music.
“What's the matter?” Lydia, who immediately had started boogying to the music as if she'd grown up on it, instead of on Amazonian tribal chants, stopped dancing.
“These aren't my tunes. I'm taking a break.”
“Could you go buy me a bottle of real expensive champagne?” Lydia asked over the music.
“It's an open bar,” Esme pointed out. “It's all free.”
Lydia bumped her hip into Esme's. “I'm foolin'. But just out of curiosity, rich girl, how much money did Jacqueline pay for her tattoo last night?”
“Too much. I'll be back.”
Esme snaked her way through the crowd toward the bar. Truth be told, she'd taken home fifteen hundred dollars the night before for four hours of work, plus a dinner that had been delivered by room service from the kitchen of the Polo Lounge, a landmark of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Fifteen hundred dollars— Jacqueline had been so pleased with the tattoo that she'd tipped extravagantly—was three times what Esme made at the Goldhagens' in a week, for less than a tenth of the time invested. Every time she thought about this, she had to wonder: why in the world was she still a nanny? If her business took off, she could make three hundred thousand dollars a year for creating art.
Then she thought how disappointed her mother and father would be. “We're not working this hard so you can carve up and paint people's arms,” her father had told her in Spanish when they'd had a family dinner last Saturday night at their tiny bungalow in Echo Park. “You keep this job, you go to that good school so you can be someone someday. Tattoos are for
cholos
.”
Esme reached the bar. There were a half dozen people in front of her waiting to place drink orders, including two gorgeous girls who were making out. It was clear to Esme that they were doing this for show, as they kept looking around to see who was looking back. Both girls had visible tattoos. The strawberry blonde with the blunt-cut bob had a dolphin peeking out from the low-cut back of her pink silk shirt, and the brunette had a yin-yang sign on her lower back that dipped into the top of her designer jeans.
Talk about boring body art. Hell, she could probably talk those two girls into new tattoos right this minute if she wanted to. She would learn about who they were, their hopes anddreams, and design a tattoo for both of them that was one of a kind, utterly unique. Those girls would recommend her to more girls and more guys … and if she was really careful and saved nearly every penny, soon she would have enough money to buy her parents a decent house and get their immigration status regularized. She could always go to school later on. Was she out of her mind not to?
She felt her cell phone vibrate. Jonathan? No. It was a text from Lydia. She had met up with Billy on the other side of the stage. Did Esme want to join them?
Well, why not? She wasn't about to take a ride on one of the mechanical bulls—currently an obviously drunk girl whose breasts looked as if they could double as flotation devices was on the one nearest to the bar line. A crowd of guys stood around and watched her appreciatively.
Ugh.
Where was Jonathan, anyway? He had to be hobnobbing with the usual Hollywood insiders. Esme had about as much interest in hobnobbing as she had in getting a dolphin tattoo herself.
I'll bring drinks
, Esme texted back to Lydia.
Tequila
. It took another ten minutes before Esme got to the front of the bar line. When she did, alcohol was the last thing that interested her— because she happened to glance over at the dance floor, and there on the periphery was Jonathan, dancing not with some Hollywood A-list player he needed to impress, but rather with Tarshea. The Jamaican girl looked stunningly beautiful in another outfit that Diane Goldhagen must have bought for her, because there was no way that Esme's co-nanny could haveafforded it herself. She wore a fuchsia minidress by Tracy Reese—Esme knew the designer because
“What's the matter?” Lydia, who immediately had started boogying to the music as if she'd grown up on it, instead of on Amazonian tribal chants, stopped dancing.
“These aren't my tunes. I'm taking a break.”
“Could you go buy me a bottle of real expensive champagne?” Lydia asked over the music.
“It's an open bar,” Esme pointed out. “It's all free.”
Lydia bumped her hip into Esme's. “I'm foolin'. But just out of curiosity, rich girl, how much money did Jacqueline pay for her tattoo last night?”
“Too much. I'll be back.”
Esme snaked her way through the crowd toward the bar. Truth be told, she'd taken home fifteen hundred dollars the night before for four hours of work, plus a dinner that had been delivered by room service from the kitchen of the Polo Lounge, a landmark of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Fifteen hundred dollars— Jacqueline had been so pleased with the tattoo that she'd tipped extravagantly—was three times what Esme made at the Goldhagens' in a week, for less than a tenth of the time invested. Every time she thought about this, she had to wonder: why in the world was she still a nanny? If her business took off, she could make three hundred thousand dollars a year for creating art.
Then she thought how disappointed her mother and father would be. “We're not working this hard so you can carve up and paint people's arms,” her father had told her in Spanish when they'd had a family dinner last Saturday night at their tiny bungalow in Echo Park. “You keep this job, you go to that good school so you can be someone someday. Tattoos are for
cholos
.”
Esme reached the bar. There were a half dozen people in front of her waiting to place drink orders, including two gorgeous girls who were making out. It was clear to Esme that they were doing this for show, as they kept looking around to see who was looking back. Both girls had visible tattoos. The strawberry blonde with the blunt-cut bob had a dolphin peeking out from the low-cut back of her pink silk shirt, and the brunette had a yin-yang sign on her lower back that dipped into the top of her designer jeans.
Talk about boring body art. Hell, she could probably talk those two girls into new tattoos right this minute if she wanted to. She would learn about who they were, their hopes anddreams, and design a tattoo for both of them that was one of a kind, utterly unique. Those girls would recommend her to more girls and more guys … and if she was really careful and saved nearly every penny, soon she would have enough money to buy her parents a decent house and get their immigration status regularized. She could always go to school later on. Was she out of her mind not to?
She felt her cell phone vibrate. Jonathan? No. It was a text from Lydia. She had met up with Billy on the other side of the stage. Did Esme want to join them?
Well, why not? She wasn't about to take a ride on one of the mechanical bulls—currently an obviously drunk girl whose breasts looked as if they could double as flotation devices was on the one nearest to the bar line. A crowd of guys stood around and watched her appreciatively.
Ugh.
Where was Jonathan, anyway? He had to be hobnobbing with the usual Hollywood insiders. Esme had about as much interest in hobnobbing as she had in getting a dolphin tattoo herself.
I'll bring drinks
, Esme texted back to Lydia.
Tequila
. It took another ten minutes before Esme got to the front of the bar line. When she did, alcohol was the last thing that interested her— because she happened to glance over at the dance floor, and there on the periphery was Jonathan, dancing not with some Hollywood A-list player he needed to impress, but rather with Tarshea. The Jamaican girl looked stunningly beautiful in another outfit that Diane Goldhagen must have bought for her, because there was no way that Esme's co-nanny could haveafforded it herself. She wore a fuchsia minidress by Tracy Reese—Esme knew the designer because
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