The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy) Page 3

  “So says the Chinese girl with green hair,” Krista said.

  “As if the Hippie of Color would ever go to QuickieSnip,” Betty replied.

  Krista, who had one German and one African American parent, patted the halo of dark curls she’d pulled up with a tie-dyed bandanna. “It’s beside the point. People don’t listen to trash about their significant other. You love who you love, no matter how stupid.”

  Lucy sighed. “You still should have told me how you felt. You’re my best friends and you’ve known me forever. I don’t have a mom or a sister or whatever to tell me, so I rely on you guys.” Her father, an associate professor at Berkeley, was way too self-absorbed to think she might need anything from him. What little social skills he had were exhausted with his new wife.

  Fawn pulled her closer and squeezed. “I’ll remind you of that next time you’re dating a loser.”

  “I never hid how I felt about him,” Betty said.

  “Yeah, but you’re gay,” Lucy pointed out.

  Betty rolled her eyes. “That is so prejudiced. I can love men.” She jerked her thumb in Fawn’s direction. “I love Huntley.”

  “He bought her an island for her birthday,” Lucy said.

  Betty lifted her chin. “I loved him before that.”

  Fawn sighed. “Me, too.”

  The three mortals turned their attention to the supermodel. “So, you set a date yet?” Betty asked.

  “Let’s not talk about my life today. Lucy’s having a crisis,” Fawn said.

  Lucy pushed Fawn’s narrow hips aside and stole the best jet. “Nope. Not anymore. No thanks to any of my friends.”

  Krista, staring at Fawn, had moved on. “It’s like a movie. Everything’s happening so fast. I mean, to propose after only two months!”

  “Good thing he accepted,” Lucy said.

  Fawn’s sharp fingernails poked her Lycra-clad ribs. “We’re so happy we’re having a fabulous destination wedding. As soon as all of you can take a week off at the same time.”

  Krista adjusted a hearing aid. “A week? To get married? Is that some East Coast blue-blood thing?”

  “As soon as gay people start creeping in on the action, straight people go crazy,” Betty said.

  “There’s no way I can take a whole week off, Fawn,” Lucy said. “I’d never be able to catch up on the paperwork when I got back.” She was a process analyst for a biotech company, and the labs worked 24/7.

  Fawn sat up tall and gave them the haughty stare she used for couture. “This will be the only time in our lives that I know the three of you will let me cover all the expenses for a real vacation. Lucy’s idea of getting away is playing poker in some dive in Silicon Valley—”

  “Those guys down there are fucking brilliant. Some of them—”

  Fawn slapped her bony hand over Lucy’s mouth. “And Krista never takes any time off because she’s a workaholic who lets evil, stupid people walk all over her.”

  “I happen to like my job.”

  “And finally, Betty,” Fawn continued. “You’ve put every dime you make in some stupid bank account that you probably plan on giving to your parents, even though they never wanted you to be the awesome, successful blogger you have grown up to be, not to mention a gay one.”

  “I haven’t given it to them yet,” Betty said quietly. “They have a few decades to evolve.”

  “In conclusion, the three of you are going to take an all-expense-paid vacation for an entire week, exact date to be determined, culminating with the ceremony uniting me and Huntley Bernard Sterling III in holy matrimony.”

  They stared at her and let the bubbles rise up around their nearly naked bodies while her declaration sunk in. The determination in Fawn’s voice was obvious and Lucy, for one, was rather mesmerized by the words “all-expense-paid.”

  “What kind of vacation spot are we talking here?” Lucy asked. “Or does he get to choose that?”

  “Your island sounds pretty cool,” Betty said.

  Fawn leaned back into the steaming water and stretched out her arms, a smile growing on her face. “My mom won’t get on an airplane, so it has to be within driving distance. I’m looking at an eco-resort in Mendocino that specializes in restorative, unpretentious, transformative ceremonies. It would be totally relaxing, spiritual, rejuvenating, wonderful.” She glanced around. “What do you think?”

  They saw the desperate eagerness on Fawn’s face. None of them was evil enough to disappoint her. “It sounds wonderful, Fawn,” Krista said. “Any time between the second week of June and the third week of August is great for me.”

  “Is there wireless there?” Betty asked. “Because if so, I could stay longer. Like, a few months if you need me. A year, if necessary.” She grinned, twisting the stud in her lip between her thumb and forefinger.

  Fawn turned to Lucy. “Well?”

  She did like the idea of free, that was true. And Mendocino was beautiful—if the pot growers didn’t shoot you. Lucy imagined what their week-long wedding would be like. Huge, probably, given how many people they knew. Huntley was a sociable guy in his thirties with a rich, powerful family and tons of connections. Fawn had friends all over the world.

  It would be a buffet of eligible partners she might never have access to again. But while a week was a long time to be at a wedding, it wasn’t a lot of time to pick out a spouse. Not enough time to talk to each one, get a sense of temperament, of goals. And, as her friends had pointed out, her own judgment in men was flawed.

  The Erasure song suddenly stopped blaring on the other side of the pool; the water aerobics class was finishing, the other women climbing out on the ladder and making their way to the spa.

  Lucy turned to Fawn. “I’ll do it on one condition.”

  “You’ll have to wear the bridesmaid dress I pick out for the ceremony. That’s non-negotiable.”

  “I suppose I can live with that. It might even help. You see—” Lucy bit her lip and looked into Fawn’s shining, heat-flushed face. “You’ve convinced me that I misjudged Dan. For a really long time. And since I didn’t really date a lot of guys before him—”

  Fawn snorted. “I was about to set you up with Betty.”

  “Please,” Betty said. “One bad haircut doesn’t make her a lesbian.”

  Her friends doubled over laughing but Lucy couldn’t stop now. She put a hand on Fawn’s arm and squeezed. “Since I didn’t date much, and you know me better than anyone else in the world”—she took a deep breath—“I want you to pick out the next one. My new guy.”

  Laughter fading to smiles, her friends looked at each other.

  “And whoever he is,” Lucy went on, “I’ll marry him.”

  Chapter 3

  THE LAST WEEK OF JULY, when the rest of the country wore tank tops or sweltered in business clothes, when the national media ran daily news features on how to stay cool and which sunscreens lived up to their SPF claims, San Franciscans zipped up their North Face parkas and laughed at the teeth-chattering, shorts-wearing tourists standing in line for the cable cars.

  It was freezing. The sun hadn’t pierced the ceiling of fog since Memorial Day, and though he loved the cold nights for sleeping, Miles was starting to resent the lack of vitamin D.

  Riding his motorcycle over to Berkeley to his clubhouse brought a little relief; the East Bay had sun in the afternoons, though the wind was fierce, and only teenage girls wore summer clothes, because when else could they wear them? But a little sun was better than nothing and Miles was glad he’d invited Huntley to meet him at work instead of in the city.

  Since Felicia had dumped him, Miles had become a little defensive about his humble lifestyle. Huntley had earned more from investments by his first birthday than Miles would earn in a lifetime. Maybe his rich best friend would agree with his ex that a two-bedroom condo in the Mission was unsuitable for a thirty-four-year-old man who’d once attended Stanford.

  Even if that attendance had been rather brief.

  No, better to meet him a
t the clubhouse, his pride and joy, something he really cared about.

  And it would give Miles the opportunity to hit him up for a donation. While he would never ask for anything for himself, he’d happily prostrate himself to beg for his kids. Not as if Huntley would miss a million bucks. Hell, he probably had that much in change under the seats of his Porsche.

  Miles parked his bike in the narrow spot he’d had painted just for him, right at the front door of the small yellow cinder-block building in a semi-industrial neighborhood near the bay. Lots of his kids lived in the neighborhood, though many got a ride from all over Berkeley and Emeryville, Albany and El Cerrito—kids with protective parents who wouldn’t let them play outside, kids with parents who worked late, or kids without anyone at all. The schools sent home flyers, the word got out, and they came.

  The Porsche Huntley kept in the Bay Area (one in every port) was already there, parked in the red with a man—not Huntley—in the passenger seat staring at his phone. Only a rich guy would have a chauffeur who rode shotgun. Miles tucked the helmet under his arm and strode into the clubhouse, rehearsing his speech about self-esteem and physical fitness, male role models and the devastating effect of the recession on charity coffers, but before he could say anything, Huntley jumped out from behind the door and dumped a bucket of ping-pong balls on his head.

  “Heads up, coach!” his friend cried, running past the foosball table into the gym.

  Miles paused and took a deep breath. Stepping carefully over the rolling balls, he made his way to the office while he unzipped his motorcycle suit.

  Ronnie turned from his computer and raised an eyebrow, his forehead wrinkles cascading up his bald head. “What’s with your friends throwing things at you?”

  Miles pulled open his desk drawer and locked his helmet inside. “I wish I knew.”

  “He like kids? We could use him on Wednesday night basketball. All that energy.”

  “Peter Pan has a big trust fund,” Miles said, stepping out of the suit. “I don’t think he’s ever had a job.”

  “Some woman’s going to marry a guy who’s never had a job?”

  Miles snorted. “She’s never had one either. Some kind of model. And once she marries Huntley, she’s set for life. Whether she sticks with him or not.”

  Ronnie leaned back in the old desk chair, arched his back, scratched his generous belly. “Not too romantic, are you buddy? That blonde did a real number on you.”

  “She did me a favor.” Miles hung up his armored suit and slapped Ronnie on the shoulder. “I’m going to see if I can do the same for my best friend.”

  “Turn him into a bitter old man?”

  “Takes one to know one,” Miles retorted. He looked out the glass wall of the office into the lounge where Huntley stood, hands on his hips, grinning at him and waiting for retribution. Blond, glossy, and expensive, he looked like a male version of Paris Hilton—not a comparison Huntley relished, but it was made so often he had to put up with it.

  He was a numbnuts, but Miles loved him. “I’m going to open his eyes before it’s too late.”

  Ronnie swung back to his computer. “Well, keep me out of it. And clean up when the party’s over.”

  The old grouch worked for him, but Miles said, “Yes, boss,” and sauntered out to Huntley. “You looking for trouble, little man?”

  Huntley whipped a ping-pong ball at him and ran back into the gym. Miles waited two seconds before he grabbed a basketball and strode after him.

  But just as he stepped into the gym, another ball nailed him in the forehead. Miles froze, weighed the heavy basketball in his palm. “You are dead meat, rich boy.”

  Huntley hooted and ran down the court. “Just try and catch me.” He jogged in place and gave him come-hither motions with his fingers.

  Miles sighed, bounced the basketball on the ground, regarded the ceiling. “Does your girlfriend know you’re a total dipshit?”

  “Not yet. That’s why I have to marry her before she catches on.” He pitched another ping-pong ball and Miles ducked, wishing he hadn’t bought them in bulk the week before. He strode toward his friend and dribbled the ball like a sledgehammer.

  Eyes dancing, Huntley dropped into a defensive stance. “Hey, I love it when you wear green. You look like the Jolly Green Giant.”

  “Ho ho ho.” Miles lurched forward with the ball as though he was going to attack, then drew back at the last second. Huntley flinched and drew up his hands to his face. Miles grinned, faked him out again. “What’s the matter, little fella? Afraid I’m going to kick your ass?” He lunged forward, only inches away, but this time Huntley held himself still. So instead of pulling back, Miles bopped him on the head with the ball and laughed at Huntley’s shocked expression.

  Unfortunately, Huntley had a black belt in judo. He deftly grabbed handfuls of Miles’s green sweatshirt and threw him down to the ground.

  As pain shot through Miles’s hip, he thought he heard one of his shoulders dislocate.

  He stared at the metal pipes and exposed ducts of the gym ceiling and wondered when Huntley would outgrow this annoying compulsion of his to knock him over. It was hardly reasonable, considering how often Miles had protected him when they were growing up. Miles guessed it was like therapy to be able to bring down the biggest guy around after having the shit knocked out of you so often as a kid.

  Huntley’s face came into view, grinning down at him. “Timber!”

  “One of these days I’ll actually fight back.”

  “You’re getting old, big guy.” He squatted down, lifted Miles’s sweatshirt, and poked him in the stomach. “And look at this flab! Soft in the middle.”

  Miles slapped his hand away and growled, “Watch it, Huntley.”

  He tsked, jumped out of reach, and pulled his T-shirt up. “Check this out.” He slapped his abdomen. “Fuck six-packs. I’ve got a goddamn case.”

  “I’m sure the other boys love to look at you, honey.” Miles got up to his feet. “The rest of us work for a living.”

  “Excuses, excuses. I’ve been working for years. I have a desk and everything.”

  “How’s it going, working for Daddy?”

  “It sucks, thank you very much. But it keeps Puritanical assholes like yourself from giving me a hard time.” Huntley grinned. “You’re just pissed I dropped you again.”

  “Damn right. One of these days I’m going to break something. It’s a long way down for some of us.” Eyes on the floor, Miles stepped closer to his friend.

  “Poor Jolly,” Huntley said, poking him in the belly again.

  Which gave Miles the excuse he needed to haul his pretty ass into the air and hold him upside down by the ankles.

  “Aiiieeee, shit!” Huntley flailed around like a fish on a hook and tried to grab Miles’s legs.

  Miles just lifted him higher, shook him a little bit. “You got any change in those pockets? Fancy-ass cell phone?” He shook him harder. “Damn, your sissy jeans are too tight.”

  Laughing and swearing at the same time, Huntley arched his back and lashed out with his arms. “You can’t—last—forever!” he gasped. “Then—you’re—toast!”

  A large voice boomed from the doorway. “You need help, Mr. Sterling?”

  “No—Eric—I’m—fine,” Huntley managed.

  “If you’re sure,” the man said, and left.

  Shoulders burning, Miles let Huntley down just far enough for his hands to reach the ground, then pushed forward so Huntley was forced to walk on his hands. Miles wheelbarrowed him for ten feet, dropped him, and jumped away, feeling a triumphant grin stretching across his face. “Truce.”

  Huntley started to get up, then sank back onto the floor. “Oh sure, now it’s a truce.” But he was smiling as he flopped onto his back.

  Glad for the chance to catch his breath, Miles sat down on the ground and gazed at his oldest friend. “Since when do you have a babysitter?”

  “Not my idea.”

  “I guessed that. Your mother’s or fat
her’s?”

  He snorted. “Please. Dad thinks it’s ridiculous but lets her get her way. Doesn’t like to argue.” Still flat on his back, Huntley turned his head to gaze seriously at Miles. “Guess I take after him in some ways.”

  “What does your model friend think of them?”

  Huntley’s smile faded. “Don’t call her that. It’s bad enough I have to put up with that shit from my parents.”

  “Maybe they see something you don’t. They just want the best for you.”

  “My parents only see what they want to see.” Huntley jumped to his feet. “Which is usually money and other people named Sterling.”

  Wincing at the sudden pain in his shoulder, Miles got up and went over to pick up the basketball. “Maybe they’re afraid that’s all she sees, too,” he said softly.

  “No. Not you too.”

  “How long have you known this girl? Two months?”

  “Half a year next week.”

  “Not even six months. Not nearly enough time. What’s the hurry? Fine, she wants to get engaged. Get engaged, then—I know how that is. But couldn’t you put things off a bit?” Miles dribbled the ball. “God knows you’ve got the charm to convince women of anything.”

  All the playfulness gone, Huntley said, “It was my idea to get married.”

  “Yours?” Miles made a long shot for the basket, missed. “You sure about that?”

  Huntley looked like he wanted to knock him down again. Normally he wouldn’t attack when he was angry, but he looked like he wanted to. “Watch it. You want me to choose between you and Fawn and it’s no contest.” He gave him a hard stare, ran after the ball. “No fucking contest at all.”

  “None at all. Great.” Miles had a sudden flashback to a can of Red Bull hitting him on the forehead. This hurt worse.

  “Damn it. I don’t mean that. I mean, I do, but—shit. How’d we get in this hole? I came here to ask you to be my best man.” He jumped and put the ball through the net.

  Best man. Miles shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. Years of living on opposite coasts, wildly different lifestyles—and Miles still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of him being engaged. “I haven’t even met her yet.”