Beautiful Disaster (9 page)

From: Mimi

PEOPLE is still interested in the exclusive, but they need an answer. Otherwise we lose the cover.

9:02 am 4/23/06

B
ut I like
your
sheets,” Dante mumbled, smoothing a hand down the four hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton. He lay there nude, on his stomach, the top sheet barely covering his muscular ass.

For a moment, the sight took Vanity’s breath away. He was a vision, every art director’s wet dream with his café au lait skin against the brilliant superwhite of the bedding.

She crawled back in to lightly rake the inside of his forearm with her nails.

Dante responded with the slightest body tremor, murmuring, “Mmmm…that gives me chills.”

“It’s getting late,” Vanity whispered. “You have to get up. You have to get dressed. You have to
go
.”

Dante remained half-asleep. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“
Home
.” Lazily, she traced the outline of his tattoo with her fingertip.

“I don’t have one.” He rolled over, moving onto his back for a good stretch, a sexy grin planted on his face. “I’m homeless.”

“Liar.”

“It’s true.” He stroked her bare thigh. “I’m in need. Help me out.”

He was so fucking hot. Vanity could see the sheet moving in her peripheral vision as it began to tent impressively with Dante’s morning glory. God, she wanted to go after him like he was one big stick of candy. But right now there was no time.

“Come on,” she said, slipping off the bed. “I’ll give you a ride to the nearest shelter.”

“Baby, please.” He reached out, just missing her. “Where do you have to be on a Sunday?”

Vanity started to get dressed. “I told you. Dr. Parker’s going away for two weeks, but she made time to see me this morning.” She glanced at the clock. “At ten. Which is about the same time that my father’s flight gets in from Los Angeles.” She stepped into a pair of Etro satin pants and pulled a D&G chiffon blouse over her head. “I think those are two good reasons why you should go.”

Dante cut a sly glance to the tepee at his crotch, then back to Vanity. “Do you have to leave right away?”

She just smiled at him, shaking her head. “We did it four times last night. I think you’ve got a problem.”

“Yeah, well, last night you couldn’t get enough of my problem.”

“And I’m sure I’ll want to be burdened with it again very soon. But right now I have to go.” She blew him a kiss. “Lala made a huge breakfast. Eat fast. You know who is approaching Miami.”

“That’s all I get?” Dante complained. “Come over here and give me a real kiss good-bye. I’m working on a new track today. I need some inspiration.”

Vanity tossed him a shrewd look. She was tempted. Very tempted. But it would only mean her clothes coming off and being late for her appointment. “Nice try. You almost had me.” And then she dashed out, smiling so much that it almost made her face hurt.

She was still in the garage and fastening her seat belt when Mimi Blair called. Vanity picked up to say, “It’s Sunday morning. Don’t publicists go to church?”

“No,” Mimi snapped. “And we don’t sleep, either. All of us are agnostic insomniacs.”

Vanity laughed.

“Listen, we need to discuss the
People
issue.”

“I haven’t made a decision yet.”

“Not deciding is saying no,” Mimi said impatiently. “If we don’t commit now, we’re going to lose the cover.”

“Then I guess we’ve lost it.”

Mimi was silent.

Vanity fired up her new black Spyker C8 Laviolette and zoomed off, feeling the awesome power of the Audi V8 engine.

“A
People
cover is a huge opportunity,” Mimi finally said.

“Mimi, I know how this will play out, no matter what ground rules are set up in advance or how sensitive the writer pretends to be. I can already see the page layout in my head—a photo of my demolished Mercedes from the accident, screen captures from the sex tape, J.J.’s mug shot, and for good measure, they’ll probably use one of my mother’s old supermodel poses.” She sighed. “I’m not interested in being merchandised that way.”

“
Merchandised
?” Mimi was apoplectic. “Honey, we’re talking about your life.”

“Exactly. And I don’t want it splashed across the pages of
People
.”

“Vanity, this is the game,” Mimi said evenly. “It’s why you’re a star. The public is fascinated. And believe me, they’re not interested in every teen mess. Katee K’s already stabbed her mother, but she’d have to stab the president of the United States to get half the attention that you earn. Fans are out there rooting for you.”

“Do you really believe that?” Vanity asked. Her tone carried the implicit message that “yes” would be the stupid answer.

“I do,” Mimi said. “Stardom is a reciprocal enterprise. You give talent. You get fame. This is—”

Vanity cut her off. “What’s
my
big talent?”

“Living a life that people want to know about.” Mimi laughed a little. “Being beautiful and rich doesn’t hurt, either. I guess that makes you a triple threat.”

Vanity white-knuckled the steering wheel. She was
not
amused. “So people want to read about the gorgeous beach girl with money to burn. And they want all the dirt whenever I crash a car, drink too much, make a sex tape, or get kidnapped by a crackhead ex-boyfriend. Don’t pee on my leg and call it rain, Mimi. You know the
real
game. It’s not my life that interests people. It’s my failures—the more embarrassing, the better. Fans aren’t rooting for me as much as they’re resenting me. And just for having looks and money, the very things they want for themselves. I don’t want to feed into the media machine anymore. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I want to be.”

“It doesn’t have to be all or nothing,” Mimi argued gently. “You can feed the media beast without sacrificing yourself to it. Haters are out there, that’s true. But so are many young girls who admire you.”

Vanity noticed her speed and eased it down.

“Let’s brainstorm a new strategy.”

Vanity sighed. Part of her wanted to fire Mimi Blair and just walk away. But another part wondered if this could be the beginning of a positive image reinvention.

Beep.

Max was calling.

“I’ll think about it,” Vanity promised. She signed off with Mimi and clicked over to Miami’s newest Last Comic Standing. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until at least two o’clock.”

“I think Christina might be in trouble,” Max said. His tone was dead serious.

Vanity’s stomach dropped. “What kind of trouble?”

“She told the guy who saved her on the roof that her mother was sending her to one of those programs that promises to reverse gayness.”

Vanity’s mouth dropped open. “And you think she’s there now?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Paulina was evasive. She just told me Christina was visiting family and unreachable.”

Vanity experienced a crashing sense of guilt. She knew Christina had been deeply troubled by something last week, but hadn’t pressed hard enough to find out what.

“Max, I don’t like the sound of this. I’ve heard scary things about those programs.”

“Same here. This guy swears that she told him the place was in Mississippi, but I spent half the night on Google and couldn’t find anything.”

Vanity weaved in and out of slower-moving traffic, maintaining speed, thinking fast. All of a sudden, the solution came to mind. “Keiko.”

“What about her?” Max asked, his tone hostile. “If it wasn’t for that—”

Vanity stopped him. “Keiko could find her, Max. Think about it. The mission of QUAN! is to fight against programs like this. And I’m sure they have resources and networks that go far beyond a laptop and a Google search.”

Max fell silent.

“I know how much you hate her…” Vanity said.

“Yeah…but maybe that sushi bitch can redeem herself. I think the main office is in San Francisco. I’ll try there first.”

Vanity was taken aback by his ferocious concern. She had never thought of Max as a caretaker before. But he seemed to be morphing into the role of everyone’s protective older brother.

This realization was at once heartwarming and bittersweet. Nothing was the same anymore. Nothing would ever be the same again. Everybody was changing so much.

“Six kegs and no cops! Now that’s a rager!” The Phi Delta Theta had a Coors in one hand, a vodka shot in the other, and both eyes on Pippa as he shouted to his brothers. “This girl’s no skank, dude! She’s freaking hot!”

Pippa knew the drill. Sunday after the Saturday-night frat party. Drunken idiots not ready to wind down. But it was no problem. She could handle losers who took their Cheerios with beer instead of milk in her sleep.

“Keep your drink just give me the money/It’s just you and your hand tonight.”

The hard-driving Pink track from
I’m Not Dead
rocked.

Pippa grooved to the cynicism of the lyrics and flipped upside down on the pole, spreading her legs wide, a true acrobatic move.

The worthless dirtbags went crazy.

“Hey, baby, I think I’m in love!” The same one was yelling. “Do you clean house, too?”

His buddies howled.

Like that was some original shit. Pippa had heard it a million times before. But a pack of dumb guys would laugh at anything.

She was just going through the motions now, marking time, trying to make as much money as possible before graduation. Because on that day, Star Baby was leaving Miami. And she was
never
coming back.

The cool million was hers, but that was security for the future. Pippa still needed cash for the present. So no matter how miserable the job, it made sense to continue dancing.

There were reasons of far greater importance, too. Keeping Vinnie happy, for one. Learning that his precious Star Baby was leaving Cheetah would rattle his cage something good. It would be foolish to quit until she stood ready to flee Miami immediately. Another work benefit was the simple distraction. It kept Pippa’s mind occupied on subjects other than the mess of things she had made with Max.

Word of her violent encounter with Hellcat in the parking lot had spread throughout Cheetah. Now the other strippers regarded Pippa as something of a crazy, unpredictable badass and chose to keep their distance.

Pippa hardly went home and cried about it. The truth was, being odd girl out suited her just fine. She was looking out for number one, and relationships only got in the way.

The club was slipping. As a rule, Scores on Biscayne Boulevard had hotter girls and better dancers, not to mention a national reputation for quality and a more upscale atmosphere.

So Vinnie, money-grubbing son of a bitch that he was, decided to pump up the Cheetah revenue streams in illegal ways. The Lair had become a prostitution den where sexual acts were crudely negotiated for cash. In fact, Max Biaggi was up there right now with Peppermint, Vinnie’s new favorite, a Honduran girl with a barbell clitoral piercing.

Even drugs—once considered grounds for immediate termination—had entered the sleaze equation with Cheetah’s own bartender pulling double duty as a go-to guy for OxyContin. Several girls called it “hillbilly heroin” and had taken to snorting it before going onstage.

Pippa didn’t care. So what if the club environment was on a fast slide down? Star Baby was on short time with a million-dollar trust fund. And when she walked out, she would be moving on to a better tomorrow.

Consulting a financial attorney of her own had been a smart maneuver. Max Biaggi and his four-

hundred-dollaran-hour legal eagle got banged up good by Elaine Goldberg. She was a female, Jewish attorney: tough and mother-tiger protective.

By deal’s end, Pippa had an ironclad irrevocable trust with a spendthrift clause. This limited the payout to small amounts at specified intervals until Pippa turned forty, at which point she assumed control of the fund.

“This is your future, gorgeous,” Elaine had advised her. “No girl your age needs access to a million dollars. You’ll either squander it by the time you’re twenty-five, or you’ll hand it off to the first asshole you fall in love with when he tells you about his great investment idea. And by the way, those always turn to shit. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Trust me. This is the best way.”

And deep down, Pippa knew that it was. She never wanted to end up like her poor mum, Sophie Keith—divorced, broke, renting a dodgy cottage, always working and for crap pay at a start-up cable network. INT was gasping for ratings, so when she wasn’t taping
The Frugal Designer: South Beach Style
, Sophie practically lived on the road, doing coast-to-

coast shopping mall demonstrations to drum up viewer interest.

Pippa vowed never to be a victim like that. She loved her mum dearly, but at the same time, she resented her for not protecting herself and her daughter. Financial desperation only led to bad choices. Hello! A little foresight and fortitude please, especially with a child in tow.

The ugliness of it all made Pippa feel much older than her seventeen years. When she gazed in the mirror, sometimes she wondered who was looking back. The cold, hardened, humorless girl had to be a stranger.

I didn’t realize whores could be such harsh critics
.

Max’s voice rang inside her head as the what-ifs churned inside her. What if Pippa had ignored the poor-girl pride to make her own money? What if she had given it a go with the rich-boy flirt? Would they still be together?

Pippa shook off the thought. Bygones. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d set out to reclaim all the things that had been ripped away from her back in England—designer clothes, expensive handbags, dazzling jewelry, exquisite shoes. Everything she wanted was hers again. Including a personal asset report with six zeros on it. So why was she more miserable than ever?

“Do you have change for a five, baby?” It was the rowdy frat bastard again. “I’m going to need four-fifty back.”

His brethren whooped and hollered.

Pippa regarded all of them like the seven damn good reasons for abortion that they were.

“This is a raid!” The shout came from a patron near the bar. He was suddenly flashing a badge.