Bling Addiction (3 page)

Vanity shook her head in disbelief. “Sometimes talking to you is pure torture.”

“Why? Because I’m not afraid to speak the truth?”

“That’s hardly the truth,” Vanity argued with good humor. “It’s just offensive.”

“Usually, the truth is,” Max said.

Vanity eased her seat back into the reclining position and closed her eyes. “So what are we doing tonight? I don’t feel like going home.”

“I’ve got plans.”

Struck by the odd tone in Max’s voice, Vanity opened her eyes. There was a time when he would’ve dropped anything to be with her. “What kind of plans?”

“Just stuff,” he answered evasively. “Why don’t you call Christina? I’m sure she’s home alone waiting for the phone to ring like a fat girl on New Year’s Eve.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Vanity murmured. “Did you pick that up in your sensitivity training class?”

Max laughed. “A hundred bucks says she answers after the first ring.”

“Whatever.” Vanity sighed. “So what kind of ‘stuff’ has you tied up tonight?”

“The kind we don’t do anymore.”

“Poor girl,” Vanity murmured. “She has no idea how disappointed she’s going to be.”

Max laughed. “Good one. Actually, she called
me
for another dose, and I’m only giving it to her because the girl’s wild in bed. She doesn’t just lay there like a Terri Schiavo.” He pretended to clear his throat. “Sort of like one of my old girlfriends.”

“Oh, you prick!” Vanity shot back, amused and insulted at the same time.

Max laughed again. “What? I didn’t mention any names.”

Vanity eased her seat up to the driving position and turned the key over. The German engine purred to life.

Boys.
They were so stupid most of the time, only giving real thought to situations that might benefit their dicks.

Her destination unknown, Vanity coasted out of the marina lot and pointed the car in the direction of South Beach. “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“Would you ever tape yourself with a girl without her knowledge?”

Max fell eerily silent.

“I take it that means yes.” Vanity huffed. “Is every guy in the world an absolute pig?”

“Either that, or he’s obsessed with
Star Wars.
I think you’d prefer the pigs.”

“So you’ve actually done that to a girl,” Vanity snapped, her tone full of accusation.

“Yes, but once I saw my come face on video, I destroyed the evidence and never played amateur porn star again.”

No matter how hard she tried to resist, Vanity started to laugh. “I’m being serious, Max.”

“So am I. You’ve seen the look on my face when I come. It’s hideous. Whenever I nail a girl, I should probably be wearing a
Phantom of the Opera
mask.”

Vanity was smiling, her mood levitated by talking to Max as she knew it would be, but the gnawing belief that there was, in fact, a tape out there of her and J.J. had reached a sudden fever pitch. Her heart was racing, her body was shaking, and her foot was heavy on the accelerator, as if road speed might help her escape the inevitable. Finally, she gave voice to the fear. “There’s a rumor going around that J.J. made a tape of us.”

Max fell silent.

“Have you heard about it?” Vanity asked.

His silenced continued.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” She held her breath for the denial, and when that didn’t come the tears did. “Oh God, I knew it. When Mimi called, I
knew
it was true. I could feel it in my gut.” She pushed a tendril of hair away from her eyes. “I can’t handle this right now. I just can’t.”

“Don’t freak,” Max said, trying his best to be comforting. “People will look at it once on their computers. Guys will wish they could be J.J., and girls will be jealous about how hot you are. And then it’ll be forgotten.”

The intensity of Vanity’s crying jag increased. “I feel like everything is falling apart, you know? Taking a simple breath is
painful.
Sometimes I just want it to stop. It’s like…I don’t want to be around for this anymore.”

“You’re talking crazy,” Max said. His tone was gravely serious, a rarity for him. “Where are you right now? I’ll come get you. We’ll go somewhere and talk.”

“Forget it. You’ve got a girl to screw, remember?” She hung up and twisted the stereo dial to a deafening volume. Madonna’s “What It Feels Like for a Girl” exploded from the XM station.

She drove faster…and faster…and faster, weaving in and out of traffic, attacking the road like an after-midnight drag racer. It was so strange. The car was almost out of control—just like her life—but Vanity felt totally in charge. Perhaps for the very fist time.

Suddenly, she saw it…up ahead, the eighteen-wheeler with the fuel cargo. It was in her path for a reason tonight. All she had to do was punch the accelerator, run the red light, and leave the rest up to God.

And then Vanity St. John closed her eyes. As her foot pressed down, she experienced a nanosecond of deceptive calm. There was no turning back. It would all be over soon.

M
ax knocked back a shot of vanilla-flavored Grey Goose, then tried to reach Vanity again. Still no answer.
Shit.
Girls could be so freaking dramatic.

“Pick up the phone, bitch!” he yelled. But just like the last dozen attempts, the connection went straight to voicemail.

Frustrated, Max tossed his Sidekick onto the bed. It bounced off the mattress and went flying, hitting the grasslike cloth on the wall before landing under a sleek, black-lacquered bench.

The goal tonight had been to kick it at the Raleigh Hotel in South Beach. He had the Ocean Front King all to himself. The plan was to get laid, party up, and sleep until noon. But Max could barely stand still, and, amazingly, sex happened to be the last thing on his mind.

He paced the brown-and-ocher terrazzo floors, jittery as hell, like a nervous cat in a cage. It didn’t help that his mind was playing out a thousand nightmare images. Something about Vanity’s choice of words and the sound of her voice chilled him to the very marrow of his bones.

Three knocks rapped the door.

Max took the time to pour another vodka shot before answering. After all, he knew who it was. Standing on the other side would be Jaclyn Angel, actress/model/whore. So why rush?

Finally, he flung open the door.

“I could get used to this,” Jaclyn cooed in a melodic singsong, strutting inside the room wearing a standard-issue Sluts “R” Us package—fake tits, low-cut top, a skirt that barely skimmed the lower reaches of her butt cheeks, and towering heels.

In one hand she clutched a rhinestone-encrusted Hello Kitty bag, and in the other she carried the rumpled script pages of the bogus Max Biaggi vehicle that would never get past this all-important development stage: Casting Couch Heaven for Star’s Horny Son.

“I’ve been practicing my lines,” Jaclyn announced. She robbed Max of his shot and downed the Grey Goose like it was a splash of Gatorade. Sweeping a tongue over her plump lips, she smiled and passed back the empty glass. “But I didn’t have the complete script, so I don’t really understand my character. To give my best performance, I need to know who she is.”

“This isn’t a Sundance film, sweetheart. In the opening scene, the leading man picks you up at an airport bar. After that, you’re killed in the first action set piece.”

“Oh,” Jaclyn murmured, deflated but still interested in the role. She moved toward Max. “I was just searching for my motivation. But I guess I’m not going to find it on the page.” Hooking her fingers underneath the waistband of his Rock & Republic jeans, she gave him a big, toothy grin.

It always amazed Max that girls who wanted to be actresses chose breast implants over dental work. Jaclyn Angel might have a body for sin, but the hopeful starlet with the bad stage name had a smile for radio. In a world of HDTV, she’d be lucky to get a callback for a crowd scene.

Even with her talented hands snaking down to bring him to life, Max didn’t feel so much as a twitch in response. To describe him as flaccid was being charitable. Still, the failure to launch didn’t bother him, because by this point during their last meeting, he already had Jaclyn bent over the sofa and was ramming her with all the motivation she’d ever need. But circumstances were different tonight.

Max gently pushed her hands away. “Sorry. I can’t do this tonight. Something’s come up.”

At first, she looked crestfallen.

Max retrieved her purse and script pages, then attempted to usher her out the door.

Jaclyn resisted, turning angry on a dime. “What kind of bullshit audition is this?”

Max groaned. “Now’s not the time to play your big scene, baby. We’ll do this again later.”

But Jaclyn stood firm. “I want to talk to someone else involved with the movie.”

Max put a hand on the small of her back and pressed forward. “Okay, I’ll have the executive producer give you a call. How does that sound?”

“Like a load of crap!” One beat. “You’re not even a real casting director, are you?”

“What can I say? It’s a tough business. Filled with sharks.”

“Not to mention losers on the make!” With that, Jaclyn ripped up her script and littered the pieces across the floor. “Screw you!”

“You did that last time,” Max shot back. “And very well, too. I have to give higher marks for the sex than for the acting, though. Your line readings were a little wooden.”

Thwack!
The slap across the face came hard, fast, and without warning.

Max brought a hand to his cheek, which began to throb instantly. “But the acting’s getting better,” he cracked. “I actually believe that you don’t like me right now. Good job, baby.”

Jaclyn stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Max knew he’d just given enhanced meaning to the term “major-league asshole,” but he didn’t care. Miami was chockablock with Jaclyn Angel types. And right now his brain was wrapped around a special girl, a one of a kind, a true original…Vanity St. John.

He retrieved his Sidekick from the floor and tried her number again without success. “Come on, girl! Answer your goddamn phone!”

Beads of sweat formed on Max’s forehead as terrible fears began to register in earnest. The truth was, unlike most people, Vanity had the balls to take herself out. People said suicide was a coward’s escape, and at the end of the day, that was true. But the initial act itself, that final move, the decision on how to go, the capacity to actually carry it out…well, that required some guts. And Vanity had them.

He thought about his gorgeous friend. Usually, Max kept feelings at bay. Sentimentality was for losers. Ditto guilt. They were signs of weakness that did you no good. But right now he couldn’t help giving in to both.

Max and Vanity shared the same wrecked childhood. Selfish mothers who abandoned them. Ambivalent fathers who showed their love with car keys and credit cards. Privately, they both hurt from this. Publicly, they both cut through life with a ruthless self-confidence that belied their secret insecurities.

Max couldn’t imagine his life without Vanity in it. Over the years, while other friendships had faded in, burned out, or savagely imploded, Vanity had always been there. Like his sister, Shoshanna, she was a consistent presence that kept him going, a source of light that made him feel secure.

He sank down onto the bed and buried his face in his hands, the meeting in the park with J.J. playing back in his mind like a horror movie. To think that for one second he’d seriously considered selling out his friend consumed Max with a venomous self-loathing.

At first, he tried to convince himself that it was all bullshit, that when it came down to the wire, he wouldn’t have been able to go through with the betrayal. But deep down, Max knew otherwise. His dark side could creep up at unexpected times, often with a force all its own.

Max had never done the prayer thing. That was for the religious. He was a believer, but conversations with God seemed meaningless. In a world of natural disasters and kids strapping bombs to their chests in the Middle East, how could he shout out for his mother to call him on his birthday?

But right now Max was praying. More than that, he was negotiating. If he found Vanity safe and sound, then he’d kiss the sex tape millions good-bye. In fact, he’d set up J.J. to fail so spectacularly that instead of rolling in megabucks, the third-tier male model would be swimming in debt. And Max would call an end to these casting couch schemes, too. There were plenty of
legitimate
industry types out there taking advantage of desperate actresses, so Max’s bogus movie trickeroo was just adding insult to injury.

He glanced upward, as if in conference with the Almighty. It wasn’t exactly a vow of hunger. But these were ultimate sacrifices in the decadent world of Max Biaggi Jr. And God had to know that. Everything was relative, right?

Suddenly, John Carpenter’s
Halloween
theme cut into the silence. The Sidekick ringtone gave Max a jolt, but he recovered quickly, filled with the vibrant hope that Vanity might be calling back. One look and he saw that it was Pippa. His spirits crashed. “What’s up?”

“Don’t you love me anymore?” Pippa whined. “You haven’t called me all bloody day.” She could sense Max smiling over the phone. Her hot British accent did it to them every time.

“Have you heard from Vanity?” he asked.

“Not today.”

Max sighed.

Pippa picked up on his inner torment. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe nothing…but…I’m not going to be able to relax until I know she’s okay.” He relayed the story about Vanity’s disturbing phone rant and her distress over the J.J. sex-tape rumor.

“What a wanker!” Pippa cried. “Somebody should cut off his ’nads and feed them to a goat!”

Max laughed a little. “I hadn’t thought of that as a course of action, but you’ve got my vote.”

A few beats of silence passed.

Finally, Pippa broke it. “Do you truly believe that she could…”

“Who really knows for sure?” Max answered. “I just know that I’ve never heard her talk like that before, and it sounded…ominous.”

“Have you ever…?” Pippa started, then broke off.

“Have I ever what?” Max pressed.

She hesitated. “Thought about it.”

“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “Mainly because of my sister, I guess. I could never do something like that to her, so why even think about it? Honestly, though, I’ve never felt that depressed. I mean, some screwed-up shit has happened to me, but nothing that ever made me think about killing myself.”

Pippa was quiet.

“Have you?” Max asked.

“A few times…back in England,” she admitted. “For a long period it seemed like nothing would ever get better, and then, all of a sudden, it did. That’s the thing, you know? Things get better. They always do. You just have to ride out the storm.” She paused a beat. “I still can’t believe you’ve never thought about it.”

“I haven’t,” Max said. “Not even once.”

“Is it a girl thing or something?” Pippa wondered with half a laugh.

“I wouldn’t say that. Every year, four times as many guys die from suicide.”

“That’s a crazy statistic.”

“Most girls attempt to kill themselves, but guys get the job done the first time.”

“Of course.” Pippa sniffed. “Boys are so performance oriented.” Then she sighed. “It’s just hard to believe that Vanity of all people could feel so desperate. She seems to have such a perfect life.”

“The grass is always greener…” Max murmured, trailing off before finishing the cliché.

“I suppose she
is
the proverbial poor little rich girl,” Pippa said, her words spilling out in a nastier tone than she intended.

“What?” Max’s voice was punchy. “People with money can’t have problems?”

His defensive question stung. Pippa had grown up with the best of everything. Being part of the struggling class was still new to her. In fact, she still thought of herself as an upper-class girl, only one experiencing a period of awkward transition. But Max seemed to be making a point that he and Vanity were in a totally different league.

“You sound like a Democrat,” he went on.

Pippa wanted to bang down the receiver. “I’m not some ghetto girl! I know what it’s like to have money, Max. I’ve spent most of my time on this bloody earth swimming in it. And all I know is this—anything that life throws at you is easier to handle if you’ve got a secure future and loads of cash in the bank.”

“Spoken like a true bling bitch who thinks a new Prada bag is a Band-Aid for everything.”

Now Pippa was seething. Max had no idea. The mouthy little bastard didn’t have a clue. To see the words “insufficient funds” on your ATM receipt. To wonder if college was even a possibility. To want something in a store so badly that the urge to steal it became as pronounced as a muscle ache.

Money can’t buy happiness.

Pippa hated that old sentiment. What bullshit it was. The rich held on to the belief because they wanted dibs on misery, too. And as for the poor people who bought into that crappy line…well, they needed something to provide comfort to their miserable lives. Religion couldn’t do all the heavy lifting.

The truth was, a fistful of dollars
could
buy happiness. Money was the open sesame to freedom and choices, because without it, you had neither. Without money, you went from a mansion in England to a shoddy cottage off Miami Beach. Without money, you bummed rides or shamefully took the bus while the movie star’s son and the music mogul’s daughter zipped around in their Porsche and Mercedes. Without money, you promised to pay your friends back for a movie ticket, a Starbucks, or a sushi dinner—and then you prayed that they wouldn’t remember the debt. Without money, you just might walk into a strip club called Cheetah and agree to dance naked for an audience of creepy guys.

Max could call her a bling bitch. Pippa didn’t care. Because she knew what she really was—a survivor, and a couple of shifts at the Gap followed by a lousy paycheck a few weeks later would hardly keep her alive. Stripping was the quickest way to make the money she needed. Now
that
was a reason to kill yourself. But Max would never understand her situation. The bratty bloke probably didn’t even know what a bank was. Cash and credit were just always there for him, like candy in a bowl.