Back in Black (17 page)
Anna wore a white Dior one-piece with a halter neck and high-cut legs that she'd had forever. Cyn had on a yellow-and-lime-green polka-dot bikini with lime green fringe that looked like something from the fifties, and it was just so Cyn. She had a great, lean body, with perfect C-cup breasts. Anna knew for a fact that they were real, because she'd watched Cyn grow them. Sam's Donna Karan black two piece with a boy-short bottom flattered her bottom-heavy figure, and Dee's baby pink frilly bikini with tiny white hearts all over it looked like it had come from the children's department.
“Pardon?” Anna asked Cyn. “Something about Scott?”
“She was talking about her boyfriend,” Dee filled in, waving a hand languidly through the hot water, “and how he's starting to get on her nerves. Maybe he's gay.”
“You're the one who hooks up with gay guys, Dee,” Sam reminded her.
“Scott is
definitely
not gay,” Cyn stated.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Dee apologized softly. “I'm sorry. I thought I heard you tell me that telepathically.” She let a hand trail through the water.
Cyn fiddled with one of the many small gold hoops in her right ear. Then she leaned back, and Anna could see her breasts pressing against her fringed bathing suit top. There was an obvious new addition—a ring through one of her nipples. Anna winced just thinking about it.
“Dee, are you, like, shining me on?” Cyn asked.
Dee shook her head and pushed her shaggy bangs out of her eyes. “Why would I do that?”
“Cyn, don't worry. Dee's on her own planet,” Sam explained. “Ignore her.”
Anna switched positions so that one of the pulsing water jets pressed into the small of her back. Scott was starting to get on Cyn's nerves? This was news. How could a guy that cool be irritating?
“What were you saying about Scott?” she asked, as nonchalantly as she could.
“I don't know about this couple thing,” Cyn muttered. “Maybe I'm just not cut out for it.”
Anna was shocked. Scott was the first guy about whom Cyn had really, truly cared. She'd shed a lot of her usual wild-child ways as soon as they'd hooked up. No more stealing guys with wedding rings away from the wives just because she could (it was a game she played that never went beyond furious make-out sessions; Cyn said it helped her keep a realistic and jaded view of the male half of the human race). No more getting wasted at parties and dirty dancing with handsome waiters who neither spoke English nor had a green card. Nor more taking E and sneaking into the Little Red Lighthouse under the George Washington Bridge and reading
The Little Red Lighthouse
to the wheeling terns.
“You mean you're bored?” Anna asked.
“Kinda.” Cyn shrugged. “We don't
do
anything anymore. Like, instead of going to clubs, now he wants to stay in, throw some popcorn in the micro, and rent movies.”
“Is the popcorn popped in palm or coconut oil?” Dee queried. “That could be the problem, because they're both totally poison. Even if you flush your system clean with a high colonic you—”
“Dee, leave the enemas out of the discussion,” Sam snapped, and then cocked her head at Cyn. “The clubbing thing can get tired, though. I mean, it's so been-there-done-that. Even King King on Hollywood Boulevard is full of wannabes from the valley these days. And House of Blues? Unless you're there on a private party night, it's toast.”
“The valley, meaning G.U.?” Cyn laughed.
Sam nodded. “Geographically undesirable.”
“Area code 201 where we come from. I get your drift.” Cyn reached for the bottle of Evian that rested on the ledge of the tub and took a long swallow. “Scott's desirable. I mean, just look at him. But dammit, I'm not even eighteen years old. I can sit at home with some guy farting Orville Redenbacher when I'm, like, forty.”
“He farts popcorn?” Dee was incredulous.
Cyn drank some more water. “Not literally, but you know what I mean. He wants us to actually watch the damn movie and then discuss it afterward. Sometimes he'll even take notes for a future screenplay of his own. I can't believe it, because we used to jump each other, like, three times a night. When we went out to the movies, we'd sit by a wall and do it during the boring parts.”
Anna tried not to look as shocked as she felt. “You mean … you had sex … in a movie theater?”
Cyn laughed. “Put your jaw back on your face, Anna. We're not the only ones. It's not that hard to pull off. You just—”
Anna raised a hand to stop her friend. “Oversharing.”
This was too personal, and the whole conversation was upsetting in the strictest sense of the word. When she'd seen Cyn and Scott come into Lush together, she'd been sure everything was status quo. But obviously, based on what Cyn was telling her, everything wasn't hunky-dory. Meanwhile, Anna knew full well, despite how much she was missing Ben, a part of her still had feelings for Scott, if for no other reason than that she'd been feeling them for years. That moment when he'd come into Lush, she'd wanted him. In her heart of hearts, she wanted him still. Maybe more than she'd wanted any guy, ever. Maybe even more than she'd wanted Ben.
“How about behind a statue at the new MoMA?” Cyn asked innocently.
“Aren't you the nasty girl,” Sam chuckled. “Trying to get into the
Guinness Book of World Records
for being first in that museum?”
“Well, semisex,” Cyn qualified. “And no, not me giving him a blow job, either. That is so over.”
Sam grinned. “Without something in return, of course.”
“No kidding. I don't know where that blow-jobs-aren't-sex shit started. Probably with some writer for
Rolling Stone
who wasn't getting any and decided to try and start a trend by writing about it.”
Anna nodded. Even with her somewhat limited experience, she agreed.
“I've got it,” Sam declared. “Your relationship is all about the physical. That always gets old when the sex isn't new anymore. Do yourself a favor and save yourself six months of heartache. Blow him off.”
Cyn shook her head. “No. I really care about him. But I don't know.” She cupped her hands in the hot water, scooped some up, and let it drip down her face. “We don't screw, we don't talk. … I don't know what we do anymore. Shit. Relationships suck.”
“Not Sam's,” Dee put in loyally. The conversation with the voices in her head had ended satisfactorily for all concerned. “She's in love.”
“Maybe,” Sam replied cautiously. “But Eduardo's in Paris. It's not like we get to hang out on a regular basis. We never have, really.”
“You will,” Anna encouraged.
“I wouldn't rush it. Distance can be a good thing. You'll never get bored of each other.” Cyn rubbed her temples thoughtfully. “Maybe that's the best kind of relationship of all.”
“I don't know, man,” Scott declared. “Cyn's cool. But it's like the fire's gone. You know what I'm saying?”
Adam nodded, even though he was only half listening. They were sitting on high leather stools at the Roller Lounge, off the main casino area of the Palms. It was a small private bar with a few tabletops and a few more leather banquettes, along with a bar, waitress, and barkeeper. The place was tougher to get into than the Derby on a busy Saturday night. It admitted only the most exclusive clientele—the high-roller gamblers for whom it was named. Once admitted, guests were exquisitely well cared for. They drank only top-shelf alcohol. A top-of-the-line humidor housed Cuban cigars that had been smuggled illegally into the country—Padrón cigars, from the manufacturer's 1964 anniversary series.
Without being known and approved by the pit bosses and casino personnel, mere mortals wouldn't have had a chance of being admitted to a lounge where Vince Vaughn and Will Smith were both puffing cigars. But a few words between Scott and the boss of the Roller Lounge had secured them the best table in the place.
Knowing how much longer the girls would take to get ready for the rest of the evening, Adam and the other guys had some time to kill. It was why they'd decided to stop for a drink. Cammie had bowed out; stopping in their suite only long enough to change outfits, claiming she had some things to do downtown. When Adam had asked her, she'd just smiled enigmatically. What was
that
about?
“Maybe it's time to move on, man.” Parker lifted a Baltika beer, imported from St. Petersburg, Russia, to his lips. “Good,” he pronounced. “Really good. How'd you get us in here, anyway?”
Scott smiled, took a swallow of his Glenlivet and water, and then hoisted the glass to Adam. “A toast. First, to my family name. My uncle is Roger Spencer. He helped to develop half the hotels on the Strip. That means something in this town. Second, to your lady, Cammie. Nicely done.”
“Oh yeah,” Adam agreed. He could hear the edge in his own voice.
“You good, Adam?” Parker asked him.
“Sure. Why wouldn't I be?” Adam sipped his Coke. He wasn't big on alcohol.
“I didn't get which chick you were with,” Scott told Parker.
Parker shrugged. “I'm freelancing these days.”
“I hear you, man,” Scott agreed. He took another sip of his drink. “I used to kinda wonder about Anna Percy, back in New York.”
“Wonder what?” Adam asked. Funny how he still felt protective of Anna, even after she'd treated him so badly. There was just something essentially good about her, though she did seem to act—in her own refined rich New Yorker way—like getting guys to like her was a right, not a privilege. Then he stopped himself. Why worry about Anna Percy? It was over with her. Long over.
“There are like a million variations on Anna at Trinity—where I go to school,” Scott explained. “You know what I mean: rich, blond, WASP, smart.”
“You've got that right,” Adam stated definitively.
“It's interesting, because Cyn is her good friend and she's a wild girl,” Scott observed. “So it's kind of intriguing, you know?” He stared contemplatively into his drink. “I guess I should say Cyn
used
to be wild. Or I used to think she was wild. Can't quite figure out how we got where we are, you know?”
“Well, as far as I know, Anna is flying solo these days,” Parker put in. “If your thing with Cyn isn't working, maybe you should check Anna out.”
God, what a moronic thing to say, Adam thought. But he let it slide. He actually liked Parker—at least most of the time. Adam suspected that Parker had a depth that most of his peers had no interest in plumbing. Though he couldn't quite put his finger on it, something about Parker put him just a little out of step with the Beverly Hills High School A-list. He could relate. He still felt like an outsider. Or at least he had before he'd hooked up with Cammie.
Adam watched Scott rub his jawline thoughtfully. He realized that he didn't know the history of Scott and Anna from when they lived back in New York. Anna was a big girl; she'd have to deal with that one herself.
He had other things on his mind. He glanced at his watch. Where the hell was Cammie?
D
ee sat on the edge of her suite's massive oak-with-white-canopy-netting bed and tried Poppy's private line. Voice mail again. It worried her. A lot. Where could Poppy possibly be with Ruby Hummingbird? It was eleven o'clock at night! Ruby should be home sleeping in her pink-and-white Lacoste crib, tucked in next to her limited-edition Steiff stuffed zebra that had been a gift from Ashton and Demi.
“Hi, Poppy, it's me. I know this is like my fifth message, but I'm really worried about you guys. You know how I have this cosmic connection to Ruby, and it's telling me that something isn't right. If I were closer I'd just come over, but I'm in Las Vegas, so that's kind of impossible. So please, you have to call me back right away. Thanks.”
Dee hung up but still jiggled one foot nervously against the other. Maybe she really should go back, just go to the airport and catch the next shuttle to Los Angeles. It wouldn't be hard—she could be at the Sharpe compound in two hours, tops. Her mind raced with horrific possibilities of why Poppy had not returned her call. What if some crazed lunatic had broken into the Sharpe compound and then kidnapped Ruby? Maybe it was a whole gang of them—they'd bound and gagged Poppy and all of the baby nurses so that the infant girl could be held for ransom.
“Don't worry, Ruby Hummingbird—I'll save you,” Dee muttered, confident that on some cosmic, inexplicable-by-ordinary-man level, the baby could understand her.
What was that?
Dee whirled around. Had she just heard a baby's cry? “Ruby?” she whispered.
She listened carefully, closing her eyes to concentrate.
But Ruby didn't answer.
There was only one thing to do. She had to tell Sam to call the Beverly Hills police.
Still in the red-and-black satin La Perla nightgown and robe she'd put on when she'd come back from delivering Anna's friend to that sleazy nightclub, Dee padded down the hall to Sam's suite. Usher was wailing from the sound system inside, so she knocked hard on the door. Nothing. Maybe the music was too loud. She should go back to her suite and call their suite and—
“Mama!”
It was a baby's cry. Dee whirled, eyes wide.
“Ruby?” she called out. “Ruby?”
Nothing. Certain that Sam's baby stepsister was desperate to contact her, Dee pounded harder on Sam's door.
It opened.
“I miss you, too,” Sam was cooing into her cell as she opened the door, acknowledging Dee's presence with a brief wave, then motioning with another for her to come in.
“Sam, I have to talk to—”
Sam held up a wait-a-minute finger and laughed— Dee was almost positive that she was on the phone with Eduardo in Europe. But this was far more important. This was life and death!
“No, señor, I'm not telling you what I'm wearing,” Sam told Eduardo in a deep, teasing voice, turning her back.
Dee marched over to her and tapped her shoulder. “Sam, seriously, you have to listen to me. It's about Ruby!”
“Just a sec.” Sam put her hand over the mike of her cell. “Not now, Dee. Can't you see I'm kinda busy?”
“But Ruby's in trouble—”
“No, she's not. My dad and Poppy would call me right away if the baby was sick. So whatever is so urgent is going to have to wait. Okay?”