Bling Addiction (14 page)

As the realization hit, Christina continued to stare. They were partying on the street. They were partying on the roof. They were partying all around her. She wondered if this is what it felt like to be invisible.

Even Christina’s friends took little notice of her. Vanity had slipped away, no doubt to some bigger, better VIP event. Dante had stalked out in a huff, spotting her in his peripheral vision and offering barely so much as a wave good-bye. And Max was somewhere chatting up his next conquest.

People said that New York was the loneliest city in the world, that it was an island filled with millions of people in a race against time to pursue their own agendas. Walking shoulder to shoulder on the busy streets, they stared straight through you, if any eye contact took place at all.

Christina could feel it right now. The dull ache of isolation. And the deeper sting of irony. Here she was, on a spring break excursion with friends, part of the fabulous five, in with a popular group, a set of circumstances that she never dreamed would be possible, and yet Christina had never felt more alone. She really was the invisible girl.

To Vanity, Max, Dante, and Pippa, she was so clearly the interloper, the disposable one. To Keiko, she was just a sacrificial lamb for a political con. And to her own mother, she was nothing more than a public image liability.

Oh, yes.
The conservative Senate hopeful with the lesbian high school daughter.
It was a label that now followed Paulina Perez everywhere. And on those rare occasions when she actually looked Christina directly in the eyes, her mother’s disappointment, shame, and regret was painfully transparent.

Three little words crept into Christina’s fuzzy, vodka-soaked consciousness. It was a turn of phrase. It was a state of mind. But it was also an answer to her misery, an escape from the hell that would be Salvation Pointe: “Better off dead.”

She struggled to hoist herself up and onto the narrow ledge. Once there she weaved side to side, back and forth, swaying as she fought to secure her balance and gaze at the streets below.

Manhattan mocked her. The city seemed glittery, powerful, and full of exuberant life. In stark contrast, Christina felt dark, weak, and empty of all hope for happiness.

The wind picked up the hem of her skirt. Goose flesh sprouted on her bare thighs as the cool breeze slapped against them. She stole a downward glance, wondering if the impact of skull and bone on concrete would hurt. But then nothing could hurt more than the inner demons tormenting her now.

Behind her, the music carried a strange echo. It sounded weird inside her head. Suddenly, she sensed a disturbance. Somewhere in the dim fog of her drunken mind she heard Max screaming his sister’s name.

Christina turned to look back. As she shifted her feet for a better sight angle, one of her boots got tangled up in a leftover string of Christmas lights. Attempting to shake it free, she stumbled. It was just enough to lose her balance.

At the last possible moment, she scrambled, desperately trying to fall in the direction of life.

Back toward Tar Beach.

Back toward
Harmony Girl.

Back toward Max.

After all, what if he needed her help? Christina wanted to be there for him. She wanted to be there for her future, too.

Would she be accepted into the Savannah College of Art and Design? And if so, what about the brilliant career that would follow?

But then came a terrible cold panic as her feet slipped from the safety of the ledge. Because all of a sudden she knew that she wouldn’t be.

It was so strange. Moments into the fall, the sadness miraculously left her heart. Peace at last. She didn’t even scream going down. All she did was play back her mother’s cruel words from that cruel day.

I would rather you commit suicide than live that life.

For Dante, it was a long walk back to the hotel. Not in physical distance, but rather the time of emotional reflection. Hard facts were hard facts. He was a premium-grade asshole.

Trying to compare Max’s general attitude toward girls to his treatment of Vanity had been a pathetic sign of weakness. The truth was, Dante needed to come clean on his own shit.

Punishing Vanity for the deal-shark methods of her father was simply a case of Dante being a passive-aggressive jerk. She didn’t deserve any of the blame for
his
idea of sampling Henry Mancini’s “Le Jazz Hot” turning up as the hook on Speed Freak’s hit single. Simon St. John and Juan Barba were the true guilty ones.

Still deep in thought, Dante paced the area outside the Court, the boutique W Hotel tucked inside the Murray Hill neighborhood. Max had booked everyone here because of the reasonable walking distance to the building that would host Tar Beach. It was a sixteen-story hotel but maintained the cozy feeling of a hideaway.

Dante had never stayed in a room more posh—sleek modern furniture, large-screen TV, plush bedding, a terry-lined bathrobe, and a minibar to cream over. Dante had wolfed down the thirteen-dollar peanuts just for the fuck of it.

Of course, for Max and Vanity, and to a lesser degree Christina, the bling lifestyle was merely business as usual. Having a “whatever, whenever” button on their hotel phones, which gave them twenty-four-hour access to anything in the city, was simply no big deal.

Dante tried Vanity’s cell. No answer. The girl could be anywhere. But he had a feeling she was upstairs in her room, crashed for the night. And so he marched inside the Court, through the almost-deserted lobby lounge, and straight to the elevator. There were things Dante needed to say. There were things Vanity needed to hear. The doors couldn’t open fast enough. He was anxious to find her before losing his nerve.

Dante mulled over his future in real terms. Hopes for a serious education past MACPA were bleak, and every statistic was stacked against guys like him. According to the sociologists who crunched the numbers, Dante was likely to earn less than half of a college graduate, three times more likely to be unemployed, more likely to commit a crime, and also more likely to develop a substance abuse problem.

He laughed out loud at the bitter forecast. Shit, it was either that or
cry.
Okay, on paper, Dante Medina was no girl’s Prince William. But so what? There was one stat in Dante’s favor. And it was in Vanity’s favor, too. He was more likely to love her better than anyone else.

The elevator stopped on the eleventh floor.

Dante raced to Vanity’s suite, his heart expanding with each urgent step, his body tingling with excitement. Yes, this was one of those half-drunk, late-night epiphanies. But it was real, too. No more games. No more replacement girls. This time he would put in the work to make it last. Dante and Vanity. They were
meant
to be together.

When he reached her room, Dante was shocked to discover that the door was ajar.

He knocked three times. “Vanity?”

Silence.

A strange foreboding came over him. Instinctively, he knew that something was wrong. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room had been trashed—furniture turned over, throw pillows, coffee table books, and other decorative accents strewn about, curtains ripped from the rods. A sudden fear hit him like a punch in the chest.

He called the front desk for security and searched for answers until someone arrived. On the bed he found Vanity’s purse with all of her belongings intact, including cash, credit cards, driver’s license, and Sidekick II. Just as he was about to look inside the bathroom, he heard approaching footsteps.

Two hotel staffers appeared in the open doorway, an assistant manager and a security guard. They seemed unfazed by the condition of the room, listening impassively as Dante relayed his discovery.

The manager commandeered the phone, placing several calls and speaking in a hushed tone while the guard burdened Dante with a series of routine questions that were leading nowhere fast.

“Your friend was refused service at Wetbar a short time ago,” the manager announced, referring to the hotel’s smoked-glass nightspot that overlooked Lexington Avenue. “She was intoxicated and didn’t take the news well.” He gestured to the destruction around the room. “Apparently, she decided to act out her displeasure here.”

Dante tried to wrap his mind around the idea of Vanity trashing her own room. But it didn’t add up. He shook his head. “She didn’t do this.”

“Have you been drinking, too, sir?” the manager asked with an arched brow.

“I’ve had a few beers, but that doesn’t mean I can’t recognize a break-in when I see one,” Dante snapped, narrowing his eyes. “What’s your excuse?”

In answer, the manager traded a weary look with the security guard.

Dante fought to remain calm. Neither one of these jizzbags gave a shit. He thought about calling the NYPD, then decided against it, figuring he’d only get the runaround from them, too. No more time could be wasted.

“This isn’t some stupid drunk girl drama, man!” Dante cried. “Something happened here. Something
bad.”

“The hotel staff is on alert,” the manager tried to assure him. “I’m sure your friend is still on the property, and—”

Dante waved him off. “Don’t even finish.” He felt a sudden, impossible thirst and glanced around for a bottled water. Nothing. Snatching an empty glass, he stormed into the bathroom and flicked on the light. And then he froze.

Smeared in red across the mirror were the words “A DIRTY BITCH WUZ HERE.”

Dante moved closer, reaching up to touch the defaced glass with his index finger. What he discovered next scared him stone-cold sober.

The message was written in blood.

To be continued…