I grabbed her hand reassuringly. “I'm not sure,” I said calmly, but what I didn't say was, “Things like this just tend to happen to me. You know, things you usually see only in the movies—like crashed planes, crashed cars, sunken yachts, exploding kitchens, helicopters that need to be pushed into the ocean to make room for air-to-sea rescues—but have no fear, Kiley, because I always seem to make it out alive!”
Just then the copilot turned around in his seat and slid back a thin Plexiglas partition that separated the orange-glowing cockpit from the passenger cabin. With a confident smile, he poked his nose through the slot and said, “We're having some mechanical problems, so we need to make an emergency landing at Teterboro.” He winked at Kiley. “No worries, young lady. Teterboro is only a few miles away. We'll be justfine.” Then he slid the partition closed and turned back around in his seat and started saying something to the pilot.
I looked at Kiley—who up until now had been fairly beaming— and every last drop of color had disappeared from her fabulous skin. So I put my hand on her bare shoulder and said, “Relax, Kiley; I've been through this before and it always ends up okay.” I squeezed her hand again. “Besides, you're only twenty-two years old, and that's no age for a young girl to die!”
She shook her head sadly. “But I liedto you! I'm only seventeen!” And that's when I knew I was fucked.
I was pretty sure that the age for statutory rape differed by state, so as the Sikorsky made its descent into Teterboro Airport, I found myself wondering which state would have jurisdiction over me if I decided to violate Kiley: New York or New Jersey? In point of fact, we had taken off from Southampton, which was in New York, and the legal age there was seventeen, but we were heading to Atlantic City, which was in New Jersey, where the legal age was… I wasn't sure. And that was my problem, because it was there, in a glitzy hospitality suite in Trump Castle Casino, where I was planning to do the evil deed. So what was Jersey's legal age? I wondered.
Obviously this wasn't the sort of question I could just come out and ask the pilots, especially with Kiley right next to me. Upon closer inspection, Kiley now appeared to be in the latter stages of puberty. In fact, that thin coating of fat that I had previously attributed to an eating disorder was now giving off the troubling whiff of baby fat, belonging to a still-blossoming teenager.
Still, none of this was my fault, because when I first laid eyes on Kiley she was standing naked in one of my downstairs showers, and she had hair in all the right places, as well as a set of perky C-cups that looked old enough to vote. And she wasn't even alone! Standing right next to her was anothernaked girl—this one a blue-eyed blonde named Lisa, who, like Kiley, also looked old enough to vote—and the two of them were engaged in a passionate kiss, relishing the final moments of an Ecstasy binge.
Still, the scene wasn't as strange as it seemed—two young models whom I'd never met before, sneaking into my house to take a shower together—because, by mid-July, it was common knowledge in the Hamptons that there was this fabulous house on Meadow Lane where any young model could show up, flash a concupiscent smile, and stay as long as she desired. And while I would be the first to admit that this sort of model-mongering behavior was utterly detestable, I figured with my life on the verge of implosion, I might as well go out with a bang!
So that was how I had decided to pass my final summer on Meadow Lane: model-mongering while the Duchess and I split the kids on alternating weekends.
Chandler, being a daddy's girl, loved the action, although what she enjoyed most was torturing the young models that her daddy had hooked up with—assuring them that they meant absolutely nothing to him and that any restaurant he took them to or any clothing store he bought them a dress in was the same restaurant or store that he'd taken a dozen other girls just like them. Chandler's point being: You're a worthless slut, and someone younger and more beautiful than you will be replacing you next week.
Carter, on the other hand, couldn't have cared less. He was too busy passing his summer in the outdoor Jacuzzi, which, in Carter-speak, was an outdone Hacuddi.And when he wasn't there, he was in the TV room, watching Power Rangers videos, as half-naked models sat next to him and rubbed his bare belly and told him they would do whatever he pleased if he would just lend them his eyelashes for a photo shoot. One day, I knew, Carter would be very upset when he found out that he had waved off all these young beauties because they had interrupted the flow of his beloved Power Rangers videos.
On a separate note, it was somewhere in late July when I began hearing about someone named John. Chandler had brought the name up first, describing him as “Mommy's new friend from California.” John. John. At first I didn't think much of this, although a little voice inside my head said, “This could be trouble.” Not the Duchess having a boyfriend—I was fine with that. What I wasn't fine with, though, was that he lived on the other side of the country. After all, if she were to fall in love with him, she might want to move there.
I didn't know too much about this guy, other than that he was a bit older than me, he was very wealthy (gee, what a surprise),and he owned a large garment-center company in Los Angeles that manufactured children's clothes. I had resisted the urge to have Bo do his thing—deciding, instead, to leave well enough alone. The way I figured it, the Duchess had been doing her fair share of dating this summer, so the chances of her falling in love with John were slim.
The only thing troubling me as of late—besides the fact that I was burning through cash faster than a Latin American country-was how doggedly OCD was now pursuing the Chef. In fact, I had been to New Jersey two times in the last four weeks, trying to get the Chef to discuss our past dealings on tape. But both times he had refused. Yet OCD was certain that eventually he would. He was a born crook, reasoned OCD, and he wouldn't be able to resist the temptation forever.
Ironically, it was because of those two recent trips to New Jersey that I had been predisposed to Kiley's idea of going to Atlantic City. It was around eleven this morning, as I was cooking her and Lisa breakfast, when Kiley had her brainstorm: “Would you take me to Atlantic City one day and teach me how to gamble?” Complicating matters was the fact that I found Kiley wildy attractive, and not just her looks but her personality too. She was bubbly and vivacious—oozing a certain childlike innocence that, at the time, I had chalked up to her Canadian upbringing, rather than the fact that she was still a child.
“So you've never been to Atlantic City before?” I said to her.
“Nooo,” she replied innocently. “Would you take me there?”
In retrospect, I remember thinking that her tone was that of a young child asking her grandpa if he would be willing to take her to the zoo one day. When I asked Kiley how old she was, and she said, “I'm twenty-two; how ‘bout you?” I was inclined to believe her. And that was when I went about calculating the risks of taking an unapproved helicopter trip to Atlantic City while under house arrest.
In the end, I had it narrowed down to two distinct risks: first, leaving New York State without approval from my pretrial-services officer (my PO), and second, the possibility of getting stuck in Atlantic City and violating my twelve o'clock curfew. As to the actual gambling, I wasn't so concerned, because gambling wasn't illegal. I wasn't too concerned that I would have to bring along $50,000 in cash to convince Donald Trump to dispatch a helicopter either. After all, I had twice that much in my bedroom safe, which, by sheer coincidence, happened to be the very cash that I was supposed to have forked over to the government as part of my forfeiture (they simply hadn't gotten around to picking it up yet). So what was the harm, I figured, if I just borrowed a few dollars from them?