Sex, Secrets and South Beach (15 page)

D
esiree stepped out of the lobby of the
Delano and into the heat armed with her very own Platinum
American Express card. K.G. told her it was her birthday gift. It
came with the warning that she was all his now and that she had no
use for other niggas. He also told her he wanted her to start
thinking about what she was going to do after she quit modeling.
Desiree told him she had no intention of quitting, but decided
against telling him her other aspirations. He told her he was going
to marry her and naturally she'd have children. Desiree wondered if
he was serious, but she had put in work to earn that credit card,
and for now she was going to enjoy it. She'd simply cross that
marriage bridge if and when she came to it. Still, the situation
with K.G. made her a tad bit uneasy. The gesture was extravagant,
so it made her wonder what his angle was. He had to have
motives.

Maybe he really thought he was in
love. That morning he'd managed to fuck her the regular way. He
insisted on looking her dead in the eyes the whole time, even when
he kissed her. It was like he couldn't get enough of her. He'd told
her that he loved her as he came. Desiree ignored the comment, but
he told her again as he held her in his arms afterward. He wished
her a happy birthday in advance and told her how excited he was
about their trip to the V.I., that he had something special for
her. He ordered room service and fed her breakfast in bed before
cutting out to his "meeting" around 11 a.m.

It had been a long night, and her butt
felt raw and dug out. She wondered if she was walking funny or if
anyone could tell she'd been fucked up the ass. All she wanted to
do was take a long, hot bath, curl into her king-size bed, and
sleep. She didn't even have the energy to shop.

Downstairs the doorman stared at her
cleavage, encased in the tight Prada dress she had worn the
previous evening, as he opened the cab door.

"Do you want it, or is it free?"
Desiree quipped as the doorman ignored her outstretched hand
holding a five-dollar bill. She was trying to be generous, and this
fool was staring at her tits.

"G-gracias," the doorman stammered as
he shook out of his stupor to accept his tip. He gave her a
pathetic little grin. She contemplated snatching her money out of
his grubby little hand. She despised it when men ogled her for
free.

Desiree decided to be nice and let him
keep the tip; after all, it was almost her birthday. And she
considered the week of her birthday "Make Desi Happy Week." The
credit card made her happy. She ran her fingers over the embossed
letters of her entire name: Desiree Mirabella Torres Jackson. How
did he know her whole name when she'd never told it to him? She
went by Desiree Jackson, and usually just Desiree or Dez. She
thought about it for a moment and then shrugged it off. Mitten
Enterprises was printed beneath her name. She wondered what it was
but was distracted by the thought of Bentley. She was glad K.G. was
gone; that way she'd have nothing standing between her and the man
she really wanted. Working with Bentley was going to be the icing
on her birthday cake.

Desiree loved the sound of bills being
counted. It almost made her wet. There was just never enough! With
her freshly French-manicured fingertips, she rifled through the
assorted Benjamins and Jacksons she kept in her bedroom safe. Then
she placed her jewelry and the credit card in with her stash.
Desiree was paranoid about home invasions and robbery, so she never
kept valuables out in plain view. She punched in the security code
to her alarm system as she always did when she was in the house
alone. Then she took a Tylenol PM and went to sleep.

When she woke up, Desiree ordered
Chinese food and then checked her two-way pager for new messages.
There was one from K.G. telling her he loved her and missed her.
There was one from her manager telling her she'd scored the lead in
Bentley's music video. Jackpot! There was also one from her
sometimes friend, sometimes enemy Leilani telling her about a
private party. She dialed Leilani.

"What's up, girl! Where you been?" she
greeted.

"K.G. came into town for a minute, so
I kicked it with him last night. I was tired, so I just slept
today," Desiree explained.

"I heard you got the Bentley video.
Congratulations!" Leilani offered, cutting her off.

"How'd you hear?" Desiree asked her,
surprised.

"I'm working it. I just found out
today. One of the P.A.'s pulled out at the last minute."

Leilani and Desiree met a year before
on the set of a video. Leilani had once been a popular model and
parlayed her connections into several gigs behind the scenes. She
said she was going to be a director, but Desiree couldn't picture
it happening. She didn't know why anyone would stop being a model
to be a nobody, the lowest-paid person on the totem pole. P.A.'s
couldn't even make any decisions except for "Should I kiss the
right ass cheek or the left one first?" If Leilani was smart, she'd
use her looks to find a man to buy her a movie of her
own.

Leilani Hong Thomas was
definitely not a worker bee. She was spoiled and had never
really
had
to
work in her life because her parents had money. At twenty-six she
could have easily kept modeling because she looked very young.
Chinese-Jamaican, with creamy mocha skin, waist-length ebony hair,
and deep brown, almond-shaped eyes, Leilani was pure eye candy. But
she gave it all up, claiming it was time to move on. She said that
she wanted to be respected for her mind. As long as you had a nice
pair of tits, no man was going to even notice if you had a mind or
not, but Desiree never tried to convince her to keep modeling. She
was competition, and stiff competition at that.

"You're really trying to do that
directing shit, huh?" Desiree asked. She didn't know why anyone as
pretty as Leilani would want to work. All she had to do was find a
rich husband. It wouldn't be hard for her. It amazed Desiree that
some people who had it so easy always wanted to make things more
difficult than they needed to be.

"Yeah, girl. I can't shake
my ass forever. I didn't go to college for nothing."
Now, that's the problem with Leilani, Desiree
thought. She always has to go and say something slick, like she's
better than someone else.

"Yeah, but you tryin' to
shake your ass tonight, ain't you?" Desiree replied
sardonically.
Fuck all that bullshit
Leilani's spittin'. She ain't ready to stop chilling with the
celebrities. She's just trying to cover her motives.
Leilani was as big a gold digger as Desiree.
Bigger, if that was possible. But the difference between them was
that Leilani was always fronting like she wasn't.

"You know it! Bentley and them are
having a party at that new spot, Babylon. I got us on the list,"
Leilani said.

"Cool," Desiree said nonchalantly. She
didn't want to give Leilani the satisfaction of seeing her geeked
up about something. Leilani already thought she was the shit; she
didn't want her acting any worse. Plus, Desiree hated it when
Leilani was more in the loop than she was. It just made her go on
and on about how she was being taken seriously as an aspiring
director. Right! Like anyone really cared or was paying attention
to the way she delivered coffee! Desiree couldn't wait until her
career as a rapper took off so she could shut Leilani up, but for
the time being she would keep hanging with her and use her
connections to meet the right executives and go to the right
parties, just in case things with Bentley didn't go according to
plan. Desiree liked to be two steps ahead of the game.

"He's a cutie, isn't he?" Desiree
changed the subject before Leilani could start bragging about her
job.

"Who, Bentley? Yeah. I wouldn't mind
hooking up with him. Maybe I'll have a chance at the
video."

"Stand in line, girl," Desiree
remarked, thinking to herself that Leilani didn't have a shot in
hell. She was too little too late. Bentley had already made it
crystal clear that he was checking for her. Besides, Bentley was
more her speed. Leilani wouldn't know what to do with that. He was
too street for her.

"What are you wearing?" Desiree asked
as she walked with the cordless phone across her spacious bedroom
to her walk-in closet.

"I don't know. I'll call you when I'm
on the way, though. Around 11:30," Leilani said before hanging up
the phone.

Desiree smiled as she caught a glimpse
of herself in the full-length, trifold mirror in her dressing room.
Actually, it was just a space in the back of her walk-in, but
Desiree swore that when she made it big, her new diva crib would
have a dressing room just like all the Hollywood stars had. She
located the outfit she'd been saving for a night like tonight, a
night when she needed all eyes on her with no exceptions; the most
important set of eyes being Bentley's.

She plucked a garment bag off the
closet rack and sauntered over to her bed. Unzipping the bag, she
revealed a custom-made lightweight leather outfit with a cutout
pattern all over it. She'd seen a similar outfit on Beyonce Knowles
on MTV and had to have one. The breast-baring halter and
hip-hugging miniskirt were jeweled all over with Swarovski Austrian
crystals to accent the design of the cutout pattern. Her Prada
shoes set the outfit off just right. The getup had cost her nearly
a grand to make, but she considered it an investment. Besides,
someone had given her the money anyway. And in order to hook a big
fish, one has to use big bait, she reasoned.

"Fuck all those broke bitches that
have the nerve to call me a video ho," Desiree said, smirking at
her reflection. "They just mad cuz they can't afford wears like
this." Desiree stroked the butter-soft leather of her outfit and
knew she would be the baddest bitch in the house tonight. "They
know they'd have their asses all up in the videos if they
could."

Desiree was amazed at the amount of
backlash that she received from people about doing videos. People
were always saying things about how the model's images degraded and
objectified women, but Desiree thought they should lighten up. Men
had been degrading and objectifying women long before videos were
ever invented, and if videos were to suddenly disappear, she
doubted that would change. Anyway, it was just entertainment. Why
should she feel bad because men thought she was sexy and that her
face and her body in a video could help push record sales over the
top? If anything, she should feel bad for boosting someone else's
record sales before she boosted her own!

Desiree walked into the bathroom,
disrobed, and ran the water for a quick shower. She wanted to hit
up her bikini area and underarms with a razor. She hadn't had a wax
since she'd last been to the J Sisters in New York for their
celebrity favorite: the Brazilian bikini wax.

She shampooed her tawny,
bronze-streaked curls carefully, as to not disrupt her extensions.
She had gorgeous long hair, but wore pieces because she felt they
gave her hair that "perfect" look. Plus, she wasn't going to let a
whole bunch of different stylists fuck up her hair. They could do
whatever they wanted to her weave. After shampooing she applied a
conditioner and let it sit as she washed her body.

Desiree's body was awesome. It was her
moneymaker; she felt she owed everything to it. Her magnificent
breasts, although implants, were soft, with just enough jiggle. Her
surgeon was truly an artist, but she'd had a good canvas to work
with. Her skin was the color of butterscotch syrup and tasted just
as sweet, she had been told. She received biweekly facials and
massages to keep her complexion radiant and smooth.

Desiree's complexion was flawless,
thanks to her Dominican mother and mahogany-hued African American
father. Desiree was glad that even if her parents hadn't given her
much else, they'd at least given her their good looks.

Rinsing the soap from her body and the
conditioner from her hair, Desiree stepped carefully from the
shower and lightly toweled off with a fluffy Egyptian-cotton bath
sheet. Her smooth, tanned legs glistened as she spread sesame oil
all over her five-six frame. She admired her ass in the
mirror.

"Jennifer who?" She laughed, thinking
Ms. Lopez had nothing on her backside.

Her eyes shined fiery amber, with
flecks of green and gold. The MAC cosmetics she artfully applied
only accentuated her dazzling natural beauty.

Leilani arrived shortly after Desiree
had finished putting on the final touches, to smoke a blunt before
leaving for the club. Leilani might have been irritating, and
thought she was all that, but she always had the fire-ass buds,
directly from the mountains of Jamaica.

Leilani damn near shit her pants with
envy when she caught sight of the glittering and exotic Desiree.
The outfit was definitely an eye-catcher.

"Doesn't leave much to the
imagination, does it?" Leilani quipped, her soft voice faintly
tinged with a Jamaican accent, her roving eyes taking in and
critiquing every inch of Desiree.

Leilani looked cute in a supershort,
tailored white skirt suit with a matching white fedora and white
Manolo stilettos. The white of the suit made her skin look like
smooth milk chocolate. It was a sexy but classy look.