Friends with Benefits (20 page)

“Friends, then?”

Kiley mused a moment. She
did
have friends in Los Angeles—Esme and Lydia. She explained this to Tom. “They're nannies too. Esme works for the Goldhagens.”

“Goldhagens, like Steven and Diane, the hosts of the party tonight? I met their son, Jonathan, at dinner. Good guy.”

Kiley stopped the rocking of the swing, then started it again. “It doesn't matter. I can't impose on either of my friends. I don't think their bosses would take too kindly to their having a house-guest in their guesthouse.” She threw her head back. “Let's face it. I am so screwed.”

“Look, there has to be something—some path we didn't think of. . . .”

Kiley smiled at him sadly. He'd said “we,” which was touching; as if they were in this together. But they weren't. His future wasn't in jeopardy; only hers.
Her
guesthouse was being searched from top to bottom and was being put off-limits by the police.
Her
boss was probably in a courtroom that very minute.
Her
kids—she really did feel responsible for them—had been forcibly removed from their home, maybe never to return.

She had no place to live, no job, no money, and no way to stay in Los Angeles. The fact was, every path she could envision led directly to the last place she wanted to go: her parents' house in La Crosse, Wisconsin.

30

Though Esme hadn't seen Jonathan after their brief encounter in the ship's corridor, she'd spotted him later in Sir Winston's Salon, dining with a large tableful of his friends. Mackenzie sat next to him, draping an arm around the back of his neck, leaning her head against his shoulder, murmuring to him in one ear. Everyone at the table was beautiful, young, and white, with the privileged air of those born to wealth. That, Esme thought, might be what she resented most of all.

Fortunately, Diane didn't make Esme stay at the party for long. She showed the twins off in their little flapper outfits, letting all the stars who'd sent adoption gifts
ooh
and
ahh
over the children, and that was that.

The girls had fallen asleep almost instantly. There was a Ukrainian night nurse named Olga on duty, so Esme was able to put the children to bed and return to her guesthouse; appropriately named, she thought, since she still felt as if she was living there as a guest.

Now it was two hours later. She was in bed, trying to sleep but staring at the shadows on the ceiling cast by moonlight filtered through tree branches. The bathroom faucet was dripping; the sound felt as if it was hitting Esme in the middle of the forehead over and over, like some medieval torture device. Sheer masochism prevented her from getting up to do anything about it—she liked the pain. No, she
deserved
the pain. She punched her pillow into a better shape and rolled onto her side.

Drip-drip-drip.
Damn sink. When Jonathan was there with her, she never noticed a dripping sink, or shadows, or much of anything. All her senses were filled with him. She was such a foolish, foolish girl.
Drip-drip-drip.

That was it. She decided she could at least make herself useful, threw back the covers, and went to get the tool kit under the kitchen sink. Then she took it to the bathroom—the room where she'd first met Jonathan, when she had been helping her father repair the toilet. The repair had been unsuccessful and the toilet had overflowed, soaking her sandals and feet. Jonathan had witnessed her humiliation.

Her father, who was good at almost everything, had taught Esme to be self-sufficient, a lesson she'd learned well. Her mother had taught her to be proud and strong, a lesson she now realized she hadn't taken to as well as her father's. If she had, she would have heeded her mother's warnings about getting involved with their boss's son.

Here's to you, Papa,
she thought as she loosened the faucet and removed the index cap. How ridiculous it was for the Goldhagens to have kept the original fixtures in this old house, rather than replace them with new, modern ones. Diane had used the word “quaint” and was proud that Cary Grant had once lived there. Big deal. There was no reason to have plumbing fixtures as old as Grant would be if he hadn't died ages ago. Esme checked the cartridge stem and the retaining ring and found the problem—the pressure on the washers had loosened. She tried tightening the packing nut, but the faucet still dripped. It meant that the packing itself needed to be replaced. Unless . . .

She went back into the kitchen and rummaged under the sink; sure enough, her extremely efficient caretaker father had left a second box of useful items—masking tape, superglue, twine. She took the twine to the bathroom and carefully wrapped it around the compression stem.

This is how you fix a faucet for free,
niña, he'd tell her;
it is
shameful to waste money.

She replaced all the parts once more, then turned the water on and off. No drip. “We can't go on meeting like this,” said the voice from behind her.

Jonathan. Of course, Jonathan. Damn him.

She knew she looked a mess. She was wearing polka-dot short pajama bottoms and a MEXICO T-shirt that had been the party favor at a friend's
quinceañero
celebration back in Fresno. Her makeup had long been scrubbed off; she could feel the tingling of a coming cold sore on her lower lip. He still wore his perfect tux, the tux shirt unbuttoned at the neck, the tie charmingly askew.

Oh, how she'd fantasized about staring him down and telling him off. But in those fantasies she'd always looked fantastic and felt in control. She hadn't imagined him in a tuxedo that cost more than she made in a month and her . . . like this.

“Get out,” she told him, trying the faucet again even though she didn't really have to.

“If that's really what you wanted, you would have locked your front door.”

She forced herself not to look at him and instead deliberately replaced all the tools in the toolbox. “Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at your parents' party, dancing with Mackenzie?”

“I'm not ‘with' Mackenzie. I haven't been with her for a long time.”

“Don't hand me that shit, Jonathan. ‘I had so much fun yesterday, Jon-Jon.' ” She did a whining imitation of Mackenzie. “Move.”

He stepped aside and she carried the box and twine back to the kitchen.

“Come on, Esme. We played a charity tennis match together,” Jonathan explained as he trotted along behind her.

“What was the score? Love-love?” Esme shoved the supplies back under the sink and banged the door shut for emphasis.

“Why are you so willing to think the very worst of me?”

“
Mis
padres no criaron una tonta
. My parents didn't raise a fool.” She forced herself to pretend she still had on the armor of her designer dress, her beautiful hairstyle, and her high heels as she swept past him once again, this time into the living room, where she pushed open the front door.

He didn't budge. “I'm not leaving until you hear me out.”

“What's to hear? You played me.”

“God, Esme. I didn't play you!”

“What do you call crawling into my bed every night and then leaving before the sun comes up, eh? So no one would know?”

“I call it what you wanted.”

Of all the nerve. “What I—”

Jonathan cut her off with a wave of his hand. “You said Diane still has you on probation, that you were afraid you'd lose your job if she knew we're involved. Isn't that what you told me?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely think. Yes. She recalled how she had said something along those lines, but the explanation was too damn easy.

“How convenient for you that you never questioned it all this time,” she shot back. “You didn't have to face your stepmother, or introduce the
chica
from the Echo to your friends. You could blame it all on me and take the easy way out, because that's the only way you know.”

She saw color rush to his cheeks and knew she'd hit her mark. “C'mon, Esme,” he said. “I asked you and the girls to go for ice cream yesterday. Why would I do that if I didn't want things to change?”

“Gee. Aren't you the macho one? Big brother taking his little sisters for a snack and the nanny tags along,” Esme jeered.

Jonathan's eyes flashed. His jaw set hard. “Fine. Be that way. Like I said, you never locked your door. Not even tonight. You wanted me here. You loved every minute of it.”

“Screw you.”

“You did. Which makes you just as responsible as I am.”

Ouch. That hurt. Esme didn't want to admit how much it hurt, especially because it was true. She turned away.

When she finally turned back to him, she was careful to maintain her dignity and spoke in a quiet, controlled voice. “It is my fault too,” she allowed. “That you used me makes me sick. That I
let
you use me makes me even sicker. Satisfied?”

“No. Not at all.” He edged toward her. “Esme—”

She backed away. “Don't even think about it.”

“Shit.” He swung around, made a fist, and drew it back as if to power it through her living room wall, then stopped himself. She was shocked to see tears in his eyes. He let his arm fall to his side. “I hate this. How did it all get so damn complicated?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. There's some truth to what you said.”

“I hope you're not waiting for me to disagree with you.”

He almost smiled. “You're
such
a pain in the ass. I'm sorry. I screwed up, okay?”

Was it? Could it ever be okay? Esme thought about Junior, hooked up to an IV in the hospital. She thought about how being with Jonathan meant risking not just her job, but also her parents'. The Goldhagens weren't likely to keep her parents on if they fired her—it would all be just too awkward. And there were plenty of off-the-books replacement caretakers and housekeepers Steven and Diane could hire. All they had to do was go to any bus stop in the Echo or any street corner in Van Nuys.

And what about what Jorge had said; that a relationship with Jonathan was doomed to failure, because the two of them could never be equals? Was that true? If so, was it worth risking everything for what would, in the long run, be a crash-and-burn?

“Esme?” He moved to her, a question in his eyes.

“I don't know,” she whispered.

“But I
do,
” he insisted. “I know that I don't want to lose you.”

From outside the front door came high-pitched canine yapping.

“Cleo?” Esme questioned.

“I took her for a walk. It was supposed to be my excuse in case you asked. She's tied to the pole of the basketball hoop. Esme, please—”

He was interrupted by loud barking, followed by a low growl.

He exhaled loudly with frustration. “She must have spotted a rabbit or something. You mind if I bring her in?”

“Okay.” Esme sighed, sat on the couch, and waited for Jonathan to get the peach-toned, pampered pooch. Her head was pounding. She knew what she ought to do—end things, even if he was right that their secretive relationship had been just as much her fault as it was his. It was just that—damn—it had been so much easier when she could blame him.

Jonathan led Cleo inside. The dog, dragging its leash, leaped onto Esme's lap and licked her face.

“Down, Cleo,” Jonathan commanded as he slid in next to Esme. The dog bounded down to the floor, panting and scurrying around, her tail zigzagging with happiness.

“So, am I banished?” He reached out a hand and tenderly stroked Esme's hair.

Her eyes closed. The same old feeling came over her: wanting him so much that she could barely breathe, like walking a tightrope without a net; exciting, dangerous. How could she give him up? He'd apologized, hadn't he?

But words were cheap. He hadn't said one word about how things would actually change.
Un árbol que crece torcido jamás su
tronco endereza.
A tree that grows crooked will never straighten its trunk.

“I'd be a fool to start up with you again,” she declared.

“It would be different.” He ran one finger lightly over the back of her neck.

“Different how? Not just sex?
No
sex?”

“If that's what you want.”

“Liar.”

“Okay,” he admitted. “I'm incapable of keeping my hands off you, I admit it.”

She swiveled to face him. “Listen to me. It would have to be more than that, Jonathan. I won't settle for—”

“Jonathan?”

Cleo barked twice and bolted to the front door as Jonathan guiltily swung his arm out from around Esme. There was Diane, hands on hips, still in her party dress—a Dolce & Gabbana gold lamé sheath—staring daggers at Esme. She'd never felt so inspected—no,
dissected,
pinned down by Diane's stare.

“I took Cleo for a walk,” Jonathan explained lamely.

“I see.” Diane's eyes never moved. “Esme, I thought I made the rules very clear. No male guests in your guesthouse. No male guests means no male guests. What part of ‘no' don't you understand?”

Esme felt sick to her stomach. Her mother had warned her. Jorge had warned her. She'd warned herself. Obviously, her parents
had
raised a fool. She made a quick decision to depart with dignity, not to insult herself or her boss with begging, some charade about how she'd forgotten the instructions, or some lame-ass excuse about how Jonathan had walked in on her uninvited.

She stood up. “The rules were clear, Diane. I'll leave immediately, or as soon as you find my replacement, whichever you want. I hope you won't penalize my parents for my mistake; that's all I'm asking.”

“Whoa, hold on here, both of you,” Jonathan interjected, jumping to his feet and forming a “time-out” T with his hands. “We need to talk about this, Diane.”

“There's nothing to talk about.” Diane bent over and picked up her dog's leash. “Come on, Cleo.”

Jonathan moved to block her path out the door. “Yes. There is.”

Diane eyed him coldly. “If I can't trust Esme on this one, how can I expect to trust her with my children? Now, please get out of my way.”

Jonathan didn't budge. “
You,
of all people, are talking about
trust
? You were playing hide the kosher sausage with my father way before he even thought about the word ‘divorce.' ”

Diane flushed guiltily.
Oh my God,
Esme thought,
that must
be true!
And Jonathan was standing up to Diane in defense of his relationship with Esme; even though he didn't know if she was going to agree to
have
a relationship. A boy who just wanted sex would never do that, she reasoned. It was . . . amazing.

Diane tugged on Cleo's leash and looked away from Jonathan. “I'm not discussing this with you—”

“Fine. Don't discuss it. Just hear me out. Esme and I have been seeing each other since the premiere party for
The Ten.
She didn't want to break your rules, so she told me to leave her alone. I came here
begging
her to take me back. If you're going to blame someone here, blame me.”