence. Then kissy-smacky noises. Then heavy breathing. Then bodies shifting around on the couch. Then more heavy breathing. Then unzipping sounds.

“I want to see you naked.”

“I want to see
you
naked.”

Kyle’s eyes widened in horror as various items of clothing came flying over the back of the couch: T-shirts, shorts, bra, panties, jeans, boxers, and more. Were the
parents
having
sex?
On the
couch
?

Ew!

“Oh my God, yes!” her mother moaned.

“You want more of that, baby?” Beau murmured.

Kyle turned her head to stare at Benjy. He looked as freaked out as she did.

Benjy put his finger to his lips and started belly-crawling across the floor, toward the dining room. He indicated for her to do the same; she obeyed.

Unfortunately, Coco and Chanel bounded over and began licking Kyle’s face with their nasty dog-breath tongues. She wanted to tell them to cut it out, but she forced herself to keep quiet, for the sake of not getting grounded for the rest of her life.

After what seemed like hours, although it was probably more like minutes, Kyle reached the safety of the dining room. She got to her feet and followed Benjy, who quietly slid open the terrace door and stepped outside.

“Holy
shit
!” Kyle blurted out as soon as Benjy had closed the door. “Can you believe it? They were having
sex
right in front of us! That was like the most vomitatious experience I’ve ever had!”

“Yeah, we’re probably going to be in therapy for like a hundred years,” Benjy said. His gaze dropped. “Uh, Kyle? Speaking of naked . . .”

Kyle glanced down. She seemed to have misplaced her beach towel someplace between the living room couch and the terrace. All she had on was a pair of black boy briefs with the words
GO FUCK YOURSELF
on them.

“Ohmigod!” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Where . . . I mean, when . . . I mean, how long . . .”

“Just now. There’s your towel, there, on the dining room floor. No worries, I didn’t see anything.”

“Bullshit!”

Benjy took off his Korn T-shirt and handed it to her. “Here, take this. I’m going to try to get upstairs somehow. I’m totally wiped. So, um, good night.”

“Good night.” Kyle slipped on his shirt, grateful for the coverage, even if it
was
Korn. “Hey, Benjy?”

“What?”

“You don’t think I’m a slut, do you?”

Benjy started. “Where did
that
come from?”

“ ’Cause I’m not. I know I act like it sometimes. But it’s just to confuse people, because I don’t like everyone thinking they can figure me out.” She added, “Besides, it drives Mom crazy.”

“So . . . you’re saying you
want
to drive your mom crazy?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“That is
such
a teenage cliché.”

“Thanks.”

Kyle wanted to say more, about that day they’d made out, about how fun and really nice it had been. How it
hadn’t
been a teenage cliché. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“Hey, Benjy?”

“What?”

“Yeah, so I have this bio test coming up.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s gonna be a bitch.”

“You want some help with it?”

“Sure! How about Monday after school?”

“Monday’s drama club. How about Tuesday?”

“Tuesday’s great.”

Benjy waved and disappeared. Kyle stared after him.

And just like that, everything was okay between them again. Okay-
ish,
anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Kamille

K
amille glanced at her watch: 1
A.M.
Ten minutes after the last time she’d checked.

“I’m gonna let him stew for a little while longer,” she announced to Simone, who was on her third mojito.

“
What
are you guys fighting about, again?” Simone said, sounding bored.

“I told you, he got mad at me because I’m so crazed with work lately. We haven’t had a lot of time together. But then he goes out with his buddies like once or twice a week, so what is he talking about, right?”

Simone raised her eyebrows. “That’s all? I thought maybe he was cheating on you again.”

Kamille glared at her friend. “Seriously, stop
saying
that! I’ve told you before, it’s those awful magazines. They’re constantly making up stories about him. About us. I hate them!”

Kamille picked up her mojito and finished it off, including the sprig of mint, which tasted bitter in her mouth. She tried to remember if she’d had dinner tonight. She hadn’t. She and Chase had shared a pitcher of martinis at her place, then ordered in Chinese. But before they could sit down to eat, he had made a snide comment about her busy schedule, which had led to her snide comment about his “boys’ nights,” and the next thing she knew, they were yelling at each other. It had gotten so bad, she’d actually thrown the martini pitcher at him, which he’d dodged, and it had hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces.

And then she had stormed out. Outside the front door, she’d hesitated for a moment, to see if he might follow her like he sometimes did, begging for her forgiveness. He hadn’t. So she had called Simone and told her to meet her at Skybar, ASAP.

Fuck him. Let him come crawling back, which he would surely do after enduring her absence for hours and hours. Frankly, if she had to, she could discipline herself to ignore him for days, even a week. She’d already been so good tonight, not returning his numerous texts and voice mails. Although they’d stopped around midnight, which had confused her. Maybe he’d fallen asleep? Or his phone had died?

“Excuse me. You’re Kamille Romero, right?”

Kamille glanced up. A girl, probably around her age, was smiling and waving from the next table. She was with two identically cute guys.

“I love you!” the girl went on without waiting for a reply. “That ad you did? For that perfume? It rocks!”

“Thanks!” Kamille found herself smiling back. She wasn’t used to getting compliments from fans. Or even
having
fans. It was kind of cool. “I have a new ad coming out, for Flower Power jeans,” she volunteered.

“No fucking way.” The girl stood up and turned around, pointing to the hot-pink rose embroidered on her back pocket. “Is that awesome or what?”

“Yeah, thanks for showing us your ass,” Simone said under her breath.

“Simone!” Kamille hissed.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing yours,” one of the girl’s cute friends called out to Simone.

Simone giggled. “Yeah? It’ll cost you.”

“Not a problem.”

God,
Simone was such a slut. But maybe she had it right. Maybe hooking up with randoms was better than having a boyfriend. Kamille seethed, thinking about Chase.

The cute guy bought Kamille and Simone a round of drinks. Then more people at the bar recognized Kamille and bought more rounds of drinks. At one point, some man in a fancy suit—the manager?—came over and whispered to Kamille that she could get a table and a comped bottle anytime she wanted, giving her his private contact info so she could bypass the formidable bouncers out front.

Many mojitos, and many autographs, and many cell-phone pictures later, Kamille was basking in the glow of celebrity adulation and in general feeling no pain. At one point, when some girl asked her about Chase, Kamille just burst out laughing and said, “Chase who?” Those words probably ended up being Tweeted all over cyberspace within seconds. But Kamille didn’t give a shit. She was on top of the world (or on the rooftop of the Mondrian Hotel, anyway), surrounded by adoring fans she didn’t even know she had, wearing a killer dress that she had actually been able to buy (versus rent) with her big, fat check from the Flower Power job. It was nice to have money after four years of struggling, wondering if she was ever going to be more than a waitress at her mother’s restaurant.

Kamille wasn’t sure, but after Skybar closed, the party moved to some club downtown. She had the vague, pleasantly surreal sense of being driven through the streets of the city in a limo filled with loud, drunk, happy people that maybe included Simone, maybe not. Had her friend gone home without her? Or checked into the Mondrian with the cute guy who joked about seeing her ass?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she, Kamille, was on her way to becoming seriously famous. Like rock-star famous. She had fans now—real fans who wanted their pictures taken with her and who bought her expensive drinks. The owner (or whatever) of Skybar had treated her like a VIP. And at the moment she was even reveling in the fact that the paparazzi and the tabloids paid attention to her. So what if they spun lies about her and Chase? At least they were writing about her.

Chase.
She closed her eyes wearily and wondered where he was, what he was doing. She wondered, too, when he would start appreciating her again, the way her (new) fans and friends appreciated her. A strange poison had seeped into their relationship lately. He used to love her so passionately, so unconditionally. The passion was still there, in spades. But the “unconditional” part . . . well, she wasn’t so sure about that.

Was she not meant to be with him, after all?

Kamille’s eyes flickered open. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was meant to be with someone else—someone nicer who didn’t yell at her so much . . . who didn’t make her want to throw martini pitchers at his head . . . who didn’t get calls from people named Tiffani and Daria and Lise in the middle of the night. (Chase always had a legit-sounding excuse, but still.)

She reached for her velvet clutch and dug around for her cell. She checked to see if he had texted or called. He hadn’t.

“Fuck. You,” she said out loud.

“What?” A guy sitting across from her leaned over and put his hand on her knee, caressing it lightly. He was kind of hot, with curly dark brown hair and wide green eyes. Not Chase. Had he been at Skybar with the rest of the group? “You want to get out of here? I live close by, they could drop us off,” he said with a wink.

“Sure,” Kamille started to say. Why not? Maybe hooking up with this guy—whoever he was—would get Chase, get the poison, out of her system.

But instead, she picked up her cell again and composed a text. She typed: IM SORRY. I LUV U SO MUCH.

And then she hit send.