Bling Addiction (12 page)

Suddenly, a thought struck her. This path would lead her to become Max’s new stepmonster. How bizarre. She didn’t understand why her friend hated his father so much. Max Biaggi was an amazing man—handsome, kind, generous, successful, and dead sexy. Granted, he probably wouldn’t make the cut for dedicated daddy of the year. But Max could have it far worse. Take Pippa’s father, for instance. Better yet, don’t. The man was a worthless shit stabber.

As usual, Max had no idea how fortunate he was. What a spoiled brat! Maybe stepping out of his self-absorbed world for one second would help him realize the kind of pressure his father had to endure. To stay on top in Hollywood was a Mount Everest climb every day, even for a man like Max Biaggi. He kept himself in phenomenal physical shape, and his movies still killed at the box office. But he was also a forty-four-year-old actor in an industry that worshiped the young. In fact, younger stars like Paul Walker were getting first looks at the better action scripts.

So maybe Max should try to see things from his father’s perspective. Instead of whining about not having a better dad, he should try being a better son. Yes! And when the opportunity presented itself, Pippa intended to tell Max exactly that. Because the too-cool party boy
needed
to hear it. And after the advice sunk in, Max would hopefully pass the wisdom along to his trampy sister, too.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Max Biaggi said. He held both of her legs, his hands cradling her calves as he gently placed her feet against his crotch. “Do you feel that?”

Pippa pressed her toes into his impressive arousal.

Max Biaggi let out a delicious groan. “That’s what you do to me, Star Baby.” He drank deep, refilled their glasses, and lovingly returned the Manolos back to her feet. “Are other parts of your body getting jealous?”

Pippa gave him a quizzical look, grinning.

“I spend so much time admiring your feet,” he explained.

She giggled, crossing her legs just slow enough to offer him a quick flash.

He took the bait.

Pippa gave him a seductive wink. “I figure it’s only a matter of time before you learn how good the rest of me is.”

Max Biaggi smiled. “Oh, I intend to, Star Baby. Believe that.”

She stared at him, blissfully happy. Where they were flying remained a mystery. But Pippa didn’t care because she knew one thing. And it was the only thing she needed to know.

With Max Biaggi by her side, this plane could only take her all the way to heaven.

I
f I can make it there…I’ll make it anywhere,” Max sang, belting the words out in his best Sinatra voice. And he truly felt like the ultracool Rat Pack leader as he held court on the roof of this nine-story building above West 27th Street in Manhattan.

Dante laughed at him.

“Just call me the chairman of the board,” Max remarked boastfully. “And based on your darker complexion and sidekick status, I guess that makes you my Sammy Davis Jr. I’ll send out for an eye patch.” One beat. “By the way, can you tap dance?”

Dante shook his head, grinning. “You’re such a twat, man. Why am I even friends with you?”

“Because your other buddies are either in jail or delivering diapers to their baby mamas.”

“These are my options?” Dante asked rhetorically. “Criminals and teenage fathers or a culturally insensitive twat who sings cheesy Sinatra tunes?”

Max reached for Dante’s hand and pumped a firm, fast shake while rattling off a word string at hyperspeed. “MaxBiaggiJrgladtomeetyahowthehellareya?” Then he laughed hard at his own joke. “Shit, I’m so damn funny. I crack myself up.”

Max felt like a king. After all, tonight he was reigning over Tar Beach, his first open-air party that didn’t involve a pool, his first New York party ever, and judging from the beautiful people already here, the beautiful people on their way up, and the beautiful people queued up along the street, this was
his
monarchy to rule.

“And speaking of twats,” he announced, gesturing to a sexy blonde gracefully navigating the freshly laid gravel in nosebleed heels. “I’ve got dibs on that one. But if she’s rolling with a fat friend who needs a mercy screw, I’ll send you a text.”

“Thanks, dude. Appreciate the thought.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll do anything to keep you away from my sister.”

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” Dante asked wearily.

“Never,” Max replied. “You saved her from that Taco Bell rapper, and now she wants to marry you.”

As if by divine stage direction, Shoshanna chose this moment to dance into their line of sight, writhing seductively to a smoking remix of Chris Brown and Juelz Santana’s “Run It.”

Suddenly, Max’s bright mood darkened. “Why is she hanging out with that son of a bitch?”

“You mean him?” Dante asked, pointing to Shoshanna’s dance partner, a short, smug-looking guy outfitted in the suburban thug drag of distressed hoodie, baggie jeans, and pristine white sneakers.

Max stared daggers at him. “Yeah. He’s a douche bag.”

“You’ve said the same thing about me.”

“Put it this way: I’d rather you get Sho pregnant tonight than see her hang out with that little shit for five minutes.”

“Well, I have principles,” Dante said. “I can’t bring a child into this world knowing that you’ll be the favorite uncle.”

Humorlessly, Max flipped Dante the bird and bounced toward Shoshanna, tight-lipped and determined to set the girl straight.

Vlad Singer was the youngest son of a powerful Hollywood agent. He was also the baby genius type, finishing up his second year at MIT while most guys were still cramming for the SATs. But his true claim to fame was an advanced talent for recreational science.

Vlad manufactured and pushed his own club drug creations, his latest lab experiment being a lavender tablet known interchangeably as Delirium, Purple D, or System D, depending on the area of the country in which one acquired it.

Users waxed rhapsodic about Delirium, raving that its benefits were so euphorically intense that an Ecstasy trip felt like a sugar rush by comparison. And tales of sex on Purple D were already becoming the stuff of legend. Fans of System D promised orgasms that stretched on to infinity.

Tell that to the girl who died last week after taking the drug for the first time at a Dartmouth College sorority house. Is the bitch still coming? No. She’s pushing up daisies in a family plot.

Max moved through the crowd, burning with protective fury. “Sho!” he shouted, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from the makeshift dance floor.

Shoshanna twisted out of his grasp. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t want you hanging out with him,” Max said forcefully. He lanced Vlad with a look that dared the punk to so much as peep out a hello.

“I’m sick of you telling me what to do!” Shoshanna argued hotly. “Vlad’s cool.”

“He’s trouble.”

“You’re just jealous because he’s smarter than you.”

Now officially pissed off, Max yanked Shoshanna’s arm free. “Well, if I’m the dumb one in the family, then you must be one retarded bitch.”

“What
ever.
” She flipped her hair and started back toward the throng of dancers.

Max stopped her. Gently this time. “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? Drink until you puke up your guts. I don’t care about that. But
no drugs.
Do you understand me? That stuff can kill you.”

Shoshanna smiled. “Max, you worry too much. Enjoy your party.” And now she openly mocked him. “I’ll be home before sunup,
Daddy.
You can test my urine then.” With that, she disappeared into a colorful sea of gyrating bodies.

Max sighed, made serious eye contact with the blonde he planned to claim later on, and proceeded to do what came naturally with a frosty bottle of Skyy.

He wandered around the rooftop, admiring his handiwork. This party had been seriously low maintenance—some gravel, a few well-placed bars, sound equipment, protective railings, and a dozen or so group-size beds. Of course, finding sheets tough enough to survive stiletto-heel stabs, spilled drinks, and the occasional vomiting incident had been a challenge. But the coverings were holding up well.

For a moment, the view of the Empire State Building took his breath away. This was the
real
high life—a party on the roof, underneath the stars, in one of the greatest cities in the world.

“This is so glamorous,” a Russian-born model, perched on one of the beds like a spoiled poodle, praised to no one in particular. “The fresh air is making me crazy! I feel like getting naked!”

Max smiled. The music was hot. The girls were hotter. And the liquor supply would last until breakfast. Life on Tar Beach was pinch-me-I-must-be-
dreaming good.

Nothing could go wrong tonight.

Vanity stood alone in the corner, taking a hit off a rotating vodka bong while Mariah Carey’s “We Belong Together” wafted through the New York air.

Here it was, barely midnight, and the DJ had everyone snuggled into slow dances. What a tool. She openly scowled at Cash Boden, the young music controller who had delusions of being the next DJ AM or Mark Ronson. Good luck, wannabe.

Okay, so the boy gave off a pinch of James Dean vibrations. Big freaking deal. Any baby from a family dynasty who says no to politics could claim that much. At the end of the day, Cash Boden was merely
faux
rebel. Translation: Just another rich white boy openly desperate for street cred. Final assessment: Beyond pathetic.

Suddenly, Vanity could feel her face relax as her eyes got that marbles-in-her-head sensation. Oh, yes. Almost drunk. It was a fantastic state of mind.

A greedy hand reached out for the glass water pipe that contained the smoothest vodka Vanity had ever tasted. The hard liquor had been imported from Holland, and the innovative packaging made it go down all the better.

She mourned the bong’s escape from her grasp, watching as more party people moved in to sample the unique experience. With a roll of her eyes, she ditched the scene. Bygones. Let them have it.

Vanity needed something else to blast off anyway. After all, she was only
almost drunk,
and she wanted to careen past
officially drunk
and crash right into
completely wasted
territory. Cheap champagne would be the fuel to get her there in a hurry.

She spied a fat green bottle of Korbel on one of the bars and rudely snatched it up, fully intending to drink every drop all by herself.

Vanity pretended to flirt with an older guy who talked a lot of shit about managing a band that she’d never heard of. She allowed him to open the Korbel on her behalf.

The cork popped as loud as a gunshot.

Vanity laughed gleefully, taking off with the bottle and leaving the mystery group manager to wonder if she’d ever return.

Alone with her champagne, Vanity gulped it down, relishing the sweet taste and the oceanic sound of the bubbles. Maybe now she could drown her head out of its perpetual state of self-loathing, regret, and anxiety. Alcohol did a much better job of it than Dr. Parker, which is why Vanity had deep-sixed therapy altogether.

She swept a gaze over the rooftop crowd and noticed Dante and Max standing off to the side, mentally stripping girls with their stares as they whispered back and forth, occasionally punctuating their commentary with naughty laughter.

Vanity chose to countervail her irritation by drinking more. She tipped the Korbel to heaven and guzzled deep. Finally, the liquor began to strain her mind and ripple her vision in a way that gave her the incentive to soft-pedal the intake. But that instinct passed quickly, and she downed even more.

It was easier to be schloggered than to think about the message boards. It was easier to be schloggered than to moon over Dante. And it was easier to be schloggered than to reflect on her questionable future. Basically, no matter the problem, facing it soaked in alcohol was just easier. DJ Wannabe began to pump sounds of life, fading out Mariah and bringing into the mix Annie’s “Chewing Gum,” a bubblegum confection if ever there was one. But at least the song had a solid beat for dancing.

Not far away, Vanity noticed Christina taking a hit from the vodka bong that would surely go straight to the party lightweight’s brain. But she looked great tonight in her embroidered powder blue tunic by Tory Burch, paired with a gauzy white peasant skirt and her signature scuffed cowboy boots. There was a real haunting quality to Christina’s beauty.

Vanity zeroed in on it, swaying to Annie’s singsong rhythm, tracking the introverted Latina artist with a raygun gaze. She gave deep thought to Christina’s unrequited crush and the sweetly obsessive devotion that had played itself out in the creation of
Harmony Girl.
At least it proved that
somebody
loved her.

Suddenly, Vanity sensed her breath cut short with an immediate desire. The feeling hit her like a crime of passion, and she vaulted toward it, powered by the strength of the strangely stirring but unavoidable impulse…to kiss Christina. She felt wicked for thinking it, for wanting it, but something as strong as an electrical surge propelled her forward.

And there was no turning back.

The shocking moment tore through Christina like a cleaver. From out of nowhere, Vanity was upon her, mouth to mouth, kissing passionately, groping hungrily.

The long-simmering desire surfaced in tandem with the surprise. It swirled through her insides at such a furious pace that it became a riot of emotions. Leading the charge was an animalistic wanting that thrummed with a dizzying erotic force. Christina wanted this. She wanted it enormously. She wanted it forever.

A delicious heat transferred from Vanity’s body to Christina’s, and the sensation made her blood bolt, left her starry-eyed, and hooked her like an instantly addictive narcotic. It was her
second
kiss. But from her
first
love. And the psychic pull was mind-melting.

Christina became vaguely aware of their surroundings. The public spectacle of the Sapphic clinch had ignited the crowd, but she tuned out their rowdy cheers and dirty taunts as the kiss thundered on.

“Shit! This is hot!” a guy yelled. “Keep going! Bite her nipple!”

All of a sudden, Vanity drew back, cupped Christina’s flushed cheeks in her hands, and cackled loudly. “God, I’m
so
drunk!”

Christina could only stand there speechless, barely managing a sheepish smile as the rest of her tried to get a handle on the situation. Every synapse in her body felt zapped, like a mosquito that had flown into a blue bug light and died instantly.

Vanity patted Christina’s cheek and playfully beaked her nose. “You’re a good kisser, though. One day you’ll make some girl very happy.” She chuckled, bent down to reclaim her bottle of Korbel, and tottered away, a vision of gorgeous destruction in her silk tuxedo blouse by Monique Lhuillier and re-mended Tsubi jeans that hung dangerously low enough to reveal her thong.

For Christina, the incident was paralyzing. Just the sight alone of Vanity could make her chest ache. And the sensation of the kiss had awakened a fever and a kind of beauty that was instantly all-consuming. But it was over. As fast as it had started, it was over.

And what was Christina supposed to do now? Dismiss this as some disposable Madonna-Britney moment brought on by alcohol? She couldn’t do that. Too many emotions had been stirred up.

The rush of hurt nearly upended her. To escape from the loneliness…to act out the secret love that existed so sadly in her heart…to do that only for those fleeting seconds…oh God, it made every breath that much more painful…because now she knew how amazing it could feel…how wonderful it could be.