Get Ready for War (18 page)

I took another deep breath, deciding to dismiss my inner sex goddess because surely she didn't know what the heck she was talking about. No, I had to go back to plan A and take matters into my own hands, which is what I should have done in the first dang place, then all this precious time wouldn't have been wasted. I had to be aggressive.

In one quick motion, I yanked back the covers and pounced on top of Anderson, ripping open his pajama shirt—buttons flying everywhere. I kissed him with more passion than I'd ever kissed a boy before. Well, other than RJ, but that was beside the point. He was over in Oxford and I was here—half-naked, on a yacht, with candles lit—with this sexy hunk of chocolate.

We started going at it like wild beasts in heat. His hands went up my flyaway, then . . . his cell phone rang.

“Spencer, hold up,” Anderson said breathlessly. “Wait, wait...”

“Noooo,” I growled in between my kissing and pawing him. “I've waited long enough.”

I smiled when he let it roll into voice mail. But then it rang again, and again, and again until he pushed me off of him, reaching for his cell on the nightstand and climbing out of bed.

“Uh, yeah . . . what? Are you okay? Calm down ... you have to stop putting yourself through all this . . . I'm out of town . . . okay, I'll be there . . . give me thirty minutes . . .” He disconnected the call, then turned to me. “Look, get your clothes on. We have to go.”

I blinked in disbelief.
“Go?”
I glanced over at the clock. It was 3:27
A.M.
“Are you kidding me? At
this
time in the morning? Why? We have unfinished business.”

He started shuffling around the room, getting dressed. “Nah, our business is done. London needs me.”

London?

Instantly, tears sprang from my eyes. I had never felt so humiliated in my entire teen life. No boy had ever turned me down. Not even the headmaster's nineteen-year-old son, Jacque, at Le Rosey—my old boarding school in Switzerland—was able to deny me. He soon fell for my seductive charm and quickly forgot that I was only thirteen. Yes, it had stirred up quite a scandal for the prestigious school, but it was well worth it. I had kept my eye on the prize and had gotten my mark. But Anderson had rejected me. He had shooed me away—like some crusty-lipped smack-whore in tore-up heels—for Miss Monkey Butt.

He frowned. “Why are you standing there crying?”

“Look at me, goshdangit!” I yelled, my arms flying everywhere in exasperation. I was a split second from spinning around and turning into the Nutty Princess and tearing his dang yacht up. “I'm pissed, that's why. I've been more than patient with you, Anderson. I've deleted all of my playoffs in my phone, for you . . .”

He gave me a quizzical look.

I threw a hand up on my hip. “Don't stand there with that blank look on your face, like you don't know what I'm talking about, Anderson. You're the only one I'm seeing. I went through my phone and deleted all of my goody-bag calls because I want to be with you, and only you. You've been leading me on for weeks, using me. And I'm sick of it!”

“Now, hold on here. You're reaching way over the top now. I'm not after you for sex, and I have a ton of money. So using you is far from the truth. And I've never lied to you. You knew my situation from the beginning. I told you not to try to put claims on me. You knew I was involved with London. And you knew the reason why. Now you're standing here trying to flip the script.” He reached for me. “You agreed to this, gum drop.”

I pushed his hands away. I wasn't trying to hear anything he had to say. “Don't you ‘gum drop' me, you . . . you dream snatcher! You . . . you lowdown, dirty, cooter-teaser. I should slash your dang wheels, split your sockets, run down your ankles . . .”

There must have been a crazed look in my eyes because he stepped back, holding his arms out. “Whoa, calm down, Spencer. There's no need to get all psycho on me.”

I ripped open my flyaway baby-doll, exposing my naked melons. “Psycho? I'll show you psycho! Look at all of this goodness, Anderson! What boy wouldn't want me?” I turned around and smacked my come-get-'em and shook it, glancing over my shoulder. “What boy wouldn't want all of this bang-'em-up, huh?” I faced him, scowling, trying to keep my tears in check. But they were spouting like an angry faucet. I was falling apart. This boy didn't want me. And I didn't know how to handle that. It was all new to me. Not the feelings of rejection, because I had already experienced that from Kitty. And not the aching feeling of being unwanted, because Kitty had shown me what that was like, too. No. This feeling of desperation—desperate to be touched and loved and wanted—was cutting into my heart. And Anderson had taken the blade and twisted it. But I refused to go down without a fight.

Snapshots of him kissing down that walrus in her car flashed through my head and I felt myself about to spin into the Nutty Princess. No, this boy was really playing me. And I didn't appreciate it.

I was pissed. I was confused.

I snapped an arm up on my hip, narrowing my eyes. “Are you having sex with Amazon?”

“Who?”

I huffed. “London. Are you waxing her beaver? Rolling your hot dog in her buns?”

I held my breath again. I could possibly forgive him for kissing that beast on the mouth, but sleeping with that thing would be unforgiveable.

He glowered. “Not that it's really any of your business, but no. London and I haven't slept together.”

I silently blew out a sigh of relief. “And Bigfoot hasn't tried to highjack your boxers, not once?”

He gave me a frustrated look. “I told you, no.”

I still don't trust you, Anderson Ford!
“Mmmph, well, what in the world is wrong with Prudezilla? Is she a lipstick butcher?”

He bunched his brows together in confusion. I sucked my teeth. “Is Queen Kong a man? I mean, she's kinda strong and muscular like one. I bet she's on steroids, too.” I paused for a beat, blinking my lashes. Then it hit me. She was a man! “I knew it! I knew she was a fraudulent whisker-having hyena with a jimmy bat and golf balls tucked between her legs.”

He shot me an aggravated look. “Look, enough of this. I've told you more than once to not call London names, Spencer. It's juvenile and tasteless. Now get dressed. Or get left.”

I blinked back the sting of his tone. My lips quivered. “Oh, so she calls and you go throwing on your big red cape to play Captain Trash Man? London calls you crying and you jump to her rescue. Well, go collect your trash, Mister Trash Saver!”

He threw my overnight bag on the bed. “Look, I'm not playing with you, Spencer. Get effen dressed. And I mean it.”

I jumped, ready to attack him, then froze. The blood from my face started draining down into my gut. I clasped a hand over my mouth, feeling sick. I took several deep breaths to steady my nerves, glaring at him. It all made sense to me now. Why he really didn't want to end it with that walrus, why he had his tongue shoved down her throat, why he didn't want to have sex with me, why he was running off to rescue that bat . . . oh God! It had nothing to do with his trust.

“You're in love with
her
,” I blurted out.

“
What?
In love with who?”

“That whore, London! You're in love with that pie-faced dragon. I know you are.”

“Wait . . .” He paused, putting a hand up, then pulled in his bottom lip. He stared at me as if he was repulsed. “You know what? All this name calling is uncalled for. London isn't a whore. And she doesn't deserve that from you.”

“London doesn't deserve that?!” I sneered. “What about
me
? I don't deserve being dismissed. What does she have that I don't?”

“Me,” he said nastily. “And for you to think otherwise proves to me that you're crazier than I thought. Because the only thing you'll ever be is the sidepiece. And the sooner you realize that, the better.”

My lips quivered. “But—”

He frowned at me. “Hurry up and get dressed before I forget I'm a gentleman and tell you to get home the best way you know how. The sight of you is making me sick.” He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

I stood there in horror. He had turned on me! Tears flooded my eyes as I snatched my bag off the bed and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door. I gritted my teeth. Come hell or high heavens, Anderson and his sixty-foot mammal-faced Amazon were about to be destroyed!

I
t was an honest mistake. Falling in love... and being in love . . . this long with Knox. We were meant to be a hit-it-'n'-quit-it type of thing.

Something to satisfy our puppy crushes and kick the playground game of Kiss-A-Girl-Get-A-Girl up a notch.

Upgrade to friends with midnight benefits who rode shotgun through the city, acting silly.

Then leave each other alone.

Quit the pursuit. And abandon it next to the monkey bars and the chalky game of hopscotch.

But we didn't . . .

He wouldn't let it go . . .

I couldn't let it go . . .

And somehow we got caught up in our kisses tasting like licorice. Our love tasting like smooth, rich, and addictive Sugar Babies. And somehow—in the midst of all of this—we formed this crazy desire to boo-love.

How sick.

And then we upped the pillow talk from sweet nothings to daily convos filled with laughter. Confessions. Secrets... We knew each other's favorite color.

Favorite food to eat.

Favorite thing to do.

What made the other smile . . .

Cry...

Lie...

Then we started ruling each other's thoughts and becoming a part of what the other dreamed.

Whack.org.

Knox was supposed to be my buddy. We were meant to be fly, not each other's valentines. This whole deal was played.

I mean, I did a lot of things, but one thing I didn't do was love. Why? Because Rich Montgomery was never-ever-ever supposed to get caught up.

Y.O.L.O. was my motto. And since I knew you only lived once, I was determined to do it up! Love 'em and leave 'em. Not get dumped.

Not cry every night before I cut the lights out.

This was some bull.

“Excuse me, Miss Rich, can I get you another drink?” Startled me. My eyes popped open wide and I remembered that I wasn't home curled up in the corner of my bed, crying my eyes out. I was in Santa Barbara at the exclusive Kit-Kat Lounge, sitting at the glass bar with my fake ID tucked in my purse, on the same bar stool where I'd been every night this week after school, drowning my misery in beer, hot wings, and blue cheese sauce. I was pretty much shuttin' the lounge down.

How anticlimactic was that?

I pushed my hair behind my ears and said, “Yeah, Johnnie. I'll have a pitcher of beer, off the tap. And, umm, another platter of hot wings. Extra sauce.”

I watched Johnnie—a short, spray-tanned-orange man with bright red highlights in his hair—walk away. Half of the time he looked at me with loaded eyes, as if he had a million thoughts about me on his mind. But he didn't dare express an unsolicited thought to me. Because if he did, trust, that would give me just the psychotic reason I needed to lose it!

Johnnie disappeared from behind the illuminated glass bar and through the black leather double swinging doors, where the five-star kitchen was.

The Kit-Kat Lounge had become my favorite hideaway. A place where I could outrun everything and everyone—my friends, the media, my fans, my parents . . .

The one-room club was a sexy and elite atmosphere. Only the very wealthy and the politically connected were allowed in here. The walls were painted a sleek onyx and the ceiling was a starched, virgin white. The floors were made of albino bamboo and in the corners of the room were white leather couches and square glass tables. In the center of the room was a stage, where signed and unsigned artists performed. Along the sides of the stage were petite glass tables with black blown-glass chairs. And at the front of the room was the clear-glass bar with black leather high-back stools and me . . . drowning my misery.

I took a gulp of my frosted pitcher of beer that Johnnie had set on the table next to my hot wings.
I don't chase boys...

In an effort to shut my miserable mind up I shoved a hot wing in my mouth and licked the excess sauce off my fingers.

This was so anti–Rich Montgomery.

Jazmine Sullivan's “Lions, Tigers, and Bears” filled the air and immediately a sore knot wedged its way into my throat.

I was a mess.

And all I could think was that God had to really have a problem with me.

“Hey, girlie!” scared the hell outta me and almost caused me to fall off of my nightly bar stool.

“It's me!”

“It's Spencer!”

Spencer stood next to me, looked me over, and gave me her classic stupid, lost-in-space smile. Then she took her bony fingers and slid my platter of hot wings and blue cheese sauce down to the opposite end of the bar and away from me. “Ick.” She frowned.

“Eww, who's doing hot wings?” She popped her glossy lips and grimaced. “All that cholesterol,” she said like a controlling health nut. “And Rich,” she carried on, oblivious to me looking at her like she was crazy as hell, “who dumped that fried-stroke-on-a-plate in front of you? And then they left their bones there? And I mean they are sucked down clean.”

“Right down to the gristle.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Oh my. And that white snot—”

“Spencer—”

“Scandalous.”

“Spencer—”

“Classless and inconsiderate. And why are you interrupting me? How rude is that?”

“Spencer!” I pounded my fist on the bar, shaking my empty pitcher of beer. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here? Who invited you here?” I was clearly confused. And pissed. Talk about an invasion!

“Who invited me here? Are you still trying to strike out and be a comedian, Rich? Because, umm, you invited me.”

Duh! I knew I invited her here. But she had to know I didn't mean it. Like really, she knew we were making a fool out of London. I had no desire to see her face after school ended.

Spencer tapped on the bar, getting Johnnie's attention. “Bartender!” She snapped her fingers. “Come. And get these hot-nasty-heart-flamin'-wings and bring us a spinach salad and cottage cheese.”

I almost threw up in my mouth. Spinach who? And cottage what? I didn't do spinach and the only cottage I did was in Aspen.

Johnnie picked up my wings and as he turned away from the bar I snapped, “Johnnie, give me my wings back!”

Spencer gasped. “Your wings? Ohmygettin'jiggywit'it! Didn't you just overdose on Jenny Craig?”

I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “You know I'm supposed to be the teen spokesperson. And so what! Now is not the time to bring that up!”

“Gagging! You need to be ashamed of yourself. Unless of course they simply hired you for the before shots. Because there is no way you can be for after.”

“Excuse you.
After
is written all over me.”

“Correction. Bypass surgery and love handles are written all over you. Your stomach guts are on their way to being the size of a quarter. How gross. I can only imagine the headlines. SweetMarylovin'life, ‘Pampered Princess Dead.' ” She sat up on the bar stool to the right of me.

“Really, Spencer. You can't be serious right now.”

“I'm just making a point. But hey, if you wanna die looking like the Kool-Aid man's wife then, Johnnie, let her have her wings. Because I'm not going to worry about you. I'll just have me a drink.”

“Good. Now let me have my hot wing high and get my drink on in peace. This is probably where you and Heather went wrong. You don't know how to respect a girl's get-right.”

Spencer raked her nails along the edge of my plate.

“You know what, Rich? I'm going to let that Heather comment go. But I'm warning you, don't bring her up again.” She shot me a warning eye, as if I could give a damn.

“Gurl, bye!” I flicked my hand carelessly toward her face. “Chile, puhlease!” I reached for my frosted beer mug and took a long gulp, down to the last drop, plopped the mug on the counter and wiped the excess from my mouth with a finger.

Spencer gasped and stared at me. “SweetBiblestories I think I've seen a ghetto ghost.”

“I need to clutch your pearls for you,” she said in disbelief. “You are out of control! What's next—crack? When did you start drinking beer? You can't let Jenny Craig see you like this—”

“Eff Jenny Craig! I didn't like that nasty food anyway. I had my chef cook for me every night. He is the reason I lost weight. I stole him right from Oprah! So to hell with Jenny Craig. She can kiss my—”

“Rich, you know what? Having a dumpy behind is on you. What are you, like a size twenty-two anyway?”

I lowered the hot wing I'd just placed to my mouth. “I am a size twelve and I look good.”

“Yeah.” Spencer popped her lips. “Until you get up from that chair!”

“Anyway, Spencer, and why are you here?”

“I just told you that you invited me.”

“I know I invited you. But I didn't really mean for you to come!”

Spencer batted her eyes as Johnnie handed her a drink. She took a sip, teased her stirrer, and said, “I don't know what has you confused—those hot wings or that jug of chilled piss. But I came here because last I checked, America was a free country. There was democracy, and I had enough money to get in here! And besides, I was hoping that you weren't here.”

“Oops. Let me shut you down real quick. I'm here every night!”

“Looking at the imprint in your seat, I can tell!”

“Eff you, Spencer!”

“And D, E, F you, Rich! And all the rest of the alphabet. And besides, you know and I know that whenever you look pathetic like this you don't want to be alone.”

Spencer continued. “So you need to finish your wings, guzzle that beer, and be happy that someone wants to be here with you! Now anyway, let's just get to the good news before I have a serious problem with you.”

I arched one brow and dipped the other. “And what's the good news?”

“My father just sent me a package and you know what was in it?”

“My daddy is so sweet.”

No, he's not. That azz is old. Old enough to be my great-great-great-granddaddy and hers, too! He's old enough to be the original star in
Roots
. He was probably Harriet Tubman's first husband. Mr. “Kumbaya ”!
I swear I felt a Negro spiritual coming on, so I sang
,
“Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

Spencer paused.

Set her drink on the counter. “What is wrong with you?! People are looking at you! Why are you singing grave-digging songs at the bar! You know I don't play with death! How dare you! And then you start singing that song after I mention my daddy. You always do that, Rich, and I don't talk about your drug-dealing daddy or his jailhouse ways! What you just did”—her voice trembled—“was hurtful. And I don't need you reminding me that my daddy's knocking at death's door. You're trying to kill my father!”

I tried not to, but I couldn't help but stretch across the counter in laughter. “Clutching pearls, Spencer,” I said, collecting myself. “I wasn't talking about your father.”

“You're such a liar! A hot-wing-eating, beer-drinking, fat, nasty liar! I should e-mail a picture of you to Jenny Craig right now.”

I slid my middle finger into the air. “Like I said, eff Jenny Craig!”

Spencer quickly snapped a picture of me and immediately sent me to twenty. “Spencer, that's going too far now! Delete that.”

“Apologize first. You just tried to bury my father and I didn't like that. Now apologize or meet your next headline.” She flashed the picture in my face.

“Eww, apologies.” I frowned. “I don't do apologies. I mean, if your feelings fell down your designer sleeves and landed on the table, then that's unfortunate. And I'll help you pick 'em up, but that's about as far as it goes.”

“You know what, Sponge Bob Betty? Let's just forget it. As a matter of fact I feel sorry for you, sitting over there looking like Pooh. My heart goes out to you. So let's get back on track. I'm taking the diamonds my daddy sent me and having bangles made.”

“Whew, fancy.”

“I know, right. And wait a minute. Let me tell you I almost got my car torn up on the way over here. And Kitty just bought it for me a few days ago. There are such haters on the road, trying to crash my shine . . .”

I. Wish. This. Chick. Would. Shut. Up. She has been running her flytrap since she barged her way in here. And I really don't want to hear anything about her daddy. She knows he went to school with Jesus. That man is old and she knows he's old and knocking on death's door.
“Knock-knock-knockin' .. .” I sang, and Spencer gave me the evil eye again.