Read Oh! You Pretty Things for Free Online

the street for a minute to compose myself, straddling my bike and breathing in the salt air and eucalyptus, then smooth down my cargo pants and the Petit Bateau T-shirt I bought on credit at Planet Blue yesterday. First impressions are important.
    And Tyler is definitely making a good first impression on me. The outside of the house is very beachy chic. The paint on the eaves of the unassuming cottage peels in a fetching fashion and climbing roses bloom in hand-painted Italian pots, each one lined with checkerboard-patterned moss in shades of vibrant green. I park my bike in the open carport beside a shiny black Carrera and another sleek-looking car—a vintage Mercedes, I think—sheathed in a green canvas cover.
    Tyler answers the door wearing perfectly rumpled Levi’s and unlaced Timberland boots. He’s on the short side, maybe five-foot-nine, but he’s smooth-skinned and lean, long muscles evident under a fitted white thermal that looks soft and perfectly worn in. His sleek blue Weimaraner snuffles a greeting, then reclaims her position on the leather sofa. There’s a full ashtray on top of the art books piled on an oversize zebra-skin ottoman.
    The whole vibe is exquisite. And Tyler’s not bad to look at either.
    We sit on his deck and talk about the job in an offhand kind of way. He sounds like a perfectly normal guy who just needs a hand during a busy period, and I sound like a perfectly normal girl who just moved back to her hometown after a divorce. Just a shitload of normal all the way around.
    He doesn’t mention his Oscar. I don’t mention that I searched online and saw that he won two Grammys, too, and an Emmy for Outstanding Musical Composition for a Series. He’s laid-back and confident and too good to be true.
    I’m not surprised when, at the end of the interview, he gazes out over the treetops and looks a little shifty. Here it comes. He wonders if I’d mind dressing like Betty Boop and calling him “Herr Doktor.”
    He says, “Uh, Jess?”
    â€œYeah?” I ask.
    â€œSometimes, um, when I hire a new person?”
    You want to see how they look in a ball gag?
    â€œYeah?” I say.
    He takes a breath. “They’re in a bit of money trouble. So if you need an advance against wages, now’s the time to say so.”
    I take a deep, hopefully inaudible breath and force myself to exhale noiselessly. “Nope. I mean, I’m not here under the auspices of altruism or anything, but I’m solid.”
    â€œGreat,” he says with an even-toothed, glowing smile I wouldn’t even question for its pearly authenticity if I hadn’t spied the overflowing ashtray on his ottoman.
    â€œUnfortunately,” he continues, “I have a whole committee for this shit, but I really dig you. Let me make some calls and I’ll definitely be in touch. I mean, soon.”
    â€œPerfect,” I say, and I rub the dog’s soft, inquisitive snout as I shoulder my bag and head for the door.

Six

    I binge-read six gossip websites, then break down and call Donna. Not knowing if she’s coming or not is almost worse than finding out she definitely is.
    â€œSugar beet!” she says when she answers the phone. “I’m in the middle of packing.”
    â€œYou’re really coming?”
    â€œWell, of course I’m coming, lamb chop. Didn’t you get my texts?”
    â€œI did,” I say. And I let it lie there like a coiled snake.
    Apropos of nothing, she says, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’ve been putting acai in my smoothies lately and I lost five pounds without even trying.”
    Which obviously means that I need a shit ton of acai berries and should immediately find someone who can supply me in bulk. One of my mother’s major beefs with me is that I don’t present myself the way she’d like. Whenever I see her, she invariably greets me with a comment about my appearance.