“Good. I’ll be at your bungalow in two hours. Make sure your hairstylist is there, and pull out some of your cute dresses. I’m running low.”
Svetlana cocked her head. “Size six?”
“Four!” Dylan slammed the bamboo door behind her and hurried to the poolside café.
This LG Chocolate blackmailing was making her hungry.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
SVETLANA’S BUNGALOW
Tuesday, June 30
8 P.M.
“Love it!” Dylan burped.
She had spent the last four hours in Svetlana’s bungalow, staring at her reflection while Ingrid, Svetlana’s busty personal stylist, wove extensions in her hair before perma-straightening it with chemicals that smelled like cabbage. When Ingrid left to ice her aching wrists, Dylan admire-stroked her twelve-inch, serpentine side-braid, wondering if J.T. would notice her striking resemblance to the Little Mermaid.
“Ariellllll,” Dylan burped again.
Boris opened his haunting blue eyes, yawned, then curled back into his sleep-ball on the dirty-clothes pile in the middle of the room.
“Why must you belch words like a man?” Svetlana hit pause on the remote and sat up on her white (of course!) satin–covered bed. An image of herself midserve was frozen on the giant flat screen across from her.
Dylan considered answering but decided not to bother. How could she explain humor to a girl who chased balls across hot clay courts for fun? Instead, she crossed “Get hair like Svetlana” off her list and moved on.
“Now show me how to get that ah-dorable braid-swing you get when you’re hitting a ball.” Dylan grabbed Svetlana’s boar-bristle paddle brush off the mirrored vanity. She swung her arm back, then whacked it through the humid air.
But her new braid hung limp. Nothing could swing in this heat. “Any chance of putting the AC on in here?”
“Nyet.” Svetlana stood up and padded across the moist marble floor to jack up the thermostat even more. “Humidity keeps muscles limber. Get used to it. If you want to be world-class athlete, you have to suffer.”
Dylan thumb-typed “extreme heat” into her LG as Svetlana looked on.
The mere sight of the device clearly put Svetlana on edge. She crossed the room and climbed the two limestone steps that led to the frosted glass spa-Jacuzzi nestled in the corner by the French doors. The glass doors opened to a lush garden, which was now drenched in the light of the pink Hawaiian sunset. Standing next to the tub, Svetlana powered on the jets, which burst to life with a frothing grumble.
“Where is my Epsom salt? WHO TOOK MY EPSOM SALT?” Her callused heel smashed up against the off button. The tub water rippled before going flat.
“Tem-puur.” Dylan waved her phone at Svetlana from across the room. “Anyway, forget the bath—we still have wardrobe and tennis lingo and diet to cover before bed.”
Svetlana spun around and hurried through the open French doors behind her. “Ugh!” She grabbed a handful of pink plumeria blossoms off a budding tree and crushed them between her fists. Mangled petals slipped through her quaking fingers as she paced the patio, mumbling in Russian.
“Hey, Svet,” Dylan called from the safety of a white satin ottoman at the foot of the bed, “did you say your designer was in the suite next door?”
“I have idea.” Svetlana turned, her rehearsed media smile hard at work. “Why don’t we just go out to court and volley?”
Dylan grinned. It was nice to see her embracing their partnership. “Is there a mirror out there?”
“Nyet.” Svetlana unzipped her white Nike warm-up jacket and fanned her reddening cheeks.
“Well, how am I going to see how I look swinging and playing if I don’t have a mirror?”
“Dee-lann, this is silly waste of time.” Svetlana marched over to the ottoman and peered down at Dylan’s newly straightened hair.
“No, it’s not.” Dylan stood. “I saw the way J.T. looked at you. I want that.” Her voice trembled, struggling to support the weight of her words: words heavy with humiliation and frustration and LBR potential.
Because seriously! How pathetic was this whole blackmail scheme?
Most normal girls would down a dozen Entenmann’s cookies and come to terms with the fact that their crush was already crushing on an international tennis star. And they’d move on. But Dylan refused to give up that easily. Those days were over. She was tired of stepping aside. Tired of the spotlight passing by on its search for someone better to illuminate, like Massie or her mother or Svetlana. For once, she wanted to shine. And not because she craved attention, but because she wanted to know that someone special truly believed she belonged there.
Someone other than herself.
“He was looking at me?” Svetlana’s smile softened. With an extra spring in her stride, she bounced toward the mirror-covered door that connected her suite to the adjacent one.
Who?” Dylan followed the leggy blonde, her stomach sinking when she realized what she’d just revealed.
“This J.T. you are talking about—he looked at Svetlana in certain way?” Her blue-green eyes widened, making her look her real age of fifteen, as opposed to her rage-age of twenty-five.
Dylan tugged her hair-snake and waved away Svetlana’s question. “So not the point. Now, let’s talk outfits.” The last thing she needed was to make Svetlana aware of J.T.’s irresistible hawtness. Because if she liked him and he knew it, Dylan would be playing singles for the rest of the summer.
“Fine. Now, enter.” Svetlana held open the door and waved Dylan through.
The connecting suite was just as humid, but there was no canopy bed, spa-Jacuzzi, or fireside sitting area. Instead, bolts of varying shades of white, sweat-resistant fabrics were stacked along the walls like contestant finalists, all vying for the chance to become Svetlana’s next tournament fashion statement. Eight rows of tennis shoes covered the marble floor, each one sprinkled with mentholated Gold Bond foot powder, ready for battle. And a gallery of plastic Svetlana look-alikes—each frozen in a different action pose—donned custom-made outfits. There was a new one for each of the tournament’s seven rounds.
The suite was a seven-thousand-dollars-a-night walk-in closet.
“Ehmagawd, these are ah-mazing!” Dylan said, fingering the rice paper–thin fabric of a backless shift dress.
Svetlana brushed past her and stopped in front of the second mannequin, which was wearing a ribbed tank with a built-in navy ribbon belt and tulip-shaped skirt. “Does amazing mean awful in your country? If it does, then, yes, you are right. It is amazing.” She yanked the ribbon out of the top and cracked it Catwoman style. “Winsome, what did I tell you about colors?”
A petite twentysomething in an orange tank dress emerged from behind a mountain of fabric. Dozens of pins pierced the rubber toes on her lime green Chucks, as if she were some sort of voodoo doll. Winsome was the first person Dylan had seen in two days who wasn’t wearing white. She felt like Dorothy landing in Oz.
“Hi, I’m Svetlana’s designer.” She even had a high-pitched munchkin voice that complimented her shock of platinum Gwen Stefani–meets–Marie Antoinette hairdo.
“I’m Dylan. I luhv your—”
“And what is this?” Svetlana gut-punched a mannequin wearing short shorts and a glitter-covered sports bra. “Where is the belly chain?”
Winsome quickly caught the dummy before it toppled over. “Cartier is sending it over this aft—”
“And this?” Svetlana bared her fangs at a hippie-chic eyelet dress. “I asked for eyelet!”
“That is eyelet.” Dylan had to correct her with an eye roll.
“No, this is eyelet.” Svetlana picked up a black Sharpie and scribbled bold flowers all over the pretty white mini.
“Svetlana, those are rosettes,” Winsome said evenly.
“Maybe in your country!” Svetlana wrote NYET across the dress and slammed down the marker.
“Svetlana, stop! These are cute times ten!”
W
insome shot Dylan a grateful smile.
Svetlana towered over the designer, her blond braid resting on the girl’s bare shoulder. “I said I wanted the skirt shorter,” she hissed.
“Right. You did. And you’re right.” Winsome pulled a pin out of her shoe and speed-fastened the hem an inch higher.
“So, Svetlana, tell Winsome why we’re here.” Dylan tapped the screen of her LG with a French-manicured nail tip.
“Tennis clothes,” Svetlana managed. “Anything she wants.”
“Of course!” Winsome finished the hem and then reached for her sketch pad, pulling a charcoal slab out of her platinum updo.
Their words washed over Dylan like the spa’s luxurious Vichy shower. Was this how alphas were treated all the time?
“Sooo, what’s the fantasy?” Winsome hopped up on a tall sealed box marked WORN ONCE. DESTROY. She knocked the heels of her custom-made platform Chucks against the cardboard with glee. “I can do anything but beading. My fingers are too plump for detail work. Luckily, there’s a woman on the mainland with baby hands. She’s old but fast.”
“I don’t need beads.” Dylan sat down next to Winsome. She peered over the designer’s bony shoulder at the fresh page in her sketchbook, hoping it might be the last white thing she ever saw. “I want color. Lots of color. Ella Moss meets Puma with vertical stripes. They are slimming, don’tcha think?”
“Ab-so-luuuut-leeee!” Winsome narrowed her eyes and began sketching like a girl possessed.
“Arrrrrrrrrrr,” Svetlana yawned with her entire face. She was standing among the mannequins, looking just as bored as they did.
“This heat is making me thirsty,” Dylan said to Svetlana, loving the power this little blackmail scam was giving her. “I’d like a mango smoothie. Winsome?”
The designer immediately put down her sketch pad and stood up. “What can I get you?”
Dylan shook her head no. “We should keep working.”
Winsome knit her platinum eyebrows in confusion.
“Svetlana will get them.” Dylan stroked her red braid with the confidence and composure of a mob boss.
“I am no waitress!” Svetlana smacked one of the mannequins on the neck.
Dylan walked over to Svetlana. “Not yet. But you will be when I destroy your career,” she whisper-hissed. This constant battle was trying her patience. Why couldn’t Svetlana accept her role as a slave and just go with it?
Winsome glanced from her boss to Dylan back to her boss, as if she were watching a heated match in a game she barely understood.
Svetlana stepped away from the dummy. “Fine, what would you like?” she growled through clenched teeth.
Thirty-love, Dylan!
“Um, whatever she’s having?” Winsome said like she was asking a question.
Svetlana spun on her Nikes, her blond braid slicing the humid air and slap-landing against her bare back.
“And don’t bother spitting in it, ’cause you’re taking the first sip,” Dylan called after her.
As soon as Svetlana slammed the French doors behind her, Winsome turned to stare at Dylan in awe. “That was epic. She never listens to anyone. See this scar?” She pointed to a raised line above her brow. “I designed a Grecian dress that made her look like a goddess. I told her she looked beautiful, and she threw her championship ring at my eye.”
Dylan leaned into get a better look at the damage. “How come?”
“She can’t take compliments. She hates them. They make her violent.” Winsome charcoal-drew a sad emoticon on her bare knee, then quickly smudged it away.
Dylan raised her eyebrows. “Why stay? You could design for anyone!”
“She’s a walking ad for me.” Winsome shrugged. “And if I want to start my own label one day, I need to …” Her voice trailed off. “You know, you’re the first friend she’s ever had on tour.”
“Really?” Dylan wanted to point out that she was hardly a friend, but suddenly she felt an odd tug of sympathy for Svetlana.
Winsome grabbed a bolt of purple and yellow Pucci-esque fabric from the discarded-color pile in the far corner of the suite. “Now, let’s make you even more gorgeous than you already are!” She charged toward Dylan with vigor, but stopped short. “Wait. You don’t mind if I call you gorgeous, do you?” She shielded her face with the fabric, just in case.
“Not even a little bit.” Dylan beamed.
KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
DYLAN’S BUNGALOW
Wednesday, July 1
9 A.M.
Diiiing-donnnng!
The following morning, Dylan tightened the bow on her sunset orange silk Tocca for Kapalua Spa robe and padded across her and Merri-Lee’s bungalow. Her belly rumbled, knowing that the Salty Surfer Breakfast for two was waiting for her under a steamy silver dome on the room service cart. She was meeting Svetlana on her private court in an hour for their first practice, and she wanted to be well fueled for the workout.
“Alo-ha!” she blurted as she opened the door.
But a stack of boxes, not pancakes, stared back. A note on the cardboard, charcoal-written in happy loops, read:
For Dylan Marvil:
The most Marvil-ous muse ever.
XOX Winsome
“Yayyy!” Dylan tossed her long red side-braid over her shoulder, then dragged the boxes inside. Starting the morning with a compliment and new clothes beat a hearty breakfast any day. Was this how Massie felt every time she got her daily delivery of Glossip Girl? And if so, no wonder she always walked around with a today-is-my-birthday attitude.
Diving into one of the shoe-size boxes first, Dylan pulled out a pair of lavender heart–covered platform sneakers named Forty-Love. The second pair was pewter mesh covered with metallic-red letters that spelled out MARVIL-OUS. A third pair was light green satin with a brown leather toe. Winsome had named them Mint Chocolate Chip, after her and Dylan’s mutual love for the ice cream flavor.
For every shoe there was a matching outfit. A light lavender V-neck striped hooded dress. A red romper with tiny gray pinstripes. A green argyle vest with a tartan mini, intended to be worn over brown boy shorts.
Little Dylan-esque touches took each piece from adorable to utterly enviable: gray socks with peacock feathers instead of pom-poms, colorful satin headbands-turned-sweat-wickers, silver M FOR MARVIL-OUS hair pins, and a ruby red Swarovski tennis bracelet made to match her new, sparkling, custom-made red rhinestone racket! There was even a box of metallic gold tennis balls monogrammed with Dylan’s initials in green.
The only thing missing was white.
If only her mother had been there to witness this bounty. Maybe then she’d realize how important her daughter really was. But she had been behind closed doors on a teleconference call with her producers since seven o’clock and had given Dylan strict instructions not to disturb her. Dylan sighed. She hoped, at least, that the intentional smattering of boxes and Svetlana-embossed tissue wrap would tip her mom off when she emerged.
“Now, what to wear?” Dylan scanned the volcano of clothes, wondering what would capture J.T.’s attention the fastest. She decided on a Diane von Furstenberg–inspired V-neck wrap dress with yellow, blue, and green Missoniish zigzags. Once she paired the dress with M.A.C. Copper Sparkle eye shadow and sweatproof YSL mascara, Dylan knew she’d look tennis hawt and then some.
Forgetting all about the Salty Surfer Breakfast, she slid on her Mint Chocolate Chips and left the bungalow with red-carpet confidence. It was time for her first lesson.
As usual, the sky was deep blue and cloudless. The tropical flowers opened their vibrant petals for the buzzing bees and hummingbirds. And the soft onshore breezes carved row after row of smooth waves that reminded Dylan of a plus-size pair of sapphire-colored corduroys.
On the lush, flower-flanked stone path that led to the public courts, Dylan bounced past two spa attendants in matching whites and old-school Ray-Bans. They lowered their black glasses when she passed.
“Want me much?” she giggle-mu
mbled under her breath.
Securing her Dior wraparound sunglasses, Dylan pretended not to notice the multitude of double takes she got as she sauntered across the grounds. Blissfully, she inhaled the fragrant island air and exhaled everything else. She would not be overlooked anymore.
At the courts, she spotted J.T. leaning against a gleaming chain-link fence, dabbing sweat off his brow with a gray wristband. Then he shook hands with a cute college-age boy whose pit sweat–flooded Fila shirt seemed to say, “I ran my butt off and lost.”
Swinging her rhinestone-covered racket, Dylan mind-sang lyrics to J.T.’s (the famous one) “This Can’t Just Be Summer Love” and timed her saunter to the groove-steady beat. As she neared the tennis greens, she saw Aloha Open banners and Nike swooshes adorning the courts and their aluminum pull-down seats. But nothing was more captivating than J.T. (the hawt one) and his caramel-colored highlights. His bangs were side-swept across his forehead, the tips kissing his black lashes and surrounding his navy eyes like a tiger-striped picture frame.
“Hey, Dylan!” he shout-waved.
Dylan’s stomach lurched like one of those tennis ball–spitting machines. Her name coming from his mouth sounded eerie. Like when something you dream about actually comes true.
“Cool braid,” he called.
Dylan grabbed her faux hair with faux surprise, as if spending four hours extending and straightening it with a busty woman named Ingrid was so normal she forgot others might find it something to behold.
“Oh, hey,” she said, injecting her tone with just the right amount of never-expected-to-find-you-here.
“Are you playing today?” J.T. misted his rosy cheeks with Evian.
“Given,” Dylan said with plenty of duh!
“Wanna volley?” he said, his eyes on her red crystal–-covered racket.
“Um …” What did volley mean again? Dylan looked over at the courts and saw a group of seven-year-olds working on their serves. The serious players—the ones competing in the Aloha Open—practiced on private courts to avoid being studied by the competition.
Dylan Page 4
