a backyard water hole so tricked out.
It was a massive rectangular structure lined with reflective iridescent glass tiles. On one side, the pool dipped into a grotto surrounded by palm trees. An active jet spray in the bottom created the illusion of a hot spring. On the other side, the reef steps—imbedded with a Baja Bubbler that allowed for water spa massages—led into a sunken bar lined with floating stools.
Of course, the main attraction was the underwater volcano, triggered by a system below the surface that spurted a rush of air into the pool’s shallow end. The water effect was intensified by a light in the center of activity that alternated from blazing orange to lava red.
As if all that wasn’t enough, the pool also featured two infinity edges and an underwater sound system, which right now was pumping Power 96 and the exotic island beat of Rihanna’s “Pon de Replay.” Shit. To be Naomi Kelley’s house husband. Not a bad gig if you could get it.
But Dante had some serious issues with Rob. First, he hated the way Jovi got cosseted like a fragile lamb. The kid was four years old going on two! The boy should have a little daredevil in him by now. And second, Dante was creeped out by the looks Rob sent in his direction. It felt like the man was openly cruising him. Poor Naomi. She was hot as hell and had lucked into a major movie career. Too bad she screwed up and married a wife instead of a husband.
“Theresa!” Rob bellowed sharply.
The nanny came running, and she was no Lala in the looks department. Jovi’s caretaker was the female version of the Super Size Me guy, only she’d obviously never bothered to stop the fast-food-for-every-meal experiment.
“Take Jovi inside and fix him a snack,” Rob barked, transferring the boy into Theresa’s ample arms. “He’s had enough of the pool for today.”
“Yes, Mr. Kelley,” the nanny responded dutifully, her voice almost robotic. There was a blank expression in her eyes, too, a giveaway for the kind of soul death that occurs when you spend your life slaving away for rich assholes who don’t treat you like a whole person.
Dante knew that look. Now and then he saw it on the face of his own mother, Vanessa Medina. Granted, her position at the Biaggi spread on Star Island was probably her best job yet, but it was still cleaning toilets for a living. Grand or modest, mansion or trailer, at the end of the day, other people’s shit was other people’s shit.
Rob Kelley lingered, waiting for his son’s swimming instructor to exit the pool. And the moment Dante emerged from the water, Rob’s gaze locked onto a certain target, taking in an eyeful of Dante’s package, boldly appreciative of the way his wet suit had gathered at the crotch.
Dante adjusted himself and zapped a glare over to Rob that translated, “Man, I’ll not only kick your closet-case ass, but I’ll show your wife what she’s been missing while you’re recovering at the hospital.”
In the way that only people with millions in the bank can, Rob betrayed no embarrassment. He just tracked his eyes up a bit to obsess over Dante’s six-pack abdominals. “You know, Naomi’s in Toronto shooting a new film.”
“Really? What’s the project?” Better to fake interest and make like an IMDB addict than piss off the guy. After all, if Dante was Jovi’s fifth swim coach, then there could easily be a sixth showing up tomorrow. And he needed this job. The pay was great, and the hours freed him up at night to party or work on his music.
“Life on Mars,” Rob answered. “It’s a sci-fi thriller.”
“That sounds cool,” Dante remarked casually, gathering his things from the Casatta hand-crafted bronze deck chaise.
“She’s there for the next four months, so this pool isn’t getting a lot of use,” Rob went on. “You should come by at night sometime. The volcano looks incredible then. You’d love it.”
Dante gave him a noncommittal nod and started out. “Same time
It was a massive rectangular structure lined with reflective iridescent glass tiles. On one side, the pool dipped into a grotto surrounded by palm trees. An active jet spray in the bottom created the illusion of a hot spring. On the other side, the reef steps—imbedded with a Baja Bubbler that allowed for water spa massages—led into a sunken bar lined with floating stools.
Of course, the main attraction was the underwater volcano, triggered by a system below the surface that spurted a rush of air into the pool’s shallow end. The water effect was intensified by a light in the center of activity that alternated from blazing orange to lava red.
As if all that wasn’t enough, the pool also featured two infinity edges and an underwater sound system, which right now was pumping Power 96 and the exotic island beat of Rihanna’s “Pon de Replay.” Shit. To be Naomi Kelley’s house husband. Not a bad gig if you could get it.
But Dante had some serious issues with Rob. First, he hated the way Jovi got cosseted like a fragile lamb. The kid was four years old going on two! The boy should have a little daredevil in him by now. And second, Dante was creeped out by the looks Rob sent in his direction. It felt like the man was openly cruising him. Poor Naomi. She was hot as hell and had lucked into a major movie career. Too bad she screwed up and married a wife instead of a husband.
“Theresa!” Rob bellowed sharply.
The nanny came running, and she was no Lala in the looks department. Jovi’s caretaker was the female version of the Super Size Me guy, only she’d obviously never bothered to stop the fast-food-for-every-meal experiment.
“Take Jovi inside and fix him a snack,” Rob barked, transferring the boy into Theresa’s ample arms. “He’s had enough of the pool for today.”
“Yes, Mr. Kelley,” the nanny responded dutifully, her voice almost robotic. There was a blank expression in her eyes, too, a giveaway for the kind of soul death that occurs when you spend your life slaving away for rich assholes who don’t treat you like a whole person.
Dante knew that look. Now and then he saw it on the face of his own mother, Vanessa Medina. Granted, her position at the Biaggi spread on Star Island was probably her best job yet, but it was still cleaning toilets for a living. Grand or modest, mansion or trailer, at the end of the day, other people’s shit was other people’s shit.
Rob Kelley lingered, waiting for his son’s swimming instructor to exit the pool. And the moment Dante emerged from the water, Rob’s gaze locked onto a certain target, taking in an eyeful of Dante’s package, boldly appreciative of the way his wet suit had gathered at the crotch.
Dante adjusted himself and zapped a glare over to Rob that translated, “Man, I’ll not only kick your closet-case ass, but I’ll show your wife what she’s been missing while you’re recovering at the hospital.”
In the way that only people with millions in the bank can, Rob betrayed no embarrassment. He just tracked his eyes up a bit to obsess over Dante’s six-pack abdominals. “You know, Naomi’s in Toronto shooting a new film.”
“Really? What’s the project?” Better to fake interest and make like an IMDB addict than piss off the guy. After all, if Dante was Jovi’s fifth swim coach, then there could easily be a sixth showing up tomorrow. And he needed this job. The pay was great, and the hours freed him up at night to party or work on his music.
“Life on Mars,” Rob answered. “It’s a sci-fi thriller.”
“That sounds cool,” Dante remarked casually, gathering his things from the Casatta hand-crafted bronze deck chaise.
“She’s there for the next four months, so this pool isn’t getting a lot of use,” Rob went on. “You should come by at night sometime. The volcano looks incredible then. You’d love it.”
Dante gave him a noncommittal nod and started out. “Same time
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