Bling Addiction (13 page)

Just in the nick of time, the vodka bong came back around. Christina took another turn, desperate for any elixir that might obliterate her sorrow, help her forget the secret horror that awaited her at Salvation Pointe. The liquor tasted raw and burned going down.

She looked around at all the drunk, happy faces, yearning to be one of them. Why not? This time the internal playback of her mother’s just-say-no drinking lectures couldn’t bring the party to a screeching, guilt-ridden stop. Christina was in New York. All she had to do was slur the hotel address to a cabdriver or stumble back to the building on her own.

There was no danger in drinking the pain away. Not here, not tonight.

“What the hell was
that?”
Dante demanded.

Vanity stared back at him, completely saturated by alcohol, holding up the Korbel bottle like a shield. “I’m just having some fun,” she sneered.

“How could you do that to Chris—”

“I’m putting on a show, dickhead! Isn’t that what everybody wants? I figure they’re sick of watching the same thing over and over again on the Internet, so I busted out with a live version. Whoo-hoo!” She twirled around, nearly toppling over.

Dante stopped her fall and tried to take the champagne, but Vanity yanked it from his reach with such force that she lost her grip on the bottle.

“Look what you made me do!” Vanity shrieked, looking down at the broken green glass as if it were a shattered dream.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Dante said quietly. “I think—”

She silenced him with a nasty look. The rage in her eyes looked like ammunition that had been stockpiling for months. “What do you
think,
Dante? Tell me. I’m dying to hear it.”

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“And I think I’m just getting started,” Vanity shot back. She started off toward the bar.

Dante reached for her hand to stop her.

Vanity snatched it away as if his touch could burn. “Leave me alone!”

Dante backed off, raising both hands in a show of surrender. “Fine. Get even drunker. I don’t give a shit anymore.”

“Anymore?”
Vanity asked incredulously. “That seems to imply that at some point you
did
give a shit.”

For Dante, this moment crystallized all the reasons why he didn’t want to be here—on this trip, at this party, in this argument. Vanity was the worst kind of drunk girl. Liquor brought out her demons and gave her stamina. She could fight all night if the mood struck her.

“So when was it, Dante?” she demanded. “Just for the record, when did you care?”

He stood there in silence, knowing that whatever he said would get twisted around in Vanity’s Korbel-soaked mind. So he offered nothing.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Dante watched her leave, wracked with guilt, indecision, and exhaustion. The impulse to follow her was there. But he resisted. His thing with Vanity was complicated. Christ, maybe it was
too
complicated.

As Vanity walked out, a pretty girl walked in. She had tousled hair. She wore too much makeup. She seemed oblivious to the fact that one of her tits was about to spring loose from her top. The wasted smile on her face conveyed a vacant simplicity. She looked easy on all levels.

No personal dragons.

No public scandals.

No asshole father.

Tomorrow he would deal with the difficult girl. But tonight he wanted easy. Grabbing a beer, Dante walked over to say hello.

M
ax Biaggi launched the shoulder-cannon missle straight into the unmarked minivan, taking out a terrorist sleeper cell in one perfectly choreographed explosion.

“Do you perform your own stunts?” Pippa asked, mesmerized by
Hijack II
on the forty-two-inch plasma screen.

They were wheels up, the only passengers on a luxurious Boeing 737, destination still unknown.

“As much as I can get away with,” he answered from the enormous swivel seat upholstered in beige leather. “I’ll try anything. Love the adrenaline rush. But sometimes studio suits step in to hold me back. They get tight-assed about insurance riders.”

The movie recaptured Pippa’s attention. The star was shirtless now, his defined chest rippling, powerful arms corded with muscle, six-pack abdominals as defined as the underside of a turtle. Every part of him was larger than life on the screen, digitized to a level of such pixel-perfect clarity that she could actually see the beads of sweat on his brow, count the lashes that swept a shadow over his eyes, and make out the tiny scar just under his lower lip.

Max Biaggi chuckled. “I worked out with a trainer for six months. All for this one scene.”

Pippa gave him an appreciative gaze. “It seems to have stuck.”

He raised an eyebrow, zapped off his action hero image with the remote, and stood up. “Less that. More you.” Taking her hand, he pulled Pippa to her feet. “I haven’t kissed you yet, Star Baby. Do you want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.” The breath shuddered from her lungs as she answered. His face was so close. She could smell the wonderful masculine scent of him. Oh God, this is why he was a movie star. The magic worked on the big screen. The magic was working right now, too. On her.

Bit by bit, Pippa’s desire was unshackling, even as a vague sense of danger began to build. Why was she suddenly afraid? Perhaps it was her own lust frightening her. She wanted him to do things that no boy or man had ever done to her before…or would again. It stopped here with Max Biaggi. Tonight. And for the rest of her life.

Pippa’s heart stood still as her lips moved in to claim Max’s mouth.

But he didn’t just pull back. He recoiled from her.

Confused, Pippa leaned forward. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

The expression on his face was certain, his tone matter-of-fact. “Of course not. I don’t kiss whores.”

Pippa backed away from the cruel rebuke, the unexpected words hanging in the balance of the horrible, surreal moment. This had to be a trick of the mind. “Wh-what?” She barely managed to speak.

He gave her a quizzical look. “I thought you knew.” Now his voice was hard. “You’re a whore, Star Baby. I only kiss wives and girlfriends. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time.” He grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly toward the front of the plane.

Pippa tried to resist, but his physical strength proved too much. Dragging her to the private stateroom, he pushed her onto the bed.

This couldn’t be happening. But in Max Biaggi’s once devoted eyes she now saw a monster. Pippa felt sick. A hot tear rolled down her cheek. “Turn the plane around,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

There was a predatory gleam in his stare. “Too bad. I own you, Star Baby.”

“I’m not for sale,” Pippa shot back, surprised by the strength and defiance in her tone.

He laughed at her. “Every whore has a price. Vinnie charged me top dollar for you, and I expect to get my money’s worth.”

Pippa lay there on the expensive Frette sheets, suspended in a state of hyperreality as the ugly truth blistered and burned.

Vinnie had sold her out.

Max Biaggi had bought her dirt cheap.

Pippa closed her eyes, steeling herself to remember the moment, that beautiful, innocent, hopeful moment, when she believed a girl like her could actually have the best of everything.

“You can keep your shoes on. I’m done with that part of your body.” And then he unfastened his belt.

Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound” lilted from the speakers as Max surveyed the scene. Again. In fact, he couldn’t stop admiring it. Tar Beach, his first event outside of Miami, would go down as a certified smash.

His latest social creation was an exquisite body crush of tipsy models, Hollywood actors, young professionals, X-factor teens, and assorted scene makers.

Dante sidled up, guzzling a beer, bobbing his head to Chris Martin’s ivory key rhythm. He hooked an arm around Max’s shoulder.

Together they watched a fine-ass WB starlet in stiletto heels struggle to stand up on one of the beds. She spilled her drink. She giggled. She twirled her shiny purse in the air.

“Girls can say whatever they want about me,” Max began, feeling philosophical with the rise of his blood-alcohol level. “They can say I’m a dick, that I never call—”

“That you cry like a little bitch after you come,” Dante cut in.

“Okay, that happened once,” Max joked back, not missing a beat. “But I was drunk, and our family dog had just died. It was a vulnerable time.”

Dante laughed.

“You should go find Vanity,” Max said. His voice dropped an octave. He was serious.

“Oh, I should?” Dante asked, his tone punchy.

“She’s going through a rough time.”

“Vanity’s the kind of girl who will
always
be going through a rough time.”

“This is great, man. It’s spring break, and you’ve got my oldest friend feeling like shit.”

“Sorry. Maybe she can get together with all the girls you’ve screwed over. I hear there’s a meeting at Madison Square Garden.”

“Fuck you,” Max said. And he really meant it.

“Right back at you.” Dante pushed his half-empty Miller Light into Max’s hand. “I’m out. You give good party, dude. But I’m over it.”

Max watched him go, part of him wanting to chuck the bottle at Dante’s retreating back, another part wanting to run after the asshole and talk things out. In the end, Max just stood there as a helpless feeling washed over him.

The fabulous five clique was imploding. Pippa had bailed on spring break altogether. Vanity had come along only because Max practically held her at gunpoint until she said yes. Dante didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. And poor Christina had reluctantly joined the trip, only to be broadsided by one of Vanity’s manic drunk slut episodes. Great friends. Good times. Whatever.

Max tried to forget about the dysfunctional group. If the others chose to wallow in misery, then let them. He planned to party up. It was one in the morning, and Tar Beach was shifting from wild to more wild.

He spotted the lissome blonde who’d been on his dick radar since she arrived. Disposing of Dante’s drink, he made his way over. “You’re hot.” As an approach line, this never failed. After all, what girl didn’t want to hear it?

“So are you.” She smiled, giving a little flip of her flawlessly blown-out hair. “I’m Bethany. I work in the fashion industry.”

He grinned at the vague career mention. She probably fetched Starbucks and picked up dry cleaning for some bitch editor at
Vogue.
“I’m Max. I pulled this event together.”

“Wow,” Bethany murmured. “Hats off to you.”

Max shrugged. “I’d prefer panties off, but we’re still getting to know each other, I guess.”

Bethany beamed back a sexy look. “Uh…we might get there eventually.”

He stepped closer, just as the DJ pumped up the volume with LL Cool J’s “Rock the Bells.” The old-school classic made him itchy to dance. But right now he was itching more for Bethany. “I should probably be up front with you about something.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“I’m only interested in you for sex. And by that I mean sex right now and not tomorrow or next week. Don’t give me your cell number, because I won’t use it. Don’t ask for mine, because I won’t tell you what it is. I’ll want you to give me head, but don’t expect the favor returned unless you get frequent waxes. I prefer the Brazilian. And I hope you do yoga. My new favorite position requires a girl to be limber.”

Bethany laughed. “Well…at least you’re honest.”

Max nodded. “I figure girls are tired of party talk bullshit from guys. My new motto is to keep it real.”

“Actually, it’s sort of refreshing,” Bethany said.

“So do you want to go back to my hotel?”

Before she could answer, there was a commotion in the center of an impromptu dance throng that arrested Max’s attention.

What he saw next stopped him cold, making the pounding hip-hop beat sound as hollow as voodoo drums. Everything shifted to slow motion.

Shoshanna lay flat on the gravel, her body convulsing in a violent seizure.

Max raced toward her, desperately knocking out of the way anyone in his path. “Sho!” He cried out her name into the New York night.

Finally, he reached her, the fear inside him total, his guts knotted. Never before had he seen a face so white. Shoshanna’s cheeks were bloodless. She looked almost translucent.

Max glanced up, scanning the area until he found Vlad Singer. “What did you give her?” he demanded.

“Nothing!” Vlad insisted. But as his voice told the lie, his nervous eyes revealed the truth.

“Somebody call nine-one-one!” Max screamed. And then he lunged for Vlad, grabbing two fistfuls of fabric on the punk’s hoodie and shaking hard. “What did you give my sister, man? Tell me!”

“N-n-nothing,” Vlad stammered. “I-I…d-don’t know what happened.”

A primal urge flooded through Max’s body, filling him with a propensity for violence so strong that it scared the hell out of him. Vlad Singer was the smartest guy on the roof but suddenly wanted to play dumb as a cow. And Max could kill him for it. Right here. Right now.

“Oh my God!” a female voice shrieked.

Max spun around to see an ashen-faced Bethany standing over Shoshanna’s now listless body.

“She’s not breathing.”

The music drowned out Bethany’s voice, but Max could still read her lips. The gears in his brain jammed. He didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t know how to cope.

And “Rock the Bells” played on.

The cruel joke was on Christina. But even more cruel was the fact that she wouldn’t mind if Vanity played it on her again. That’s how amazing the kiss had felt.

Christina had been to parties before where two girls put on a show of fake kisses to drive a guy crazy. The encounter with Vanity was altogether different, though.

Vanity’s kiss had been
real.
A hot, deep soul kiss full of hungry lips, wet, probing tongue, and curious fingers running up and down Christina’s body.

Even now, a few hours and God knows how many drinks later, Christina’s mind still hummed from the sensual memory…the smoothness of Vanity’s cheek against hers, the erotic way Vanity’s hands had played with her hair, the instant patch of wetness the attendant arousal had brought to Christina’s panties.

But the most devastating aspect of all was the force of Vanity’s kiss, the sheer deliberateness of it. Vanity knew how to throw down, going after Christina’s mouth with such confidence, passion, and intensity. It was like one of those big romantic movie kisses. The hero finally decides that he can’t live without the heroine, the music swells, and he unleashes a kiss that literally takes her breath away.

But it was all just a joke. Vanity was doing it for the audience, not for Christina. A hot tear accompanied the harsh reality. God, her emotions were all over the place. She was really beginning to feel the steady intake of 3. The vodka had a carb count of zero. That made it diet friendly. The company was owned by Jermaine Dupri and Janet Jackson. That made it cool.

With the popular vodka bong long gone, Christina had sought out the 3 shots as the next best thing. They were served up in the kind of tiny paper cups that nurses used to dispense pills to patients. How appropriate. Because the liquor definitely had medicinal properties. Right now she was feeling no pain.

All of a sudden, the rooftop visuals began to blur and spin around. Christina stumbled, falling into a passing partygoer.

“Hey, easy, girl,” the guy said with a wink, reaching out with both hands to steady her. He looked like an Abercrombie ad come to life—rich, handsome, and chiseled in the manner of an Ivy League star athlete. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Christina shouted, fighting to be heard above the music.

“Correction—you’re shit-faced. If I was a jerk, I’d take full advantage.” Then he laughed and walked off.

Christina teetered away, clumsily negotiating past a protective railing, seeking refuge closer to the ledge. She balanced her hands on the concrete. It felt cool and rough to the touch as she peered down.

Nine floors below, a line snaked outside the building. Fashionable late-night social animals waited to be admitted into the elevator and whisked to the top. She watched curiously as expensive cars pulled up, discharging more of the same.

On the street, Christina noticed a gaggle of Japanese girls bunched into a tight huddle and snapping digital pictures of themselves. From way up here, one of them looked exactly like Keiko.