she'd tried it on herself with Diane on a shopping expedition with the twins to the Beverly Center. But Diane didn't buy it for her, and the four-figure price tag was far too rich for Esme's tastes, tattoo business or no tattoo business.
The dress looked great. Jonathan looked great. Tarshea and Jonathan looked great together. And from the way that Tarshea was snaking her arms around Jonathan's neck, Tarshea undoubtedly felt great, too.
What was she doing here? With
Esme's
boyfriend?
It must have been the intensity of her stare that made Jonathan and Tarshea look toward her at the exact same time. Esme saw Jonathan lean forward and say something to Tarshea. The Jamaican girl nodded, then Jonathan hurried over to Esme.
“I bet you're wondering what she's doing here,” he said quickly.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Diane texted me, said that it would be good for Tarshea to meet some industry people, and dropped her off. It wasn't my call.”
“Uh-huh.” Esme didn't know whether to believe him or not. Especially because she could see that Tarshea was staring at the two of them with the biggest shit-eating grin on her lovely heart-shaped face.
I could deck her
, Esme considered.
I could kick her ass so easily
—
“You don't believe me,” Jonathan said. “Here. Look at the text.”
He whipped out his iPhone and with a few practiced flicks ofhis finger got to a text message that indeed had come from Diane. He stuck the screen in front of Esme's face. “Believe me now?”
Esme nodded. Not that it made her feel all that much better. Since when was Jonathan Diane's puppet? He didn't even like his stepmother all that much.
“I was just surprised,” Esme said, covering. No way was she going to play the jealous girlfriend.
“Well, I hope this is a surprise, too.” Jonathan leaned in and kissed her. “Wait for me in the bar. I'll be there in ten minutes. I promise,” he murmured when the kiss was over.
That would have been fine with Esme. Except she glanced again at Tarshea, and the girl still had the strangest look on her face, as if she knew something Esme didn't.
But no, that had to be Esme's imagination. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that Tarshea was after her guy. No, more than that. Tarshea was after her
life.
“Dang, I can't kiss all of you at once!” Lydia exclaimed to the barechested cowboy whose arms were snaked around her waist.
“You can try,” his friend drawled, elbowing his way in. He nibbled on Lydia's lower lip.
Lydia smiled. “Well, I—”
“I look horrible in
everything
!” a female voice wailed.
Lydia's eyes popped open. The cowboys of her dream were gone. Damn. That was a
great
dream. Instead, her cousin Martina was standing over Lydia's bed.
“What's up, sweet pea?” Lydia asked groggily.
“Are you going to sleep
forever
?”
Why was Martina even up? Lydia turned to squint at her digital clock. Nine-thirty. Oops. That would explain Martina. Plus, Billy would be there in an hour to take Jimmy to a Dodgers game. They would get there early, for batting practice. And she was incredibly late.
She shot up in bed, immediately wishing she hadn't. The herd of stampeding wild boar in her brain was a rude reminder of how much fun she'd had at last night's movie wrap party. Also, how many Lone Stars she'd consumed. She'd been back in Billy's good graces for just a couple of days, and she'd gotten it in her mind to celebrate as though it was a coming-of-age ritual celebration for one of the Amas, complete with potions that the local shaman would blow up her nose. Instead of the potions, she'd substituted beers down her gullet. Now she was paying for it. Nothing left to do but suck it up and get moving.
“You have a hangover,” Martina said knowingly as Lydia slid out of bed and staggered to her closet.
Lydia couldn't decide whether to admit it or deny it. Frankly, either choice took too much work. She blindly plucked a yellow boatnecked Marc Jacobs babydoll and the first
The dress looked great. Jonathan looked great. Tarshea and Jonathan looked great together. And from the way that Tarshea was snaking her arms around Jonathan's neck, Tarshea undoubtedly felt great, too.
What was she doing here? With
Esme's
boyfriend?
It must have been the intensity of her stare that made Jonathan and Tarshea look toward her at the exact same time. Esme saw Jonathan lean forward and say something to Tarshea. The Jamaican girl nodded, then Jonathan hurried over to Esme.
“I bet you're wondering what she's doing here,” he said quickly.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Diane texted me, said that it would be good for Tarshea to meet some industry people, and dropped her off. It wasn't my call.”
“Uh-huh.” Esme didn't know whether to believe him or not. Especially because she could see that Tarshea was staring at the two of them with the biggest shit-eating grin on her lovely heart-shaped face.
I could deck her
, Esme considered.
I could kick her ass so easily
—
“You don't believe me,” Jonathan said. “Here. Look at the text.”
He whipped out his iPhone and with a few practiced flicks ofhis finger got to a text message that indeed had come from Diane. He stuck the screen in front of Esme's face. “Believe me now?”
Esme nodded. Not that it made her feel all that much better. Since when was Jonathan Diane's puppet? He didn't even like his stepmother all that much.
“I was just surprised,” Esme said, covering. No way was she going to play the jealous girlfriend.
“Well, I hope this is a surprise, too.” Jonathan leaned in and kissed her. “Wait for me in the bar. I'll be there in ten minutes. I promise,” he murmured when the kiss was over.
That would have been fine with Esme. Except she glanced again at Tarshea, and the girl still had the strangest look on her face, as if she knew something Esme didn't.
But no, that had to be Esme's imagination. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that Tarshea was after her guy. No, more than that. Tarshea was after her
life.
“Dang, I can't kiss all of you at once!” Lydia exclaimed to the barechested cowboy whose arms were snaked around her waist.
“You can try,” his friend drawled, elbowing his way in. He nibbled on Lydia's lower lip.
Lydia smiled. “Well, I—”
“I look horrible in
everything
!” a female voice wailed.
Lydia's eyes popped open. The cowboys of her dream were gone. Damn. That was a
great
dream. Instead, her cousin Martina was standing over Lydia's bed.
“What's up, sweet pea?” Lydia asked groggily.
“Are you going to sleep
forever
?”
Why was Martina even up? Lydia turned to squint at her digital clock. Nine-thirty. Oops. That would explain Martina. Plus, Billy would be there in an hour to take Jimmy to a Dodgers game. They would get there early, for batting practice. And she was incredibly late.
She shot up in bed, immediately wishing she hadn't. The herd of stampeding wild boar in her brain was a rude reminder of how much fun she'd had at last night's movie wrap party. Also, how many Lone Stars she'd consumed. She'd been back in Billy's good graces for just a couple of days, and she'd gotten it in her mind to celebrate as though it was a coming-of-age ritual celebration for one of the Amas, complete with potions that the local shaman would blow up her nose. Instead of the potions, she'd substituted beers down her gullet. Now she was paying for it. Nothing left to do but suck it up and get moving.
“You have a hangover,” Martina said knowingly as Lydia slid out of bed and staggered to her closet.
Lydia couldn't decide whether to admit it or deny it. Frankly, either choice took too much work. She blindly plucked a yellow boatnecked Marc Jacobs babydoll and the first
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