Bling Addiction (5 page)

Pippa gave him a strange look. “How? I rode with you.”

Max shook his head. “Sorry. For one second there I forgot that you’re always bumming rides.” He knew it was mean to say, but Pippa had seen him cry like a little bitch, and he was embarrassed. She needed to realize that the old Max was back.

Pippa glared at him. “I hope your trampy sister spews up her guts all over your Porsche!”

Mission accomplished.

“I’m taking a short walk,” Max announced. “Don’t let her fall in the gutter.” He loped down the sidewalk and dialed J.J.’s number three or four times.

Finally, the stoner picked up, groggy as hell. “Max? What the hell? Don’t you sleep? It’s, like, after three.”

“I can’t get any sleep tonight. Why should you?”

J.J. groaned. “I’m baked, man. Can we talk later?”

“This won’t take long. And you’re always baked, so that’s no excuse.”

“Okay, okay. What’s up? You got a deal for us on the Vanity vid?”

Max spoke in a clipped, authoritative, take-it-or-
leave-it tone. “I’ve got a deal for
you,
so listen good, because I’m only going to say it once, you son of a bitch. I want the original and every available copy of that video. Walk away from this, and I’ll set you up with a development exec at UPN. I know her well. She’s the daughter of my father’s agent. I can get you a talent holding deal at the network.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thinking time’s over. Do you want to be a model-slash-sleazebag or a model-slash-actor? The offer expires in five seconds.”

There was a long beat of silence.

And then Max held his breath for the answer.

N
ext onstage is a girl that nobody can seem to get enough of. She’s blonde, she’s barely legal—she’s Star Baby!”

The DJ’s velvety voice boomed from the loudspeakers and rang through the locker room, followed by the opening strains of “Slow” by Kylie Minogue. The crowd exploded with hungry applause, piercing whistles, and lewd catcalls.

The stupid bastards could wait.

Pursing her lips, Pippa gave her mouth a final once-over. The Dior Bet on Pink gloss was shimmering to perfection. Carefully, she eased her feet into a brand-new pair of Christian Louboutin leopard-print platform sandals that, after sales tax, had set her back more than a thousand dollars.

Of course, the fact that the shoes were a work of art would be lost on the idiot men in the audience. After all, if they darkened the doors of Cheetah, then they only wanted to see tits, ass, and a tease of something more.

When Pippa finally walked onto the main stage, the impression lingered that she owned it lock, stock, and metal pole. Her immediate claim to fame among the patrons had been her superior diva bitch attitude. Oh, baby, she gave it to them good. And the salivating fools loved her for it. Why? Because they all wanted to believe that they had what it takes between their legs to bring her down a notch.

Ha! Men and their dicks. Never a smart combination. For them, that is. For Pippa, it was a brilliant pairing. Loads of cash were coming her way. In fact, she had shoe boxes full of money that she hadn’t even counted yet.

Pippa swayed to the hypnotizing electronic beat, undulating her body just enough to drive them almost crazy. That’s exactly where she held them off, too.
Almost
crazy.
Almost
touching her.
Almost
thinking they had a chance in bloody hell of finding out how she tasted and what she felt like. It was a delicate balancing act of subtle sexual torture. And only two months since entering the world of exotic dancing, Pippa Keith had become a master of the game.

“Slow down and dance with me/Yeah, slow/Skip a beat and move with my body/Yeah, slow…”

The breathy voice of Kylie Minogue provided the soundtrack for Pippa’s stage seduction as “Star Baby,” the mysteriously young and oh-so-tender fantasy girl with the starfishlike scar a few inches underneath her left breast.

Pippa opened her legs and eased down into a standing squat position. The move transformed the entire alpha-hetero lot into a bunch of foaming-at-
the-mouth loons. Her secret trick was to wet her thong before going onstage. This gave the perverts a better peek at the little piece of heaven that would forever elude them.

When it came down to actual dancing, Pippa barely broke a sweat. Why bother? She could just stand up here reading the
Miami Herald
and still get fistfuls of dollars…as long as she did it half-naked.

Girls who gave it everything and more ended up injured. There were head traumas from hitting the pole, bruised bone points, stage burns, bunions, corns, spurs, sprained ankles, swollen knees, shin splints, lower back pain—the list went on and on. Who knew that taking off your clothes to music could have such occupational hazards? By comparison, playing in the NFL would be less damaging to the body.

The song ended. A throng of guys crowded the stage to throw money at her.

“Save me a private dance, Star Baby,” a man with a goatee, a wedding ring, and at least fifty reasons to go on the South Beach Diet said.

“You’re so beautiful!” another guy shouted. “How much to sit on my face?”

Pippa assassinated the pig with a haughty glare. “If you have to ask, dear, you
can’t
afford it.”

This triggered nervous laughter all around. Men. Put a hot, naked girl in front of them and their egos turned to eggshells.

Pippa loved it. She loved being in control of herself. She loved being in control of
them.
She loved the attention. She loved the cash. She loved the power. Oh God, yes, the
power.
On the stage, she ruled. And at the retail counters, she conquered.

“Excuse me, miss, but that particular bag is two thousand dollars.” So warned the snooty bitch at the Chanel boutique in Bal Harbour Shops.

“Oh, is that all?” Pippa had responded innocently.

“Then I think I’ll take the black one
and
the pink one. And be quick about it, darling. I’m pressed for time and still have stops to make at Louis Vuitton and Gucci.”

Damage at the register—four grand. Look on the shopgirl’s face—
priceless.
If Pippa wanted it, then Pippa bought it. Price tags didn’t matter anymore. She was a total bling addict.

But the cash came with a cost. To make it meant working all the time. She never saw her friends or her mother anymore. Luckily, she could blame all of her time away on her new
job
as the assistant to an entertainment promoter. There was also the MACPA drama club. That was a great excuse as well. If they only knew. She was a permanent fixture at this vile place, a constant source of eye candy for these disgusting men.

Pippa left the stage and settled into a booth in the back corner to total up the appreciation. Three hundred dollars. Not bad for her first dance of the night.

A gaggle of men lurked nearby, gawking like schoolboys who’d found a peephole to the girls’ locker room. The interest was in their eyes. The confidence to approach was not.

Finally, one of them stepped forward to prove that he had a pair. “Can I buy you a drink?”

She glanced up to do the man math. Married. Mid-thirties. Stopping in on his way home from work. Translation: A wallet with a Gold American Express that could take a beating. The smile that came with the question reached his eyes, revealing a certain kindness and decency that put Pippa instantly at ease.

As if on cue, the waitress swooped in to take the liquor order. She knew to put water in Pippa’s shot. She knew to boost the alcohol in the customer’s. And she knew to keep the drinks coming.

“I’m Tommy.”

“Little boys are named Tommy,” Pippa teased gently. “You look like a man to me. Do you mind if I call you Tom?” She smiled.

He smiled back, swallowing hard, scarcely able to make direct eye contact.

Up close, Pippa was nothing short of flawless. This gave her a distinctive edge over most of the dancers at Cheetah. The other girls often broke the illusion of the ultimate fantasy with cheap makeup, discount perfume, bad Mystic tans, pole bruises, beat-up shoes, broken nails, tacky costumes, and the stench of cigarettes.

On a conscious level, men didn’t necessarily take note of such things. After all, most guys would forgive a hairlip and missing teeth for a nice rack and a tight, shapely ass. But the allure of perfection could be a magical draw. It was the reason why Pippa took in double the money. Sometimes triple.

She used the most expensive cosmetics and booked time with top makeup artists to learn how to expertly apply the products herself. Spa-quality manicures and pedicures were a weekly ritual. Every piece of clothing that draped her body was from designer A-lines. None of this Stella McCartney for H&M rubbish. Every pair of shoes that adorned her feet was cause for celebration—Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, Miu Miu.

But perhaps what separated her most from the pack was the way she smelled. Pippa owed it all to her new favorite fragrance, Love in White by Creed, a heady mixture of iris, white jasmine, magnolia, Bulgarian rose, daffodil, and other exotic notes. The impact was pure, sensual, intimate, and deliciously feminine. It had never failed to turn men into human ATM machines. It wouldn’t fail now.

“I’d love a private dance.”

“We could do that, Tom,” Pippa said softly. “But we could also just sit here and talk.”

“That sounds nice, too,” he agreed.

Other dancers were eager to just grind a man raw and move on to the next horny subject. But Pippa knew better, thanks to shrewd coaching from Vinnie Rossetti, the manager of Cheetah. He proudly referred to her as “the club’s new secret weapon.”

This did nothing to endear Pippa to the rest of the girls. By nature, strippers could be a jaded group, regarding every new dancer as an enemy that would only take money out of their g-strings. So adding Pippa’s exalted status as Vinnie’s favorite pet to the mix made for a very tense environment.

But Pippa didn’t care. She worked at Cheetah to make money, not friends. Still, she hated to hear Vinnie openly brag to the other dancers that Star Baby was well on her way to becoming the club’s number one girl. Though he hoped the threat would motivate them to do better, it only served to intensify their hatred toward Pippa.

The ringleader of the hostility was an older dancer who went by the oh-so-subtle stage name Hellcat. She was a tall, hardened blonde with big fake breasts, multiple piercings, and more body art than Angelina Jolie. With Pippa being the lone exception, all the dancers kissed her ass and submitted to her controlling ways. She ruled over them like an underground empress.

Nothing stopped Hellcat from racking up dollars and private dances. She was a steel-nerved, borderline psychotic, money-making machine. One night she caught a nipple piercing in her hair during a head flip. The jewelry ripped out, and blood poured from the wound. But Hellcat just let it gush, song after song, spreading the blood all over her body like a satanic ritualist while she went about the business of providing lap dances.

Despite the firsthand evidence that she was indeed a warm-blooded creature, Pippa still felt certain that the woman had ice water running through her veins. Oh, yes. Hellcat was the coldest bitch ever. And if Pippa could survive her, then she could survive
anything.

But right now she had to survive the act of pretending that
Tom
was interesting. That would be one tough order, too. Because the guy was a big fat bore. Whenever in crisis, though, Pippa just channeled the voice of Vinnie inside her head.

“Talk to your customer,” he’d advised on her first night. “Really talk to him. Ask about his job and fake it like you actually give a damn. Say his name a lot and give him compliments. The average guy would rather sit down and talk to a beautiful woman who puts him on a pedestal than get a quick and dirty dance. Think about it. He’s probably going home to an overweight wife who doesn’t give head, complains about everything, and thinks he’s a lazy sack of shit. Trust me. It’ll be the easiest money you’ve ever made.”

And it was.

“What kind of work are you in, Tom?” Pippa asked.

“I sell cars.”

“Oh, wow,” Pippa cooed convincingly. “I
love
cars.”

“I sell BMWs,” Tom said proudly.

“Really? That’s hot.” Oh God, she was beyond bored. Different loser guy, same stupid shit.

He beamed.

“I bet you know a lot about next year’s models. Will you buy me another drink and tell me all about them?” It was all she could do to sound like she cared even a little bit.

“Sure.” Before he had a chance to signal the waitress, she was there with another round.

And so it went. Tom drank single malt scotch and talked BMWs. Pippa drank water that was supposed to be vodka and hung on his every word. By the end of the charade, Cheetah charged Tom’s credit card for ten drinks and five private dances. Then Vinnie put the wasted salad dodger in a cab and sent him home.

Reluctantly, Pippa slipped back into the locker room to freshen up. She hated being in this backstage hell swamped with bright fluorescent lighting. It reeked of sweat, drugstore perfume, and cigarettes.

Girls in various stages of nakedness held court near their assigned changing areas. Each space looked like a landfill of makeup cases, costume racks, and caffeine-charged drinks.

The moment Pippa stepped inside, she knew that something was very wrong. A conspiratorial silence boomed. Secret glances went back and forth among the girls. Bitchy giggles were shared. Nobody gave Pippa eye contact except Hellcat, who was staring daggers straight through her.

Pippa approached her station, only to find that it was empty. “Where’s my stuff?” she demanded of no one in particular.

“Vinnie moved it,” Hellcat announced. “He gave you Ashley’s spot.”

Pippa was genuinely stunned. Everybody considered that station coveted real estate because it was positioned closest to the bathroom. In the demimonde of Cheetah stripper culture, it signified that you were the top girl, which Ashley was. Or had been. “She’s not coming back?”

LaTonya, one of the few African-American dancers at Cheetah and intermittently a friendly presence to Pippa, slammed the door to her locker and started toward the exit, spilling out of a very naughty nurse’s uniform. “She can call in sick with that fake-ass cough all she wants. I heard the bitch is dancing at Scores.” And with that, LaTonya disappeared as the opening guitar licks of Mötley Crüe’s “Dr. Feelgood” growled from the sound system.

Pippa rolled her eyes. She had nothing to do with Ashley defecting to a rival club. She had nothing to do with Vinnie giving her Ashley’s space, either. As if any of this mattered. Sack it! She was
so
above skuzzy stripper drama.