Friends with Benefits

by Melody Mayer

  “Oh, I’ve had more than my share of screwups, just ask X. He knows ’em all.”

  It was so great that Billy and X were best friends. Both of them were so hot. It got Lydia to wondering. “Have you ever had sex with a guy?”

  “Have you?” Billy countered.

  “Now, see, that’s not a fair question because I told you that you were going to be my first.”

  “No, Lydia Chandler. I have not had sex with a guy. You think just because X is gay we have to be screwing each other?”

  Lydia thought about that one for a moment. “If I was a guy and X was my best friend, I’d definitely have sex with him once. Just to find out what it’s like.”

  He laughed. “You probably would.”

  Lydia loved that this didn’t seem to bother him. “How old were you when you first did it?”

  “Sixteen,” Billy replied, sipping from the crystal water goblet at his place setting. “And that is all you’re getting out of me.”

  “Waited until you were sixteen. Huh.” Lydia was intrigued. “I thought all boys were horn dogs.”

  Billy chuckled. “Come on, Lydia, you did not.”

  “Do you just have a low sex drive?”

  They’d sat side by side instead of across the table from each other, so Billy could slide an arm around her shoulders and lean close to whisper in her ear. “My sex drive has been in overdrive ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

  Lydia shivered deliciously. “That gave me chill bumps. Dang. I’m so glad I didn’t have sex with Scott the lifeguard.”

  Billy laughed. “Me too.”

  Lydia heard her stomach growling. “I’d be willing to skip dinner and move on to dessert—that’d be you—but I forgot to eat all day because I was so excited.” She plucked the menu from the center of the table and read it aloud, squinting at the words that had been done in calligraphy with black ink. “ ‘Foie gras with caramelized apple, sautéed in Calvados. Mesclun salad with sliced scallions, red and yellow pepper, and goat cheese, garnished with hand-cut avocado and crab chunks. Chateaubriand. Braised rabbit with purple potato compote and mixed berry Chambord sauce. The Queen’s soufflé with Grand Marnier and Kahlua.’ ” She gave Billy a quizzical look.

  “Not a clue,” he admitted. “But hey, I’m game.”

  A waiter in a white dinner jacket used tongs to place hot scones, fragrant with rosemary, on both of their white china side plates. Billy broke off a piece of his and buttered it. “How about you, Lydia, open to trying new things?”

  Lydia lowered the menu. “When my parents lost their minds and we moved from Texas, where we lived in a mansion, to that freaking rain forest, where we lived in a thatched-roof hut, I was not the kind of child open to new experiences, culinary or otherwise.” She ran a finger across the condensation on her water glass as she remembered. “But then . . . well, I guess I was forced into being a different kind of girl.”

  Billy nodded. “When I was a kid, my fantasy of the perfect life was to stay in one place—some town in America that looked like a Norman Rockwell painting—picket fence, bike, basketball hoop in the driveway, Cub Scouts, and Little League.” He shook his head. “Man, I wanted that so much. But instead . . .”

  Lydia knew the rest because Billy had already told her. When he was a boy, his parents had been stationed with the Foreign Service in a half dozen different countries around the globe. “So how did it change you?”

  He shrugged and nibbled at his scone. “Who the hell knows? Maybe I decided to be a designer so that I could create my own fantasy worlds.”

  Speaking of fantasies—Lydia studied him. Hadn’t she seen an entire wing of open staterooms when she’d toured the ship? Even if they’d been paid for, no one was in them yet, because everyone was eating dinner. Suddenly, her grumbling stomach was forgotten.

  She put a meaningful hand on his thigh. “Oh, Will-i-am,” she singsonged.

  “Oh, Li-dee-ya,” he sang back, teasing. “You might want to move your hand; the waiter is heading this way with the first course.”

  “I was thinking we could skip the meal. Let’s find a stateroom.”

  “Oh, really.” He smiled at her.

  “Yes, really.” She kissed him softly. “I have on the most killer lingerie. You really should see it.”

  She saw the flicker of lust in Billy’s eyes. She’d seen the same look in Scott’s eyes—as if their IQs had just slumped twenty points. Good to know that Billy was not impervious to her charms. Even if he was the coolest hetero male on the planet, he was still male.

  The waiter placed the salad plates atop the gold chargers in front of them. Lydia gave Billy one meaningful gaze, then let her eyes flick toward the exit. She was sure he’d take the napkin off his lap and stand up. Then she’d rise. Then he’d take her hand and lead her to a stateroom. They’d lock the door. He’d kiss her wildly, passionately, then turn her around and slowly unzip her dress until—

  “Mmmm, Lydia. Delicious.”

  Lydia snapped out of her fantasy, because Billy wasn’t referring to her. He had just forked a bite of apple and something brown and pasty-looking into his mouth from the appetizer plate.

  “You’re eating?” Lydia couldn’t believe it.

  Billy pointed to his plate with the fork as he swallowed. “This has to be the foie gras.”

  Now she was getting pissed. “I am wearing an eight-hundred-dollar Chanel dress, under which is three hundred dollars’ worth of lacy silk, under which is priceless silky me. You’re telling me you’d rather munch that—that brown stuff?”

  “No.” He put his fork down and wiped his mouth. “Resisting you is right up there with world peace—damn hard to achieve.”

  “So, don’t resist.”

  “We’re not rushing into this, Miss Chandler.”

  “Who’s rushing? I’ve been wanting to have sex since I was thirteen, but the only possible candidates were five-feet-tall, nearly naked spear carriers!”

  He took her hand. “Look, I’m honored, flattered—all that— that you want it to be me, but . . .”

  In a flash, Lydia understood. “Oh, damn. It’s too much pressure, right? Performance anxiety. I read about it in Men’s Health. Now that’s a boring-ass magazine.”

  Billy broke off a piece of scone, put a dollop of foie gras on it, and offered it to her. “Eat.”

  She was about to protest, but changed her mind and took a bite. “You know, that’s really good.”

  “So’s waiting to do the deed, Lydia. Otherwise it’s just lust.”

  Oh, now she got it. Lydia washed the food down with a large gulp of water. “That is just so sweet, Billy. You’re not in love with me and you’re such a gentleman that you don’t want to use me for your wanton lust. But it’s fine; I am heavily into wanton lust.”

  He burst out laughing. “I have a feeling you’d be the one using me. I’d like to get to know you before I know you. In the biblical sense.”

  Lydia folded her arms. “I am just really disappointed in you, William Martin.”

  He didn’t seem the least perturbed by her comment, just broke off another piece of scone. “I’ll make it up to you, Lydia Chandler, in the long run.” His dimples winked at her.

  Lydia scowled. Of all the crapola. Billy didn’t want to have sex with her until they had a real “relationship.” Lust wasn’t enough for him. At least not with her. She had managed to fall for the most romantic boy on the planet.

  Damn. Talk about bad luck.

  28

  Kiley stood just inside the massive double doors that led into the Queen Mary’s ballroom and tried to take it all in: The orchestra slowly turning on the raised platform in the center of the massive room. The twenty-foot-tall Lucite martini glass that was already half full of tip money earned by the celebrity waiters. Breathtakingly beautiful women in couture gowns, dripping jewels that they owned or that had been loaned to them from places like Harry Winston and Tiffany.

  Not only did she recognize Hollywood royalty, but becaus
e of the breathless preview coverage the party had received on TV, she knew there was actual royalty in attendance too. Kiley had watched Tori Spelling on E! interview an aristocratic-looking man with a narrow face and a receding hairline, named Count Brandino Brandolini d’Adda, who was from Naranzaria, Italy. The count told Tori that all the wine that would be consumed on the Queen Mary had been donated from his vineyards.

  Kiley looked up. Women dressed as flappers were swinging on swings descending from the ceiling. She was pretty sure that the young woman on the swing directly overhead was Jessica Simpson.

  “Make way, please, excuse us, please.”

  Four white-jacketed flunkies were clearing the way for a scarlet-sequin-gowned Mariah Carey. And over there in the stunning gold brocade gown with the sweetheart neckline—was that Hilary Swank dancing with Jimmy Fallon? The only people it seemed she hadn’t yet spotted were Tom and Platinum.

  Platinum, in fact, would be arriving even later than Kiley and had sent Kiley ahead in the Lotus while she stopped at Raymond’s salon for a blowout by the master himself. Lori would be taking care of the children that evening. “Caviar on toast point, miss?” A white-jacketed waiter with a chiseled jaw-line held out a silver tray, on which there was a small bowl of tiny round black things, another bowl of minced onions and chopped egg, a tiny bowl of sour cream with a baby spoon, and a plate of small pieces of toast. She recognized the tiny round black things as caviar—fish eggs of some sort—but she’d certainly never eaten any. Frankly, it looked disgusting. But that wasn’t why her jaw was hanging open. That was because the hands holding the silver tray belonged to Jim Carrey, who Kiley was pretty certain was the funniest human on the planet.

  “Care for some caviar?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied, half-dazed. “But thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Have fun tonight. Killer dress, you look great.” He moved off into the crowd.

  A smile crept onto Kiley’s lips. Had Jim Carrey just told her she looked killer? Wait until she told Nina. And her mom—her mom loved him. If only she’d gotten a picture of the two of them together. No, that would have been way too tacky. Oh wait, she should have tipped him; given him some money to throw into the giant martini glass. But she’d only brought, like, five crumpled one-dollar bills with her. Still, she should have—

  “Caviar?”

  This time it wasn’t Jim Carrey. It was Tom, looking tall and tan and impossibly handsome in a black tuxedo. “I just saw Jim Carrey offer you some,” he explained. “You looked . . . dazzled.”

  “I was. Am,” she corrected herself. “So . . . hi.”

  “This is a surprise. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  Right. Because you didn’t invite me. “I’ve got my own friends in high places,” she joked.

  Kiley thought she saw admiration in his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

  Wow. First a famous actor. Then Tom Chappelle.

  “Thanks. I’d say ‘This old thing?’ But it’s an actual Chanel and I actually own it,” Kiley confided. “Platinum treated my friends and me to a shopping spree.”

  “Yo, what’s up, man?” An extremely tall, extremely muscular bald black man called to Tom as he walked by with two plates of hors d’oeuvres in his massive right hand.

  Tom waved a hand to return the greeting. “Shaq,” Tom said. “I met him at the premiere party for The Ten. So, how’d it go last night with Platinum? You guys get home all right?”

  Something in Tom’s way-casual attitude irked Kiley. “You’d already know the answer to that if you’d called me to find out.”

  Tom winced. “Ouch. You’re right. It’s just been crazy. Two more runway shows this afternoon, then photos, interviews . . .”

  “Oh yeah, me too,” Kiley deadpanned.

  There was a long beat of silence; then Tom burst out laughing, and so did Kiley. “Okay, I deserved that,” he admitted. “Hopefully I can make it up to you. Dance?”

  They went down to the dance floor—it was no longer crowded, since so many people had gone to their salons to eat dinner. The orchestra was playing; the torch singer’s eyes were at half-mast as she crooned into the microphone about finding love. Tom held his arms out; Kiley floated into them. They fit together perfectly. She leaned into him and he stroked her hair. He smelled clean and so . . . so boy. His arms tightened around her waist.

  If ever there was a moment when Kiley wished that a song would never end, it was this moment. She was exactly where she wanted to be, in the perfect moment with the perfect boy.

  When the singer finished the last ringing note, Tom kept his arms around her and gazed into her eyes.

  “Song’s over,” she pointed out.

  His arms stayed where they were. “Do we care?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Tom, there you are.” Marym swept over to them looking perfect in a silver column dress held up by a diamond brooch on one shoulder, the other bare; silver satin sandals made her nearly as tall as Tom. Her hair was up in a simple bun at the nape of her swanlike neck; long pink diamond-and-rubellite earrings danced in her ears, nearly brushing her elegant collar-bone. Other than that she wore no jewelry.

  Suddenly, Kiley felt like a chubby little girl playing dress-up. The stony look on Marym’s face when she realized who Tom was dancing with didn’t help.

  “Kiley.” Marym’s tone was icy. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I brought her to your birthday party,” Tom reminded Marym.

  Marym’s eyes stayed on Kiley’s. “But we don’t need to go back that far, do we?”

  Tom looked puzzled. “What’s this about?”

  “Some people were picketing my house this morning,” Marym seethed. “I watched it on TV. You were there. Don’t bother denying it.”

  Kiley blushed. Tom looked shocked. Kiley was instantly sorry that she hadn’t told him about it. After all, he was the one who had introduced her to Marym. Kiley could feel Marym’s and Tom’s eyes on her, waiting to see what she would say.

  Gulp. But she’d done the right thing, she reminded herself. Marym was the one in the wrong here, not her. She could tough this out. She would tough this out.

  “Yes, I was there,” Kiley affirmed, standing her ground. “Marym won’t let the public get access to the beach,” she explained to Tom. “I was part of a peaceful demonstration across from her house in Malibu this morning.” She took a deep breath and plunged on. “I’d do it again, in fact.”

  Marym put one fist on a jutting hip bone. “You were a guest in my home, Kiley. Did you even think about picking up the phone and calling to ask me about this?”

  Kiley really did not like the way Tom was staring at her. “Um . . . no,” she admitted.

  “I just bought my house,” Marym fumed. “I didn’t know anything about the beach-zoning rules—I’ve barely moved in, my financial planner found the place and made all the arrangements, and I’ve been on the road half the time! I don’t want to keep people off the beach!”

  Kiley felt awful. “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t. Now that I know about it, of course I’ll allow the public access.”

  “But—but on TV they said you wouldn’t even do an interview!” Kiley sputtered.

  “How could I do an interview?” Marym’s eyes blazed. “I was at Ma Maison Sofitel for the night! You were willing to think the worst of me without knowing the truth.”

  God. Marym was right. “I—I don’t—I’m not . . .” Kiley had no idea what to say. She should apologize. But her envy regarding Marym, and her possible—probable—relationship to Tom made that so difficult. Still, it was the right thing to do. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  Marym didn’t respond, she just folded her arms and glared.

  Tom finally spoke up. “Hey, she apologized, Mar.”

  “Is that supposed to fix everything?” Marym snapped.

  “She made a mistake,” Tom said. “But it was an honest one. She was standi
ng up for something she believes in.” His eyes went to Kiley. “That’s pretty great.”

  Kiley smiled at him gratefully. He really did understand.

  Marym put an elegant hand on her clavicle. “Whose side are you on, exactly?”

  Tom nudged Marym playfully. “Come on, get over yourself, diva. This is me you’re talking to. Next time Kiley has a disagreement with you, she’ll call; I’ll personally give her your number. How’s that?”

  “Just because I’m beautiful and rich doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings,” Marym sniffed.

  Ugh. What a clueless thing to say, Kiley thought. Maybe when everyone treated you like you were the Queen of Sheba, you started to believe it. But, Kiley reminded herself, Marym was only eighteen, just a little older than she was. It probably was tough to be thrown into a glamorous, adult world overnight.

  “I really am sorry,” Kiley told Marym. “It’s just . . . I love the ocean so much. That’s what brought me to California, because I want to go to Scripps Institution of Oceanography and . . .” She realized she was rambling. Marym didn’t care why she was in California. “Anyway, I need to look before I leap.”

  Marym nodded, but she still looked peeved. She slipped her arm through Tom’s. “Come on, let’s go to Sir Winston’s Salon. They already started serving.”

  “We’re seated with the host and hostess of the evening,” Tom explained to Kiley apologetically.

  Kiley tripped all over herself to sound casual. “Oh, that’s fine. I mean, you didn’t even know I’d be here or anything.” She started backing away. “I’m already late to meet up with my friends, so . . .”

  “Maybe we can meet later?” Tom asked.

  “Oh, you know, whatever, I’ll be pretty busy. Have fun, you two!” Kiley turned and sprinted off. Could she have made any bigger an ass of herself? Tom had defended her to Marym, but he was just being a good guy. Kiley had ruined everything!

  She ducked into a quiet corridor and stood for a moment, trying to collect herself. What difference did it make if she impressed Tom or not? All you had to do was look at the way Marym touched him to know that they’d been together, in every sense of the word. Maybe Tom had flirted with Kiley a little on the dance floor, but as soon as Marym appeared, the magical bubble had burst. Kiley knew exactly why she’d been willing to assume the worst about Marym: because she was jealous as hell.