Beautiful Disaster (10 page)

What happened next shocked her into total paralysis. Pippa stood there, frozen onstage, gripping the cold steel of the metal pole with both hands, unable to let go as the events seemed to unfold in slow motion.

The OxyContin-dealing bartender got slammed facedown onto the counter and promptly handcuffed.

Uniformed police stormed the premises.

Total chaos ensued.

“If I’m going to jail, I better see what you’ve got first!” It was the frat boy leader. He bounded onto the stage and ripped the G-string from Pippa’s body, leaving her naked from the waist down.

She screamed bloody murder.

He twirled the thong around an index finger, proudly showing it off to his buddies sitting front and center.

Pippa jammed her knee into his crotch, kicked hard, and gave the stunned college pig a powerful shove.

He went tumbling off the stage and onto the floor, landing awkwardly on one hand. The sickening crack had to be his wrist breaking. “Aaawwww!” The agonized wail confirmed it.

Two more plainclothes officers revealed themselves and marched up to the Lair. Within moments, Max Biaggi and Peppermint were being led downstairs, their hands shackled.

“You!”

Pippa spun around to see a policeman lurching toward her, a pair of cuffs at the ready. In a moment of sheer panic, she tried to flee.

But he moved too fast. “You’re under arrest for public exposure of a sexual organ.”

“No, you don’t understand! I was attacked!” Pippa cried. There was a loud
clink
as the metal closures locked into place, painfully pinching her wrists.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

From: Dante

Love u. Miss u. Can’t wait 2 kiss u.

10:47 am 4/23/06

I
t’s different,” Vanity said. “When I’ve been in relationships before…I’ve never felt this way about myself.”

“How is that?” Dr. Parker asked.

“I feel like I’m
okay
, you know? I feel open to be who I really am.”

“So you feel accepted where you are?”

Vanity considered this. “It’s more than that.” She sighed. God, it was so frustrating when you couldn’t articulate your feelings in therapy. Of all places to lose command of the English language. Finally, she found some verbal traction. “Dante has seen me at my worst. He’s been face-to-face with my monster. And he still loves me.” Her voice broke on the last bit. “It’s strange…to feel safe enough to relax, to not worry about the threat of discovery…I’ve never experienced that before.” She wiped away a tear with her fingers.

Dr. Parker leaned in to offer a tissue. “Explain what you mean by ‘the threat of discovery.’ ”

Vanity took a deep breath and blotted her eyes. “I’ve always felt like there was a part of myself that I had to keep hidden—from boyfriends, from friends, from family. Dante has seen that part of me.” She shook her head ruefully. “More than once. But he still wants me. He still wants us. I mean, let’s face it, I bring a lot of baggage to a relationship.”

“Everybody shows up with baggage,” Dr. Parker pointed out. “Dante included.”

“I know. But I’ve practically got my own fucking conveyor belt.”

Dr. Parker laughed. “I’ve never heard it quite put that way before.”

Vanity shrugged. “It’s not just my excess baggage, either. There’s my father and this controversy about an artist on his label stealing one of Dante’s song ideas. It’s a huge hit, too, so the issue never really goes away. Dante got screwed royally, but he let it go. For the sake of us.”

Dr. Parker stared back thoughtfully, saying nothing.

Vanity continued to talk. “It’s one thing to get involved with someone and then be confronted with demons later on. There’s that moment when you have to decide, do I stay, or do I cut and run? But Dante committed to me after the fact. He had all the evidence in front of him. There wasn’t a magic honeymoon to reflect back on. And he still chose me.”

Dr. Parker smiled. “You have a lot to offer. He sounds like a smart guy.”

Vanity could feel her heart swell as she thought more about it. “This feels like my first relationship. I don’t know. It’s just…
real
. God, it’s almost boring. That’s how real it is.” She laughed a little. “Last night we went to see our friend Max perform a stand-up act. Then we took his sister out for ice cream, drove her home, and went back to my house. Dante had, like, two beers, I didn’t drink at all, there was no drama, no VIP room, no celebrity crap whatsoever. And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

“That sounds like a lovely evening,” Dr. Parker said.

“We had sex four times,” Vanity blurted, covering her face with her hands in a moment of girlish embarrassment.

Dr. Parker chuckled. “Even lovelier.”

“I’ve never connected this way before,” Vanity gushed. “It’s so pure. It’s so honest. I feel sexy and desired and cherished. For the first time, I don’t feel like a slut.”

Dr. Parker nodded seriously. “I don’t mean to temper your feelings, Vanity, because these are wonderful feelings to have. But…”

She waited expectantly for the insight, casting a nervous glance on the coffee table, where a hardcover edition of Aleda Shirley’s
Dark Familiar
sat perched on the edge.

“You’re just coming out on the other side of a very traumatic episode with J.J. Obviously, Dante is a significant part of that, because he rescued you.”

“It’s not about that,” Vanity argued, a bit too desperately. “This is real.”

Dr. Parker shook her head. “I’m not saying that it isn’t. My concern is that you remain open to analyzing these feelings. I think your progress is remarkable. You bounced back from a horrific event with great courage and maturity. I’ve never heard you speak so strongly about yourself in any other session. Frankly, I’m delighted to sit here, listen, and realize that you like yourself. But I’m not comfortable with so much of this being enjoined with Dante. What if things don’t work out with him?”

Vanity refused to answer.

“It’s not my intention to play Dr. Doomsday here, but let’s be realistic. You’re seventeen. There will be other relationships. The next guy who comes along might take one look at your ‘monster’ and say, ‘I’m out of here.’ What happens then? Will you internalize that and feel unworthy of love all over again?”

Vanity shook her head. “I can’t think about this ending. I just want to be happy for once.”

Dr. Parker leaned forward. “I want that for you, too. But you must understand something. For this relationship to be as real as you say, then it should be
adding
to your sense of happiness, not
embodying
it.”

Vanity fought against the instinct to leave. She had arrived feeling so certain. But difficult questions were beginning to pile up. And the answers rolling around in her mind were too painful to comprehend.

Deep down, Vanity knew exactly what she had to do.

“QUAN!”

Max, startled by the booming, hurried voice of indeterminate gender, hesitated for a microsecond. “I’m trying to reach Keiko Nakamura. Does she work out of this location?”

“Honey, this is the
only
location. And not for long, either. Phones get cut off tomorrow. I think Miss Keiko’s packing up her shit. Please remain on the line, sweet clueless one.”

“Bitchy queen,” Max muttered, just as the hold music commenced with Cher’s comeback anthem, “Believe.” He listened all the way through to the bridge, and then the ear candy abruptly stopped.

“This is Keiko.” She sounded tired, stressed, and miserable.

“Keiko, it’s Max Biaggi.”

An edgy silence boomed.

“I’m calling from Miami about Christina.”

There was a pregnant pause. “What about her?”

Max ignored the hostile tone. “Have you talked with her recently?”

“Why?”

“Because she’s missing.”

Keiko’s voice softened. “For how long?”

“A week or so. I think her mother checked her into an antigay treatment center. Possibly one in Mississippi.”

More silence. This time it stretched on and on.

“Are you there?” Max asked.

“Yes,” Keiko whispered.

“I need your help finding her.”

Keiko sighed. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You have to take some responsibility for driving that crazy right-wing bitch to do something like this!” Max shouted.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

Max was fuming. “What do you mean, there’s nothing you can do? Have you forgotten the name of your fucked-up organization?”

“QUAN! doesn’t exist anymore,” Keiko replied bitterly. “We lost a major challenge grant. The board decided to shut us down. If I could help Christina, I would. Honestly. But our offices are closing, and I’m out of a job.”

Max made his next decision in the span of a heartbeat. “Not anymore. Get back to work. I’m your new funding source.”

Keiko paused a beat. “You’re kidding.”

“How much will it cost to keep the doors open?”

She hesitated.

“How much, Keiko? I’m not fucking around!”

“At least a hundred thousand.”

Max didn’t flinch. “Done. I’ll have it sent by wire transfer. Just get me the banking details.”

“You’re serious,” Keiko murmured, her voice a mixture of gratitude and awe.

“Yes,” Max told her. “And since I’m bankrolling this operation, I want to see some queers uniting for action right now to find Christina Perez.”

From: Vanity

I’ve seen the news. Call me.

I’m here if you need to talk.

6:11 pm 4/24/06

V
anity knew the story would become an instant media monster. It had everything—celebrity, sex, drugs, crime, and politics. The perfect bouillabaisse for a delicious scandal.

Sipping a hot mug of Asian jasmine white tea, she read the latest online account from the Miami Herald:
“Angry Police, Embattled D.A. Square off in Strip Club Raid, Biaggi Gets Star Treatment After Arrest”

Vanity stopped reading, turning her attention to the blaring television.
Entertainment Tonight
was all over the story. She channel surfed, only to find identical coverage on
Extra
,
E! News
, and
Access Hollywood
.

Every program seemed to be broadcasting the same amateur video footage, which depicted police directing a handcuffed Max Biaggi and Pippa Keith into a waiting paddy wagon.

Vanity’s cellular jingled.

It was Dante.

She stretched out to grab the remote control, quickly muting the sound. “Hey, are you watching this?”

“It’s on every freaking channel,” Dante said. “Turn on CNN. You won’t believe this.”

Vanity zapped it on and reactivated the audio.

A brittle blonde filled the screen. She looked hard, used up, and mad as hell at every jerkoff in the free world. The TeleType identified her as Raquel “Hellcat” Betts.

“That girl might’ve been underage in the eyes of the law, but she was all grown up at Cheetah. Called herself Star Baby.” The woman sneered, taking a quick drag of a cigarette. “Oh, Miss Underage ‘Star Baby’ spent lots of private time upstairs with
Max Biaggi
. They went out on a date, too. He took her on his private plane. She walked around here thinking she was God’s gift and that the story was going to end up just like
Pretty Woman
. But she’s not Julia Roberts. And this isn’t Hollywood. Stupid
beep
.”

When the report shifted focus to the larger issue of underage strippers across the country, Vanity shut off the audio again. “Have you talked to Max?”

“I’ve tried several times, but it goes straight to voicemail,” Dante said. “This is so fucked up. Like Max needed another reason to hate his father.”

Vanity rolled onto her back and stared at her bedroom ceiling, attempting to process the crazy situation. “You know, I think he had strong feelings for Pippa. Max can be so glib about everything. But at the end of the day, he really does care deeply for the people in his inner circle.”

“I can’t believe she did this to him.”

Vanity hesitated. “Let’s not judge her. We don’t have all the facts.”

“Did we watch the same interview just a minute ago?”

“Who knows what that woman’s agenda is? She’d probably say Pippa entertained Saudi princes if you just promised her another cigarette.”

“Hell, maybe Pippa did.”

“Dante, I’m not choosing sides in this. I don’t think you should, either.”

“Let’s just drop it,” he said tightly.

Vanity fell silent for one long, frustrated second. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. I do. I just don’t want to get into a game of Pippa bashing. That’s all.”

“Maybe it’s the guy in me, but I’m more concerned about Max. Pippa’s true colors are showing. She’s a gold digger. The son of a movie star wasn’t good enough, so she went straight for the movie star.”

Vanity rose up in furious protest, hardly believing that Dante could say those words. “She was working in a strip club! If anything, Max’s father probably found
her
!”

“Who cares which way it happened? It’s still some low-down shit. And now that everybody knows what Pippa is, all that Prada, Gucci, and Vuitton won’t be looking so classy anymore.”

“And what is she, Dante? Please share.”

He hesitated. “I think it’s obvious.”

“How can you turn on her so quickly? You don’t even know the circumstances that pushed her into a job like that.”

“You’re right.” His tone mocked her. “Maybe she was stripping to pay for her grandmother’s surgery.”

“God!” Vanity shrieked. “You’re such an asshole!” She came close to hanging up. But in the end, she just hung on the line, silently raging.

Dante sighed. “Let’s not snipe at each other,” he said quietly. “This thing has nothing to do with us.”

Vanity could feel that nagging impulse to keep fighting even when you know an argument is over. She touched the neat, white bandage dressed around her upper arm. The sutures had been removed a few days ago. Though healing, the knife wound was still tender.

“I’m sorry…for sounding off,” Dante said. “Really. And I’m not just saying that for the make-up sex.” He laughed a little. “Maybe this is one of those Mars and Venus things.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

His voice dropped an octave. “If you’re still pissed, feel free to take it out on me in bed.”

Something stirred inside her—an aching physical need to be with him. Slowly, it began to undo her resolve. But Vanity managed to shake off the hunger.

“Do you want me to come over?”

“My father’s home,” Vanity said. She was lying. Simon St. John had left for New York that morning.

“Damn. I thought you said he’d only be in town for one night.”

“I did. He changed his trip to later in the week.”

“That sucks. I’ve gotten spoiled waking up with you the last several days.”

“I know,” Vanity murmured. “Me, too.”

“We could always go to a hotel,” Dante suggested. “Even if it’s just for a few hours. I’ve already got symptoms of withdrawal.”

“It’s tempting…but…I feel like I should go see Pippa.”

Dante let out a horny groan. “How am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

“I don’t know.” She paused a beat, then added silkily, “Why don’t you try your right hand and an Ambien.”

“Oh, that was cold, baby,” Dante replied with good humor. “That was cold.”

Vanity grinned, feeling guilty about the lie, but not guilty enough to reverse it.

“Call and let me know how it goes. I’ll do the same if I catch up with Max.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll miss you.”

Vanity signed off, quietly devastated, her heart pounding as tiny fragments of doubt began to overwhelm her. She sat there on the edge of the bed, both arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, thinking about the last session with Dr. Parker. She had an important decision to make about Dante. An hour passed, and then another.

But she was still no closer to a resolution.

Pippa took a step backward to analyze the clothing spread across the bed and floor in tidy little piles. At first glance, it looked as if the roof had collapsed and Neiman Marcus had fallen in.

Gucci, Prada, Fendi, Stella McCartney, Alexander McQueen, Chloe, Zac Posen, Tory Burch, Marc Jacobs, Valentino, Jean Paul Gaultier, Christian Dior, and Escada.

The sheer volume of the collection stunned Pippa. It made the task of packing up to move quite daunting. For a fleeting moment, she secretly fantasized about tossing the bare essentials into a lovely bag, boarding a plane, and never turning back. But the moment passed. No way was she leaving her fashion treasures behind.

Suddenly, Pippa started to shake. Oh God, if she started crying, then she might never stop. Somehow she managed to keep the tears at bay. Her body felt like lead. Her mind felt like mush. It was sheer overstimulation and exhaustion.

For the last thirty-six hours, Pippa had not slept so much as a nanosecond. But she plunged forward with a fiery will, seeking strength from her deep commitment to get the hell out of Miami as fast as possible.

Three Louis Vuitton steamer trunks were already half full. Glancing around at what remained, Pippa surmised that she just might have enough room for everything, including her beauty products, of which she had loads—La Prairie, Chanel, Guerlain, and SK-II among the pricey lot.

The trunk set had been a scrumptious eBay find that drained twenty thousand dollars from Pippa’s Cheetah kitty. It was worth the extravagance, though. The vintage pieces were
ages
old and, evidenced by the travel stickers affixed on all sides, had seen many transcontinental adventures in exotic places like Shanghai, Constantinople, Yokohama, and Jerusalem.

A hint of a grin crept onto Pippa’s lips as she realized that her poor trunks would probably be bored rigid on their next trip, which was only to New York. Ha! Paris sometime soon, dearest ones, promise.

Pippa had no friends in Manhattan, no contacts to speak of, and no plan in place upon arrival. But she also had no worries. After all, as the legend went, Madonna, with only thirty-five dollars in her pocket, had moved to the city and commanded a taxi driver to just leave her in the middle of Times Square. Life had sorted out bloody well good for her.

The doorbell chimed.

Pippa experienced a sudden, white-hot fear. She crept to the window and peeked out into the black night, startled to see Vanity’s Spyker C8 Laviolette parked on the street. But it was a far better discovery than Vinnie’s Lincoln Navigator SUV, which is exactly what she feared to see most.

She breathed out a sigh of relief…for the moment. Last night’s voicemail rage from Vinnie had gripped her in a constant state of paranoia. It took no effort to recall the sick bastard’s words verbatim.

“I hope you fucking rot in hell! You lying, deceitful little cunt! That underage bullshit scheme of yours is causing me big trouble! If I ever see you again, I’ll make you pay with blood, teeth, and bones, bitch!”

Pippa tried to shake off the horrifying sense memory and moved quickly to intercept Vanity. She opened the door no wider than twelve inches.

“May I come in?” Vanity asked.

Pippa shook her head. “Now’s not a good time.”

But Vanity was undeterred. “I won’t stay long.”

Reluctantly, Pippa allowed her entry.

Vanity stepped inside and surveyed the modest surroundings. “This is the first time I’ve been to your house.”

Pippa rolled her eyes. “Forgive the mess. Our South Beach condo is being remodeled.”

Vanity’s gaze tracked down the short hallway. With Pippa’s bedroom door wide open, evidence of a major packing project was in plain sight. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes,” Pippa said tightly. “Far away from here.” She bounded back to her private hovel and proceeded to continue with her work.

Vanity followed. “What about school?”

“What about it?” Pippa snapped.

“Graduation is only a month away.”

“It’s not like I’m going to college.”

“You don’t need to run away, Pippa. Take it from someone who knows. Things are never quite as bad as you think they are.”

“And sometimes they’re worse,” Pippa countered, throwing a folded stack of Juicy Couture separates into the nearest trunk.

Vanity stood there, momentarily speechless, taking in the enormity of Pippa’s designer inventory. “You bitch. You’ve got more clothes than I do.” She picked up and inspected an Anna Sui top. “Nicer ones, too!”

Pippa cracked a smile and playfully snatched the garment from Vanity’s hands. “And I earned every thread and stitch.”

“Oh, I bet you did.”

Pippa glared at Vanity.

Vanity glared back at Pippa.

And then the two girls fell into a brief fit of laughter. When it ended, there was an awkward silence.

Finally, Pippa broke it. “I should finish packing.”

“Would you like some help?”

Pippa shrugged carelessly. But deep down she was grateful for Vanity’s visit. Save for Vinnie’s vicious rant, her mobile had only rung once in the last two days. And that had been her mum checking in from her latest promotional stop outside Atlanta, where she was booked for a week-long demonstration at the Mall of Georgia.

It seemed logical that Sophie might blissfully escape the scandal. Pippa’s status as a minor had kept her name out of the press, and unless her mum had been squatting in front of the telly to absorb every minute of the day’s entertainment news programs, the sordid facts might just slip past her. After all, the next news cycle could very well wipe the mess clean. Honestly. How long could they blather on about one star’s strip club visit?

“Have you spoken to Max?” Vanity asked.

Pippa sighed. “He and I were pretty much on our last conversation at the Improv. I don’t think recent events will do anything to open a dialogue.”

Vanity busied herself with the job of piling multiple boxes of Manolo Blahnik shoes into one of the trunks. “So where are you going?”

“New York.”

“To do what?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve always wanted to be a Rockette. Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Really? That sounds cool.”

“When I was a little girl, our family spent a Christmas in New York once. My mum went shopping, and my father took me on a date to Radio City Music Hall to see them.” Enchanted by the memory, Pippa dreamily sat down on the edge of the bed. “I remember being in awe of how glamorous they were. Those perfect kick lines. That precisely timed fall during the wooden soldier routine. It was so magical.” One beat. “And one of the few positive things I can recollect about my snot rag of a father.”