Bling Addiction (9 page)

He poured her a glass of champagne. “Good answer.”

“It’s the truth,” Pippa said. And she meant it.

Max Biaggi patted the space next to him on the sofa. “Sit right here. I want you to rest those gorgeous feet.”

Pippa settled down beside him.

Max Biaggi reached down for her left foot. His hands were warm and strong, his fingers long and masculine. Lovingly, he undid the strap on her slingback and slipped off the shoe, massaging her foot.

Pippa gasped, just a little. She watched in wide-eyed wonder as he raised her naked foot, moving it closer…closer…and closer to his mouth.

“Sing me a song, Star Baby. The men downstairs don’t deserve to hear your voice. Save it just for me. In fact, save everything just for me.”

Pippa nodded in complete agreement, her heartbeat thumping in her ears.

And then Max Biaggi began to suck her toes like they were the tastiest delicacy in the world.

The sensation of his worshipful lips and tongue shot like a quivering arrow into her secret place.

“Sing, Star Baby, sing.”

So Pippa did the honors, serenading him with her second-favorite number from
Sweet Charity.

“If my friends could see me now!”

It was Thanksgiving, a holiday that most families celebrated together, so Vanity’s father was away, of course. Something about one of his label’s top selling artists being arrested in Los Angeles on a murder charge.

Vanity didn’t care. After all, what did it matter anyway? There was a difference between just showing up and being present. When Simon St. John turned in an appearance, it was always the former. He was nothing more than a body occupying space, never fully engaged, never really involved at all.

Usually, holidays were a passport to misery, a painful reminder of all the simple things that Vanity wanted but would never have—a mother who actually gave a damn, a father who could conjure up enough interest to fake it once or twice a year.

“Expect people to behave as they always have in the past,” Dr. Parker had told her. “That way you won’t set yourself up for disappointment.”

This Thanksgiving, for the first time since she could ever remember, was free of heartache. Finally, Vanity knew how to condition herself to embrace the day with no expectations, to truly be thankful for the blessings she did have. And it was a wonderful feeling.

She was thankful for life itself. The accident almost ended hers, and so many times in the grueling months that followed the crash, she wished that it had. But not anymore. The power to start again was within her, just waiting to be tapped.

She was thankful for family. Lala, Gunnar, and Mercedes had been the ones to see her through the rain. And today the four of them were enjoying a lovely celebration all their own, indulging in a feast prepared by Lala, watching the
March of the Penguins
DVD, and walking along South Beach. Walter “Steak” Williams, Vanity’s relentless physical therapist, dropped by with a delicious caramel cake that his grandmother had made. It was a perfect day.

She was thankful for friends, too. Even months after her self-imposed exile, she could feel their support, as if by some psychic connection. Dr. Parker had helped Vanity reconcile the irrational anger and work through the conflicting feelings. They were pulling for her full recovery and wanting her back to complete the social circle. She knew that now.

Sighing with a mixture of general exhaustion and shame for her caloric over-indulgence, Vanity wearily pushed her second, half-eaten slice of caramel cake away from her. “Somebody stop me. I’m an absolute pig.”

Lala laughed. “That’s good, yes? It means your appetite is back.”

“Well, I wish it would go away and take this ass I don’t recognize with it,” Vanity said, slapping her butt to emphasize her displeasure with the unavoidable weight gain.

“A little junk in the trunk is a good thing,” Steak said with a wink. “Now you’ve got a Beyonce booty.”

Vanity gave him a faux glare. “Get out and take your fattening cake with you. I’m never eating again.” But then her gaze fell upon the plate that was just within reach. A luscious gob of rich caramel was right there, practically begging to be devoured. “Oh, fuck it.” And then Vanity shamelessly made the temptation disappear.

Lala and Steak roared with laughter as Gunnar and Mercedes sat enraptured in front of a Hi-Five video, blissfully unaware.

Vanity pointed an accusing finger at Steak. “We’ve got just over a month to get this excess fat off my ass, not to mention every other part of my body.”

Max was hosting a New Year’s Eve bash, a charity event for Hurricane Wilma victims of all things. Ha! Max Biaggi Jr. and charity—two things that definitely didn’t sound right in the same sentence.

But Vanity planned to be there, to shock everybody with a surprise entrance, and by the end of December she would be ready—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Her entire world was being turned right side up again.

“A little thickness is healthy,” Steak argued. “Any man would take Jennifer Lopez over Lindsay Lohan.”

Stubbornly, Vanity shook her head. “The weight’s coming off before New Year’s. That party’s going to be my official coming out.”

Steak and Lala trades amused glances.

“As a living and breathing person!”
Vanity clarified with exaggerated frustration. “Although considering my history with guys, maybe I
should
become a lesbian. I mean, I couldn’t do any worse.” She rolled her eyes. “And on that pathetic note, how about just one more bite of cake…”

T
he bitch
was
back. And goddamn, did she ever know how to make an entrance.

Max couldn’t believe it.

Vanity St. John was waltzing into the party at one minute before midnight on the last day of the year, upstaging every drunken New Year’s kiss in the process.

“Look at her!” he exclaimed to Shoshanna. “How awesome is that?”

“Near-death accidents apparently agree with her,” Shoshanna said. “She looks better than ever.”

Jesus, he was almost crying. Shit. He
was
crying. “You don’t know how worried I’ve been, Sho. I’d all but given up on her.”

Max’s eyes were wet with tears as he ran toward Vanity, breaking every land speed record in the books to get the first hug, embracing her with more warmth and emotion than he knew was possible for him. He released his hold to kiss her lightly on the lips, then drew back to get a serious look at her.

Oh, yes, the bitch was
definitely
back.

Every girl at the warehouse bash was trying way too hard tonight. Too much skin. Too much makeup. Too much jewelry. And in walks Vanity St. John to show them all how easy it should be.

She wore a man’s Banana Republic white dress shirt unbuttoned to the navel, Imitation of Christ drainpipe jeans, and a pair of brown Burberry riding boots. Her hair, once knife-blade straight, was now a wild mane of tangled jet-black curls.

There were words for girls who looked this good. Right now Max could only think of one…“magnificent.” He laughed to himself, thinking about the crazy gossip that had been roaming on message boards, in chat rooms, and between the covers of tabloid trash weeklies for months.

Rumor: Vanity St. John had gotten fat. Fact: The girl’s ass could still scoop out a guy’s guts and make him a slave for life.

Rumor: Vanity St. John was confined to a wheelchair. Fact: Not only was the girl standing on two feet, her wild-side walk could still substitute for Viagra.

“God, I can’t believe you’re here!” Max exclaimed, hugging her once more. “But you’ve completely screwed up my schedule. I’d planned on getting a blow job right after the countdown.”

Vanity laughed. “Well, that explains why Ryan Seacrest is outside standing next to your Porsche.”

Max grabbed her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “Oh, baby, you
are
back. Like Mariah. The
Glitter
days are over.”

Vanity’s green eyes gleamed like the emeralds they were. “Forget Mimi. It’s ‘the Emancipation of
Vanity.
’”

As the awareness of her presence began to ripple through the crowd, word spread fast. The Vanity St. John sighting was
not
a hoax.

Suddenly, everyone was watching her and talking about her. But Vanity ignored them with a metaphysical calm that only famous people possessed in public situations.

Max howled at the ceiling. “Let’s get druuuuuunk!” Then he punched a fist to the DJ, who was surrounded by go-go dancers on the main floor platform.

The Missy Underground mix of Ashlee Simpson’s “L.O.V.E.” went down. Pharrell and Gwen Stefani’s so-sick-it-should-be-illegal duet came up.

“So can I have it like that?” Max sang.

“You got it like that,” Vanity sang right back.

The year 2006 had arrived, and if the first few minutes were any indication, then Vanity knew that it was going to be a fantastic one. The last six months had been hell on earth. But right now she felt positively bulletproof.

She took in the scene. Max’s New Year’s Eve Screw Wilma party was hotter than any event had a right to be. Every dollar was going to help victims recover from damages caused by Hurricane Wilma. Nobody believed Max had it in him, but the boy could give good charity when properly inspired.

Rich kids were paying a five-hundred-dollar cover to have wicked fun. Poor kids were getting a little help. And Max Biaggi Jr. was lording over it all, earning high fives from every direction. Her best friend had taken it up a notch. He was a true nightlife impresario.

They were partying in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of South Beach. The cavernous space had been transformed into a club paradise. Thirty thousand square feet and four stories of decadent fun from top to bottom.

Liquor was flowing like lava from a volcano. Beautiful girls danced. Cool guys dreamed up schemes to get them into bed. And the also-rans watched from the sidelines, wishing and praying that they could be a VIP thoroughbred, if only for one night.

“This is amazing,” Vanity praised, taking in the glass-walled showers on the third floor, complete with hot running water and naked dancers under spray jets.

“Oh, this is nothing,” Max teased. “We haven’t hit the I-can’t-freaking-believe-it zone yet.”

“What?” Vanity demanded to know, finding the intrigue delicious.

“Well, it
is
New Year’s Eve,” Max pointed out. “Something awesome has to happen. I want Screw Wilma to be
the
holy shit party of the year. Watch this.” He gave the DJ a signal.

“What’s up, Miami?” The mix master’s smooth, buttery voice boomed over the sound system. “There’s a surprise guest who’s here tonight to throw it down, and let me just say this…you’re not going to forget where you were for New Year’s Eve 2005, so prepare to get buck wild, and show some love for Grammy Award–winning and platinum recording artist…
Ashanti!”

The crunchy guitar intro of “Only U” sent the party people into a frenzy of screams and applause as they jockeyed for position to get a closer look at the princess of hip-hop, who appeared on the main platform amidst a cloud of colored smoke, resplendent in a gold-sequined micro-dress and flanked by three backup dancers.

Ashanti ran through a high-energy twenty-minute set that also included “Foolish,” “Rain on Me,” “Rock wit U (Awww Baby),” and “Still on It” before exiting to a thunderous ovation.

Vanity rushed over to Max, who was glowing with an impossible radiance. “How did you manage to pull off
that?”

Max gave a no-big-deal shrug. “I know people who know people.”

And then Vanity saw him. Dante Medina. He was making his way through the revelers, pointing at Max with an accusing index finger that should be the new sign language for “you sneaky son of a bitch.”

From the opposite direction she saw Christina, clapping ostentatiously and shadowed by her new friend, Keiko Nakamura.

When Dante and Christina reached Vanity, genuine hugs went back and forth, the easy bells of chatter began to chime, and everybody decided that they needed another drink, preferably a jolt.

Max solicitously played barkeep and worked fast to produce five Red Bulls, then led the group up one level to a private VIP area.

“You look
unbelievable,”
Christina breathed as something close to love light shone from her eyes.

“Everybody does,” Vanity demurred.

“This is Keiko,” Christina said. “She’s new to MACPA this semester.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Vanity said kindly, even though most of her information had come from Max, who absolutely hated the girl and wanted her exported back to San Francisco.

“Ditto,” Keiko sneered. “You’re sort of like a legend at MACPA. But I can’t figure out why. Besides being a mannequin, exactly what
is
your artistic talent?”

“Keiko!” Christina admonished.

Imperviously, Vanity peered down at the short, rude girl. “The acting program is my major, and I do have the skill set. For example, right now I’m pretending to be interested in this conversation. Even when I’m so over it.”

Just as Vanity walked away, a hand reached out for hers. Instantly, she recognized the touch.

“Hey, stranger,” Dante said.

“Hey.” She hoped the easy smile on her face told him that the past drama was officially a million years old.

“It’s good to see you,” he said. “Really, it is.” One beat.

“Especially on dry land.”

Vanity parted her lips to speak.

“Ugh—bad joke,” Dante said, covering his eyes with embarrassment.

“Not
so
bad,” Vanity said easily. “I mean, somebody had to bring up the obvious.”

“No hard feelings?”

She waved off the notion. “Bygones.”

Dante smiled. “You do look beautiful tonight.”

“I feel beautiful,” Vanity said. “On the inside for a change. I’ve been doing a lot of work with my therapist. I’ve been meditating. I can finally exercise again. Everything is starting to come together.”

“That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

Vanity found herself prolonging the moment, if only to gaze into Dante’s dark eyes. The attraction she felt for him was still electric. His handsomeness knew no bounds. “I’m not the same girl who kicked you out of that boat. I want you to know that.”

Before Dante could respond, a young girl broke between them, crushed her body against his, and kissed him deeply on the mouth. “Rule number one: On a night like this, never separate yourself from your date at midnight.”

“Happy New Year, Dante,” Vanity said stoically. And then she left him there to learn the rest of the rules from his new girl.

Max stood back, a smile of accomplishment and pleasure on his face. Vanity St. John’s return was on everybody’s lips. So was the Ashanti concert coup. Both incidents were already solidifying their place in the pantheon of Miami party folklore.

Christina glanced around curiously. “Where’s Pippa?”

The question instantly tripped Max into a bittersweet mood. “Rehearsing for the play, working her mystery job, off somewhere with Waldo, who knows?”

Pippa had promised to be here. She’d promised him a kiss at the stroke of midnight, too. But these days a promise from her didn’t mean shit.

Max raised his Red Bull to no one in particular. “To bling addicts everywhere.” After drinking deep, he crushed the can and cut through the packed crowd, working hard to push the disappointment out of his mind.

This was his party. This was his room. The collective energy swarmed all around him. He decided the night should end with a bang.

Max grabbed the eyes of a Latina girl wearing a silver dress that was condom tight. Madonna’s “Hung Up” had her wiggling about like the slut he would need after a few more drinks.

He bellied up to the bar and challenged the guy behind it. “I need a Seven and Seven as fast as humanly possible, man.”

In a nanosecond, Max was staring at the drink.

Shoshanna was slouched over at his side, blitzed but still going strong. She grabbed Max’s poison and sent at least a third of it down her throat. “Happy New Year.”

“How much have you had tonight?”

“I’m still standing up, so obviously not enough.”

“Spoken like a true alcoholic.”

“You should know.”

Max half smiled, repossessed his drink, and affectionately bumped Shoshanna with his shoulder.

Their stepmonster was at home, passed out in front of a television blaring “Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.” Their father was God knows where. Maybe making another crap movie. Maybe cheating on his second wife with his likely third wife. Who knew? And who cared?

“What’s Dante’s story?” Shoshanna asked.

Max looked at her with suspicion. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” But her voice took on a dreamy quality that said she did. “He’s hot.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Max snapped.

“How come?”

“He’s too young and inexperienced for you.”

Shoshanna giggled, twirling the Canon PowerShot looped around her wrist. “I got my picture made with Ashanti.”

“Good for you.” Max grinned at her proudly. “See, that’s what a fifteen-year-old girl should be excited about.”

“The Miz from ‘The Real World’ was here about an hour ago. He signed one of my boobs.”

“And the moment is ruined.” Max chased down the Seven & Seven.

“Somebody took a picture of it. Here, I’ll show you.” She fiddled with the digital camera, flipping over the view screen.

A few clicks later, Max saw the image. There was Mike the Miz, black Sharpie in hand, marking up his sister’s exposed implant. “Nice, Sho. Remind me to add that to the family album.”

Shoshanna continued going through her shots. “There’s me and Ashanti. She’s so pretty. And sweet, too. She gave me a bottle of her new perfume. It’s called Precious Jewel.”

Max hooked an arm around her. “You’re a precious jewel.”

Shoshanna knocked him playfully. “That sounded so retarded.” She clicked onward. “Oh, look, here I am with J.J.”

Max felt his body tense. He peered closer. The image had been taken tonight. His gaze swept over the warehouse with laser intensity. “Where is he?”

Shoshanna was barely paying attention. “Huh? I don’t know. I saw him right before Ashanti went on. Do I look fat in this picture?”