“Now this is what I call a good time,” Randall Oddy said. He sat between Arno and Kelli on a black leather couch at Ringo, a new club on Little West Twelfth Street that was run by Ringo Starr’s stepdaughter Francesca in the basement of her town house. There were only forty people allowed in the club at any one time, and right then there were forty-one, including Francesca, who was playing old Beatles songs on the sound system, drinking absinthe, and chewing on the sleeve of a shirt that belonged to an eighteen-year-old soap opera actor who was passed out next to her.
Kelli was drinking a pint can of Miller Lite that she’d bought at the corner store. She didn’t appear tired, or bored, or anything. Arno was staring at what he could see of her from around Randall’s sparrowlike chest. Randall was staring at her, too. They were both fighting back yawns. It was 4:45 A.M.
Kelli pouted her lips, which she’d painted a pinkish white in the bathroom an hour earlier when she’d run into the model Jamie King, who’d bought Kelli’s ankle bracelet off her for five hundred dollars. Now Jamie waved across at them from another couch on the other side of the room. But they could barely see her in the darkness—the whole place was done up in black leather and black velvet and all the lights were swathed in black silk. So except for the occasional flash of jewelry, it was really dark.
“I wonder where Jonathan’s house is in relation to here,” Kelli said. She dragged her fingers through her hair.
“You don’t need to go back there,” Arno said. She looked around Randall to see him.
“Why not?”
“You can stay with me,” Arno said.
“Or we can just stay out all night,” Randall said. “And we can all crash at my suite in the Mercer in the morning.”
“I’d really like to see the Mercer,” Kelli said.
“It’s just a stupid trendy hotel,” Arno said. Then he stood up. He didn’t mind competing, but he felt like Randall should back off. After all, Kelli was only seventeen and Randall was in his mid-twenties. “And I saw her first!”—that’s what he wanted to say to Randall. And he also wanted to say that he was going to complain to his dad when he saw him next and then his dad wouldn’t give Randall any more shows and Randall wouldn’t be a famous artist anymore. He was also considering punching Randall in the face. It was an awful lot of feelings, he knew, all for Jonathan’s cousin from St. Louis.
“Hey, come sit next to me,” Kelli said. As Arno settled in, she said, “I could feel how you were wanting to go home. Please don’t leave me with Oddy.”
She was warm and smelled like artificial fruit flavoring and baby powder. She held out her beer and Arno sipped from it.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” she asked.
“No,” Arno said.
Kelli put her arms around Arno and Randall.
“You two’re my favorite guys in New York so far,” Kelli said. “Except for my cousin Jonathan and that crazy guy Mickey and that quiet loser David who reminds me of the boys back home.”
She kicked her legs in the air and laughed.
“I’m going to South Beach in the middle of the week to do some press and attend my opening down there,” Randall said to Kelli. “Do you want to come?”
“I’m already taking her,” Arno said quickly.
“Whooo-hoo!” Kelli yelled. “South Beach, with both of you! This is the best trip out of St. Louis I ever had.” Randall and Arno turned and glared at each other, their arms folded.
Arno’s extra phone kept buzzing with calls from David and Jonathan and Amanda, but he didn’t notice because the phone was in his jacket, which was crumpled up on the floor at his feet.
“Let’s go to Florent and get some breakfast,” Randall suggested.
“Great, I love that place,” Arno said.
“Fun!” Kelli said.
Randall laughed and Arno thought the noise was maniacal, and he tried to catch Kelli’s eye so she’d agree with him. But she was already following Randall up the velvet-covered staircase.