Bling Addiction (2 page)

Dante’s eyes drifted to the breasts that were practically spilling out of her bathing suit top. “No, you look like trouble.”

“The kind of trouble to avoid or the kind to get into?”

“Definitely the kind to get into.” Dante leaned down to start up more kissing. With the beer gripped in one hand, he used his free fingers to undo the hook on Tahnee’s bikini, keeping his tongue in her mouth the whole time. Nothing felt better than sexual multitasking.

But the balancing act proved too much, and they went tumbling down onto the leather banquette, a hot collision of wet lips, toned limbs, and sweat-slicked torsos. They landed in a heap and couldn’t stop laughing.

The main casualty was the Corona Light, which survived the fall without breaking but spilled onto the immaculate deck.

Dante craned his neck to see Juan, who was lost in what looked to be the phenomenal oral attentions of Leesa.

The Latin star waved off any concern. “No worries, bro.” And then he gave Dante the thumbs-up sign.

Tahnee glanced over at them and laughed. “Can you believe that? She’s such a slut.”

Dante hesitated a moment, searching deep into Tahnee’s blue eyes, wondering if he was misreading the situation with her. Had he already gone too far?

Tahnee seemed to pick up on his inner doubt. She reached out to stroke his cheek. “Relax, Aquaman. I can be one, too.”

Dante smiled the smile of a winner. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Tahnee assured him.

And then Tahnee proceeded to make his bad day better.

There was one good thing about having a run of terrible luck.

It could definitely turn around.

V
anity watched them through the state-of-the-art viewfinder of the Nikon Venturer binoculars. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if fighting to escape.

“You son of bitch,” Vanity hissed into the wind. Hormones that she never knew existed raged inside her.

For a fleeting moment, she communed with Lucifer, actually entertaining the thought of starting up the engines, pulling back the throttle, and using the Cobalt 343 as a deadly missile. She could ram the boat straight into the Cigarette and blow the disgusting scene to smithereens.

Slowly, Vanity lowered the binoculars, realizing that she’d been holding on to them with an intense, white-knuckled grip. Her hands were cramping. Her feelings were out of control.

First, there’d been that possessed Amazon moment when she kicked Dante out of the boat. But as soon as her fury subsided, Vanity had experienced a punishing regret that sent her racing back to retrieve him, all the while praying that he was safe. She’d actually thought that she loved him, too. So on some level, there should be relief in knowing that he was okay.

But the facts were too cruel for that. Here Vanity stood, the taste of Dante still in her mouth, while he carried on with another girl. She didn’t feel love anymore. And she didn’t feel grateful for seeing him alive, either. The only emotion she could conjure up was hatred.

Vanity raised the binoculars to take another look, then, thinking better of it, she put them down and picked up her Sidekick II to speed dial Dr. Parker. There were complicated issues to sort out. And if ever she needed an appointment with her therapist, then that time was right now. When it rang directly into voicemail, Vanity braced herself to sound better than she felt.

“Hi, Dr. Parker, it’s me…Vanity. I know my regular appointment is a few days away, but some things have come up, and…I…really need to see you. Please call me if you can fit me in.”

A text message from Mimi came through just as she was hanging up.

THERE’S A VERY DISTURBING RUMOR GOING AROUND. CALL ME ASAP!!

Vanity rolled her eyes.
Disturbing
to a personal publicist like Mimi Blair could mean being photographed wearing the same outfit twice. No matter, she was curious enough to want to know what people were saying about her, so she rang Mimi right away.

“We might have a
major
problem,” Mimi said upon answering. This was a woman who didn’t deal in hellos. She sledgehammered to the point of every conversation. “Did you make a sex tape with Jayson James?”

Vanity shut her eyes and slowly slid down into the cockpit. The sluice gates of fear opened up and began racing through her bloodstream.

“Are you there?” Mimi demanded.

“Yes,” Vanity answered quietly. “I’m here.”

“Did you make a sex tape with him?” Mimi asked again.

Vanity’s memory vaulted back to that night at the Surf-comber. Oh God, she’d been in such a bad place emotionally
and
physically—lonely, depressed, wasted, stoned from the secondhand smoke of premium-blend pot.

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” Vanity said finally. “I suppose he could’ve had one of those cellphones that makes mini-movies. Or maybe he put a hidden camera somewhere. I was in no shape to notice.”

“Guys are shit.” Mimi sighed. “Let’s not panic yet, though. I haven’t talked to anyone who’s actually seen this firsthand. There’s just a story going around that he was showing it off at a party last night. But we need to get prepared just in case. Let me do some digging.”

Vanity imagined the humiliating scenarios that were likely to unfold if a sex tape
did
exist. It would hit the Internet and spread like a plague. Video links. Screen captures. Blog mentions. Her lost night with Jayson “J.J.” James would post
everywhere.
The name Vanity St. John would probably hit the top Google search hot list, too. And for all the wrong reasons.

“Mimi…” Vanity began, but her voice broke on the last syllable.

“If this is out there, then we’ll come up with a plan of attack,” Mimi said hotly, her voice ringing with steely reassurance.

Vanity thought of Paris Hilton and that infamous video
One Night in Paris
with Rick Salomon. Ultimately, the heiress had practically embraced the porn star exploits and increased her level of fame and notoriety exponentially. But that’s
not
who Vanity wanted to be. After all, a scandal like this would basically follow her around for the rest of her life.

“I’ll call you back with an update,” Mimi said, signing off.

Vanity didn’t scream out at the endless Atlantic. She didn’t throw her mobile device into the water. She just started up the Cobalt and calmly piloted the watercraft back toward the Miami Beach Marina.

“My heart is blue…my heart is blue for you.”

Completely lost in an iPod sonic assault, Shoshanna strutted toward the door, singing woefully off-key to what Max instantly recognized as “Rock & Roll Queen” by the Subways.

His precocious sister was dressed to incite a frat house riot in a two-sizes-too-small baby-doll tee emblazoned with the words
PORN STAR
across a braless, surgically enhanced chest. And this was over a skirt so short that it could easily be called a belt.

“Sho!” Max screamed, determined to break through the hard-charging guitars blasting her eardrums.

Shoshanna halted in a huff, reluctantly hitting pause on the music device as she gave her older-by-
two-years brother an impatient, expectant look.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Max asked.

“Like what?”

“Your lamp post,” he answered. “You’ll need something to lean against while you stand on the corner and wait for your pimp to drive up and say, ‘Bitch, get in my car.’”

Shoshanna shook her head, unfazed. “Oh, is that supposed to be funny?”

Max chuckled to himself. “Actually, it was pretty good. You have to admit that.” Then his smile fell into a firm line. “Seriously, though, put on some actual clothes. You’re not going out like that.”

“Our stepmonster said that I looked cute!”

“People say all sorts of things after four martinis,” Max countered. “As a general rule, don’t believe any of them.”

Shoshanna splayed out her hands in a faux model stance. “I don’t get it. What’s wrong with this?”

“Toosmalltootighttooshortnobra,” Max said in a lightning fast clip. “And don’t get me started on your cute slogan.” He shook his head. “‘Porn star’? Come on, Sho. Save a little shock value for when you turn sixteen.”

“It’s a joke.”

“Yeah, well, on a fat girl with acne, it’d be funny. On you, the typical guy might consider it worth the jail time.” Max moved in front of the door and folded his arms. “Go change.
Now.”

Defiantly, Shoshanna whipped her hair around. “You can’t make me.”

Max gave her a menacing look. “You’re right. But I
can
ban you from my parties and my poker games.”

“God! I feel like I’m on
Seventh Heaven
or something!” She started to stomp up the stairs, then halted with exasperation. “What am I supposed to wear?”

“I don’t know. Right now you look like a teenage hooker, so even if you come back down dressed like a slut, I’d still consider that a major improvement.”

“You’re
such
a dick.”

“I know. It’s in the official job description for big brothers. I have to fulfill my duty.”

“Maybe I should give this ‘porn star’ shirt to Vanity,” Shoshanna said, sneering devilishly. “I hear it’s no joke to her.”

All of a sudden, Max felt his body go cold. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My friend Yummy was at a party last night, and she said J.J. was there showing everybody a tape of him having sex with Vanity.”

“Son of a bitch!” Max nearly spat. One thing was certain: If Yummy Larocca knew about it, then the rest of the world would soon follow. No detail was too small or too private for that little bitch’s blog.

Shoshanna peeled off the thin cotton shirt and covered her breasts with one arm. “Here! Give it to her yourself!” And with that, she flung the top at Max’s face and raced up the stairs, giggling.

Max caught the garment and just stood there, preoccupied, tormented, and conflicted. He was all about business. That’s why a select few called him Baby Donald, after Donald Trump. Let other guys his age have their sports heroes and fawn over rap stars. Max preferred the billionaire blowhard.

J.J.’s video had the potential to be a sweet cash windfall, the kind that the Donald would truly appreciate. It’d make the money from Max’s poker games and theme parties look like revenue from a kid’s lemonade stand. What was it about seeing famous people having sex? Everybody wanted a look. It was the ultimate voyeurism. And the ultimate humiliation, too. How would Vanity deal with that?

Oh, shit. Max was already starting to crack under the pressure of guilt. So much for a kill-or-be-killed business edge. Maybe he didn’t have the heart of a corporate assassin after all. Christ. At the end of the day, did that make him a sappy little twat or a decent guy who could listen to his conscience? Maybe a bit of both.

Shoshanna came bounding down the stairs and stopped on the last step. “Happy now?”

Max gave her a quick once-over.

At best, his sister had managed a minor improvement. Now her shirt carried the phrase
YOU DON
’
T HAVE TO GET ME DRUNK
, and her low-rise jeans revealed a peek of thong underwear.

“Compared to your last outfit, it’s almost a wholesome look,” Max said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were going to a Bible study.”

Shoshanna rolled her eyes, grinning. “I don’t think Yummy has that book.” She started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Clubbing with the fake IDs you made for us.”

“Remind me to smash my head with a hammer for doing that.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me that I was safer in a bar with a thirty-year-old man than alone in a basement with any guy your age?”

“That does sound like something I’d say,” Max admitted.

“Okay, then. You can relax now, right?” She laughed and slipped out.

He sighed and tracked down his keys, ready for some fun of his own. If he couldn’t screw Vanity, then he might as well screw some other girl. Besides, a hot one was on her way to a hotel right now, operating under the false assumption that Max could help her get cast in a movie.

He laughed a little, relieved that his inner sleazy bastard was still alive and kicking.

The vague sense of imminent doom was paralyzing, and for the longest time, Vanity just sat in the packed marina parking lot, safely ensconced in her Mercedes SL500.

She dreaded the call from Mimi.

She dreaded the next encounter with her father.

She dreaded ever seeing Dante Medina again.

On a sudden impulse, she called Max. A conversation with her oldest friend was probably the only thing in the world Vanity wasn’t dreading right now. He picked up, and she could barely hear his greeting above the blaring NWA track, “A Bitch Iz a Bitch.”

“Max!” Vanity cried in frustration. “Turn that shit down!”

“Sorry,” he chirped just as the sonic boom ended. “I’m pumping old-school rap today.
Straight outta Compton!”

Vanity rolled her eyes. As if this rich white boy knew
anything
about life in South Central Los Angeles. “I need a laugh, Max,” she groaned. “Tell me something funny.”

“Okay, two child molesters walk into a bar,” Max said, not missing a beat.

“Please.”

“This joke is funny as shit,” Max insisted. “Unless you’re an incest survivor. Then it might hit too close to home. But it’s still funny. Okay, so the first child molester asks the bartender for a Shirley Temple—”

“Stop!” Vanity cut in, even though she was laughing as she protested. “I don’t want to hear this! God! You’re sick!”

Max cackled. “You’re the one laughing at the joke before the punch line. I think
you’re
the sick one.”

“For calling you in the first place, maybe I am.”

“Have you heard from Dante?” Max asked. “He hasn’t answered my texts.”

“That’s because the idiot passed out on the beach and got himself mugged,” Vanity announced bitterly. “They took his phone, wallet, and that stupid diamond watch.”

“Shit!” Max exclaimed. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t worry. He wasn’t hurt. He slept through the whole thing like a skid-row bum.”

“You sound pissed off,” Max observed. “Let me guess—he came first and then lost interest. You have to remember that he’s the son of a maid. There are some manners he’s probably unaware of. It’s not just table etiquette that the poor have trouble with.”