The Nannies by Melody Mayer Read Free Book Online Page B

catch.
    Suddenly, Esme thought of Junior. What would he think if she said yes? That she was turning her back on her homies? That she had sold out? A flood of guilt raged through her. And shame. She had almost done it: turned her back on who she was, what she was, and where she came from, just because some rich white people were dangling prizes like she was a contestant on some game show.
    “I’m honored you’d think of me,” Esme said stiffly. “But I can’t do it.”
    “Of course she can,” said a strong female voice from behind the Goldhagen clan. It was Esme’s mother, Estella Castaneda. She stood in the doorway holding two five-gallon cans of paint. “Not only that, she starts tomorrow.”

8
    “Oh. Oh, God. Oh, baby!”
    Kiley’s eyes snapped open. She had no clue where she was. But as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, lit only by a night-light in the bathroom, she saw her opulent suite. Right. Sunday night. Los Angeles. Hotel Bel-Air.
    “Ohh. That’s so good!”
    Voices came through the wall behind her bed that separated her from the next suite. Evidently, someone—no, two someones—were making better—and noisier—use of their bedroom than she was.
    “Oh, oh, oh . . . !”
    God. How embarrassing. She was just glad that her mom couldn’t hear this. Kiley rolled over and tried to ignore the symphony of lust.
    “Ohhhhhhh!”
    Jeez, what the hell were they
doing
in there?
    Kiley crammed the pillow over her head to block out the sound, but it seemed like the moans and groans got louder to compensate. They went on, and on, and on.
    And on.
    In the morning, bleary-eyed Kiley and her mother ordered a room service breakfast—the very first of their lives. It arrived on a white-draped silver cart: lobster omelets draped with orange marigolds, fresh squeezed juice, and a selection of just-baked breads and pastries. The handsome waiter—was there any other kind of hotel help in Los Angeles?—explained in a French-accented voice that the marigolds on the omelet were edible.
    Bon appétit.
    When the meal was finished, Kiley checked her watch. She was supposed to rendezvous in an hour in the lobby with the producers and other contestants, which gave her enough time to walk around the sumptuous hotel grounds and maybe buy some postcards for her friends back in La Crosse, in case today turned out to be her last day in paradise. Her mom wanted to stay in the room, so Kiley pocketed the security card and stepped outside.
    At that exact moment, a guy came out of the suite next door.
    That
suite. It had to be
that
guy.
    He was drop-dead gorgeous. The limo driver, David in hotel reception, and James the bellboy were dirtbags compared to
that
guy. About six feet tall, he looked like Brad Pitt circa
Thelma
& Louise,
a movie Kiley and her mom had once watched together on the small TV in her parents’ bedroom, because Dad was passed out drunk in the living room. Holy shit. No one should be that good-looking. If there were only so many good-looking genes in the world, some poor guy was butt ugly so that this guy could look like . . . well, like
this.
    “Hi, neighbor,” he said, grinning at Kiley. “I’m Tom.”
    Yep. The voice matched.
“Ohh. That’s so good!”
    Tom’s fun and games of the night before flew into Kiley’s head, accompanied by psychographics of him with some lucky bitch. The girl, who was probably as perfect-looking as Tom, was probably still asleep in his bed, wearing nothing but a belly ring and a satiated grin.
    He held out his hand to Kiley—a large, strong hand with really large, long fingers. “And you are—?”
    “Kiley,” she managed, in a strangled voice. She shook his hand as quickly as possible.
    “What brings you to the Hotel Bel-Air?” Tom asked.
    Great. He wanted to be friendly. But the pornographic thoughts Kiley was thinking made “friendly” pretty impossible.
    “I . . . have to go,” Kiley blurted out, and strode off toward the hotel gift shop.
    Of course, it turned