Beautiful Liars (9 page)

Authors: Kylie Adams

BOOK: Beautiful Liars

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Suddenly, the enormity of Kevon's achievements began to marvel her. Simone had no delusions about her own career. For years she had carved out semi-success on the fringe with B-level modeling assignments, the occasional commercial, and small speaking roles on crime dramas. Now she had a major part in a bigger thing with
The Beehive
, but most of the criticshad labeled her the weakest and most disposable of the four hosts.Yet Kevon Edmonds managed to climb his way to the top in virtually every arena.

“How did you get here?” Simone asked. Her tone was close to being awe-struck.

“How did I get
here
?” Kevon teased. “I told my man up there to drive. That's how.”

Simone smiled. “You know what I mean.”

Kevon drank deep, kicked back, spread his legs, and adjustedhimself. “Growing up, I used to go to the library and read about these Hollywood cats. You know, the old school motherfuckers who started in the mail room and ended up running the studio. I wanted to be that cat. Nobody's going to let niggas run Hollywood, but we can damn sure run the record business. So I took a page from those West Coast cats. I did street marketing for Death Row when I was still in high school. Stupid shit like tacking up fliers and posters for Snoop Dogg's first album. My philosophy was that I could learn a little something-something from every motherfucker I met. The executives taught me shit. The buttoned-up punk from accounting taught me shit. The receptionists taught me shit. Everybody. I soaked it all up for years until I could run my own motherfucking company. And here I am. Chilling on top.”

Simone felt her eyelids grow heavy. She had guzzled champagne on an empty stomach, and the impact was manifestingitself in a foggy, delicious fatigue. This idle limousine was so comfortable ... so quiet and safe. She just wanted to stretch out for a moment and listen to Kevon tell her more about his life. Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Why was she here exactly?

“Check it,” Kevon said, pointing to the sidewalk.

Simone glanced up to see Tommy Robb strutting away from the building, flanked by two bar trash sluts with stripper bodies and corner prostitute fashion sense.

Kevon gestured to his driver, a hulkish man with a bull neck. “I can have my boy fuck him up a little bit. Just say the word.”

Simone half-considered the offer. In all honesty, it was tempting.
Very
tempting. “Just get my cat back for me.”

“You got it, baby girl.” Kevon swung out and pimp walked his way into the megabucks high-rise as if he owned the whole block.

And that was the last thing Simone remembered before waking up the next morning at the Mercer Hotel. She was still in last night's clothes, and her head throbbed with the punishmentof Cristal's revenge. But sleeping down by her feet and purring like a small motor was her feline friend, safe and sound. Lovingly, Simone reached out to stroke her.

In response, Chanel stretched out lazily, purring louder.

Atop the pillow next to Simone was a small black Chanel box dressed up in white ribbon. Groggily, she opened the gift. It was a collar. Crushed black velvet with a Chanel logo glisteningin crystals. Perfectly sized for her beloved pet. She smiled.

Apparently, gangstas were the new gentlemen.Who knew?

THE IT PARADE

BY
J
INX
W
IATT

Fill in the Blanks

Lady chic or biker chick? A certain news diva obviously reeling from a recent birthday that sent her careeningpast the half-century mark is bypassing the classy St. John duds in favor of things from Leather Tuscadero's closet. Somebody must tell Miss Not-So-Young that the skull-and-crossbones look only serves as a reminder that she is indeed closer to the grave than the tight-bodiedtrendy tramps she's emulating.Oops, better be careful. Why? I just got booked on this tragic case's talk show to plug my new self-help manifesto,
Ex Marks The Spot: How to Know When You're Really Over Him
. If every woman who
needed
this bookâand I just mean the ones in Manhattanâactually bought a copy, I could retire for life!

Sutton

“Do you have any Pop-Tarts? Man, I'd love a fucking Pop-Tartright now. Either strawberry or grape. With the frosting and sprinkles on it. That'd be awesome.”

Sutton was just opening her eyes.

“This one's pretty cool,” Scooter said, zapping up the volumeon the flat screen with the remote control. “Peter makes a volcano that shoots mud all over Marcia's new friends.” He laughed.

Sutton experienced a burning sense of exposure. She had never even allowed Garrison to see her first thing in the morning.And he was considerably older.

Scooter glanced over with a sexy smile. “Do you want coffee or cock, sleepyhead? I don't want to make assumptions. Some people are set in a morning routine.” He turned his attentionback to TV Land and
The Brady Bunch
.

Sutton just lay there, mortified, wondering when this
boy
would realize that he had woken up with a wretched old hag on a Sunday morning.

“Man, this mattress is amazing. I could stay in bed all day. I sleep on a futon and usually wake up with a crick in my neck. How much does one of these cost?”

“Forty-five.”

“Forty-five hundred for a mattress?”

“Forty-five thousand.”

“Whoa.Too rich for me. Guess I'll just have to keep fuckingyou.”

“It's by Hastens. They're hand-crafted in Sweden.” Self-consciously,Sutton slid out of bed and carried the twisted top sheet with her, mummifying her body to cover almost every inch of flesh as she made her way to the privacy of the bathroom.

It took a moment of courage to face the mirror. When she did, the face that stared back was smudged with makeup but uncharacteristically vibrant and glowing. If this is what the best sex of your life could do for a fifty-year-old woman, then she wanted more of it. Lots more.

She splashed with cold water to remove the makeup streaks and rinsed with a strong mouthwash to freshen her breath. Last night Scooter had put her through quite a sexual workout.His staying power was relentless, and his creativity in the area of positions was intoxicating. In fact, the classic missionarymethod never even occurred to him. Sutton wondered if it was simply too traditional for such an inventive lover.

Feeling emboldened, she stepped back into the bedroom, still draped with the top sheet but now putting forth far less effort to cover every inch of skin.

Scooter remained captivated by
The Brady Bunch
. He had a thin blanket thrown casually across his waist. No matter, the imprint of his impressive cock and Prince Albert piercing was still visible.

Sutton smiled at him. “We don't have to watch children's shows.
Meet the Press
is on.”

“Is that some kind of game show?” Scooter asked.

“You've never heard of
Meet the Press
?” She tried to controlthe incredulity in her tone. She failed.

Unashamed, Scooter shook his head. “My test for everythingis whether or not they've made a Xbox game out of it. If the answer's no, it's probably lame shit.”

Sutton took a few provocative steps toward him. Oh, to be young, dumb, and working in the service industry. How gloriously simple life must be. “Okay ... back to your questionfrom earlier.”

He grinned. “About whether you want cock or coffee?”

Sutton nodded. “You should know that I don't drink caffeineon the weekends.” Then she dropped the sheet to the floor, fully exposing herself. And damn proud to do it.

“I'm still craving a Pop-Tart,” Scooter said almost an hour later.

Sutton was deliriously satisfied, exhausted, and ready to go back to sleep. “I don't have any Pop-Tarts,” she managed in a breathless, dreamy voice. “I might have some bran-fortified cereal.”

Scooter laughed, slapping her bare bottom with the palm of his hand.

Sutton squealed in response.

“I could get used to this.”

She rolled onto her back and immediately cursed herself for procrastinating about the breast lift procedure. In a sudden show of modesty, she covered herself. “Used to what?”

“This mattress ... this big apartment ... cable TV ... fuckingyou whenever I want.” One beat. “But not necessarily in that order.” He threaded his hand through hers, brought it to his lips, and began to suck on her fingers.

Sutton moaned softly in response. “What do you want? Drawer space and your own key?”

Scooter halted. “Maybe. Is that so wrong?”

Sutton reclaimed her hand abruptly.

“I'm kidding,” Scooter assured her. “Don't get uptight on me. Up until now, you've been full of hell.”

She tried to relax.

“Besides, it's no big deal. I can go back to that roach-infestedcloset I share with a meth addict.”

“We all have our battles,” Sutton whispered.

Scooter chortled and stretched out, cradling the back of his head with his hands. Not one for modesty, he just lay thereânaked, tattooed, and pierced.

She reached out to finger the silver barbell adorning the equipment that had brought her such exquisite pleasure. “How much did that hurt?”

“Not as much as you'd think. Do you want your clit done? Because I know a guy.”

The mere thought caused Sutton to physically recoil.

Scooter laughed. “I was drunk when I did. My girlfriend was supposed to get her clit pierced at the same time. I went first. She tossed her cookies
and
chickened out. The whole thing was her idea, too.We broke up before it even healed.”

Sutton could not stop staring. “It's fascinating.”

Scooter grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “You're fascinated with my cock? That's not such a bad thing.” He laughed again. “Whenever I hook up with a girl, we usually spend a lot of time talking about my dick. If every man knew that, they'd all be walking around with a Prince Albert.” He winked at her. “So how did you get so rich?”

“I'm not rich,” Sutton protested lightly. “Not at all. At least not by any New York standard.”

Scooter zeroed in on her with a give-me-a-break look. “You sleep on a mattress that costs forty-five grand.”

“I've done well for myself. I can indulge now and then. But I'm not rich.”

“Well, shit, what's middle class to youâthe homeless?”

“Let's not talk about money.”

“Why? Are you afraid that I might ask you for some?”

“No,” Sutton replied. “It's just an awkward subject. Some people find it uncomfortable.”

“Talking about money doesn't make me uncomfortable,” Scooter countered. “Why should it? I don't have any.” His tone seemed to indicate that this was an honorable thing.

“Is that by choice?”

“
By choice?
” He rose up on his elbows as he threw back the words.

Sutton stared at him defiantly, braced for an argument and not willing to back down. “You call yourself Scooter and serve up beer for a living.Were you under the impression that you'd make the same salary as a stockbroker doing that?”

“You make me sound like some loser working the beer booth at a fair. I'm a bartender.”

“Well, unless you
own
the bar you're tending, I don't think you'll ever be happy with the pay grade.”

“Man, you're some kind of snobby bitch. What do
you
do for a living?”

“I'm in television. For years I was a broadcast news journalist,and just reâ”

“Never heard of you.”

“I think that says more about your general awareness of things than my career profile.You've never heard of
Meet the Press
, either.”

“Well, shit, I'm poor and working a dead-end job. Why not label me a dumb ass, too?”

“That's your self-assessment, not mine.”

“You know, you're much more fun when you have a cock stuffed in one of your holes.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” Sutton snapped back.

Scooter jumped out of bed and began retrieving his scatteredclothes from the floor. “I guess I should take off. I've done my part volunteering for the elderly.”

“You bastard!” Sutton screamed. In the heat of her instant outrage, she grabbed a crystal diamond-shaped paperweight from the nightstand and hurled the heavy object at Scooter. It hit the corner of his forehead, mere millimeters from his eye.

“Jesus Christ! You crazy bitch!”

Sutton, still fuming and not even a little bit sorry for the random act of violence, glared daggers at him. The fucker was only bleeding. For hurling those words, she wanted him dead.

Scooter winced in pain. He touched the wound, then checked his fingertips, which were now dripping blood, too. “Shit!” He looked at her with a mixture of confusion and fear. “What the fuck?”

“Lesson number one, asshole. Never toss out shots about a lady's age.”

“It was a joke!”

“But not funny. Obviously.”

Scooter shook his head, as if shell-shocked. “Yeah, obviously.”

Sutton felt a fleeting moment of regret. It passed. And then just as quickly, it returned. She sighed. “Do you need medical attention?”

Scooter reached down on the floor for his crumpled underwear,then used it to blot dry the injury. “I'll be all right. I don't have insurance anyway.”

“Of course not.” She draped a blanket around her like a bath towel and crawled out of bed to inspect the damage herself. It was a nasty gash. Stitches would make it pretty again. Forgoing them would make him look Steve McQueen tough. “You'll live.”

Scooter rolled his eyes. “Look, everybody, it's Florence Nightingale.”

She cracked a smile. “A historical reference that predates Britney Spears? I'm impressed.”

Scooter managed a crooked smile. “I didn't really mean what I said. I was just talking shit. I had fun last night. This morning, too.You're a great fuck.”

Sutton kissed him full on the lips. “Now that's what a woman likes to hear.”

“See, I'm not so dumb.”

She took another glance at the wound and began to worry. “You probably need to get that checked.”

Scooter strutted into the bathroom to see for himself. He returned with a diffident shrug. “I'll be fine. It's not worth half a day waiting in the emergency room.”

Suddenly, Sutton felt an inexplicable urge to baby him. “Are you sure? It's really an ugly cut.”

“I'm tough. I watched as they stuck a needle through my dick. And I never flinched once.”

Sutton took possession of the bloody underwear in his hand and gently wiped the wound. Now that the bleeding had stopped, it looked less severe.

“What happened here exactly?” Scooter asked. “I've heard of road rage. Was that ... I don't know ... age rage?”

“Something like that.” With exaggerated shame, Sutton bit down on her lower lip. But then she narrowed her eyes. “It was a really mean thing to say, though. You're lucky I don't keep a gun in the nightstand drawer.”

“Yeah, lucky me,” Scooter deadpanned.

“Even so, I want to do something to make it up to you.”

He shook his head. “Forget about it.”

“No, I insist.” An idea came to mind. “We could go shopping.”

Scooter's eyebrows shot up. “For a mattress?”

“For something that fits inside a gift bag,” Sutton countered.