Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (38 page)

“I never meant to drive a wedge between the two of you. I’m so very sorry.”

She shook her head. “Despite his claims, it wasn’t your fault he jilted me. You gave him an easy out from a relationship he stayed in because of obligation instead of love.”

She rose from her chair and perched on the edge of her desk, across from Samuel. “We’ve pushed each other to succeed because that was all we had. I always knew, deep down, that I’d be sidelined if Kaye came back. I’m not going to lie—it hurt like hell. But you knew I’d do the same thing to you if I had a second shot with Lyle. So Togsy’s book? That’s me sidelining you.”

Samuel’s voice grew tellingly hoarse. “Fair enough. Next question: Why didn’t you tip off Togsy about my bipolar disorder?”

She shrugged. “We don’t have much left to give to each other; we’ve punched each other out. Consider my silence on the subject a parting gift.”

I jumped in. “But, Caroline, if you publish only half the story—the drugs and cheating but not the bipolar disorder—it will make Samuel look like a tool.”

“So, publish your own story.”

“
Hydraulic Level Five?”
Samuel was appalled, as if she’d suggested he release a homemade sex tape.

“What else? It’s one of your best. It’s not fantasy—it’s the real you.” Her eyes gleamed. “Your readers will adore you even more for it. I don’t think you realize how deeply your words reach into them, Samuel. This book will be your
coup de grace
.”

“I can’t publish it, Caro. I’ll be
that
author.”

“For a time. And then you’ll be that author who has record-breaking movies. Or that author who was on
Ellen
the other afternoon. The masses have a short memory. They’ll gossip about it, wait for you to go manic and rip Indigo’s Oscar out of her hands during her
Water Sirens
acceptance speech. When you don’t, they’ll commend you and move on.”

“I don’t know…” But he was caving. “I’ve told you before, it’s too personal. I’m writing it for myself and for Kaye, not millions of people.”

Caroline’s eyes burned. Not with anger or triumph in besting him, but something else. It dawned on me: she was proud of him.

It was then I saw what Samuel had always seen in Caroline Ortega, beauty queen from North Carolina. She cared about him. Yes, she was manipulative. She didn’t play fair. She was a hard-nosed bitch who went after what she wanted. But she tried to be a friend the only way she knew how—she pushed when others would not. Sometimes she pushed Samuel too hard, because she would rather have him hate her than watch his slow self-destruction. And he
got
that about her.

She got him, too, so she knew which trump to throw on the table.

“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Kaye. She’ll be bone-weary after a month of media cover-up, trust me.” Her eyes drifted to mine and locked. Understanding passed between us.

He held my hand, absently scuffing the area rug with his shoes. “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter 12

Hypoxia

Divers who spend too much time
in thin air and high altitudes
will exhibit symptoms of intoxication,
such as a lack of judgment and clumsiness.

O
UR
N
EXT
M
EETING
W
ITH
the “demigods,” as Caroline pegged them, played out like a choreographed Broadway number. Jerome performed a little shuffle when he asked if I’d prepped my client for Monday’s press interviews. “Naturally,” Samuel smoothly covered for me, though we hadn’t glanced at the talking points. A cadre of dancers figuratively swooped on-stage when we grimaced over Caroline’s stack of affidavits, including the indie singer, several of his grad school colleagues, and the cocaine-coated brunette who haunted my dreams. Thankfully, Indigo Kingsley’s people told Caroline to piss off.

But Jerome stole the spotlight in a thundering finale when he unveiled a fresh copy of Togsy’s book.

“I understand you were forced to obtain the book yourself, Ms. Trilby.” Reptilian fingers slithered over the binding. “I sincerely apologize for the delay.”

I flipped through the pages. It was identical to the copy I’d swindled from Berkshire House. Dang it, I’d hoped to catch him in the act. I was absolutely certain they’d been planning to tweak the hell out of the thing and cast Caroline as Hitler, but now there was no way to prove it. Lexi’s eyes were carefully lowered, and I realized she’d tipped off Jerome.

As we packed away laptops and files, Justin sauntered up. “So, what’s your boy planning to wear the ninth?”

After a grueling day of press interviews (to make up for Samuel’s canceled LA events), Buitre was hosting a swanky reception at the Boom Boom Room. It was a charity event for a New York arts foundation, given under the auspices of Buitre and its need to schmooze. According to Justin, Boom Boom was the jet set’s new Studio 54, had the toughest door in the city, and the PR giant was shelling out a fortune. Indigo Kingsley would also be there with her famous flowing hair and pouty lips, and you could bet the press would be more interested in whether Samuel fell to his knees and begged her to take him back than in his bestsellers. Incidentally, the big shindig also fell on my birthday. Yay.

“He’s wearing a suit, some number Caroline picked up for him in LA. Why, are you going to coordinate?” I teased.

“Nah. What are you gonna wear?”

“A suit.”

“To the Boom Boom Room? For the first time Samuel and Indigo are seen together in public since their split? Oh no. You need to wear a dress, beautiful.”

“It’s a stylish suit,” I said defensively. “In any case, it’s work, not a date.”

“If you don’t wear a dress, you’ll stick out like a chubby in Chelsea. I’d take you shopping, but I have incredibly bad taste for a gay man—I’d have you wrapped in some hideous tribal T-shirt. I’m an enigma like that.”

It was official. I hated the fashion aspect of my career.

That evening, I rifled through my garment bags hanging in Samuel’s closet, pulling out anything that might be acceptable for the Boom Boom Room. Cotton, cotton, more cotton. It was all too casual. A frantic call to Molly, then Danita, produced nothing.

“There’s a shop in Queens I’ve always wanted to visit after I watched a special on the Travel Channel,” said Molly. “They make lovely sarongs, beaded skirts, incense; you should check there!”

“A pant suit, are you kidding?” shrieked Danita. “You’re in New York! Go to Fifth Avenue!”

But I’d never shopped designer before (other than the occasional mall trip in Denver), and had terrifying visions of some sales clerk going
Pretty Woman
on my tush. That was how Samuel found me—cross-legged in his closet, dresses and shoes strewn across my lap, a pout the size of Pike’s Peak on my lips.

“What are you doing?” He chuckled, pulling a soft leather belt from around my neck.

“Justin says I need to celebutante it up for Boom Boom so guests don’t call me ‘Senator’ all night. I’m afraid I’ll have to buy something.”

“And you’re worried because you don’t know your way around New York?”

I nodded.

Samuel sank onto the ground next to me. “Would the Gentlewoman from Colorado like me to accompany her on a shopping excursion?”

Wow, this man could be sweet. A flash of me twirling in front of a dressing room mirror in a floppy hat a la Julia Roberts while Samuel nodded his approval flittered through my mind, but I shot it down. Best to lay off the hooker fantasies. “Thanks, but you hate shopping as much as I do. If you can tell me how to get to Fifth Avenue, I can go myself.”

“You’re talking about twenty-five city blocks round trip, Firecracker.” I stared at him blankly. “That’s more than two miles of shops.”

I groaned and dropped my head on his shoulder. He laughed, his lips brushing my ear.

“Why don’t I call a friend? Indigo’s manager lives here in New York.”

Did Samuel have any friends who weren’t women? No wonder his exes thought he was gay. But at the moment, I didn’t care. Pushing the pile of clothing onto the floor, I crawled into his lap and softly kissed him. “Thank you. That would be perfect.”

The following evening, I bounced down the stairs in my eco sneaks, purse slung over my arm and hair in a messy bun—my shopping uniform. The pavement was slick and grimy from the afternoon thunderstorm, and I skidded. But the rain had beaten away the muggy remnants of summer, leaving the air fresh and cool.

A gray SUV with a driver waited for me. Its occupants opened the rear door.

“Are you Kaye?” asked a willowy blonde. She had an Aussie accent and the biggest gray eyes I’d ever seen, and I felt flutterings of recognition.

Oh flippin’ sea turtles. My gut clenched when I realized who she was.

“Yes. Hello, Ms. Kingsley.” I took the hand she offered and warily slid into the car.

“Call me Indigo. I’m also hitting Boom Boom and need to do a spot of shopping. Do you mind if I crash your trip?”

“Not at all.” She was not as soft-looking as I’d expected—sharp collarbone, laugh lines around the eyes—but then, I was used to seeing her in airbrushed photos. Still, she was beautiful and I was really, really glad Samuel never slept with her, or I’d have curled into an insecure bundle right there on the car mat.

To my utter, stiff-backed shock, Indigo pulled me into a tight hug. “Between Neelie Nixie and Samuel’s nonstop reminiscing, I feel as though I know you already. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

“Ah—you too,” I stuttered.

“This is my agent and your blind date, Nat O’Malley.” I leaned across Indigo and shook hands with the curvy woman.

O’Malley…why was that name familiar? I chalked it up to celebrity circles. “Thanks for doing this. I’m not a big shopper.”

“Samuel mentioned as much,” said Nat. “No worries, that’s what I’m here for.” She appraised me, eyes skittering up and down my person. “You’re a Thakoon woman. You like color and comfort,” she finally pronounced. “What do you think, Indigo?”

“Definitely. Or Proenza Schouler. She could carry this season’s surfer look well.”

Surfer? Heck no! “There’s no way you’re getting me into anything tie-dyed.”

Nat and Indigo laughed. “Fair enough. How do you feel about bypassing Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes, please.”

Nat suggested shopping in SoHo which was…an experience. I’d been to Barney’s in Denver with Danita and, after five hours’ shopping with her, nearly threw myself onto the ground in a temper tantrum worthy of the posh toddlers plowing through clothing racks. But Indigo knew her stuff. To my joy, the boutique’s selections were small—the fewer options I had, the better. The price tags, however, made me shudder.

Indigo anxiously cracked her knuckles. “Do you see anything you like?”

I gazed over several flouncy dresses displayed on headless mannequins along the back wall. “Those are nice.”

“I knew it! Proenza Schouler!” she shouted, startling the sales associate and rattled the dozens of silver chains dangling from the counter. Nat rolled her eyes as she browsed a wall of colorful purses. “Jill, can we try their smocked floral in a six, and that pretty cocoon dress if you still have it in stock? Let’s also bring out Thakoon’s hook-and-eye silk in black. No, blue—yes?” I nodded, utterly clueless, but I liked blue. “And their tie-dyed mini. That should start us off!”

“No tie-dye.”

“It’s not what you think. Just give it a shot.”

“No. Tie. Dye.” I stood firm. “My father wears tie-dye. A
lot
of it.”

“Oh.” Sympathy filled Indigo’s face. “I get it. No tie-dye. Thanks, Jill,” she said as the sales associate tackled the dresses. “I assume this is on Samuel’s tab.”

“In a roundabout way.” If I counted my alimony stockpile. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

Indigo bit her lip. “Please don’t take offense, but I should warn you. This might get pricey.”

“Ex-wife, remember?” I tapped my nose.

“I forgot.” Indigo flashed a row of white teeth. “Yeah, I have one of those, too—a divorce settlement. My ex is a designer. Everyone thinks he’s from Italy, but he grew up with Sicilian parents in the Bronx. I met him at New York’s Fashion Week. We got married, I started dressing in his designs, and his career took off. Then
he
took off with a Danish twig he was bonkin’ on the sly. She had a man jaw, the slag. Fortunately, I got to keep our place in Gramercy and the best part of him—our twin boys. I thought about moving back to Oz, but I couldn’t bear to leave New York.”

While I tried on dresses and paraded them out for my tiny audience, Indigo talked away, her drawling vowels pleasant to listen to. She thrust a wallet of pictures over the door as I zipped into a dress that was so short, I’d moon the guests if I tilted my chin.

“Those are the twins. They’re four, and the nuttiest kids you’ll ever meet—just ask Samuel. Whenever he’s in town, he swings by to do guy stuff with them like baseball in Central Park, even after we broke up—not that there was much to break between us. Earlier this summer, he took the ankle biters to see the Yankees play, but they kept dragging him to the concession stand and toilet, so they missed most of the game. They left after the…what do you call it? When everyone stands up and sings horridly?”