Cruel Summer (5 page)

“But we’re just about to eat,” Christina pleaded.

“I don’t care,” Paulina snapped. “If you don’t come home this instant, you’ll lose car privileges for the rest of the month.”
Click.

Christina felt the fire of humiliation burn once again—first the crack about her flat chest, now the party-killing intervention of her overprotective mother. Wow. Awesome night out. “I have to go,” she grumbled miserably.

Max pulled a face. “Shit, JAP, we were just getting things started.”

“I know, but my mom is already threatening terrible things, so…”

“You shouldn’t have picked up,” Max told her.

“I can’t believe she’s making you go home,” Pippa put in. “What a bitch!”

Christina didn’t appreciate the fact that Pippa could so casually call her mother a bitch, especially since she’d never met her.

“Call her back and let me talk to her,” Max said. “I’m good with parents.” He grinned. “Parents love me.”

Pippa gave him a strange look. “You’re all about a quick shag. Why would parents love you?”

Max hesitated, his lips curled in amusement. “They don’t
stay
in love with me. They love me
before
the hit and run.” Suddenly, Max grabbed Christina’s Sidekick and proceeded to redial the number to the last incoming call.

Christina reached out to snatch it back, but Max twisted beyond her reach, beaming a mischievous smile.

“Yes, Mrs. Perez, this is Max Biaggi Jr. I’m a friend of Christina’s. How are you tonight?”

Pippa giggled.

Christina buried her face in her hands. This would only make things worse. She just
knew
it.

“I’ve been keeping up with your precampaign activities,” Max went on. “You know, my father would really appreciate your stand on the issues. A lot of people don’t know this, but he’s very conservative…oh, yes, very much so…he only stays closeted to keep those Hollywood liberals happy…I’ll nudge him to consider a contribution…no, I’m happy to do it…of course, the real reason for my call is to convince you to let Christina stay with us at least through dinner…okay, I’ll tell her.” Suddenly, he returned the phone, an odd expression on his face.

Christina put it back in her purse. “What did she say?”

“To stop blowing smoke up her ass and to tell you to drive carefully,” Max said.

Pippa howled. “That’s one mum who
didn’t
love you at the first hello.”

“Oh, well,” Max said easily. “More kissing rolls for us, I guess.” And then, using his chopsticks, he proceeded to feed Pippa sushi.

Christina rose up to leave.

“This sucks!” Pippa announced, her mouth full. “Why won’t she let you stay?”

Max gave Christina a pained look. “I tried, JAP. But your mom’s tough. I’ll crack her, though. Just wait. Next time I’ll bring my A game, and she won’t know what hit her.”

Christina waved good-bye as Max and Pippa continued feeding each other. And she wasn’t even out of the restaurant when her Sidekick jangled again. Of course, it was her mother. Who else? Sighing heavily, Christina picked up. “I’m leaving, Mom. I’m walking out the door as we speak.”

“Drive carefully,” Paulina said. “I wanted to tell you that myself. Love you.”

“Me, too,” Christina whispered. And then she signed off, feeling her spirits sink to an epic low as she realized how happier she would be right now if Max had never called tonight, if she’d just stayed at home and read
Marmalade Boy.

V
anity was practically stoned, yet the fatty had never so much as touched her lips. That’s how strong the weed was.

J.J. took another hit and stretched out on the bed. He was shirtless, his cargo shorts were hanging off his narrow hip bones, and he didn’t seem to have a care in the world. A total anxiety-free high.

“This is the best shit I’ve ever smoked,” J.J. raved. “It’s a strain from the Northeast. They call it Strawberry Cough. Man, it’s freaking awesome. Sure you don’t want a hit?”

Vanity shook her head. Once upon a time, she’d tried marijuana, and the stuff had made her paranoid as hell. Forget street drugs. She was a liquor and pills girl.

So here they were at the Surfcomber. In a
regular
room with two double beds. J.J. didn’t have enough pull to get upgraded to a suite. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Spending five hundred dollars an ounce on reefer was probably more important than anything else.

The night had been uneventful. As Mimi predicted, the Fresh Faces in Fashion event deserved no more than a ten-minute drive-by, but J.J. had talked Vanity into staying for much longer. Oh, God, Mimi would be so pissed off.

But after enough tequila shots, Vanity didn’t care. Screw Katee K’s CD launch party. Why should Vanity go out of her way to show up for that little Disney bitch? And screw Pippa. As if Vanity’s idea of shopping was watching the British moocher return clothes she’d already worn. That was just gross. Screw Max, too. The only thing he cared about was his stupid poker games. Like Vanity wanted to sit around playing cards all night.

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe how gorgeous you are,” J.J. mumbled, pulling her toward him with a lazy arm.

She fell into his embrace, accepting his open-mouth kiss, tentatively at first, then all the way. A fresh strawberry flavor from the premium weed clung to his lips and tongue. Vanity found it exquisitely sweet.

“I could make out with you for hours,” J.J. whispered. “You smell so good…you taste so good.”

The kiss went on and on, never getting too hot as they lulled themselves into a delicious rhythm. It was warm, wet, and wonderful, and so relaxing that Vanity didn’t even flinch when J.J.’s slow-moving fingers unfastened the buttons of her People’s Liberation denim and scooted down the jeans to expose her thong underwear.

As his hands cupped her ass, his mouth feasted on hers with decidedly more aggression. Suddenly, Vanity felt the sting of a playful slap on her right butt cheek. Shocked, she glanced up at him.

J.J.’s eyes were gleaming naughtily despite their glazed-over look. “Who’s your daddy?” he asked thickly. But before she could answer, he popped the left side, too.

For some unknown reason, Vanity started to laugh. Maybe it was the tequila damage, the secondhand high of the Strawberry Cough, or her determination to forget—at least for tonight—that Dante Medina even existed at all. So what if J.J. was a stoner model with limited posing prospects. He was hot, he was too dumb to be anything but straight, and he knew how to make a girl’s body tingle. By that measure, he was Orlando Bloom right now.

“Strip for me,” J.J. demanded brattily, cradling his hands behind his head and kicking back as if ready to enjoy a show. “Come on. Stand right there and strip for me.”

With her jeans already halfway down, Vanity rose up awkwardly. She giggled. “I’m almost naked as it is.”

“You need music?” J.J. asked. “I’ll give you music.” And then he turned into a human beat box and proceeded to serenade her with his woefully bad version of 50 Cent’s “Just a Lil Bit.”

Instantly, Vanity started to laugh again.

“I wanna unbutton your pants/Just a lil bit/Take ’em off and pull ’em down/A lil bit/Get to kissin’ and touchin’/A lil bit…”

“
Please
stop. There’s nothing worse than a white boy from Iowa trying to rap,” Vanity managed to say.

“Come on, baby. Don’t be a tease. Strip for me,” J.J. said.

Defiantly, Vanity stepped out of her jeans and just stood there, revealing nothing more. “Why don’t
you
strip for
me?
”

Without a moment’s hesitation, J.J. unsnapped his cargo shorts, pulled them off, and flung them across the tiny room, giving her a full-frontal show in all of his aroused glory. “Done. Your turn.”

The stakes were rising.

Vanity slipped off her Dolce & Gabbana lace camisole, let it slink to the floor, and peeled off the nude-colored dimmers that covered her nipples and allowed her to go braless in skimpy tops.

J.J.’s eyes burned up and down her body like heat-seeking lasers. “Turn around.”

After a deep breath, she obeyed. It was strange—this notion of her own sexuality, the way it could make her feel so demoralized and empowered at the same time. Guys wanted her. And she could usually make them do almost anything to get her. But rarely were those things what she really needed from them.

“Stand right there…and take off your thong,” J.J. ordered.

The question hit her now, like it always did at these crucial moments, when she was on the precipice of giving it up to someone undeserving: Who am I supposed to be?

And once again, Vanity didn’t have the answer. Here, in this hotel room, at this after-midnight hour, with this selfish, horny guy, she was drawing a complete blank. Well, thank God for that. This set of circumstances was hardly the best scenario in which to address the sixty-thousand-dollar question anyway.

Slowly, she peeled off her underwear. Part of her wanted to flee, but, as was always the case with girls who partied too much, there was enough tequila and secondhand pot smoke in her system to stick around. What the hell? Even though Vanity felt miserable, she knew that she could at least make J.J. happy tonight. And, given the chance, shouldn’t somebody in this room be?

Dante laughed so hard that his body convulsed as he scooped the winnings over to his side of the poker table. Was it the two hundred bucks he’d just scored from Hollywood kid Max Biaggi Jr. that he found so damn funny? Or was it the steady stream of Bikini Wax drinks going down faster than Gatorade after a punishing workout? Shit, he was close to wasted. And fast on his way to total oblivion.

Well, if Max thought serving up the one-part vanilla vodka, one-part coconut rum, and one-part pineapple juice concoctions would impact Dante’s concentration on the cards, then he definitely knew better by now. It seemed like the more drunk Dante got, the better he played.

A less-disciplined guy would instantly take that logic and start down the road to becoming a gambling alcoholic. But Dante Medina had the discipline of a marine. How else could you explain the fact that he actually stopped himself from hooking up with Vanity St. John? That required the willpower of a monk.

“How’d you do that?” Max demanded. There was a hint of accusation in his tone. His bleary eyes were practically slits.

Pippa sat there waiting for the answer, too, her eyes occasionally rolling to the back of her head. The girl was hammered beyond belief. For every one Bikini Wax that had Dante blitzed, Pippa had probably chased down two.

Dante just laughed at Max. The guy was a sore loser and a bad sport. “Get over it, man. So I cleaned you out. Big deal. I’m sure Daddy will pay off your credit card if you need a cash advance.”

The more Max drank, the more pissed off he seemed to get. And he was drinking
a lot.
“For a dude who just learned this game tonight, you caught on pretty fast.”

Dante matched Max glare for glare. “What can I say, man? Beginner’s luck.”

“Luck, my ass,” Max said hotly.

“Sheer talent then,” Dante countered. And then he pocketed the cash and pushed his chair away from the table.

“Make sure you take that money home to your mother,” Max snarled. “Who knows? She might take a pay cut this week.”

Dante reacted on pure protective instinct. He lunged across the table, grabbed Max’s shirt with both hands, and pulled the rich brat toward him until that smart-ass mouth was mere millimeters from his own.

“Get the hell off me, man!” Max cried, trying violently to twist away. But Dante’s grip was too strong.

“Cut my mother’s salary, and you’ll go to the plastic surgeon just like your baby sister. Only it won’t be for new tits. It’ll be for a new face.” And then Dante shook Max loose and watched him fall back into his chair. “Punk ass.”

Pippa giggled. “Boys…boys…boys,” she mock scolded, slurring her words. “Just whip them out, and I’ll decide which one’s bigger.” And then she started to laugh uncontrollably at her own joke, so much so that she lost her balance and fell onto the floor.

Nobody bothered to help her get up. The girl was gone. Passed out. Completely shit-faced.

Max’s cheeks were burning fire engine red. Too much alcohol and too much humiliation could do that to a guy. “What’s your problem, man? Can’t you take a joke?”

“Not about my mother,” Dante shot back. “That kind of shit will get your ass kicked.”

Max glared at him, as if assessing Dante physically and trying to determine what kind of match-up it would be if this came down to an actual fight. The answer seemed to make him laugh. In fact, he cackled so hard that he doubled over. “You could
so
kick my ass, man. It’s not even funny.”

Feeling his rage subside, Dante looked at Max like he was insane. “Then why are you laughing?”

“Because…it’s freaking…
hilarious,
” Max managed to sputter out as he struggled to his feet, stumbled over, and hooked an arm over Dante’s shoulder. “Hey,” he whispered confidentially, “sometimes I’m a shit dick when I drink.” He put an unsteady finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anybody, okay?”

Dante grinned. “You’re gone, man.” He raised three fingers. “How many am I holding up?”

Max made a show out of zeroing in on Dante’s hand. “Uh, I don’t know…two hundred.” And he collapsed into a fit of laughter again.

Dante propped him up to keep his head from hitting the edge of the table.

“I didn’t mean that crap about your mom,” Max mumbled. “I didn’t. Really. I swear.” He tried to stand up straight on his own. “Your mom’s cool. You’re lucky. My mom’s a whore. Did you know that?”

Dante winced. From angry drunk to sad, confessional drunk. This would definitely be a long night.

“She let my father pay her off,” Max said, blasting a warm breeze of Bikini Wax breath into Dante’s face. “Now she lives in New York. New husband. New baby. New family.” He brought his voice down to a whisper. “But me and Sho don’t fit into the equation. We’re part of the old life. The one she wants to forget.” Then he waved his hand through the air. The movement caused him to stumble. “Anyway, who cares? She’s a whore!”

Even in Max’s drunken state, Dante could see the pain transmuted across his face. “We should get you some coffee or water, man. Maybe something to eat, too.”

Max shook his head. He went straight to the empty liquor bottles, knocked them down, and drained the shaker for the last remains of the Bikini Wax binge. All of a sudden, he stared down at Pippa and started to laugh. “What should we do with her?”

Dante glanced at the zonked-out girl. “Get her into a bed and let her sleep it off, I guess.”

“She’s hot,” Max observed.

Dante nodded his agreement.

“Think she’d take us both on?” Max said.

Dante looked at him. “Don’t know. Don’t care. If I want a third party in my action, it’s going to be another girl.”

“Same here,” Max said. “That was just a test. You know, to make sure you’re not a fag.” And then he fell into another fit of laughter.

Dante found himself unable to resist joining in. “You’re sick, man. You really are. You’re sick.”

“Help me get this drunk bitch onto the sofa,” Max said, clumsily walking over to the unconscious girl.

Dante stepped in to assist. Together, he and Max managed to transfer Pippa to the leather sofa and cover her with a blanket. But the effort drained them of what little energy they had left. Almost in perfect unison, they sank down, shoulder to shoulder, propping themselves up against the base of the furniture.

Pippa stirred slightly, and her arm fell down like dead weight onto Max’s shoulder.

Dante laughed.

Max just sat there staring into space. “Get a load of this shit, man. I picked this girl up. I bought her dinner. I got her drunk. But I didn’t get any. I feel sorry for those dudes in London. What do you think they have to do to get a little head over there?”

Dante shook his head, still laughing. “You’re crazy.”

“I’m serious, man,” Max went on. “I need to find out.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

Finally, Dante broke it. “I can’t drive,” he announced.

“For real?” Max inquired.

“I can’t even stand up,” Dante said.

“Me, either,” Max admitted. “You can crash here.”

“I’m cold,” Dante said.

Max gave a half-assed look around the basement. “Pippa’s got the only blanket.”

Dante’s eyes fluttered. But he wanted to mess with Max just a little before he gave in to sleep. “Maybe if you hold me, the body heat will get me warm.”