Beautiful Disaster (2 page)

That’s all he ever did in relation to Vanity. React to being the son of a maid in the presence of the famous rich girl. React to being kicked out of her speedboat and left to drown. React to being screwed over by her father’s recording label. Shit. When it came down to
reacting
, Dante Medina had reached his goddamn limit.

So he had switched to offensive mode, determined to announce his feelings, no matter how jumbled they were. Because in spite of everything, he actually loved that beautiful, mixed-up girl.

Dante had followed her back to the hotel, only to find Vanity missing. Her door was ajar. The place was trashed. Hotel security had been his first call. Two men turned up with accusations disguised as questions. Apparently, Vanity had caused a scene at the downstairs bar when refused a drink. They clearly thought all of this was the work of an angry drunk.

A DIRTY BITCH WUZ HERE

But not that. He touched the mirror again, then inspected the blood on his finger. This discovery in the bathroom changed everything. It upgraded a cause for concern into a red-alert emergency.

Dante pivoted, stepping back into the main room to address the W Hotel’s assistant manager and security guard. “Look at this.”

They followed Dante’s lead, trading blank stares after taking in the disturbing image.

And then Dante launched into a rant. “This isn’t some crazy drunk girl acting out. Something happened here. Something
bad
. If you believe that she’s still on the property, then I want every room in this hotel searched. I want security videos reviewed. I want—”

“Young man—”

“Don’t patronize me with your ‘young man’ bullshit,” Dante fumed, cutting off the assistant manager two words into his lame-ass spiel. “Anything less than treating this like the emergency that it is will mean instant PR problems for you, dude. Her publicist will get this joint in the headlines. But not for reasons that’ll make corporate proud.”

Dante picked up on the alarm in the manager’s eyes the moment the word “publicist” dropped. And then he decided to motivate him even more. “She’s famous, she’s beautiful, and she’s seventeen. Do the headline math.”

The manager turned to the security guard. “Call nine-one-one.”

Slowly, Vanity came up from the deep, unconsciousness lifting like a fog. She experienced the vague sensation of being alert. And then a wave of nausea hit. Worse than any hangover.

Her body lurched violently. On reflex, she attempted to cover her mouth with her hand. But the movement met with painful resistance.

Oh God! Both arms were tied to the bed frame with thick rope that burned her wrists when she tugged for freedom. Her feet were tied down, too. She was spread-eagled. Immobilized. Vulnerable. Defenseless.

Shock and confusion overrode her physical urge to vomit. Terror ruled, leeching the heat from her body. She began to shiver and fought to reclaim the memory of the lost hours.

Where was she? How long had she been here? Who had done this? What was going to happen to her?

Vanity worked herself into such a state of distress that a film of sweat slicked her from head to toe. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Why couldn’t she remember?

She screamed. And not just any scream. It was a wail of despair and frustration, a plea for release, a begging for mercy.

Suddenly, she heard music. Loud music. The thrash-metal assault drowned out her cries and ramped up her fears.

Megadeth’s “Symphony of Destruction.” The song choice was a dead giveaway. Vanity’s heart pounded in a stutter beat as one thing became clear: who had done this to her.

It was no longer a question. Because now she knew the answer.

From: Max

Is everybody wasted? WTF??? Holler back!

1:31 am 4/09/06

M
ax knew this much about his mother: She went by the name Angela Everhart; she lived in a five-bedroom penthouse in one of Donald Trump’s high-rises; and she had two young sons, Reeves and Thomas…which automatically made them Max’s half brothers.

But he didn’t even know what they looked like. Angela had always discouraged his interest to visit, and she never mailed the pictures that she always promised to send.

Sometimes it was easier to blame the new husband for her emotional freeze-out. After all, Robert Everhart, a defense attorney with an uncanny knack for taking on the most lurid, high-profile cases, had to be a cold-hearted bastard. How else could he defend wife murderers, baby killers, and child molesters?

Three rings went by before a groggy yet startled female voice picked up. “Hello?”

“Mom, it’s Max. I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”

“Max? What time is it? What’s wrong?” Her questions were hushed.

“I’m in New York with Sho. She’s in the hospital.” All of a sudden, Max experienced a crashing wave of pent-up anguish. He broke down. “She’s…she’s in a coma.”

“What happened?”

“We were at a party.” Max barely managed to get the words out through the tears. “They think it’s a reaction to a club drug or something.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart…”

Max’s heart swelled at the sound of his mother’s comforting words…and then deflated when he realized that she wasn’t talking to him.

“Go back to sleep,” Angela went on. “It’s just a late-night crisis. I’ll be off in a minute.” There was a long pause. “Where are you, Max? Which hospital?”

“NYU Medical Center.”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

“I can’t find him.”

“Of course not.” She sniffed bitterly. “I’ll come by in the morning, after I get the boys to school.”

At first, Max couldn’t believe it. “So you’re not coming
now
?” He knew that his voice was brimming with hurt and anger.

“Robert’s in the middle of a big trial,” Angela explained. “I can’t disrupt his schedule, and I don’t want to upset the boys. I’ll get them to school and then come straight there.”

Max could only feel a tight fight-or-flight sensation in his chest. He was ready to explode. “You don’t want to ‘disrupt his schedule’? Fuck his schedule! Your only daughter is in a goddamn coma! Or don’t you give a shit?”

“Don’t ever speak to me like that again,” Angela hissed. “How did she end up in a coma in the first place? Where were you when your sister was doing drugs? Chasing some slut?”

Max said nothing.

“You’re just like your father. You look like him. You sound like him. It’s disgusting.”

“Well, I didn’t choose the son of a bitch,” Max shot back. “
You
did. You married him, you screwed him, and you gave birth to his children. So don’t blame me. I didn’t have a say about either one of my worthless parents.” Max didn’t know what surprised him more—that he’d actually uttered those words out loud, or that it felt so good to say them.

“Don’t—”

He cut her off. “No,
you
don’t, Mom. I’m killing myself with guilt already, and the last thing I need is for you—of all people—to try and pour on more. You haven’t been there for Sho. Not at all. I try to look out for her, but I can’t be her mother and her father. I’m only seventeen, and you want to blame
me
? You won’t even deviate from your precious family routine to come see about your dying daughter, but you still want to blame me. This family is fucked!”

When he finished, Angela made no attempt to fill the silence. Finally, she broke it. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.” And then she hung up.

Max knew that meant tomorrow, after her husband had been sufficiently pampered, after her children—the ones she actually chose to mother—had been safely delivered to their elite school.

He sat down on one of the cheap faux-leather sofas. Alone. He waited for news that didn’t come. Alone. And he prayed for Shoshanna to pull through. Because if she died, then that’s exactly what Max would be for the rest of his life.

Alone.

Pippa’s great escape took her no farther than the stateroom door.

Max Biaggi crashed into her body just as her trembling hand reached the knob. He pinned her against the wall and forced her thighs apart with his knee. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Pippa shut her eyes.

He pressed against her, grinding into her, his breathing intensifying. “I can get plenty rough, Star Baby. I don’t think you can handle it, though. You’re too fragile.”

An internal thunderbolt hit Pippa, triggering a frisson of pure hope. “Most seventeen-year-old girls are.” The words spilled out, as if by divine inspiration.

Max Biaggi became statue-still. “What did you say?” He loosened his grip on her wrists as his question entered the stale cabin air.

Pippa twisted around to face him, her eyes gleaming with bitter triumph. “You heard me.”

His eyes blazed into hers, probing, questioning, factoring in the possibility.

“Raping your son’s classmate might not be the best career move,” Pippa said. “But I’m no expert. Maybe you should run that idea by your agent first.”

Max Biaggi’s lips fell into a firm, tight line. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Pippa was practically taunting him now. “Your hard-on is fading. That must mean you’re a little bit scared that I’m telling the truth.”

“This is bullshit.” He attempted to deliver the line action-hero tough, but there was the faintest hint of panic in the timbre of his voice.

Pippa glared at him, suddenly feeling more in control of the situation. “Is it bullshit that you live on Star Island? Because I’ve been to your son’s parties.”

His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “What’d you do? Pick up
Star
magazine? Every awe-struck fan knows I have a house there.”

“Does every fan know about Max Junior’s poker games in the basement?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Or about the breast implants that you bought for Shoshanna on her fifteenth birthday?”

His smug smile was wiped clean.

And Pippa thundered on. “What about your wife Faith’s thirst for martinis in the afternoon? Did I get that from
Star
magazine, too?”

Now it was Max Biaggi’s turn to look scared. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just a girl,” Pippa whispered, her tone at once coy and demonic. “Not old enough to vote…but young enough to ruin your life.”

The bad-ass movie star was officially rattled now.

Beads of sweat sprouted along his brow.

She began to sing “If My Friends Could See Me Now,” then stopped cold. “I performed that in the MACPA spring production of
Sweet Charity
. Ask your son. He was there. You didn’t bother to show up, though. I guess he’s right when he says you suck as a father.” She pulled up her underwear and adjusted her dress.

Max Biaggi drew back abruptly, his face a masterpiece of paranoia. “Did Vinnie put you up to this?”

Pippa mocked him with a smile. “Relax. This isn’t an episode of
Twenty-four
. There’s no conspiracy. Vinnie thinks I’m legal.”

Max Biaggi shook his head with disgust. “You’re a manipulative little bitch.”

Pippa shrugged diffidently. “Can you blame me? Taco Bell uniforms are scratchy, and the take-home pay is shit.”

Max Biaggi winced in pain. With his right hand, he rubbed the back of his head, only to discover blood on his fingertips. “You stupid underage whore! I’m bleeding!”

Pippa, hardly able to conjure up sympathy for his injury, made a show out of inspecting her high-flying Manolo Blahnik. “None of it got on my shoe, thank God.” She glanced up at him, feeling almost powerful, the fear in her heart now replaced with disgust…and a hurt that she hoped would fade fast. “By the way, now might be a good time to tell the pilot we’re going back to Miami.”

“Be perfectly still!” a male voice called out. “I’m going to bring you up nice and easy. Just stay calm, girl. Stay calm.”

Christina shut her eyes, obeying the stranger’s words, surrendering completely to his nick-of-time rescue. She could feel the vague sensation of being pulled upward.

With each movement, his words loomed with greater clarity.

“That’s it. You’re doing great. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Closer.

“Almost there. Just a little more to go.”

Closer.

“Gotcha!”

A firm hand gripped one leg, then the other, and in one fluid movement, he pulled her up to the ledge. Only then did Christina open her eyes.

It was him again—the Abercrombie ad come to life, the guy she had bumped into just minutes before her fall, the one who looked rich, handsome, and chiseled in the manner of an Ivy League star athlete.

He flashed a brilliant, hunky smile. “A fat girl would be dead right now. How much do you weigh? Eighty pounds?”

“Ninety-four,” Christina managed to say. And then she proceeded to vomit all over him.

He stood there, frozen with repulsion.

Christina was mortified. The sickness had come without warning. Too much vodka, a kiss out of nowhere from Vanity St. John, a near-death experience, and hanging upside down could do that to a girl.

Physical relief lasted mere nanoseconds, quickly replaced by a punishing nausea. In apology, a meek groan was all she could muster.

The Ivy League knight stared down at his soiled clothes—a Rebel Yell
DON
’
T SWEAT THE TECHNIQUE
T-shirt and a ragged pair of 1921 jeans. “The word ‘gross’ comes to mind.”

Christina lurched, feeling an unstoppable need to hurl again, only this time she twisted away at the last possible moment, just missing her savior’s shiny new Pumas.

He peeled off his shirt and used the dry side to wipe off his jeans. Then he chucked it into a corner, standing there shirtless on the rooftop, revealing the kind of natural muscular definition that lesser male mortals could never find in the gym, no matter how hard they tried.

“FYI—if you throw up on me again, I’m tying that string of lights around your boot and tossing you back over the ledge.” His tone was teasing yet gentle.

Christina smiled faintly, still reeling from the nausea. A light-headed sensation came over her, and she eased her way down to a sitting position.

He crouched to his knees and helped steady her as she dipped to one side. “I saved your life, and you puked on me. We should at least introduce ourselves. I’m Carb Duffy.”

Christina regarded him for a moment, temporarily stunned by his phenomenal good looks and impossibly cut abdominals. “
Carb
?”

“It’s a nickname that stuck. My buddies used to crack on me all the time, because whenever I drank a carbonated soda, I’d belch like a motherfu—”

Weakly, Christina raised a hand to stop him. The mere idea of a Mountain Dew, the simple thought of a burp, was almost enough to do her in.

Carb busied himself with the string of lights, unlooping it from around a heavy ceramic planter and rolling it into a tight circle. “Maybe you want to keep these,” he suggested. “You know, for sentimental reasons.”

“I’m Christina,” she murmured. “Christina Perez.” She paused a beat. “So
Carb
…are you simple or complex?”

He grinned, appreciating her clever play on words. “
Very
complex. Don’t let the pretty-boy package fool you. Oh, shit, here we go again…”

And then Christina lost it, hurling once more, retching out her guts until it felt like she had no stomach lining left. By the end, she was cold, exhausted, and sweating profusely.

“You don’t drink a lot, do you?” Carb asked.

Wearily, Christina tilted her head upward. “Try never.”

“So what made you go hard-core?” His interest seemed sincere.

Christina took in a deep breath. The final purge brought with it the looming sensation that the worst of the alcohol sickness was behind her…and the twisted sobriety that the worst of her life was still in front of her. “My mother is sending me to a treatment center in Mississippi that promises to ‘de-gay’ teenagers.”

“That’s some heavy shit,” Carb remarked. “It certainly explains the drinking and the jumping.”

“I didn’t jump,” Christina murmured. “I thought about it…but I didn’t do it.” She glanced over at the ledge in question, shivering slightly. “I slipped.”

The expression on Carb’s face told her that he harbored serious doubt about her version of the truth. “Well, the next time you ‘slip,’ do what most girls do: swallow a few pills, and then call someone to tell them what you did.”

“I’m not suicidal,” Christina insisted.

“Maybe you are, but you’re just not fully committed to it.”

She looked at him. “Who
are
you?”

“Carb Duffy. Pay attention. We’ve already been over that. Now if you don’t mind my opinion, this de-gay camp isn’t worth a nine-story jump. Just refuse to go. Tell your mom to eat shit and die.”

Christina shook her head. “You don’t know my mother.” She rolled her eyes. “Or maybe you do. She’s running for a Florida Senate—”

Carb stopped her. “
Paulina Perez
is your mother?”

Christina nodded.

“And you’re the girl who created that
manga
using Vanity St. John as a model? What’s it called?”

“
Harmony Girl
,” Christina replied quietly.

“Yeah, that’s right,
Harmony Girl
.” Carb regarded her strangely. “Your artwork knocked me out. You shouldn’t be jumping off buildings. You should be—”

“I didn’t jump!” Christina cried out in amused frustration. “God! You’re driving me crazy!”

“Crazy enough to jump again?” Carb joked.

“As a matter of fact,
yes
.” Christina laughed.

Carb laughed, too. “What are you doing in New York? I take it you still live in Florida.”

She nodded. “Miami. I’m here on spring break with some friends.”

“So maybe you should stay,” Carb suggested. “Hang out in the city for a while.”

Christina just sat there. He made it sound so easy. And they all made it look so easy—Vanity, Dante, Max, and Pippa—doing whatever they wanted with no maniac parent scrutinizing their every move. “You mean run away?”