Bling Addiction (6 page)

She pushed onward to her new locker, then stopped suddenly, letting out an audible gasp. Scrawled in ugly blood-red lipstick across her dressing mirror were the words “STAR CUNT.”

“Congratulations,
Star Baby,”
Hellcat trilled, her raspy smoker’s voice dripping with venom. “Is something the matter? Did I spell your name wrong?” She laughed at her own joke.

A chorus of other girls joined in, relishing the vicious fun at Pippa’s expense.

“What’s going on here?” Vinnie demanded.

Pippa spun quickly, startled by his sudden presence in the locker room.

Sizing up the situation, he took in the defaced mirror and glared at Hellcat. “You have time for bullshit like this? No wonder your earnings are off this week.”

Hellcat betrayed no reaction.

Vinnie gave the hardcore dancer a relentless face-to-face stare, until his gaze traveled down to zero in on her crotch. “When’s the last time you had a decent wax?”

A few girls burst into titters.

Before Hellcat could answer the question, Vinnie said, “I think I’ve got a rake in the back of my truck if you need to smooth that out before you go onstage.”

The titters upgraded to uncontrollable guffaws.

Hellcat’s face went red hot with the fire of humiliation.

Vinnie turned to Pippa. “You’ve got a VIP waiting upstairs. Take real good care of him. I know you’ve got what it takes.” He gave her an avuncular pat on the ass and started to leave. Abruptly, he stopped to issue Hellcat another withering look. “Clean that crap off the mirror. And get this through that slit you call a brain—
nobody
messes with Star Baby. She’s the new golden pussy around here. Learn to live with that. Or get the fuck out.” His voice rose to address the entire locker room. “The same goes for all of you bitches!” And then Vinnie stormed out, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.

Pippa shut her eyes. Backstage life at Cheetah had been hard enough. It was about to get that much harder. She tried to shake off the anxiety with a series of slow, deep breaths as she applied fresh gloss to her lips, fluffed out her hair, and changed into a lace-trimmed seersucker bra and panties set by Prada.

Feeling her energy level dip, she popped open a lukewarm can of Red Bull and chased it down faster than a sorority girl funneling beer at a tailgate party. She had to dazzle the VIP and seduce him into ordering a jeroboam of Piper-Heidsieck Cuveé Brut champagne. She had to read three chapters of Harper Lee’s
To Kill a Mockingbird
for English class. And she had to avoid that menace to pole-dancing society who called herself Hellcat.

Welcome to high school life, Pippa Keith style.

And the deepest, darkest truth—she hated it, this new life. The lies to her mother, the lies to her friends, the hungry stares from the disgusting men, the vicious looks from the other girls—day in and day out, the grind was beginning to take its toll.

Pippa slipped off her Christian Louboutins and eased into an equally expensive pair of peep-toe wedges by Chanel. She was just adjusting the last strap when someone slammed into her shoulder.

The force sent Pippa stumbling, knocking her against a chair and down to the ground. At the last possible moment, she splayed out her hands just wide and high enough to break the fall and avoid damaging a nail.

Hellcat towered over her, pulling the trigger on a red stiletto switchblade, then quickly folded the business end back to its original closed position. “Careful, Star Cunt. I’d hate for a clumsy girl like you to fall on something sharp one day.”

For a moment, Pippa lay there, paralyzed, unable to take her eyes off the huge python tattoo slithering on Hellcat’s back flesh as the tough-as-nails bitch walked away.

Nobody made a move to help Pippa to her feet. She scrambled up on her own, put herself back together, and stalked out. It was a brave front that belied the chill-inducing terror she felt inside.

Ascending the flight of stairs that led up to the Lair, Pippa came to the frightening realization that Vinnie could only protect her so much. Maybe the time had come to quit. Granted, the money was fantastic, but being alive was far more precious. If Vanity St. John’s car accident had taught Pippa any lesson over the last two months, then it was that.

Even now, the group, the once fabulous five, was still adjusting to life without her. Vanity’s absence had significant and far-reaching influence. Her role had been like that of the sun, a giant, glowing star for other planets to orbit around.

Everything was changing. Every
one
was changing. Or maybe just Pippa was. Vinnie scheduled her to dance on most nights, which meant there was little time to hang out with Max, Dante, and Christina. She missed it—the dinners, the club outings, the late-night talks before sleep. But whenever she made noises about cutting back, Vinnie made noises about a VIP that would make every night at Cheetah worthwhile. She wondered if tonight’s client might finally live up to the hype.

With each step, the door to the Lair loomed closer and closer. Private time with VIPs could be quite the tightwire act. Sometimes they expected more than Pippa was willing to do. But no matter how much they offered to pay, she felt no temptation to accommodate them. The distance from stripper to whore was a short one, and Pippa vowed never to make that trip.

Besides, Vinnie cautioned her that the day she went too far with a customer was the day she would have to start working harder for the money. Being unattainable kept the men coming back again and again. Often, Pippa could command more than one hundred dollars a song and not even touch a guy. It was amazing how much mileage she could get out of breathing in a man’s ear. That alone could kill most of them. Oh, yes. Some sweet wind to the lobe always got them by the short and curlies!

Of course, VIPs could also be total spazmos. Like the CEO who paid big bucks for Pippa to listen to a stroke-by-stroke account of his latest golf game. Or the local news anchor who wanted to brush her hair while she read aloud from the Henry James novel
The Portrait of a Lady.
Very weird. But such easy cash that Pippa felt like she was robbing the silly blokes.

Quietly, she opened the door to the Lair and slipped inside. Percolating on a Bose iPod SoundDock was “One of These Nights” by the Eagles. The room was small, boldly decorated with red walls, zebra-print carpet, an oversize leopard-print sofa, and a rectangular, white-lacquered coffee table, atop which sat a silver champagne bucket icing down an unopened bottle of Cristal. Hmm. He was already a big bar spender. This interlude should pay out big.

The unidentified VIP, shadowed by the dim lighting from the Noguchi paper lanterns, sat kicked back on the sofa. “I’ve been waiting for this moment, Star Baby,” he said in a rich baritone voice that exuded wealth, charisma, confidence, and sex appeal. “I’ve had you on my radar for weeks.”

Pippa stepped forward. The shadows cleared. What she saw next knocked the breath from her body. Sitting there with a rakish grin on his handsome face was Max Biaggi.

Superstar.

Action hero.

Movie legend.

And father of her best mate.

C
hristina toyed with the edamame and managed to get down most of the carrot-and-dill soup. MACPA lunches had gone the haute cuisine route, and the food was delicious. But she just wasn’t that hungry.

A parent committee led by a cookbook editor and the wife of a Miami restaurant baron had started a nutritional movement that resulted in a new slate of cosmopolitan and healthy gourmet selections. For a salad, there was no longer a ranch dressing option. Tomato vinaigrette ruled the day.

Max wolfed down his cilantro-and-jalapeno–marinated tofu. “Some days I miss the old crap,” he said. “I mean, Jesus, we’re seventeen. Aren’t we
supposed
to survive on greasy pizza, Mountain Dew, and hot dogs that bounce like rubber?”

Christina cracked a smile. “Haven’t you heard? We want the kind of food that will go with our Louis Vuitton bags.”

Max shook his head. “Bling addiction is everywhere. It’s like a disease.”

Christina laughed. “Says the guy with a Rolex Submariner strapped to his wrist. What’s wrong? Can’t you tell time with a Casio digital?”

“I’m not talking about me. I’ve got an image to maintain. I’m supposed to have this shit. My father’s a movie star, remember? Anything less is disrespecting the family brand. I can’t walk around looking like a Wal-Mart cart.”

“So it’s just
other
people who have a bling addiction,” Christina surmised, her voice teasing. “Your fashion choices are…practical.”

“Exactly,”
Max agreed, picking up on her sarcasm but choosing to ignore it. “I heard about a guy who maxed out a credit card just so he could have the same outfit Kanye West wore to the MTV VMAs. The dude makes minimum wage at a
Smoothie King.
It’s sick. And girls are just as bad, if not worse. But they don’t have to mash carob and bananas into a blender for some fat ass. If they want a new purse and can’t afford one, all they have to do is blow a couple of guys. Abracadabra—instant Prada. I’m telling you. It’s a sick world out there.”

“Believe me, I know how sick it is,” Christina said, her thoughts fast-forwarding to tonight’s newscasts and tomorrow’s morning paper.

What was the old journalism axiom? Oh, yes. If it bleeds, it leads. Well, Christina had coined another one: If it hates, it rates.

Paulina Perez had become a polarizing yet high-profile media opportunist with her quest to shut down every school-sponsored gay/straight student alliance in Miami.

Christina tried to stay lost in her own world, to pretend that none of it was happening. But how could she ignore her own mother shrieking on television about teenagers being brainwashed by a liberal society into living a “depraved homosexual lifestyle.”

Beyond the endless embarrassment, Christina’s biggest problem with the campaign was that, politically at least, it happened to be working in her mother’s favor. This early-bird strategy to get a head start on next year’s Senate seat race actually had her
leading
in the current polls, an achievement in no small measure owed to the support of African-American and Hispanic voters.

It amazed Christina how these groups could be manipulated into choosing candidates based on moral issue crusades that didn’t impact their daily lives. What about health care, job growth, and the environment? Christina didn’t even know her mother’s position on those topics. But one thing was certain. Paulina didn’t think that Mike and Steve should be allowed to go to their high school prom as a couple. Now there’s a platform. Cast those ballots and send the woman to Washington. God! The voting public didn’t have a clue. Christina wasn’t even eligible yet, and she could see through the bullshit. So why were people thirty and older so absolutely stupid?

“If I didn’t know any better, Jap, I’d say you were sounding a bit cynical,” Max observed, grinning as he finished off a liter-size bottle of Evian. He knew how much that nickname—an offensive nod to her love of
manga
—got on her nerves. “I thought you were the sensitive artist type who wanted to save the whales, the trees, and all the poor children.”

“Maybe I’m becoming wise to the world,” Christina told him.

“Don’t do that,” Max said. “I like the girl who can’t stay out past eleven and always has her face buried in a comic book or a sketch pad. It’s about the only thing around here that’s still normal.” A forlorn expression skated across his face.

Lately it had just been the two of them during lunch, sprawled out in the third-floor hallway, their backs propped against the blue lockers as they sampled the exotic new menu.

Vanity had been out of their lives since the summer, Dante never seemed to leave MACPA’s new recording studio, and Pippa was always busy with rehearsals for her lead performance in the school’s winter production of
Sweet Charity.

Christina could hardly bring herself to think about Vanity without getting emotional. Even two months after the accident. It still seemed like yesterday. Yet it seemed like a lifetime ago, too. She sought solace in the creation of her own
manga
,
Harmony Girl,
whose title character was based on Vanity. At once, the creative outlet helped Christina celebrate and reconcile her feelings.

It was strange, though. Everything in the real world drove home the point that any dream she harbored for a romance with Vanity would never happen. Yet working on the fantasy comic itself made her fall in love with the girl as if for the very first time.

“Are you up for poker tonight?” Max asked.

“What’s the buy-in?”

He grinned. “Only two grand.”

“Is that all?” Dante asked, swooping down with a double-size Rockstar Energy Cola. “Sounds like a bingo game, bitch.”

“Dude!” Max exclaimed, obviously surprised to see him. “Does that mean you’re in?”

“What’s the status of my Biaggi house account?” Dante asked.

“Nonexistent,” Max cracked.

“Then I’m out,” Dante said.

Max turned to Christina. “What about you, Jap?”

“Two thousand dollars?
What am I supposed to do—raid my mother’s campaign coffers?”

Max laughed. “That’s not a bad idea. You’d certainly be putting the money to better use. Even if you lost it all in the first hand.”

Christina smiled. “Well, you’re probably right, but count me out anyway. Why so high?”

“Some frats from the University of Miami want to play like they’ve got big dicks and fat wallets.” Max shrugged. “But I’ll castrate the losers and make them learn the hard way that they don’t have point money. Just another Monday night on Star Island.”

“What’s point money?” Christina asked.

“As in fifty-one-point-two.” One beat. “Mil.” Another beat. “That’s the amount in my trust fund.”

“Notice he’s not talking about the size of his dick,” Dante teased.

Christina rolled her eyes. “Only because that was
yesterday’s
lunch topic.”

Dante laughed.

“I’ll be happy to recap since you’re present and accounted for today,” Max said, smirking. “I know what a size queen you are.”

“And how would you know that exactly?” Pippa wondered out loud as she approached her locker.

Dante stood up. “He thinks I’m gay because I like Coldplay.”

Pippa giggled, then bent down to snatch one of Christina’s edamame.

“It’s a sign, dude,” Max said. “That’s all I’m saying. Okay, last chance. Does anybody want in on this game tonight?”

“What game?” Pippa asked.

Max proudly rattled off the details. “Poker. The Biaggi basement. Two-thousand-dollar minimum.”

“Do you know boys who actually bet that much, or is this just an excuse for you to sit around and play with your skin flutes?” Pippa flashed a smile, then disappeared as she rushed down the hall.

“I think I’ve been insulted,” Max murmured.

“Can’t keep anything from you,” Dante cracked, giving Max a patronizing pat on the shoulder as he walked away.

Max rose up on his haunches and slung his beaten-but-still-beautiful Tod’s backpack over his shoulder. “Okay, Jap, I hate to leave you sitting here all alone like the loser you used to be, but I really must go.” He worked his brow up and down in a lewd manner.
“Judith
wants to talk to me about college.”

“Judith as in Judith Dalton, the school counselor?”

Max stood to his full height. “We’re on a first-name basis now. She wants me. But I’m holding out on the sex until just before she writes my letter of rec. I want her to still be panting from a Maxgasm for that assignment.”

Christina laughed. “She’s married!”

“Have you seen her husband?” Max asked. “He wears one of those yellow silicone LIVESTRONG bracelets. And he drives a hybrid. Major tool.”

“You’re so wrong!” Christina yelled with amusement as Max took off. She was picking at what remained of her edamame when someone approached her.

“Excuse me, I’m new here, and I obviously don’t get it. What’s up with everybody eating in the hall?”

Christina looked up to see a short, edgy Asian girl. She was seriously punked out—hot pink hair, brow, nose, and tongue piercings, and raccoon-style eye makeup. In her flashy yellow Donna tank by Betsey Johnson, plaid mini, fishnet hose riddled with holes, rips, and runs, and military-style boots, she looked camera ready to lead an anti-anything revolution.

“They’re using the cafeteria as an extra rehearsal space for a big show,” Christina explained. “It’s only temporary.” She smiled kindly.

The girl took a ravenous bite out of her Greek stuffed grape leaf wrap. Some of the rice filling spilled onto the floor. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care because she just left it there. “Do you mind if I sit?” She gestured to the same spot Max had just vacated.

Christina nodded. “Go ahead.”

The girl crashed down. “So what are the kids like at this school? Do they suck, or are most of them okay?”

Christina was taken aback by her aggression. “It varies, I guess.”

With her slight frame, the girl looked too young to be in high school and too small for most of the rides at Disney World. “I just moved from San Francisco. I hope there are some hot dykes here.”

Christina was speechless.

“Chill out. I’m not hitting on you. If I was, you’d know it because I’d have my tongue down your throat.” She laughed a throaty laugh. “I’m Keiko. Keiko Nakamura.”

“Christina Perez.” Beads of sweat prickled under her arms, her cheeks went hot, and she found herself struggling for breath. Something about the girl left Christina feeling vulnerable and exposed, as if Keiko had the power to take one good look at her and instantly discover her secret.

“Perez,”
Keiko repeated thoughtfully. “Are you related to that psycho bitch who’s running for senator?”

“Guilty by birth,” Christina admitted.

“For real?” Keiko demanded, not quite believing her.

Christina nodded severely.

“You know that you’re going to be in therapy for years and years, right?”

“Oh, I think I’ll be institutionalized first,” Christina cracked.

Keiko laughed again. She threw back her head and let the severe geometry of her choppy hairstyle fly this way and that. “So what’s her deal? Was your dad, like, a closet fag or something? Is that why she has a broomstick up her ass about gays?”

“My father died in a car accident,” Christina snapped. “And he wasn’t gay.”

“Sorry,”
Keiko answered. “I didn’t mean anything.” But it was more of a scolding for Christina’s sharp reaction than an actual apology.

A strained silence hung between them.

Finally, Keiko broke it. “Your mom would freak if she knew what we did at my old school.”

Christina looked at her with guarded interest.

“You know how it’s usually against the rules to make out in school, but guys and girls do it anyway with no problem?”

Christina nodded.

“Well, one day I was kissing my girlfriend at her locker, and we got suspended for that. So we staged a kiss-off on the front lawn. Every queer and dyke in the school left their classes and marched out there to kiss. They put pictures in the newspaper and everything. We even got on television. It was awesome.”

Christina just sat there, mesmerized, and more than a little envious. Keiko seemed to be living with such freedom about who she was—openly and unapologetically.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Christina drew back, thunderstruck by the question. It was the first time anyone had ever asked or assumed anything about her sexuality. The answer rolling around in her mind was no, but the words that came spilling out of her mouth were, “How did you know?”

Keiko grinned. “I can just tell. Take me to the baby wing at a hospital. I’ll point out every newborn gay boy and girl and won’t be wrong about any of them.”

Christina experienced a strange sensation. She took a soul-searching moment to identify the feeling. It was relief. For the first time in her life, she had been completely honest with another person. And instead of being afraid, she felt emboldened.