Get Ready for War (4 page)

Problem was, it was my only way out of here . . .

I swallowed. Gave the court a small smile, and held a look that made it appear like I'd agreed with the slickness Camille was pulling here.

Camille looked at me and I could tell she was doing her all not to laugh. She dabbed her eyes and continued, “I don't want to see my daughter in any more trouble, so I'm also asking the court to please help me to keep Heather on the right path by extending her probation until she turns eighteen.”

“What?!” I spat. “Have you lost your mind?!” I tried to stand up but the shackles on my feet halted me.

“Heather,” my attorney said sternly, “sit back and be quiet.”

Camille continued. “She's a precious little girl, Your Honor. She just needs more guidance. More structure. And with the court's help I believe with all my heart that my daughter will make it.”

I wanted nothing more than to take my fist and lay Camille down. Now I wished I'd slipped a deadly Mickey in her drink. Then doing time would be sweet.

My attorney must've read my mind because she squeezed my shoulder. “Your Honor,” my attorney said, “I have submitted to the court a letter from Heather's probation officer, Officer Sampson. He is also in agreement with the treatment program and with her remaining on probation until she turns eighteen as opposed to being sentenced to time in a juvenile correctional facility.”

I could've choked. This was a setup. It had to be. They were all in cahoots.

The court's clerk handed the judge a letter. The judge scanned the letter and then looked at me. “Heather, you're a lucky young lady with a world of opportunity. Don't blow it. Twenty-eight-day treatment at Always Hope and probation until the age of eighteen.” He banged his gavel. “Court is dismissed.”

The correction officer uncuffed and unshackled me and I prayed my knees wouldn't buckle.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Camille smiled and I felt like all the air was being siphoned out of my body. “Thank the judge, Heather.”

I swallowed. Quickly thought about granting Camille a beat-down, and then just as quickly changed my mind. “Thank you,” I said, stiff lipped.

“Let's go, Cummings,” the officer said, practically spinning me around and pointing me toward the door. I didn't even look back. I simply walked out of the room and I could feel Camille's eyes burning through me as I disappeared from her sight.

Forty-five minutes later I was dressed in the same outfit I'd arrived here wearing: a sequined bra top and a neon-pink ultra-miniskirt, except now the hem of my skirt was tattered. I stepped from behind the locked electric doors that led to the outside. Immediately the Los Angeles heat and paparazzi swept over me. Bulbs flashed in my face from the cameras all around me. There were fans shouting my name and reporters shooting questions like bullets. “Get back!” the guards yelled at the reporters, who kept firing away:

“What happened inside?”

“Sources say you were slapped by an inmate this morning?”

“Is it true that you were on a hunger strike?”

“Were you shouting that your name was Wu-Wu?”

“Were you going through withdrawals?”

I didn't know which way to turn; all I knew is that I had to get out of there.

“This way, Heather!” Camille said, and I felt one of the guard's muscular arms wrap around me, creating a clear path to a brand-new black Mercedes-Benz stretch limo.

The muscular arm softly pushed me into the limo and Camille quickly followed. The door shut hurriedly and a few seconds later we were flying up the freeway.

“Well, well, well, what a circus that was.”

I jumped, that voice scaring the heck out of me.

“Oh, I didn't mean to frighten you, dear.”

I looked at the seat directly in front of me and I couldn't believe this . . .

“Kitty Ellington,” I said in complete disbelief. Not only was she queen of America's number-one talk show,
Dish the Dirt
, she was my arch-nemesis's mother.

What the hell is she doing here?
“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Kitty handed me a glass of champagne. “Heather, dear.” She smiled. “I'm here because you invited me.” She winked. “Thanks for giving me the exclusive.”

“Exclusive?” I said, pissed. “I haven't given you a thing!”

“Heather!” Camille snapped. “Mind your manners! Now I know you didn't think your powerhouse attorney was free. And you have to know that you didn't have enough money to afford her, so in exchange for an exclusive, Ms. Kitty was gracious enough to ensure that you would be released.”

Kitty smiled. “You talk to no one else for the next six months. Now come, let's chat.”

“I'm not doing this!” I screamed. “Stop the car right now!” I reached for the lever and just as I opened the door, the driver swerved to the shoulder and said through the intercom, “Is everything all right back there?”

“NO!” I screamed, hopping out and charging away. I didn't know where I was going. All I knew was that I'd been set up and there was no way I'd be going through with this!

I could hear Camille's heels clicking behind me. Once she was a few inches away she reached for my arm and yanked me by my elbow.

“Get off of me!” I snatched my arm away.

Camille snatched my arm back and twisted it. “Do you want me to march you back to jail with those rough-ridin' hoes?” She shook me. “Do you, Heather? Because I have no problem marching your simple, weak, and pathetic little tail back in there and making sure you stay locked down. Now the choice is yours.”

“Oh, now I have choice? I didn't have a choice when you sold my soul to the devil!”

“Oh, spare me the melodrama, would you! Kitty is no more a devil than that black beauty you're a slave to. Difference is, she pays nicely.”

“Oh, she paid you. I see. Now you're prostituting me—real motherly, Camille. Real freakin' maternal!”

“Don't you look down your nose at me, missy! And no, she didn't pay me. She paid you in attorney fees. Unless of course that means nothing to you, because you'd rather be locked up twenty-four hours a day like a common criminal. All while your frenemies have their asses wiped by their maids. Is that what you want? To continue to be nothing? You know and I know that being Wu-Wu Tanner doesn't fulfill you; being a Pampered Princess does. Being accepted by them, belonging to the It Clique is where you've always wanted to be. But you can't seem to make the cut!”

“Shut up!”

“Oh what, did I hit a nerve, darling? Well, I certainly hope so because while you're standing here trying to decide if you want to give Kitty an exclusive, those snotty little Pampered Princesses are somewhere in their lush entertainment rooms, watching a report on you and laughing.” She pointed ahead to the paparazzi who'd pulled along the side of the road and were headed our way. “And do you know why they're laughing? They're laughing because you have allowed them to make a fool out of you. Now when are you going to get tired of being on the bottom of the barrel, scraping and begging for scraps? If you want to be on top, then you need to know that being on top goes beyond being on the Wu-Wu show, hanging with your fan club president, and throwing Skittles parties!”

“You don't tell me what to do!”

“Like hell I don't! You owe me big-time. You drugged me, Heather. I've had more reports written about me in the past few days than I've had in years. And they haven't been good. I've been dragged through the mud and branded a washed-up actress and an even worse mother. And I'm pissed off about that. Help me God, if you don't do what I say I have no problem making sure your probation is violated. You understand? Now the choice is yours! You want to be a loser and keep those little skanks laughing at you, or do you have enough guts to stand up and fight for yourself?”

Silence.

“Answer me! I know you understand exactly what I'm saying!”

I didn't respond. And it's not that I didn't understand. I understood well. Better than I ever had. And what was perfectly clear to me was that it was time for war.

Load. And reload.

Assume position.

For once Camille was right.

How long was I going to stand by and let the Pampered Tricks do whatever they wanted to do to me?

Bully me.

Talk about me.

Say all kinds of snide things about me and to me.

While I swallowed it.

Snorted my miseries away.

No more.

Those days were done.

And the old Heather Cummings was dead.

Born again was the new me.

Armed and dangerous.

I was leaving bodies behind. Starting with Spencer and ending with Rich and London. And if my mother didn't watch herself, she'd be a casualty, too. After all, Camille knew the rules.

Well,
she
had arrived.
And as soon as I get out of rehab, the sixteen-year-old devil rocks: six-inch stilettos, designer clutches, and diamonds.

“What. Are. You. Going to do?” Camille spat.

I didn't answer her. Instead I watched the paparazzi gain position, aim, and shoot. Then I turned, walked back toward the limo, and slid in. Camille grinned as she slid in behind me.

“What do you want to know?” I said as the limo pulled back onto the highway.

“Oh, no rush,” Kitty assured me. “I tell you what—you seem so stressed, why don't you relax.” She looked over at Camille.

Camille nodded and Kitty slid me a blue silk pouch. I opened it and inside were two black beauties. I fought like hell not to smile, but I only succeeded halfway.

“If you'd like to relax before we do the exclusive, you can sit over there, press that button, and the center partition will rise and give you all the privacy you need to collect your thoughts.”

I couldn't believe this. It felt so right and so wrong all at the same time. But I knew I needed this hit. I needed it, and in order for the new Heather to take her rightful position, I would need to get myself together.

I moved to the other side of the stretch limo, pressed the button, and as I sent the center partition up, Camille said, “Welcome to the battlefield, sweetheart.”

R
evenge was like sipping a steamy cup of bittersweet chocolate. In order to enjoy it, it had to be served at just the right moment. It had to go down slowly. It had to be savored one sip at a time. And right at that moment, I was enjoying every bit of it. Heather had bound and gagged me, leaving me with no choice. She had to go down. And, yeah, that hurt me down to my cute polished pinky-toe because out of the three so-called Pampered Princesses, I had liked Heather the most. She wasn't as materialistic and loud and over-the-top as Rich Montgomery, who was nothing more than a spoiled, snotty, oversized brat. And she wasn't as pretentious and snooty as that ex-runway, I'll-never-get-another-modeling-job-because-I'm-a-fifty-foot-beached-whale, London Phillips. No. Heather was different. Yeah, she was a low-money wench living in a rented bungalow. And, yeah, her fashion statements were a bit cheesy and cheap. But so what? She had my back, and I had hers. Or so I thought! Instead she bent over and practically told me to kiss her flat-as-a-rice-paddy butt!

That hurt! And, yes, I had to swallow back my tears. I really thought that we were friends. But I was sooooooo wrong. What a fool I was! That trick made it clear that we weren't friends. That we had never been friends.

“Friends? Friends?” she had spat at me. “You thought? We were never friends and never will be! I don't like you. You're a sneaky, dirty, conniving little ho. Oh no, excuse me, big ho. Who loves to snatch and sneak other people's boyfriends. Now gather your heels, walk back out the way you came in here ... Now get out of here before we all stomp you down!”

I couldn't believe she had threatened me. That she had treated me like I was some thunder-thighs poophead.

But who was there for that walking cuckoo-clock when she couldn't remember her lines on the set of her television show and was on the verge of having a dang nervous breakdown?

I was!

Who took up for that wretched donkey hole anytime Rich and London made fun of her or talked down to her like she was smelly trash?

I did!

And how did she repay me?

By turning on a mic and humiliating me in front of all of her pill-popping butt lickers. Ooooooh, Heather Cummings was a dirty, rotten douche bag for that! And the moment she hopped her smelly tail up on that little raggedy makeshift stage in her backyard and rapped—or whatever the hell that howling and screeching was—about how she took one shot and dropped me upside the head, was the day she showed me just how messy she could be. What that cracked-out Barbie did to me was despicable! She ambushed me and opened fire. She tried to degrade and destroy me! But what she didn't know was I was armed, loaded, and ready to toss a grenade in her sandbox.

So the ho thought.

I was a majorette. Not a dang Girl Scout. So Heather had better tighten up her corset and paste down her booty bags because if inmate Cummings wanted a fight, then goshdarnit, I was going to high-kick her across the minefield. And let me tell you one rickety-crickety thing: the one thing you didn't do was mess with me. Not Spencer Ellington, you didn't. I wasn't the one, two, or the four.

Now I couldn't speak for Rich and her big-faced Labradoodle friend, London. But Heather didn't want it with me. Oh no. That Skittles bandit had crossed into enemy territory. Wait. Why was I calling her a Skittles bandit? She hadn't stolen any candy. Actually I didn't see one dang Skittles in any of those glass bowls she had filled with pills. Oh, whatever!

Point is, that Cabbage Patch ho pulled out a rusty blade and shanked me! Now she was about to get a firsthand lesson in combat. In every war, there had to be an enemy. She declared it. She demanded it. Unfortunately, the beyotch didn't do her homework because if she had, she'd have known that whenever a ho declared war on a so-called friend, she had better know the rules of engagement.

The most important rule being: Never declare war on your enemies, then let them catch you sleeping. Oh no. You're supposed to be refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to bring it. But instead I caught Heather snoring behind the wheel of her armored tank, looking a mess. And now Miss Turkey Tits was mine.

I glanced down at the latest issue of
Diva Girlz Weekly
with a picture of Heather's drunken mother, Camille, plastered on the cover. The headline read:

F
ROM THE SILVER SCREEN TO JAIL CELL, WASHED UP STARLET

C
AMILLE
C
UMMINGS
A
RRESTED
!

On the cover of
Glamdalous
—the magazine for the glamorous and the scandalous—the caption read:

I smirked, picking up another article, and stared at a full-page photo of Heather wearing that god-awful fashion wreckage—a neon-green bra top and neon-pink mini. Her ponytail extension was hanging down past her butt crack. She looked like a real live rodeo pony. I read the caption:

P
AMPERED
P
RINCESS GONE WILD
! B
OOZE, PILLS
&
HOT SCANDAL

I reached over and grabbed the scissors and started cutting out an article from the pages of
Teen Gossip
. The caption read:

T
EEN STAR DRUGS MOTHER AND GETS IT CRUNKED
!

Yeah, she might have been the one who sent that video of me down on my knees giving one of Rich's many boyfriends a special treat to the media. But she definitely hadn't brought me down. Talking about she brought down the Gucci clique. Ha! Goes to show you how much she knew. I only wore Gucci on Tuesdays. What a dumb ducky!

I finished cutting out all of the news and magazine articles on Heather and her mother, then stood up from the kitchen table and walked over to the huge wall of glass that overlooked L.A. and allowed tons of sunlight in the room, wondering why Heather had turned on me.

Anderson, the new boo in my life, walked up behind me. He wrapped his strong arms around my waist and kissed the top of my head. “What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

I sighed, craning my neck and looking up at him. “Heather.”

He raised a brow. “What about her?”

“I feel bad that it had to come down to this between me and her. I was good to her. But it's obvious she didn't give a damn about me or my kindness. I thought she would have learned her lesson when I Maced her in school a few months ago. But she didn't. I guess I'm going to have to take my nail file and gouge out her dang eyeballs next time.”

“You're not regretting calling the cops on her, or sending those pictures of her and her mother passed out on the sofa to the media, are you?”

I shook my head, leaning back against his chest. “No. Heather started this.”

“Good. And now you need to demolish her. No one hurts my sweet, sexy gum drop and gets away with it.”

I smiled.

Anderson and I had been seeing each other on the low-low for over a month. And as bad as I wanted to swing upside down from a chandelier and lap up every inch of his dark-chocolate body, he wanted to take things slow. Tooooooooooo slooooooooow, if you asked me! He was a gentleman. And he was thoughtful and sooo sooo attentive. But, goshdangit, his chivalrous ways were killing my libido. I wanted him to throw me down on the bed, rip off my La Perla undergarments and beat up the mattress. But no, not Anderson! My boo bear wanted to make sure we were more than sex. He said he didn't want to rush into anything sexual. That we had our whole lives to enjoy nights of passionate lovemaking. Okay, it sounded good. But I needed to feel it, too!

And yeah, he was London's boyfriend. But so what? The fact is, he wanted
me
. And he was breaking it off with her—the sooner the better. It served her right since she didn't know how to appreciate a real man. And she definitely didn't know the first thing about keeping a man like Anderson from straying, because if she did, he wouldn't have asked me out, and we wouldn't still be seeing each other.

“Spencer.” Anderson turned me around and stared into my eyes. “However you want to bring her down, I'm with you every step of the way.” He took my hand into his and placed it up to his lips. He kissed each fingertip, then slipped them into his mouth, teasing me.

I pouted. “I don't know why you keep teasing me like this, boo bear. Don't I turn you on?”

He pressed himself into me. “What you think?”

I felt the heat from his excitement and firecrackers started popping off inside of me. “I think we need to finish breakfast naked in bed.”

He grinned. “All in time, my beautiful gum drop.” He kissed me lightly on the lips. “Now how about—”

“Well, well, well . . . what do we have here?”

I gasped. It was Kitty, leaning up against the door frame, twirling a lock of hair around her slender, manicured finger. She looked fabulous in a peach Chanel knit crepe dress with buttons and a pearl belt.
What in the heck is she doing here?
I quickly stepped out of Anderson's embrace. “Mother, what are you doing here?”

She smiled. “Spencer, darling, I live here. Or have you forgotten?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, Mother. Actually I thought maybe
you
did.” I hadn't seen her in almost three weeks. Aside from the occasional call here and there throughout the week, Kitty Ellington was pretty much invisible. And her role as a mother was nonexistent. No, she was too busy making her billions to be bothered with a sixteen-year-old. Let alone a daughter who I was convinced she was jealous of.

“I just dropped off that pathetic Camille and that rude little brat of hers and thought I'd swing by to pick up a few things before I head back to New York. My flight leaves in two hours. You know... duty calls. By the way, thanks for all those lovely photos. The exclusive is signed and sealed.”

I stared at her as she sashayed into the kitchen, her Manolos clicking against the tile as she made her way over to me, locking eyes on Anderson and slyly licking her painted lips.

Strumpet!

She air-kissed me.

“And who is this fine chocolate-drop hunk of a man?” she inquired, practically drooling as if he were prime beef being tossed to a hungry lioness. She circled him, ready to attack, before extending her hand.

“Hello, Mrs. Ellington,” Anderson politely said, taking her hand into his. “My mother watches your talk show religiously.”

“Oh, that's wonderful. I'll have to be sure she gets tickets for the next ten shows.”

“She'd love that. It's a pleasure meeting you.”

“Oh no,” Kitty purred, touching his arm then squeezing his biceps. “The pleasure is allllll mine. Oh my. Do you work out?”

He smiled. “Yes, ma'am. Three times a week.”

She licked her lips. “Mmmph. And it shows.”

“Missus Ellington, you're even more beautiful in person. Now I see where Spencer gets her looks and charm from.”

“Oooh,” she cooed as she unbuttoned the first three buttons of her dress, exposing her cleavage. “It's gotten awful hot in here all of a sudden. Spencer, sweetheart, be a dear and go grab mother something cool to drink. I'm parched.”

Kitty giggled like some lovesick schoolgirl and made all kinds of silly-assed faces as if she had just peed in her panties from all the attention. I had to get her away from my man, fast, before he ended up on her long “Men to do” list.

I stepped in between her and Anderson. “And you'll stay parched if you think I'm playing
The Help
. Now, Mother, what
really
brings you home? There's nothing you have here you need. You have tons of clothes and other things back at your penthouse in New York.”

She placed a hand up to her chest. “I've missed you, darling. And I wanted to see how you were doing, but obviously”—she eyed Anderson—“judging by the company you're keeping, it looks like you're in
very
good, strrrrrrrong hands.”

I cleared my throat. “Mother, this is An—”

“Spencer, darling, I know exactly who he is. Anderson Ford. Son of billionaire oil tycoon Freeman Ford.” She tilted her head. “And the handsome beau of Jade Phillips's daughter—” She snapped her fingers. “Oh dear. Spencer, what's that child's name?”

I huffed. “London.”

“Yes, yes. London Phillips. You
are
still dating her, aren't you?”

Her eyes flicked to Anderson, then back to me. Before he could open his mouth to speak, I grabbed Kitty by the arm. “Um, excuse us for one minute, Anderson. My mother and I have a few things to discuss.”

He smiled. “I'll be right here.”

I ushered Kitty out of the kitchen and into the solarium, shutting the glass door behind us. “Spencer, Spencer, Spencer,” she said, wagging an accusatory finger at me. “You sneaky little harlot. Oooh, I love, love, love, love it. Anderson Ford, mmmph ... nice catch, darling. That boy has more money than he'll ever know what to do with in this lifetime. Let's hope you know how to hold on to him. But just in case you let him slip through your fingers, I might need to taste, uh, test drive him myself.”

“You even try it,” I snapped, stepping up in her face, “and I will slice your throat. He is off-limits. Do you understand? You've slept with all of my other boyfriends, but you will not have this one.”