Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

by Sarah Latchaw

  “Strange.”

  But I knew what Mom meant.

  Now, the new PR plan rested on my lap, the luminescence of my tablet dimmed so as not to disturb the passengers in the cabin. Most of them appeared to be business travelers who grasped at their valuable moment of imposed cell phone silence to rest. I turned to my small window. Dusk chased the last rays across a patchwork land far below, and then entire cities flickered to life, their trailing interstates like the haunting glow paths of the fireflies we used to catch in the forest line of the Cabrals’ backyard.

  My thoughts turned to my mother. She had always been a woman of few words. Mostly, she was simply uncomfortable without a garden spade in hand. When I was a teenager, there were times I intentionally tried to tick her off, just to evoke some sort of feeling from her. I remembered one particular occasion when I was fifteen, right after my father quit his third job that year. I’d gotten my belly button pierced despite my mother’s “ears only” rule. As I’d made breakfast two weeks later, I’d stretched and flashed the bit of metal, and it was downhill from there.

  “Dad doesn’t care,” I spat at her.

  “Your father probably doesn’t know.”

  I flinched. It was true…not because I’d hidden it from him, but because he spent so much time at Audrey Wexler’s place, I hadn’t even seen him long enough to show him. Mom saw the flinch, though, and her eyes softened.

  “You can’t let him move in with Audrey,” I’d whispered, my voice hoarse.

  “Nothin’ I can do about that, baby.”

  I shook my head, begging her. “Yes you can. You can tell him you still—”

  “No. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference. I did what I had to do a long time ago, and it didn’t change a thing. Still, I did it.” She ruffled my hair, then put on her stern mama face. “Take that thing out.” She flicked my belly button ring. “You’re grounded for two weeks.”

  After that, my mother and I had an unspoken comradeship. Out loud, our official position was “Audrey’s a nice woman.” But really, we both desired to see Tom kick her to the curb. And that was why, when I told her about my plans to go to Samuel in Los Angeles, she told me “you gotta do what you gotta do” and I knew exactly what she meant…

  “Excuse me, miss?” The man’s voice broke through my wandering thoughts. I turned to the strong-jawed passenger next to me, in the aisle seat. “The flight attendant asked if you’d like a beverage.”

  “Oh!” How long had I been staring at my heels like a space cadet? “Nothing for me, thanks,” I said, nodding to my cold Starbucks cup and bread.

  The passenger eyeballed me like I was nuts. He may have believed there were tiny bombs nestled in the soles of my Pradas. If he did call an air marshal, I couldn’t blame him—if I sat next to a high-strung woman muttering Stuart Smalley affirmations while glaring at teal pumps, I’d call security, too.

  Glossy hair streaked with silver curled around the edge of his earlobes, short enough for the boardroom but long enough for the bedroom. Tan, pressed, and expensive, he looked like he’d stepped out of an advertisement in Golf Digest.

  Before long, the captain’s static voice crackled over the intercom, announcing our descent into Los Angeles. With a sigh, I struggled into my new heels and tightened the strap, girding my ankles for battle. The man lifted an eyebrow at the death traps.

  “I’m a publicist,” I stammered.

  “Ah.” Apparently that was all the explanation he needed. “What sort of publicity do you do?”

  “Mainly tourism, arts, and culture, but I’m venturing into celebrity PR.”

  The man flashed a row of capped white teeth, reminding me of a grinning giraffe. “Well, young lady, you’re heading to the right city. With all the agent jostling and back-biting that happens behind those pretty faces you see on television, LA could support a football franchise. The Los Angeles Spin Doctors, don’t ya know?” The man barked at his own joke.

  I gulped. “Banana bread?” I offered.

  He shook his head, giving me the once over. “A bit of advice. If you really want to exude high-power take-no-prisoners ball-buster, wear your hair up. Coupled with those heels, you’ll seem six feet tall.”

  I blinked at him, wondering how Molly had disguised herself as a middle-aged, male jet-setter. “I’ll ruminate over that.”

  I. Was. Toast. Even Mr. PGA Tour knew more about making an entrance than I did. Flipping snowboarders, I was going to break my ankles. I’d de-board the plane, then promptly flail into my tanned airplane buddy and together we’d tumble onto the baggage claim conveyor belt, be rendered unconscious, and cycle through those black rubber flaps with unclaimed duffel bags until airport security handcuffed me and wheeled me away to some secret Homeland Security holding pen. Then they’d send me straight back to Lyons with a stern warning to never, ever again set my Prada-clad foot in Los Angeles.

  And Caroline would sneer and say “I told you so.”

  The man watched me expectantly, and I realized I’d missed part of what he said. I fumbled back to our conversation. “So are you in the business, too?”

  He whipped out his wallet and slid a crisp white card from its folds. “My wife and I are what you’d label ‘behind-the-scenes’ people. We used to be in the thick of celebrity networking, but we’ve scaled back to a select few. Still, call me if you or your clients need a consult.”

  I read the card:

  Patrick O’Malley

  Arts & Entertainment Publicity

  “Helping your talent shine through”

  Cute. A publicist for a publicist: Welcome to Hollywood. I smiled and thanked him for his offer to make me over, then stuffed his card in my purse.

  “If I may, who are your clients?”

  “Oh. Um, Samuel Cabral,” I answered tentatively. “Have you heard of him?”

  The man’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Who hasn’t? Not only is he a brilliant writer, he has the ‘it’ factor—sexy and elusive. And in the entertainment business, people gobble up that stuff. Every producer, media hound, leading lady, and purse poodle wants an hour with that man. Very humble guy, though, on the few occasions I’ve met him. Refreshing—‘humble’ isn’t even in this industry’s instruction manual.”

  Pride snaked up my back and I straightened my shoulders. “Yes, he is a very good man. Definitely in-demand.”

  Patrick’s mouth curled knowingly. “So you’re more than his publicist. You’re his manager.”

  “I…no. Sort of.”

  Patrick nodded thoughtfully, sizing up my frizzed-out hair and unpolished nails in a new light. “Word is the Water Sirens movies will blow the vampire boys out of the water. We’re talking a mass-media franchise potentially worth billions of dollars. There are a lot of jobs and money tied up in Mr. Cabral’s yays or nays. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.” Or yours, for that matter, he added wordlessly with a piercing gaze.

  My stomach roiled. “Which is why he needs me.”

  Patrick leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes, there’s that spin doctor ego. For a moment I thought you were a rare breed. So you’re Buitre, then.” My new acquaintance’s demeanor chilled, and I suddenly felt the darkness of the plane circle our little pool of light. “Last I heard, Mr. Cabral was signed across the board, unless he has new representation…there’s been buzz, lately.”

  “Technically, I’m not with the Buitre Agency.” Inexplicably, I wanted to stumble back into this man’s good graces. “I’m contracted to handle book publicity. I’m my own woman.”

  I’m my own woman? Who said that—Disney’s next pop sensation? Patrick smiled at me indulgently, as if I were thirteen and had declared I’d bought my first training bra.

  “I was under the impression that Buitre liked to do everything in-house, pretty nepotistic. But they’re New York and I’m LA—what do I know?” Patrick winked, and his chill lessened. “It sounds like you’ve already got a solid foot in the door, Miss…”

  “Trilby. Kaye Trilby.”
/>
  Recognition flickered in his eyes. Once again, his gaze swept over my plane-rumpled appearance and decided lack of anything designer, save for the wretched shoes. Then, as if I’d slipped a whoopee cushion under him, he chuckled in delight and extended his hand. I took it.

  “Kaye Trilby. I should have known, but it’s always nice to be caught off guard. I’ve changed my mind.” He waved his hand at the pumps dismissively. “Ditch the ice-pick heels and go with the sturdy flats. You’ll do fine without them.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I yanked the Italian monstrosities from my feet and crammed them in my carry-on, then slipped into my ballet flats. But, just for good measure, I put up my hair. Patrick O’Malley nodded his approval.

  “Perfect.”

  Long minutes passed. I pressed my forehead to the window, anxious. We sailed above nighttime Los Angeles now, millions of lights stretching over the earth. Directly below us were the glowing pylons of LAX reaching toward the plane like giant pastel birthday candles. The airport itself was a sphere of purple-lit arches, curvy and flashy—the embodiment of everything LA loved.

  Ten minutes later, passengers scrambled to gather their bags, filing along the aisle like antsy movie-goers in a ticket line. I didn’t expect to see Samuel right away. Caroline had warned me that LAX was always crawling with paparazzi, so celebs didn’t do the “kiss and greet” thing like the “little” people. Instead, I was to find Justin, the publicist from Berkshire House, who’d then drive me to the hotel where Samuel was tucked away until his next event.

  With a final wave to Patrick, I darted around passengers crawling along with rolling suitcases or hovering below departure/arrival screens. I didn’t spare a glance for the gift shops, though it was my first time in Los Angeles. Instead, I whipped out my phone and punched in Samuel’s number, aching for his voice.

  “I’m here. I’m in LA,” I said eagerly, the minute he answered. I heard his breathless laugh.

  “I’m so glad. Did you have any trouble?”

  “None, but I did get some unsolicited image coaching. Although, the advice wasn’t half-bad.” I silently thanked Patrick as I breezed by other women teetering in high heels.

  He tsked. “Imagine that, on a flight to the celluloid capitol of the world. Where are you?”

  “I’m almost through the gates, then off to find my suitcase.” And the guitars I’d brought as a surprise, praying they weren’t damaged in transit. I glanced around, searching for someone who could be a publicist. “What does Justin look like?” I asked.

  “Utter hipster, that one. No, worse: he’s a scenester dirtbag.” I heard a commotion in the background, followed by a string of cussing and Samuel’s laughter. He continued. “Skinny as hell, scruffy, Camel Light super-glued to his lower lip. He’s wearing a keffiyeh the same color as your purple skirt, even though it’s southern California. And it’s the middle of August. And his mother’s Jewish.” More commotion, then a muffled “leave my mom out of this, man.”

  Realization tiptoed through my brain and my head shot up, scanning the throngs of people. My heartbeat raced toward Samuel with the velocity of a cannonball.

  “Where are you?” I squealed.

  “To your left, Kaye.”

  I skimmed the row of concierges holding signs and landed on a short man in skinny jeans and a plum scarf, Justin. Next to him was a man with wild brown hair—my man. Plain tee and jeans, bright eyes and a dimpled grin out-dressed anyone or anything times infinity. In his tawny hands was a sign of his own: Neelie Nixie.

  Cheeky.

  He stepped forward, catching me up in his arms as he dropped his sign and I dropped my bag at his feet. I buried my face in the crook of his neck and inhaled cardamom and cedar.

  “Welcome to LA, Trilby,” he murmured into my hair.

  “Thanks for having me, Cabral.”

  He tilted my face up to his and kissed me hard, dragging my body in, his sensitive, full lips moving against my own, his smile touching mine.

  “This is the way it should have been,” he said.

  “Hmmm?” My eyes fluttered open.

  “Seven years ago, in New York. I should have been waiting for you at the airport. I should have held you, just like this. I should have taken you home with me and never let you go.”

  Tears burned my eyes. I shook my head. “Samuel, stop. Let’s just be happy right now, okay? You can take me home…or to the hotel, I guess.”

  He brushed his mouth against my forehead and cheeks in silent agreement. Suddenly, I was aware of the crowds of people around us. Justin studied the LAX ceiling with his hands crammed in his pockets. Three young women eyed us curiously, one of them sporting a Deep in the Heart of Nixie T-shirt. And of course, there was the occasional bulb flash from several of the paps who trolled LAX for celebs. Samuel really was too pretty for his own good. I clutched the back of his shirt, the fabric still damp from the outside heat. Then, remembering my manners, I slid from his embrace and held out a hand to Justin.

  “So glad to meet you. You’re a publicist with Berkshire House?”

  “New titles.” Justin shook it with a surprisingly strong grip. “With the show Buitre runs, I’m more like Caro’s walking, talking Rolodex. Normally I’m off tour at this point and we leave ongoing PR to the agency, but this a-hole author called in a favor,” he said in a thick New York accent. He punched Samuel in the shoulder. Samuel shoved him back, then tucked me under his arm and kissed my cheek, just as another camera flashed.

  Over our shoulders, a man shuffled camera lenses in a black bag. Catching my eyes on him, he tapped the brim of his ball cap in a hello. I nodded back, then lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at Samuel. “Funny, how you dodged paparazzi like bullets in Lyons,” I said, “yet here, on their home turf, you’re kissing me in public. What gives?”

  Rebellious fire flickered in his eyes. “Fuck the paparazzi. I’ve decided I don’t care about them, anymore. They can print whatever the fuck they like.”

  I jerked my head back in shock. Was he kidding? “Whoa, Cabral. Signing on with Def Jam, are we? Don’t let Sofia hear that mouth of yours or she’ll ground you to your bedroom.”

  “I’d rather you grounded me to my bedroom.” He leaned over and breathed hot air into my ear. I shuddered. His hand slid over the plum fabric of my skirt and gently cupped my bottom. “I’ve missed you.”

  Yeah. Felt that. If I was any kind of publicist, it was time for me to get my very horny client out of sight, pronto. Moving his hand away, I tugged him from prying eyes and toward the baggage claim.

  “What sorta luggage do you got, Ms. Trilby?” Justin asked.

  “A black suitcase with a red strap. Oh, and two guitars. I know they’re impractical to carry around on tour,” I said, turning to Samuel, “but we’re long overdue for some jam time. I thought you might like that.”

  A wicked smile spread over Samuel’s face, as if I’d just announced the two guitar cases were brimming with garters and thongs. “I’d love it,” he said huskily.

  Justin mumbled something crude under his breath and trotted away for my things. Snapping out of his lust haze, Samuel followed him.

  Right. Apparently everything was about sex tonight. Now I was very anxious to get my client out of the public eye and into the back of a car. Er, just a car. “My client”…oh geez, I sounded like a hooker. Red spread from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair at the thought of pushing Samuel’s shoulders down into the leather upholstery of a BMW or Benz or whatever fancy car was parked outside, skimming my fingernails over his torso, tugging at the waistband of—

  The shrill buzz of my phone broke into my lurid fantasy. I yanked it out of my purse and glared at the screen:

  Caroline Ortega.

  Now she was derailing my imagination, too. I stamped my foot in unbecoming peevishness, startling an older gentleman who dropped his cane. I picked it up for him with a self-conscious apology.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “I take it you arrived safely?
Good. Now try not to do anything that will make Perez Hilton scribble drool and hearts on your pictures, please.” Too late for that. “I have a conference call arranged for eight o’clock tomorrow night in my suite at the Roosevelt.”

  The Hollywood Roosevelt? My inner Molly squealed with glee. Any classic movie buff knew the Roosevelt had been the playground of the stars for eighty years. I pictured Samuel and me sauntering arm and arm through hallways a la Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. I wondered if Samuel had requested we stay there, or if Caroline had chosen it.

  “The partners will be on the call, as well as Samuel’s business manager, his lawyers, and the marketing director at Berkshire House. Samuel has a packed schedule tomorrow, so any prep for the call will need to be done tonight.”

  “But it’ll be eleven in New York,” I stammered.

  Caroline huffed. “Here’s the Cliff Notes, don’t bother with the book: Samuel Caulfield Cabral is a big deal. They’d ditch their wives during the best sex of their lives if Samuel called for a bestsellers report.”

  I snorted in spite of myself.

  “Half of them will just be stumbling in from martinis at Bruno Jamais, anyway,” she continued. “Eight will give you enough time to brush your teeth and go potty—that’s it.” I didn’t miss the subtle inflection of her voice. “That is, if Samuel’s dinner with the Water Sirens producers doesn’t go late. You and Justin are welcome to come along, of course.”

  Dinner with Hollywood producers? I almost dropped my phone. Caroline had successfully made me a nervous wreck in thirty seconds flat. I craned my neck toward the boys. “We’ll be out as soon as my guitars show up.”

  “Guitars.” There was a pause, and then a hiss. “Do whatever you want, as long as Samuel continues to garner good press. See you in five.”

  From what I could tell of the city blurring by, Hollywood Boulevard was a mix of tacky tourist museums, tattoo parlors, and liquor stores, streaked in neon lights like a Pollock painting. Palm trees lined streets of old movie theaters with glittering marquees and gift shops with tattered overhangs. Star impersonators peddling post cards mingled among tourists and artists and prostitutes. Chicken shacks perfumed the air with grease, making my stomach rumble. Not somewhere I’d wander alone at night, but from the breezy back of Justin’s rented convertible, I soaked it up.