Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey (20 page)

“Huh?”

“Frozen Pop.  Sperm donor.  Get it.  Squirt.”

“Ohhhh, that’s right!  I keep forgetting that.  Shit, Chai, don’t you ever wonder who the guy was?”

I shrug as I reach for my lipstick.  It’s always been Claire-Ann and me... no one else.  “You can’t miss what you’ve never had, you know?  I mean, I know he was a student in New York back in the late 80s and was supposedly becoming a doctor.  That’s all I really need to know.”

Maybe that’s why I have this internal itch to go into the medical profession myself.  Seems like the Frozen Pop passed on his learning genes.  God knows, I certainly didn’t get my academic achievement from high school drop-out, Claire-Ann.

Katy blows on her wet nails and leans back on my bed.  “See, if it were me, I’d have to, like, call the Sperm Bank of New York and find out who the swimmers belonged to.  What my roots and heritage are.”

“Roots and heritage?  Are you Alex Hailey?  You should be in drama club instead of me,” I say with a laugh.  “It’s pretty simple.  Claire-Ann had reached a point in her life where she wanted off the drugs and wanted a baby.  She bought a test tube and
voila
, Instant Chai.”

“You’re so blasé about it.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?  It’s not like I can change it.”

“It’s just so...weird, Chai.”

“It’s never been an issue, honestly.”

Katy tosses her short, bobbed blonde hair around.  “I couldn’t go through life not knowing who my dad is.”

I drop the silver lipstick case onto the table.  “That’s ‘cause your dad is one of the richest men in Miami.”

This time it’s Katy’s turn to shrug.  Kathryn Irene Kingston lives the perfect life, ensconced in her Star Island mansion (next door to JaRule—actually, he’s just renting, but still...), her mom works for the Miami Beach Tourism Bureau and her rich father lavishes them with expensive gifts galore.  Not that I want that, but her mom cooks a mean pot roast, helps Katy with her homework, and encourages her to go to college instead of pushing her toward the cutthroat world of fashion modeling.

“Chai, are you ready?” Claire-Ann shouts again.  Only this time, I hear her coming up the stairs.

“I’m almost done.”

“Wear the Jimmy Choo gold sandals I bought you last week.  They’ll make your legs look a mile long.  You need to be taller.”

Right, because models have to be a certain weight and height.  Heaven forbid that my five-eight isn’t considered Glamazon enough.  I’m sure that’s my father’s fault.

Claire-Ann enters my bedroom decked out in hip BCBG fashion (that’s probably too young-looking for her, but she wears it well) and her makeup draw perfectly on her too-too tightly pulled face.  Damn Dr. Sheldon for the last face lift that makes her appear slightly Asian.

“Hey, Katy.  You going with us, honey?” Claire-Ann asks.

“Not tonight.  I have a date with Rick Sommers.”

“On a Thursday night?” I ask, like it’s some big deal for anyone in our clique to go out on a school night.  God knows Claire-Ann drags me out enough when I should be doing homework.

“It’s a study date,” Katy says, beaming.  She’s been digging Rick for a time now.  Good for her making some headway with him.

I sigh.  Katy gets to do real high school things, like study and go on dates—with one of the hottest hunks in school—and go to bed at a decent hour.  Me, I’m up all night, in the gym first thing in the morning, and then I hit the ground running with school, photo shoots, and just being Claire-Ann’s daughter, which is a full-time job in itself.  It’s amazing I can keep up this pace she’s got me on without major medication.  Besides, the guys at school who’ve shown interest in me only pay attention to me because of my quasi-celebrity status.  High school boys are so stupid.  I can’t wait to get to college.

“Rick’s the guy Chai says you’ve got the hots for?” Claire-Ann prods.

“Mom!”  She hates when I address her that way.

She hands me a glass of champagne.  “Well, that’s what you told me.  Remember to use a condom, Katy.”

Katy rolls her eyes and laughs.  She thinks Claire-Ann is the coolest and that I’m totally lucky to have a mom like her.  Me, I want a real mom, not a girlfriend.

Claire-Ann waggles the crystal flute at me.  “Here, have some before we leave.  This is a big night.”

Big indeed.  It’s Betty Ford Night at Privé, a hot club attached to Opium Garden down below Fifth Street that allows eighteen plus in on week nights.  I tamp down my disgust at poking fun of the long ago-former first lady’s penchant for alcohol.  Hell, I don’t even get carded there, or anywhere for that matter.  Age has never been an issue for me.  I look older than my years and when I’m with Claire-Ann, no one questions.

At Privé, you can usually spot a good portion of the Miami Dolphins’ defensive core puffing away on cigars and pounding back expensive cocktails, as well as various Heat players and Marlins hitters, not to mention the hottest people in the hip-hop music scene.  Miami Beach is da bomb, da place.  And Privé is a see-and-be-seen sort of establishment.  No cutoff jeans and tourist shirts there.

Tonight, Claire-Ann is in search of producers to pitch her new reality TV show idea, as well as a photographer who’ll make me his protégée.  Both ideas are like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.  I just want to take a long, hot bath and read the latest David Baldacci novel Katy brought me.

“I don’t want champagne,” I say, picking up the convo with my mom.  Champagne again.  Always champagne with Claire-Ann.  The stuff gives me a headache.  Unlike other people my age who would be super-psyched at being supplied booze by their parents.  To me it’s no big deal when it’s handed to you.  Where’s the challenge?  How is that rebelling?

For me, rebellion comes in the form of an online Common Application aimed at Columbia University’s Admissions Office.

But we won’t tell Claire-Ann about that
just
yet.

It’s not that I hate my mother.  I don’t.  At all.  I love her and she’s a great person.  Thing is, she wants me to be
her
.  She’d give nothing more than for me to be a top fashion model at eighteen—just like she was.  Of course, Claire-Ann was escaping an abusive, dysfunctional family in Ohio when she broke free and got discovered in New York in the late 70s.  She had that feathered, fashionable-then hair that would’ve made Farrah Fawcett look like a hag.  I mean, I give the modeling my all—for Claire-Ann’s sake—and I try to succeed, but in the past year since I started this whole “Chai needs to be a model” thing, I seem to only get jobs that her friends hire for or ones that feature poses that hide my—

“Put a little more base and powder on the top of your nose, sweetie, to de-emphasize that crook.”  Claire-Ann leans in and reaches for the large makeup brush.  “Let me.”

Hastily, I shove her away and bite on my bottom lip.  Yes, okay, I have a bit of a crooked nose!  I know it, Katy knows it, everyone at school knows it, Claire-Ann knows it, and so do most of the photographers in the Miami area.  It’s not like I’m disfigured, though.  Enough with the exaggeration and dramatics.  God knows I’ve had to learn to pose properly to make sure it doesn’t take over the photos.

I mean, look at Owen Wilson.  He’s a total babe who gets plenty of movie deals and his nose looks like it survived a car wreck or a crack with a baseball bat.  Why is my nose a constant topic of conversation?

Claire-Ann even took me in—I thought we were going in for one of
her
checkups—to Dr. Sheldon for a consultation for rhinoplasty.  I’m sorry, but this is the nose I was born with and it’s not
that
bad!  Cameron Diaz’s nose is a little crooked, too, but it never kept her from getting movie roles.  It’s part of her charm.  Just like Tyra Banks and her big-ass forehead that’s made her millions.  Besides, I’m certainly not spending weeks with black eyes and bandages and wicked pain just so my nose won’t stand out so much.  That’s so not me.

Nevertheless, I smear the Mac foundation on my nose and blend with a sponge as I stare at myself in the mirror.  Actually, I’ve never thought being a model was my calling in life.  I don’t consider myself as particularly pretty or traffic stopping, like my mother.  Even after five plastic surgeries, she’s still head turningly gorgeous.

When I was little, I successfully eluded many of her attempts to enter me into beauty pageants and modeling competitions.  But when I hit sixteen and my boobs fully developed and my waist started curving in just right, Claire-Ann was determined I follow in her footsteps.

My eyes shift up now and I meet her ice blue stare.  Not ice blue meaning she’s pissed at me.  Ice blue in that her eyes are the color of the Arctic waters—her true trademark and the one thing that made her stand out in the fashion crowds of the 80s.  Hypnotic.  Mesmerizing.  Million-dollar orbs.

“That’s much better,” she says, smiling at me in the reflection.  “You sure as shit didn’t get that nose from me.”

No, I didn’t.  I didn’t get a whole hell of a lot from Claire-Ann except my figure.  My dark eyes, dark hair and yes, the nose that offends all came from the Frozen Pop.  All right, the nose isn’t
that
bad, but with Claire-Ann always pointing it out to me my whole life, I feel like it must look like Gerard Depardieu or something to her.  Hmmm...maybe
he
was the sperm donor?

“So who are you guys hoping to meet tonight?” Katy asks.  “Big date with Craig, Claire-Ann?”

“No, Craig’s nothing serious.” Claire-Ann flips her dark blonde hair over her shoulder and examines her makeup in the mirror.  “But I did get wind that a couple of producers and some big name photographers will be there this evening.”

I sigh extra hard.  Craig, a.k.a. Guy of the Moment.  He’s an investment banker in Miami who has been wooing my mother.  I think she’s just into him for the sex.  And it’s me who has to hear them when they’re going at it.  Ewww!  The building’s built to withstand hurricane-force winds, but not Claire-Ann’s ecstatic shrieks.

“What kind of producers?” Katy asks.  She digs conversing with my mother.  To her it’s like watching
The View
in person.

“Well, my sources tell me there’s a guy from Bravo who’s scouting for his next big reality show.  And since Miami Beach is such a hot locale, what better place to look than here?”

“Why would we care about a reality TV producer?” I ask.

With great excitement, Claire-Ann says, “So we can get our own show!  Mother and daughter in the modeling industry.  If they can make stars out of a bunch of Orange County housewives and trashy people from the Jersey Shore, why not us?  It’ll be fabulous.”

“Absolutely not!  I’m not going to be fodder for people’s entertainment pleasure.  Jesus, Claire-Ann, it’s bad enough you send me on these shoots and stuff without—” I stop myself before I tell her what I really feel like doing this whole modeling thing.  The pained look on her face—which is a miracle, considering all of the Botox—says I’ve almost crossed the line.  “I only mean that it’s, like, been done before.”

Her left brow lifts.  “Who?”

“I don’t know, but surely it’s been done.”

She waves me off.  “We’ll be better than anything that’s been on before.”

Poor Claire-Ann.  The camera doesn’t love her like it once did, but she still has feelings for it.  Unrequited love.

I stand and smooth out the Prada pants I borrowed from Claire-Ann.  I’ve got them paired with a matching Prada top, square neckline with a seamed Empire waist.  The creamy ivory fabric looks great on my freshly spray-tanned skin.  It may be early March in South Beach, but I’ve had nada time to get any sun with the schedule I’ve been keeping.  It’s all I can do to keep up my grades, hoping Columbia University will deem me suitable for entrance into their freshman class in the fall.

Claire-Ann strokes my long hair and smiles approvingly.  “There’s my lovely girl.  I’ll meet you downstairs.  Katy, we can drop you off on the way if you want.”

“That’s okay, Claire-Ann.  I’ve got my car,” Katy says.  She hops off the bed and hands over the
Vogue
magazine that’s been sitting beside her.  “Too bad you have to go to this party and can’t stay home gawking at your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend?  What the—”

I look at the magazine and nearly gasp when I see the photo she’s pointing out.  Ooo, hadn’t seen that yet.  Droolingly handsome, barefoot Ty Willingham dressed in white linen Armani in a two-page spread for A|X.  The guy’s got piercing chocolate eyes, a stern chin with his signature cleft in it, and thick, shiny black hair.  My fingers could get lost in that mop for at least a week.  No one on earth should be allowed to look that fucking amazing.

Except maybe male super model extraordinaire, Ty Willingham.

I can’t believe this guy is my age.

“God, I wish he
were
my boyfriend,” I say with a bit of a sigh.  “I wouldn’t have to think twice about giving him my virginity.”

Katy lights up.  “You know, I read on the InsaneMiami blog that he and his family are moving here.  His father is this power stock broker in Manhattan who had a heart attack, so the doctors told him to move to a warmer climate.”

My heart trips over itself at the thought of running into Ty Willingham on Ocean Drive or at one of the hotel bars on Collins.  Of meeting him and sharing a moment.  Of falling at his feet and admitting that I have a poster of him on the inside of my closet door.  So juvenile of me, but a girl can dream.

“Chai Devareaux!” Claire-Ann calls out from the lower level.  “Get your skinny little ass down here now!  Our car service is waiting!”

“Wish me luck tonight,” I say to Katy as I grab my Kate Spade clutch.  “Claire-Ann’s convinced, as you saw, that tonight’s the night I get discovered.”

Katy screws up her face.  “But is that what you want?”

I let out a long breath.  “It’s what Claire-Ann wants.  And as long as I’m under her roof, living off her money and all that stuff, I’ve got to do as she says.  Besides, I’m not in drama class for nothing.  I can act exactly like she wants:  mature, sophisticated, fashionable, and most of all, interested.”

“Okay, strut your stuff, g’friend.  If there’s one thing you
did
inherit from her, it’s your walk.  Go get ‘em, babe!”