Bling Addiction (10 page)

Max left in search of J.J. A quickly lit anger bubbled to the surface. It was about to boil over. He walked fast, searched fast, thought fast.

Max noticed a striking girl with braces huddled in a corner, crying over what looked to be boyfriend troubles. He noticed a dumb jock on the second floor, dry heaving over a garbage bin while his buddies stood around and laughed. But still no J.J.

He passed another bar, stopped for a Seven & Seven, then let it loose, practically gargling with it. A serious buzz kicked in. That’s when he saw J.J. on level three, chatting up one of the shower dancers.

Max hustled up via a short cut. As he squeezed past a loudspeaker, the sound waves of Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” hit hard, vibrating his chest wall on impact.

Finally, Max reached him.

J.J. announced himself with the unmistakable aroma of expensive pot.

“What are you doing here?” Max demanded.

“You don’t return calls.”

“Why should I?” His gaze fell on the megabanner declaring it 2006. “Our business was over and done with
last year.”

“UPN dropped my option. It’s not even pilot season yet. I got one stupid guest shot on ‘Veronica Mars,’ and it was barely a walk-on.”

Max shrugged. “I think you’ve got me confused with someone who actually gives a shit.”

J.J. gave a bored yawn. “I figured as much. That’s why I sold the copy of the video I kept to an interested party. It uploaded at midnight. Go to ScrewVanity-dot-com. See for yourself.”

Max felt his heart sink, and the Seven & Sevens chose this moment to seriously kick in. He moved off to the side, weaving slightly, gripping the cold steel railing for support.

Down below, Vanity was burning up the dance floor, looking happy, healthy, and totally at peace. She stole a glance upward. She saw Max. She raised a hand to wave, then caught sight of J.J. The luminous smile on her face closed. The alarm in her eyes told Max that she knew the bottom line.

He shut his eyes, hoping she could handle the nightmare that was certain to unfold. When he opened them a split second later, Vanity was gone. And the Screw Wilma crowd partied until morning light.

Happy Fucking New Year.

I
t’s cold,” Keiko said. “Let me in!”

“But my mom’s home!” Christina’s voice was a hushed whisper.

“I know. I saw her car. That’s why I didn’t ring the doorbell. Come on, I’m freezing my ass off.”

Christina worked fast to push open the window and help Keiko crawl through it. “What are you doing here? This is crazy.”

Keiko grinned. “Sometimes crazy can be good.”

Christina shot a fearful look to the closed bedroom door. “We have to be quiet. There’s no lock.”

Keiko smoothed out her punk schoolgirl skirt and began poking around Christina’s things. “What’s this?” She snatched some unfinished pages of
Harmony Girl
from the drafting table.

“Just a
manga
I’m working on. It’s nothing, really.” Christina moved to take possession of her work.

Keiko darted out of reach, still inspecting the illustrations. “Wait a minute. This is that Vanity girl.”

“It’s based on her, yeah,” Christina said, working hard to sound casual. “I used some pictures of her as a model sheet. No big deal.”

Keiko remained frustratingly out of reach. “Have you watched the Internet video of her banging that guy? It’s pretty hot.”

Christina shrugged. “I can’t get that kind of stuff on my computer. My mom’s got a filter on our DSL line.”

“But you’d watch it if you could, wouldn’t you?” Keiko taunted. “Dirty, dirty girl.” She laughed.

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” Christina snapped, growing increasingly annoyed by this intrusion. “She’s a friend of mine.”

Keiko laughed at her. “But don’t you still want to see what she looks like naked?”

Christina experienced a flush of heat rise up her neck. “What’s your problem, Keiko?”

“Oh, I think it’s
your
problem. You’re the one in love with
Vanity.”

“No, I’m not!” Christina’s voice rose louder than she intended it to.

Keiko put a finger to her black-painted lips.
“Shhh.
What if Mommy hears you?” And then she rolled around on the bed, tickled pink by her discovery. “Oh, Christina. You’re so repressed. Baby girl, you’re like a 1950s housewife. Did you ever see
Far from Heaven
with Julianne Moore? That’s who you are. Only instead of the black gardener, you’ve got it bad for the porn queen celebutante.” Keiko laughed again. “It’s nothing to be ashamed about. She’s gorgeous. You’ve got great taste in women. But Vanity’s straight. So you really need to move on. Trust me. I know of what I speak. I’ve known a million secret lesbians who’ve fallen for their straight girlfriends, and it
never, ever
works out. Either way, you have to part company. If something
does
happen, it’s usually a mistake in a moment of weakness—tequila is typically a culprit—and then everything gets all weird. The friendship never recovers. On the other hand, if something
doesn’t
happen, then that’s even worse, because the agony just drags on and on. You tell yourself that you’re just friends, but deep down you know that there are much stronger feelings not being recognized. And all that does is keep you from seeking out a real relationship.”

Christina felt sick to her stomach, the kind of upending, nervous anxiety brought on by unavoidable truths. “Maybe you should just go, Keiko.”

“Why? I just got here.” Absently, she picked up Christina’s iPod and began scrolling through the playlist. “Oh my God—Ricky Martin? Baby girl, that is so lame. You have to delete him.”

Christina snatched the iPod from Keiko’s hands. “Just leave! Crawl back out the window and go home!”

Keiko sighed. “Okay. But help me up first.” She stretched out a hand.

Christina huffed irritably and reached for it.

That’s when Keiko yanked her toward the bed, playfully wrestling Christina onto her back with her hands pinned overhead.

“Get off me,” Christina demanded softly.

Keiko shook her head no, positioning herself astride Christina, knees locked against her hips. “What’s the most you’ve ever done with a girl?”

Christina swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Keiko laughed. “You don’t know? What kind of an answer is that?”

Christina was burning with physical curiosity. She felt something alive inside her. And she was almost ready to abandon all inhibitions to find out what that might be.

“Has a girl ever done this to you?” Keiko punctuated the question by moving down to press her mouth against Christina’s.

As if in answer, Christina’s lips fell open in wonder, inviting Keiko’s tongue to twine with hers. The sensation of Keiko’s piercing hardware felt strange. It was a tantalizing surprise, though, velvet warmth against velvet warmth, and then the sudden texture of cool metal.

Christina was so lost in the moment that she didn’t even know her mother had stepped inside the room until Paulina spoke.

“It’s late, Christina.” Her voice took on a robotic quality.

Christina froze.

“Please ask your company to go home.”

And then her mother left the room and quietly shut the door behind her.

Keiko giggled. “Total denial must run in the family.”

Christina just lay there, immobilized, terrified of what her mother’s next move might be. Because there would definitely be one. Of that she was certain.

Vanity’s celebutante fame had triggered its share of disturbing attentions. She was no stranger to hostile letters, requests for money, and the occasional marriage proposal. The rumors surrounding her accident had been daunting, too. But nothing had prepared her for the aftermath of having a sex tape floating around the Internet.

The video’s online presence lasted just one week. That’s how long it took for her father’s lawyers to build their legal salvo—a one-hundred-million-dollar lawsuit with temporary restraining orders, preliminary injunctions, and writ of seizures against Jayson James, a host of Internet service providers, and a laundry list of sites ranging from famous-teenwhores.com to Gawker.

Even though the legal offensive had been immediately effective, there were still copies of the tape to be found if someone Googled deep enough. The only silver lining was the knowledge that, no matter the outcome of the pending case, J.J. had already been buried in enough attorney fees to ruin him financially. And the scandal had effectively killed his modeling career, as well.

But nothing could kill the online haters. Message boards exploded with Vanity St. John hate talk. The compulsion to know what people were saying about her was far more powerful than her will to turn away from it, no matter how bad the postings made her feel. And so she continued to read them, sometimes over and over again.

Posted By: ScoobyD

Created In: Forum: StarGazing

Posted: Jan 17, 2006 10:33 pm

This girl is a total skank. I hope dude was wearing like a whole box of condoms and got a shot of penicillin after. lol. I’d still do her, though.

Posted By: Celia

Created In: Forum: StarGazing

Posted: Jan 17, 2006 10:31 pm

Why is this completely NON talented girl in every magazine that I pick up? If I wanted fashion tips from a total hoebag, I’d go to the Bunny Ranch, okay?

P.S. I heard Vanity’s mother is a hoebag, too. I guess the apple is still ON the tree! Ha!

Posted By: BruceD

Created In: Forum: StarGazing

Posted: Jan 17, 2006 10:27 pm

Why does this chick call herself Vanity? Cuz she’s a “Nasty Girl” who likes that sugar from the candy cane. Come on down to Dothan, AL, Vanity. I’ve got some for ya, too, baby!

Posted By: KatieGirl99

Created In: Forum: StarGazing

Posted: Jan 17, 2006 10:21 pm

Vanity has completely degraded herself with this video. Wow, she can get drunk as a skunk and be uninhibited on camera with a stoned-out cheeseball male model. She’s so cool! I wish I could do that! On second thought, NOT! If Vanity didn’t meet the official “beauty” standard, then nobody would care about her at all.

Posted By: SnoopCat

Created In: Forum: StarGazing

Posted: Jan 17, 2006 10:02 pm

A buddy of mine was in a gang bang with Vanity and said that the tape will be hitting the Net soon. She took on seven guys in a Miami hotel. This babe’s hardcore.

Posted By: EarthAngel

Created In: Forum: StarGazing

Posted: Jan 17, 2006 9:51 pm

This bitch needs to listen to Mary J. Blige’s “No More Drama”! I’m sick of her crazy shit. First she drives her car into a semi and breaks her leg in a million places. Now she’s crying about some sex tape that she made her damn self. Somebody should tie a cement block to this pork slit and throw her into Biscayne Bay. She’s not even that hot if you ask me. Peace out!

On nights like this, Vanity soothed herself with alcohol. And plenty of it. Drinking dulled her senses while she waited for the insult axes to fall. She knew that everybody at MACPA was reading these boards, because the worst of the lot always found their way back to her.

The sheer onslaught had bell-jarred her into an emotional wreck again. Just weeks ago she had felt so strong, so hopeful, so ready to take on the future. But tonight she felt all of that initiative slipping away again.

I
t was opening night for
Sweet Charity
at MACPA, starring Pippa Keith in the title role. With every seat in the auditorium full and the balcony standing room only, the anticipation for the rise of the curtain sizzled with palpable electricity.

Out here, in the audience, sat Vanity St. John, Lala on one side, Max on the other. She fidgeted in her seat, throwing glances around. A few rows up, she watched Christina and Keiko slip into their seats and giggle like two schoolgirls who’d just left the water running in the bathroom.

Lala patted Vanity’s hand with sweet support. “This will be fun, yes?”

Vanity returned a noncommittal nod. The truth was, right now she’d give up her firstborn child for a shot of vodka. Something told her that she was going to need it.

Max leaned in to whisper, “Five words—spring break in New York.”

Vanity shot him a curious look.

“We have access to beaches all year long. Let’s do the city thing. I’ll make all the arrangements. I’m thinking about hosting a rooftop party in midtown, too. We’ve done Miami to death. Let’s take Manhattan.”

Vanity vaguely agreed. As long as liquor was in ample supply, she really didn’t care where they went or who was there.

Dante arrived late and settled into his seat next to Max, acknowledging Vanity and Lala with a smile and a half wave.

“You’re late, bitch,” Max teased him. “I assume you were backstage volunteering as a fluffer for the chorus boys.”

“How did you know?” Dante joked.

Max touched his chin. “You’ve got some come right here under your lip.”

Dante laughed.

Vanity smiled wanly. She continued to be frustrated by Dante’s indifference and couldn’t shake the idea that they were destined to be more than a doomed summer fling. But he made no attempts to reconnect. Now they just seemed to merely tolerate each other.

The house lights went down.

As the darkness swamped over her, Vanity experienced a tight feeling in her chest and took in a sharp breath, steeling herself to remain calm. Sometimes it required superhuman effort to talk herself out of a total meltdown for no reason at all. But emotional toughness was Vanity’s home turf.

She survived childhood. She fought through the car accident. She was enduring the Internet scandal. And she would get over Dante, too.

The play commenced, and Vanity became instantly overwhelmed by Pippa’s uninhibited energy and raw stage finesse. She sang and danced with such determination and gusto that Vanity forgot she was watching a friend in a school production.

All around her the audience hummed with excitement.

After one of the bigger numbers, more than one person erupted with, “Who
is
that girl?”

Somewhere in the subterranean recesses of Vanity’s mind, she felt a bitter resentment toward Pippa. The girl was both talented
and
gorgeous. When people talked about her later tonight, it wouldn’t be because she wore a new Dolce & Gabbana dress, had closed her eyes and crashed into a truck, or got drunk and had no idea a guy was filming her during sex. It would be because she brought down the house with authentic Broadway dazzle.

Jealousy stewed within her, a simmering cauldron of why-not-me regrets and insecurities. Casting a sideways glance to Max, Vanity noticed that his attention was grid-locked onto Pippa, his eyes completely transfixed.

That’s when the evil little wish crept down the chimney of Vanity’s brainstem. Secretly, she wanted Pippa to hit a sour note, to miss a dance step, or maybe to fall flat on her face, anything to break the enchanting spell that she’d cast over the crowd.

And then, all of a sudden, as if God himself had sent down a thunderbolt, it happened.

Eardrum-piercing feedback ripped through the speakers, tormenting the audience and pushing the stage players off their marks.

Pippa had been midsong, knocking them dead. Now she looked terrified and disoriented, like a wounded animal on the side of a busy road.

Miss Bill dashed over to the sound board, where two junior classmen fearfully fumbled with the controls. Desperately, he tried to intercede, but the theatrical dictator failed at the task.

Dante vaulted from his seat and raced over to offer assistance. In record time, he tamed the forty-channel beast with its blinking lights, pushing slides, and reading dials.

Within moments, technical order was restored.

Miss Bill openly swooned over Dante.

Pippa received a cue from the stage manager, then launched back into her performance with seamless aplomb, as if nothing had ever happened.

And Vanity sat there, steaming in the dark, working hard to tame the green-eyed monster of jealousy, as one bitter question rampaged inside her mind.

When would Dante Medina be her goddamn hero for a change?

“Just listen one more time,” Dante insisted, beginning to lose patience with Juan Barba, who seemed more interested in checking out Max’s little sister than anything else.

Shoshanna queued the iPod stereo to blast “Le Jazz Hot,” the jaunty roof-raiser performed by Julie Andrews in
Victor/Victoria.

Once again, Juan shook his head. “I don’t hear it, man. Sounds like some gay shit to me.”

Shoshanna giggled.

Juan gave her a flirtatious wink.

Dante held firm. “Nobody’s tapped this track, man. I’m telling you. It could be a serious groove. Add a sick beat. Rewrite the lyric vibe to ‘Le Hip-Hop.’ Find a sweet honey with a killer range to sing the answer vocal. That shit would be off the hook.”

But Juan didn’t budge. “Man, that fancy arts school is making you soft. I think you need to drop out and get hard.”

Dante chose not to respond. He just allowed the track to play out in its entirety as he listened with quiet intensity.

The idea had come to him while watching Pippa perform her encore in
Sweet Charity.
Hip-hop artists had been cleverly mining the vaults for years to find sample tracks that could facilitate a unique sound. But so far, legendary composer/arranger Henry Mancini’s “Le Jazz Hot” had yet to be plucked. Pippa’s brutal rump-shaking routine to Missy Elliott’s version of “Big Spender” had pulled the trigger on Dante’s inspiration.

He would always remember the first time that he heard “Le Jazz Hot.” Dante was seven years old and living in a dilapidated house off Eighth Street in Little Havana. Each day after school, Richard Santiago, the drag queen next door, would see after Dante until his mother arrived home.

Dressed up in full drag as Rita-Rita, a Paris dance hall diva, Richard refused Dante’s pleas to watch
Spider-Man
and forced him to be an audience of one for lip-synch routines to “Le Jazz Hot,” which he performed as his talent showcase in local gay bar beauty pageants. Dante heard the song at least a few hundred times that year, and the indelible melody and red-hot percussive beats had stuck with him ever since.

Deep down, he knew that his song idea was destined for hit-record status. Juan Barba was so wrong that there should be a new word for wrong. Dante’s final product would be on the cutting edge and a million miles from “gay.” But they would want to groove to it, too. All he needed was someone with connections to believe the same thing.

Juan stood up. “I better roll before you bust out with a cut from
The Sound of Music.”

Dante chuckled.

Juan could still be funny, even when being a shortsighted asshole. He whispered something in Shoshanna’s ear that made her giggle, then took her hand and started out. “Later, man.”

“Hold up,” Dante protested, reaching for Shoshanna’s free hand and pulling fast. “You may take my pride out the door, but I don’t think you’ll be taking Max’s sister.”

Shoshanna swayed back and forth between Juan and Dante, laughing with delight, clearly enjoying the tug-of-war attention.

“She’s fifteen,” Dante said.

Juan grinned. “You shouldn’t have told me that, man. Now I’m
definitely
taking her.”

Max had left earlier to get a haircut and do some shopping, so it was just the three of them in the basement of the Biaggi mansion on Star Island.

“Come on, man. Stop being a punk. Let me tap this real quick. I’ll bring it back just like I found it. Promise.” Juan smiled. And it was the reassuring smile of a pedophile with a cute puppy and a box of candy.

Shoshanna continued to playfully swing between them.

Dante looked at her sharply. “Knock it off, Sho. This isn’t funny. You’re not going anywhere with this guy.”

Shoshanna huffed a little, then attempted to pull free from Juan.

The Latin hip-hop/reggaetón star refused to release her. “What’s up with the cock block, man? Are you pissed off that I didn’t dig that song, or are you looking to hit this, too?” His eyes narrowed into slits. “No problem. We can share. Which end do you want?”

Shoshanna attempted to shake her arm free. “You’re gross. Sounds like what you’re looking for is a farm animal.”

Juan gripped Shoshanna even tighter. “Whoa, I got a live one here!”

Shoshanna gazed fearfully at Dante, silently pleading with him to get her out of the situation.

“This isn’t cool,” Dante said. He wondered what stimulants Juan might be on, beyond the four cans of SoBe Adrenaline Rush from the last hour, which could easily put him at risk for caffeine psychosis.

Shoshanna managed to move closer to Dante, her bare leg suddenly hot against his denim thigh. With the compulsiveness of a little girl picking at a scab, she pulled at her
NO MEANS YES
baby tee, which rose up to expose her taut belly and dove down to reveal her happy birthday breasts.

Girls like Shoshanna walked a dangerous tightrope. They grew up in a culture that cranked the illusion that stripper hotness was the number one virtue, and they lived in a world where the Juan Barba types believed that meant consent to just about anything.

“Take off,” Dante said. His voice rang with the implicit threat that whatever Juan Barba started, Dante Medina planned to finish.

Juan stood there in his lightweight Sean Jean warm-up and chunky gold chains, nostrils flaring. Finally, he let go of Shoshanna with a rough shove. “The skank’s all yours.” And then he walked out.

The moment the door closed, Shoshanna wrapped her arms around Dante and hugged tightly. “You’re the only guy besides my brother who’s ever stood up for me.” She laid her lips on his, pressing her nubile body against him.

Uncomfortably, Dante tried to untangle from her. “Easy, Lolita.” He massaged the small of her back and gave her a platonic peck on the forehead. “By the way, if you kiss Max that way as a thank-you, then we need to see about getting the two of you booked on
Maury.
”

Shoshanna laughed, pulling a face.
“Ew.
That is
so
gross.”

Dante felt a surge of avuncular, fiercely protective affection. He wondered if this is what it might feel like to have a baby sister. “I’ve got a craving for ice cream.”

“Me, too!” Shoshanna chirped.

“Cool. Go put on some clothes that actually have fabric. I’m taking you to Marble Slab.”

A month later, Simon St. John’s Alacatraz Records dropped a hot track on the underground that ignited immediate airplay and mix-tape fire for Speed Freak, a new Latin rapper on the scene.

The song was called “Le Hip-Hop.” It directly sampled “Le Jazz Hot.” Speed Freak was the stage name for Tito Barba, Juan’s youngest brother. A remix of the single got a rush release and moved over fifty thousand units in the first week.

Hearing “Le Hip-Hop” on the radio or in a club was the pain equivalent to a savage kick in the balls. It hurt that much. Dante was staring at his own dream through a looking glass.

He wanted Simon St. John to get rectal cancer and die. He wanted Juan Barba to get tea-bagged by a gang of sweaty dock workers. And he wanted Speed Freak to ship out for Iraq on land mine detail.

But Dante wasn’t bitter. No, he wasn’t bitter at all.