Faking It (20 page)

“I’m coming,” I moan, dragging my sore body out of bed.

I pop into the darkened bathroom, take a quick swig of Listerine, and stumble to the door. Luc, freshly shaved and showered, is standing in the hallway.

“You are alive! I was getting worried.” He looks me over, from head to toe, and whistles. “That’s quite a look.”

Since I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, I can only assume he’s referencing a crazy bad case of bedhead. I’ve tried braiding my hair and sleeping on a silk pillowcase, but I still haven’t found the remedy for waking with tangled hair.

“That bad?”

“Have you seen it?”

“What?” I try to run my fingers through my hair, but they become tangled in a frizzy mass of crunchy curls. Curls? “What are you talking about?”

When he points at my head, I hear a tiny alarm bell ring in my conscience. I turn around, struggling against a wave of nausea, and walk back into my room to a tall silver-framed mirror leaning against the wall opposite the bed.

“Oh. My. God!”

Luc has followed me. He’s standing behind me, his perfectly groomed reflection a cruel contrast to the ghastly appearance I am now projecting.

I’ve never understood the people who slow down to look at car accidents. I get it now. I am a wreck. A riveting mess.

My bikini top must have come untied during the night because my breasts are clearly visible through the sheer fabric of my sundress/cover-up. My exposed skin is glowing neon pink. But it’s my hair I find the most shocking. My long, sleek red locks have been dyed a shocking shade of fuchsia and curled in big, bouncy waves.

“Oh my God! I have pink hair!”

“
Oui
,” Luc says, an amused smile on his face. “It would seem so.”

My lip begins to tremble as I stare at my cartoon character reflection.

“This is a joke, right?” My voice is shrill, notes of hysteria detectable even to me. “I look like one of those Japanese Anime characters or Katy Perry on a really, really bad day or a cheesy porn star!”

Luc smiles. “I like it.”

“Don’t do that!” I spin around. “Don’t patronize me, Luc. I look ridiculous.”

“I’m not patronizing—”

“I’m Ariel. I’m bloody freaking Ariel.”

“Who is Ariel?”

“Ariel.
The Little Mermaid
.” From his blank expression, I can tell Luc has no idea who I am talking about. “She’s a Disney Princess. I went to a birthday party for Nathan’s niece once, and I am pretty sure I saw a miniature version of me with a fishtail perched on the kid’s birthday cake.”

The room has been spinning since I stepped out of bed, but it’s picking up speed like a tilt-a-whirl. If I don’t sit down, I might pass out…or worse, puke. I sink to the bed and then wince as a sharp pain stabs my right buttock.

Luc notices my pained expression. “What is it, Vivia?”

“I think I got a tattoo. Please tell me I didn’t get a tattoo?”

I hop up, twist around, trying to look at my backside, but I don’t see anything. Luc steps closer and lifts the hem of my cover-up to expose my buttock.

He lets out a low, long whistle.

“What? What is it?”

“You might not want to look.”

“Oh my God! It
is
a tattoo, isn’t it?”

Luc nods his head.

“Okay.” I draw a shaky breath and prepare myself for the worst. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad.”

A new wave of shame washes over me. I drop my head to my chest, inhale deep, calming breaths, and wait for the humiliation to pass. When it doesn’t, I resignedly walk to the bathroom, riffle through my cosmetics case, and return with a hand held mirror.

“Okay,” I say, handing Luc the mirror. “Show me.”

He leads me back to the standing mirror, positions the hand mirror inches from my bum, and I am able to see the flesh art now tattooed to the curve of my backside.

“Whatinthehell? What is
that
?”

Luc can’t keep the laughter from his voice.

“I think it is a sushi roll.” Luc squats down to inspect my ass art more closely. “Yes, it’s definitely a cartoon sushi roll.”

I squint at the tattoo.

“It looks like the sushi roll is throwing down a gang sign. What is that? A peace sign?”

“
Oui
.”

“What is that word underneath it? What does it say?”

“Rollin’.”

“Rollin’? Why would I have…” Then, in a wretched blinding flash I remember Jett’s talk about rising from the ashes and rolling on. I remember G taking me to a dicey piano bar, and… “Damn, Captain Black Bones and his New Age pep talk!”

“Captain Black Bones?”

I refrain from muttering,
duh
. “
Black Seas
.”

“I know the movie, Vivia, but what does Captain Black Bones have to do with your tattoo?”

“He was the one who talked me into dyeing my hair and seizing the day and…”

Luc presses a hand to my forehead, but I slap it away.

“I don’t have sunstroke and I am not hallucinating. I met Jett Jericho at ZPlage yesterday. He gave me this whole speech about starting anew and rolling through life.” I rub my temples to stop the pain stabbing through my head. “We had these potent drinks and he shared his philosophy on life. It was all very empowering.”

“You’re saying you met Captain Black Bones at ZPlage, got drunk, and let him convince you to get a tattoo of a sushi roll on your…
derrière
?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true.” I suddenly remember the photo of Jett and me and race over to my iPhone. It’s still on. I have sixty-eight new texts and 109 new e-mails.
Wha
t? That can’t be right. I open my photos file, select Jett’s selfie, and hold it up for Luc to see. He looks at the screen, and then at me, and then back at the screen.

“You really met Jett Jericho?”

“Yep.”

“At ZPlage?”

“Yep.”

“And he talked you into getting a tattoo?”

Not really, but sort of.

“Yes!”

“I think that might qualify as the best vacation story ever.”

I suddenly remember my little rant about the public’s obsession with celebrities.

“Oh my God! I had a fangirl moment. The worst kind of fangirl moment.” My voice is rising to match my hysteria. I’m seconds from a full-on meltdown. “I’m like some eighties hair band groupie, and the proof of my shameful behavior is now branded on my ass, for all eternity.”

When I finally burst into tears, Luc pulls me into his arms and holds me until I stop crying.

“I look ridiculous,” I sniffle. “How am I going to find a job? Who would employ me looking like a mermaid? Who will take me seriously?”

Luc grins. “Maybe you could be a model at Comic-Con or hire yourself out for kid’s birthday parties?”

Normally, I would punch him in the arm and fire back a pithy riposte, but the pounding in my head is making it difficult for me to concentrate, let alone craft a witty response. If the entire Cherokee Nation gathered, and each member beat on a tom-tom, it wouldn’t sound as loud as the pounding in my head.

“How much did you drink last night?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “It’s a bit of a blur.”

My iPhone chirps alerting me of new texts.
Who could be texting me that much?

“Would you excuse me a minute, Luc?”

“Of course.”

I grab a hotel robe hanging on a hook in the closet, put it on over my cover-up, knot the tie at the waist, and return to sit on the sofa across from Luc.

“I’ve gotten a hundred texts since last night,” I explain. “I just want to make sure it’s nothing important.”

I open my text app as a new text arrives.

Text from Alexis:

Thx, Viv. I owe u big time! Ever since ur latest string of photos hit the net, my agency has been flooded w calls. Everyone wants me 2 book their vacay.

I seriously doubt anyone would be induced to book an expensive vacation just because of a few silly photos of my engagement ring, but okay. Whatever.

Text from Travis Trunnell:

I knew the fun, wild Vivia was somewhere under those repressed, soccer mom clothes.

“Pompous asshole!”

“Excuse me?”

I look up from my iPhone to Luc, waiting patiently.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

Text from Grace Murphy:

I only have 3 words to say to you: Jett FREAKING Jericho. Are you kidding me? If you say Colin Farrell was there, too, the terms of our relationship will have to be renegotiated!

I love Grace, but she’s more than a little fixated on Colin Farrell. Wait! What? How does Grace know about my encounter with Jett Jericho? She can’t know. It’s impossible. I haven’t even told Fanny yet.

I scroll to the next text.

Text from Camilla Grant:

Vivia Perpetua, it’s your mum. The phone won’t stop ringing. Your Jett Jericho photo has gone epidemic and every media outlet from here to Zimbabwe wants to know if you’re his new love interest. Are you? Why is your hair that dreadful shade of pink?

“Holy shit balls,” I cry, dropping my iPhone. “No. No. No, no, no. This is not happening.”

Luc picks up my phone and hands it to me.

“What isn’t happening, Vivia? What’s wrong?”

I take the phone from him and read my mum’s text again.

“My mum says my Jett Jericho photo has gone epidemic.”

“Epidemic?”

“Viral. Sorry.” I zone out, staring off into space, while trying to figure out how a photo snapped with my iPhone could have ended up on the Internet. “I don’t understand. How can this be? You’re the first person I’ve shown that photo to.”

“Who were you with last night?”

I look blankly at Luc and he repeats his question.

“Just G.”

“Who’s G?”

“Some girl I met on the beach.” It sounds really bad as I am retelling it. Really sketchy. “I don’t usually get drunk with strangers. I swear.” Right now, I don’t care if
Access Hollywood
and
E!
are hounding my mum for scoops about my illicit affair with Jett Jericho. I just care about proving to Luc that I am not a booze-guzzling tramp. “G was so nice. She gave me her suntan lotion and Chiclets, and she kept buying me Red Beaches. She even paid for my new hairdo.”

“And you don’t know her last name?”

As I am describing my encounter with the Paunch Daddy’s big-breasted generous mistress, I realize I sound naive.

“Maybe the paparazzi paid her to get the dirt on celebs. This could all be a story cooked up by some yellow journalist on a campaign to smear Jett Jericho. Maybe I was just a pawn.”

My phone chirps again. I am afraid to look at it. Luc must sense my fear because he holds out his hand and says, “Do you want me to read it first?”

“Would you?”

I hand him the phone and watch as his eyes dart back and forth, taking in the words of my latest text. He finishes reading, looks up, and stares at me with a stunned expression.

“What? What’s happened now? Who’s it from?”

He looks back at the screen.

“Geneva de Prideaux.”

“Geneva…” Who is Geneva de Prideaux? I’m searching my mental Rolodex of faces and names. “Who is Geneva de Pierreaux?”

“Prideaux. She’s the granddaughter of Pierre de Prideaux.” Now it’s Luc’s turn to explain what should be obvious. “Pierre de Prideaux is a wealthy financier, but the bulk of his fortune was amassed by his grandfather, who established the first gaming house in the south of France.”

“Gaming house? Like a casino?”

“Exactly.”

“So G isn’t a paparazzi plant?”

“Hardly,” Luc chuckles. “She’s one of the wealthiest and most famous heiresses in Europe. She was weaned on Dom Pérignon and thrives on drama.”

“Drama?”

“You can’t pick up a copy of
Le Monde
or
Le Figaro
without finding an article about her latest exploit. Her antics have helped keep most of Europe’s newspapers solvent.” Luc looks at the screen again, shakes his head, and hands my iPhone back. “She runs with a pretty wild crowd. She’s always involved in some romantic peccadillo.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. She’s been linked to a Saudi Arabian prince, a hotel-trashing rock singer, a convicted felon, and a well-known Hollywood actress. Her grandfather has threatened to disown her if she doesn’t break it off with her latest lover.”

“Paunch Daddy?”

“Gianni Ferrari.”

“The record producer?”

Luc nods.

“You mean that paunchy cigar chomping hairy old man was Gianni Ferrari?” I remember how G kept reminding Paunch Daddy about his meeting with Kiki. “Holy shit! Kiki! Paunch Daddy was going to meet Kiki Simoan, the pop singer.”

I can’t believe I choked on Gianni Ferrari’s cigar smoke. The man was a legend in the music industry. He launched the careers of the most famous pop and rock stars to stomp a stage in the last thirty years.

Stunned, I look at G’s text.

Text from Geneva de Prideaux:

Babe! So glad we met. Had a fabulous time last night (even tho my u-no-where hurts this morning). How r u doing? Chck out the pics I posted on Twitter (@ToujoursG). KIT & keep rollin! LOL

My finger can’t tap the Twitter app icon fast enough. My newsfeed pops up and there it is: the Retweet seen around the world.

Geneva de Prideaux @ToujoursG

To finding new #friends and losing old #lovers Fun in #Cannes with my girl @PerpetuallyViv #TatVirgin #RedBeachBabe

I click the link and a half a dozen photos pop up. There’s one of Jett Jericho looking over the rim of his glasses while I’m attempting my best broken down model pose, knees turned in, arms akimbo, and lips pursed like a fish. Another features me twirling my bikini top while dancing atop a piano. I scroll through the photos with a mounting sense of horror until I come to the last one. It’s the worst one of the lot. I am stomach-down on a massage table, one bare rounded ass cheek in the air, hand on my hip—engagement ring predominantly featured—while a leering tattoo artist with dreadlocks poises a needle over my bum.

I can’t imagine what my mum must be thinking.

And Nathan!
Sweet Jesus!
What will Nathan think if he sees the pictures? My engagement ring is visible in all of the photos. It’s like a “fuck you Nathan” montage.