First Kiss - [Bridesmaid's Chronicles 02]

by Kylie Adams

  Suddenly, worry lines creased his forehead as he stared at the screen. "I might have some bad news.

  Looks like the hotel is booked solid." Obviously not one to give up easily, his search continued.

  Kiki felt the disappointment in the pit of her stomach.

  "Wait. Disregard that," Fab said, decidedly more upbeat now. "We have one room available." He started to laugh. "Pretty ironic, though."

  "Why's that?"

  "It's called the Mistress Hideaway."

  Kiki gave him a little snarl. "Hilarious." One beat. "How much? The Post was right about one thing I'm out of work, and as much as I loathe to admit it, I'm a girl who needs to be budget conscious."

  "The rate's five hundred."

  " A night ?" She could see the bottom of the Gucci boot box already. Why couldn't Fab operate a Marv's Motor Inn like her future sister-in-law?

  He looked up, still amused by her. "Tell you what. I'll cut the rate to two fifty. Even though you've already cost me a comped room and a bottle of Cris-tal." He started to type. "You should check in under an alias. The tabloids probably have flacks working the phones to check every hotel in the city for a Kiki Douglas. Any ideas?"

  "Jennifer Aniston."

  Fab did a double take.

  "I've always wanted to be her," Kiki explained. "Love the hair."

  His fingers danced over the keyboard. "Okay. Jennifer Aniston it is. Welcome to Affair, Miss Aniston." He gave her a bold, flirtatious stare that stretched on long enough to ease the situation into sexual gear. "And if there's anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable, please don't hesitate to ask."

  * * *

  From: kiki@misstexas95.com

  To: breckin@withthisring.com

  Subject: Word of Caution

  Breckin!

  We must make a pact and vow to stick together throughout this wedding. No matter what. I say this because we are surrounded by people with questionable judgment. Here's a cheat sheet:

  1) My brother is marrying a woman he met five minutes ago.

  2) His bride-to-be's family runs a cheap motel chain.

  3) One of the bridesmaids engineered a legal attack that allowed a vile rich man (similar to my ex-husband; okay, it WAS my ex) to totally take advantage of a defenseless young wife (that would be me) in a divorce settlement.

  Would YOU trust the opinions of these people? Brace yourself. It's just you and me, darling. How is the yacht research coming along?

  Air Kisses, Kiki

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  True to its name, the Mistress Hideaway was tucked away in a discreet corner of the hotel, the half corridor to its entrance directly accessible by stairwell for added discretion.

  Fab escorted Kiki to the suite personally, and as they entered the small haven that was no larger than four hundred square feet, he said, "If these walls could talk"

  Kiki took in her temporary home. "They would probably be saying Get me a bigger room ."

  Fab placed the old-fashioned room key on the small writing desk. "Don't be such a diva. It's cozy."

  " Cozy ? That's happy talk for claustrophobic." Even as the words of her thumbs-down review sliced the air, Kiki studied the room. In all honesty, there was a great escape quality to it. The exposed beams and brick walls of the hotel's past life as a warehouse gave it a certain charm. Then there were the light brown walnut flooring, the Moroccan rugs, and the oversized bed with huge pillows dressed in Egyptian white cotton.

  Fab proceeded with the mini-tour. "You've got a plasma screen TV, DVD player, stereo, high-speed Internet access, fully stocked minibar, and twenty-four-hour room service. Joie is our in-house restaurant. The chef is incredibleI poached him from my favorite bistro in Paris. There's a spacious walk-in shower. The bathroom is stocked with Sisley products. And the terry cloth bathrobe hanging on the door is yours to keep." He paused a moment, opening his hands to the surroundings as he glanced around. "I believe that's it."

  Kiki could sense his imminent departure, and a sudden urgency to delay the inevitable surprised her. "Not quite. You never told me what these walls would say if they could talk."

  "Let's just leave it at this: Many famous marriages would be in trouble."

  Kiki's eyes went wide. "I want names. And you can trust me. I won't tell a soul." She pantomimed locking her lips and throwing the imaginary key over her shoulder.

  "Presidents, movie stars, heads of industry. That's all you'll get out of me."

  Kiki crawled onto the bed and rolled over on her back. It was the body language of bored teenager. But the short cutoffs riding farther up her thighs

  -

  hinted at something else. She sighed. Clearly gossip wasn't his thing. "You're no fun."

  "Oh, but I can be." His voice went down an octave. From sexy to sexier. In the game of counterattack flirtation, he was a Jedi master.

  Kiki's lips were slightly parted, and as she did something barely legal with her tongue, Fab moved closer to the bed. Her stomach did a couple of revolutions.

  And then the ring of her cellular blasted the exotic/erotic moment to smithereens.

  Kiki jumped to answer. It could be Sarah Ann Duckworth calling with a way out of the public relations nightmare. Or her agent, Keith Bush, dialing in with news about a job. But the screen merely revealed that Suzi-Suzi was burning up the wire. Kiki picked up. "Remind me to talk to you about your bad timing."

  "Yours isn't so hot, either," Suzi-Suzi snapped. "I'm thirty minutes late for a catalog shoot because I've been running all over the city for you ." Big sigh. "But I'm here in the lobby with all of your stuff. Where do you keep your luggage? I couldn't find a single piece, so I packed everything in garbage bags. I look like a girl who just ran away from a homeless shelter."

  Kiki smacked her own forehead. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I keep my Vuitton pieces in Mrs. Manheim's apartment. There's no room in my closet, and she has loads of space."

  "Listen, I have to run. Are you coming down or not?"

  "Just tell the front desk to bring everything to Jennifer Aniston's room. That's my alias."

  "Love that. In fact, I can't wait to say it. Oh, before I forget. Sarah Ann said that she appreciates the payment but can no longer represent you."

  "Shut up!"

  "I'm serious. Something about signing on Kirsten Brock as a client. I know it sucks, but you'll figure it out. Hey, I'm dashing. I'll call you later."

  Kiki held the dead mobile to her ear as the import of Suzi-Suzi's news began to resonate. "I can't believe it," she murmured, as much to herself as to the dreamboat standing next to her in the five-hundred-dollar-a-night closet.

  "What?" Fab asked.

  She tossed the phone onto the bed and looked at him. "My publicist just dropped me from her client roster." Kiki delivered this news with a gravity presidential advisors might employ on the topic of national security.

  "Sounds like a good thing," Fab reasoned. "I don't think she's up for the job. Have you seen today's paper? You're getting some really bad publicity."

  Kiki was in no mood to laugh. The frisson of irrita-tion that came next effectively snapped whatever was left of the sexual tightwire that had tensed up the room just minutes before.

  Fab seemed to read the mood change. "I'll leave you to get settled."

  "Do I seem that unsettled?" Kiki asked archly.

  "Relax. It's an expression, not a judgment. Maybe you want to take a nap or soak your feet from all the running around in those heels."

  "A foot massage would be nice."

  Fab nodded dutifully. "I'll check with the spa. They stay booked, but I have some pull." He scribbled a number onto the back of a business card and handed it over. "My mobile." For emphasis, he patted the Motorola device attached to his belt. "It's always with me. Call if you need anything ." Then he winked and started for the exit. "I'll have your luggage sent up as soon as it arrives." His last words were punctuated by the sight of Tate, the ubiquitous bellboy, standing on the oth
er side of the door beside a rolling cart piled high with garbage bags and one Gucci boot box.

  "Miss Aniston's things, sir," Tate said.

  Fab cleared a path for the bellboy's entry.

  "I'll say one thing," Fab remarked, smirking. "You're full of surprises. I figured you for designer luggage." And then he was gone.

  Kiki stared at the cart in disbelief. It appeared as if Suzi-Suzi had packed up the entire apartment. "I'm sorry about this. Just put the bags anywhere. It doesn't matter."

  "No problem, Miss Aniston."

  "Don't be silly," Kiki told the young man. "You can call me Jennifer." She tipped him and sent the boy on his way, feeling pangs of loneliness the moment she heard the deafening sounds of complete solitude. What was she going to do with herself in this little box for three days?

  She spent about ten minutes organizing her belongings, then grew bored with the project. Hmm. There was always her new book endeavor, First Runner-Up But Still a Winner . Oh, God, she loved that title. Maybe she should fire up the laptop and crank out a chapter on, say, picking up the pieces and soldiering on after getting dumped by your publicist. Yes! Exactly the kind of material that would speak to women everywhere.

  But Kiki didn't feel very much like writing. Oh, she wanted to get out of here! How could this be? In the room only fifteen minutes and already stir-crazy. This promised to be a very long three days. A change of scenery might help. She snatched the key and ventured out to roam the halls, hoping to encounter a famous married person going in or out of a room.

  But her floor was as quiet as a monastery. Well, except for the whip snaps and moans coming from the room she just passed. Probably a politician. Most

  of them secretly longed to be punished sexually. Must be some sort of perverse contrition for all the tricks they slipped past the voting public. Hmm. A provocative observation. Perhaps she should write another mini-polemic, this one about politics in general. "Kiki Goes to Washington." A great chapter title! And her savvy take on issues of the day would probably surprise a lot of people.

  On the way back to her room, Kiki encountered another hotel guest waiting for the elevator. The woman appeared older, possibly late forties, her head and face swathed in a flowing Hermes scarf, her eyes eclipsed by large Christian Dior sunglasses. But no matter the disguise, Kiki knew swelling from plastic surgery when she saw it.

  Desperate to know what work she had done and, more importantly, who performed it and how much it cost, Kiki approached. "Hi, I'm Jennifer Aniston. We must be neighbors. I'm staying in the Mistress Hideaway just down the hall."

  The woman responded with a curt nod as she pressed the button again to call the elevator.

  "Don't worry," Kiki went on. "I'm nobody's mistress. Never have been. Hey, I couldn't stand my own husband, so chances are it's not going to work out with some other woman's." She laughed a little. "That reminds me of a friend of mine. She's a mistress. Loves it. Gets him about one week a month, and that's quite enough for her. Of course, holidays are always a problem. I imagine that's a really lonely time for mistresses. Don't you think? Someone should do something special for them during that time of year. I don't know. Maybe a Christmas brunch. That would be nice."

  "Yes," the woman answered crisply, avoiding eye contact. "I suppose it would be."

  "So what brings you to Affair?" Kiki pressed gingerly, taking her voice down to a hushed whisper. "I'm just here to get away from it all. Pretty boring, huh? I mean, I wish I could say that I had Jude Law stashed away in my room. But it's just me. Needed a little rest and relaxation. What about you?"

  "I really don't feel like speaking to anyone right now," the woman said. If looks could kill, then the hotel staff would be planning a funeral service for the elevator. The Extreme Makeover victim was staring daggers through it.

  "Maybe later then," Kiki said cheerily. "We could have a cup of tea together. By the way, I didn't catch your name."

  "I can't believe you don't recognize me, Jennifer Aniston ," the woman said savagely. "I'm Courteney Cox."

  Kiki giggled nervously. "I'm sorry. That's just my hotel alias. My real name is"

  The woman snorted. "I know who you are." She jabbed the elevator button again. "Is this goddamn thing broken?"

  "I think it's just slow," Kiki said easily. "This used to be an old warehouse." One beat. "You know, I'rr always surprised by the number of viewers who remember Jeannette. She never got much screen time but people really connected with her."

  "Who the hell is Jeannette?"

  "My character from All My Children ," Kiki said. "] assume that's where you recognize me from. Oi course, I was also first runner-up in the 1995 Miss America Pageant."

  "All I know is what I read in today's New York Post . You should be ashamed of yourself."

  "It's all lies!" Kiki paused a moment. "Well, mosi of it anyway. But the parts about me and Tom Brock? Total fabrication. They should've had Jackie Collins's name on the byline."

  "Women like you make me sick."

  Kiki was taken aback by the venomous look spewing from the stranger's practically swollen-shut eyes The rebuke stunned her. "Women like me ? I don'l understand."

  All of a sudden, the elevator doors creaked opened

  "Women like you never do." She stepped inside, jammed a finger onto the instrument panel, and ther she was gone.

  Haunted by the encounter, Kiki just stared blankly at the closing doors, listening as the elevator made its descent. Finally, she meandered back to the room feeling more anxiety than she had before leaving it in the first place. As if she needed additional problems to tackle. But this human conundrum would drive her insane until she solved it.

  Women like you make me sick.

  The bitter words turned over in Kiki's mind. What did she mean by that? Kiki had always considered herself a true feminist, a champion for the female race in general. After all, that's why she was writing the book. To give something back. Even in high school, Kiki had demonstrated the sensitivity to be inclusive. Most beauty queens operated in a rarefied orbit. But Kiki believed in reaching out. Example: Lindy Wiatt. She was teased unmercifully for being fat and ugly. But Kiki recruited her as a personal assistant. Getting ready for pageants could be so hectic, and what a godsend to have someone at the ready to fetch Diet Cokes, make an emergency hair spray run, and keep the makeup case fully stocked and in tip-top shape.

  Suddenly, a dark memory surfaced. Hmm. Thinking back, there had to be a better example than Lindy. After all, the girl had tried to run over Kiki in the school parking lot. They said the attack had been stress-related and triggered by extreme dieting. At first, Kiki had felt so guilty. But how was she to know that the seven-day celery and water fast she recommended to Lindy might trigger such a random act of violence? Cosmopolitan had raved about the diet. Luckily, Lindy had been back on the job in time for the Miss Fredericksburg Hospitality Pageant. Nobody had a better system for maintaining makeup brushes. Lindy had kept them as clean as surgical instruments. Today she was assisting neurologists with complicated brain surgeries! Maybe working with Kiki had inspired her to help others.

  The jingle of Kiki's cellular rang like sweet music. It couldn't be Sarah Ann. Bitch! But it might be Keith. Feeling hopeful, she rushed across the room to see. No such luck. Bastard! To no surprise, suzi-suzi calling lit up the screen.

  Kiki deep-sixed the hello formalities. "Why did you pack for a year abroad? You do realize that I'm only going to be here for three days, don't you?"

  Suzi-Suzi sobbed into the receiver. "I've got the worst luck in the world!"

  Kiki climbed into the bed and got comfortable. Probably trouble with Chad, the married boyfriend. And that could mean a marathon phone session. "I'm here, sweetie. Tell me all about it."

  "That shoot was for a sexual fetish catalog! They wanted to paint my body with latex. They wanted me to squash bugs in high heels, too!"

  "Oh, my God!" Kiki screamed. "How disgusting! What is going on in America? Sex used to be so simple. Remember
the innocent days when freaky meant vibrators and fur-covered handcuffs?" She hesitated, allowing buzi-buzi a chance to compose herself. Well, what did you do?"

  "I told them to just forget the idea of painting latex on me. But I did stomp on some bugs. What else could I do? I needed the money."

  "You don't have to explain to me," Kiki said, trying to sound supportive. "You know, I don't get it. How does a guy get turned on by watching a girl kill bugs? I mean, what happened in this man's childhood?"

  "I know. It's completely retarded. Like those people who dress up as stuffed animals to have sex."

  "The plushies!" Kiki said. "Or is it the furries? I can't remember. CSI did a show about it once."

  "This is so wrong!" Suzi-Suzi shouted, her voice brimming with frustration. "I just want to model something normal for once. A push-up bra, an ugly sweater, a nurse's uniform anything !"

  "Maybe you should consider leaving the agency. They goofed and let you sign those horrible modeling releases. Ever since it's been one bad gig after another."

  Suzi-Suzi expelled a defeated sigh. "Tell me something I don't know. But where else can I go? Let's be honest. I'm almost thirty, and it's not like anybody's tapping me on the shoulder to say, 'Damn, girl, ain't you Heidi Klum?' At the end of the day, I feel lucky to be with PLK Management."

  "I hate to hear you talk this way."

  "Kiki, please. I don't have an inferiority complex. I'm only being realistic. I've accepted the fact that I'm a third-tier model, but I just want some decent assignments."

  Kiki considered the situation. "Maybe you should try commercials. I know a girl who made ten thousand dollars from a Dr Pepper ad. And all she did was hold on to a cute guy while he drove a Jet Ski."

  "It sounds like a good idea, but PLK only books for print work."

  "So? You're in New York. There are hundreds of agencies. Wait a minute. That reminds me! I met this guy once in the recovery room at Bliss Spa. His name's Doug something. Gay, fabulous, flaivless skin. Anyway, he runs an agency for Broadway talent. All commercials. I mean, the theater doesn't pay anything. Those people have to supplement income. He even books for overseas work. Wouldn't it be great to fly to Japan for a commercial job? It'd be just like that movie with Bill Murray, Lost in Translation . I just know that Doug would die to sign you."