Put Your Diamonds Up! (2 page)

I had cheated on my man. So, yes, I hated my faux boyfriend, Anderson, for managing, with one kiss—okay, okay,
three
kisses—to ruin my life. I was a cheater.

And speaking of Justice, why haven't I heard from him? I have gotten not one call or text from him in almost four days.
Four days! Four fricking
loooooong
excruciating days of not hearing his voice or seeing his handsomely rugged face on FaceTime or Skype was
killlllling
me!

And I had my mother to thank for my misery.

In less than two weeks, she had managed to turn my whole world upside down, inside out, and every which way in between. She'd literally stripped me of my life. And she had no damn care in the world.

“
Londra, fare l'amore per la fotocamera
,” Luke shouts in Italian, suggesting I make love to the camera.
Ohmygod! How vulgar!

I sighed.

My mother shot me a scathing look that read
Do. Not. Try. Me. You had
better
pretend this is where you want to be.

Before I could put on my mask and get with the program, my mother asked the photographer and his crew if she could have a moment alone with me. To motivate me, she claimed.

“What in the world is wrong with you, London?” she snapped when she thought everyone was out of earshot.

“I want to go home.”

She blinked. “For the next two weeks,
this
is your home. Get used to it.”

I pouted. “I miss my friends.”

She scoffed. “Trust me. Those spoiled little girls back at Hollywood High aren't losing any sleep over
you
. Their worlds are going on without
you
. As a matter of fact, I bet you haven't heard from any of your so-called
friends
since you've been here. Have you?”

I folded my arms and turned away from her. I was done. However, my silence only encouraged her to continue her babbling.

“London,” she hissed, grabbing me by the arm and turning me to her, “what would you rather do, huh? Hang with some loudmouth attention whore, is that it? Rich will have to buy her way out of school because she's been raised to be a mattress for the richest fool who'll have her. The only thing she'll ever be good for is performing Cirque du Soleil acrobatics in some boy's bed, having babies, and carrying razors under her slithering tongue—”

I snapped my neck in my mother's direction. “Mother, do I talk about any of your friends, huh? Oh, wait. You don't have any.” I narrowed my eyes. “I don't care what Rich does with her life. That's not my concern. She's my friend.”

My mother laughed in my face. “In this industry there is no room for friends, my darling daughter. Friends stab you in the back. This is a cutthroat business. You have enemies and allies. Nothing more. Do you think I made it as far as I have, being concerned about having friends? No. I made it to the top of my game by knowing the difference between friendships and alliances. Trust me. Rich doesn't know the first thing about being a friend. That girl is nobody's friend. And she's definitely not yours, darling. So the sooner you get that through that luscious head of yours, the better.”

I sucked my teeth. “I don't care. I want to go home.”

“And do
what
, huh? Become some double-chin piglet with ankles the size of ham hocks, wobbling off to some godforsaken factory job? You want to be some big biscuit-eating, dimpled-butt oaf with saggy air-bag breasts, like your father's side of the family? Would you rather scrub toilets for a living, is that it, London? I am trying to help you build a legacy. Not help you piss your life away on some two-dollar pipe dream of doing God knows what else other than what you were destined to do.”

For a moment I had . . . Absolutely. No. Words. Was she effen
serious
?

She continued, “
This
is your life, London. So you had better get used to it. Now, if
you
don't want this life, then speak now so I can make arrangements to have you shipped off to England to boarding school. Because, make no mistake, my darling daughter. You will
not
be returning to Hollywood High. Now pick a door. And choose it very wisely. Because the choice you make today will be the one you will have to live with. Now, be the darling I know you can be. Make your mother proud. Give me what I want, London, or I make the next two years of your life a living hell.”

I blinked.
Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? Have I sinned that bad?

I wanted to scream. I wanted to stomp. Wanted to pound my fists. Wanted to kick. Have a full-fledged tantrum. Wanted to defy every last one of my mother's beauty rules and have a pig fest, eating up everything in sight. What I wouldn't have done to kick off my heels and flee and never look back. What I wouldn't do to be able to hide out in my suite and sit cross-legged on my king-size Baldacchino Supreme bed amid cake crumbs and smeared bowls of Chunky Monkey ice cream.

I'd do anything to be at the Saddle Ranch on Sunset Boulevard, sinking my teeth into a big, juicy T-bone steak. Better yet, what I wouldn't do to be back at Muddy Moments, a run-down hole-in-the-wall in San Diego, with Rich and her future ex-boo, Knox, and Anderson, sucking down on a platter of their infamous honey-coated hot wings and a slab of ribs. And I didn't even eat anything off of a pig.

Yes, yes, yes! I'd kill to scarf down a family-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and a bag of Oreos . . . then I'd beg the evil fat gods to spare me from gaining an ounce. I'd boldly do all of those things then I'd post pictures of my lips slathered with chicken grease and rib sauce and dusted with doughnut powder all up on Instagram.

My mother wanted perfect. I'd show her a perfect mess! And for the grand finale, I'd give her my perfect escape.

“Well,” my mother huffed impatiently. “I'm waiting. Now, what's it going to be, London, the runway or boarding school? The clock is ticking.”

I swallowed, then begrudgingly replied, “The runway.”

She fussed with the big curl at the end of my bang that swooped along my jawline. “I knew you'd see it my way. Now go take a moment to get your thoughts together. And when you come back out here, you had better be in the mindset to serve it to the camera. Do I make myself clear?”

I clenched my teeth. “Perfectly.” I briskly walked off as she stood there saying something slick and crazy in Italian about me being a selfish, ungrateful brat. Whatever.

One of the many assistants swarming around the photo shoot rudely thrust a large white envelope at me as I made my way toward the makeshift lounge area. She said it was sent via courier. Curious, I stared for several seconds at the envelope with its typed address label, wondering who'd sent me mail. I turned it over, pulling the tab and opening it. Inside was a manila envelope with a set of large eyes elaborately drawn in black ink on the front of it. On the back in red ink the words
FOR YOUR WEEPING EYES ONLY
was written across the seal.

WTH?
I reached over for a fingernail file someone left on the table and slit open the envelope, pulling out the items inside: photos.

I blinked.
OMG! What the fu . . . ?

I glanced at the anonymously photographed images of the nude chick in the on-all-fours pornographic poses. There was a tattoo of a colorful butterfly just above her booty crack. I blinked, blinked again.
Ohno ohno ohno . . .
I felt my stomach lurching as I stared at the guy's hand on the chick's naked booty cheek. Right on the webbed part between his thumb and forefinger was a tattoo of a small black dagger with red drops of blood dripping from its tip.

I screamed, crumpling the pictures tight in my fist.

It was Justice's hand!

K
nock . . . Knock . . .

“Heather! Who is that?”

My eyes swept across the room and landed on my mother, Camille, who sat on the edge of the bed and nursed the bottom of last night's bottle of scotch.

“It's seven o'clock in the damn morning and somebody's knocking at my door?” She fumbled over the nightstand. “Where are my Aleve? Dear God, I have a headache. My throat is dry. And the last thing I need, Heather Suzanne, is for you to invite some junkie up in here!”

Knock . . . Knock . . .

I rolled my eyes to the water-stained ceiling.

“Who's that?” she spat.

“I don't know.”

She shoved three pills in her mouth. “Did you pay the rent?”

Hell no. I needed that money!
“Of course I paid the rent.”

“Of course?” She snorted, washing the pills down with her last swallow of scotch. “The only
of course
I know about you is that of course you're selfish and of course you have no consideration for anydamnbody but you, yourself, and Wu-Wu!”

Her words gripped me by the throat and I swear while she was sleeping I should've gently placed a pillow over her slobbering face and smothered the life out of her.

Tonight for sure I'ma do her in.

“Yeah, I said it.” Camille twisted her thin lips, her white face loaded with clouds of hot red blotches. “You, yourself, and that canceled Wu-Wu show.”

Knock . . . Knock . . .

“I said who
is
that?” Her blue eyes bulged.

I leaned forward in my chair and it took everything in me not to jump up and drop a hard elbow in her chest. “I'm in here with you. How would I know?”

“Well, you better find out! And send them away. We're in no condition for visitors. No one needs to see us like this!” She crawled beneath the covers and pulled them over her face.

“Oh really?” I placed a fist up on my hip and rocked my neck from side to side. “And when did you think of this? Before or
after
you spent all of my money?”

Camille peeled the covers from over her face, stopping at her chin. “Your money?” She sat up. “
Your
money? You didn't have any money, Heather!”

“I had two checks that were due me! And I told you to put them in the bank, but you didn't! You did what you wanted to do. Just ran right through 'em! You didn't pay a single bill. Not one! And before you turned the judge against me and had me locked up—”

“You drugged me!”

“You deserved it!”

“I did the best that I could do!”

“Which is never good enough! Before I left we were living in a house. And yesterday, I'm released from rehab and my welcome home party is here. At Sleazy Eight!”
And you think I paid the rent to keep staying in this place? Never! Trust. As soon as I can, I'm getting out of here. You can believe that!

“How dare you speak to me like this? You know what”—Camille sighed as she wiped invisible sweat from her brow—“I'm going to close my eyes and ignore the fact that you just spoke to me like gutter trash.” She pulled the covers back over her head and settled into her pillow. A few seconds later the knocking returned.

Dang! They're still here?

I shook my head.

Obviously, they don't catch hints.

I walked over to the door and peered through the peephole.

My heart dropped.

Dear God . . . it's Satan in six-inch heels and a hazmat suit.

I turned away from the door and instead of opening it, I paced.

Knock . . . Knock . . .

I need a cigarette.

Scratch that.

A blunt would do me right!

I stopped in my tracks.

Not that I've ever had a problem with drugs.

It's Camille. She's the problem.

I started pacing again.

All of my life Camille's been on a mission to do me in. Plotting. Scheming. Having me put on probation for drugging her. Mmph, what else was I supposed to do? I didn't need her killin' my vibe. I needed to relieve my stress and have my skittles party in peace. So . . . I slipped her a nice mix of somebody's granny's heart medicine, Xanax, and Sudafed in her nightly shot of scotch and rocked her to sleep. Still. It wasn't my fault that she woke up handcuffed and stuffed in a paddy wagon.

Knock . . . Knock . . .

I wish Satan would just go away! I'm already dead and in my coffin. I don't need her driving the nails into it.

She has to know I'm flat broke. Flat. Broke. All my irre-placeables are gone. All my money has been tricked on Camille's daily bottles of scotch, Chinese chicken wings, lottery tickets, and cigarettes.

I spun around toward the door.

That's it!

She's here to rub it in my face.

Spiteful whore!

I can't believe it!

The last time I saw Lucifer, she lied and told me that Richard Montgomery was my father. Imagine that. Richard Montgomery. Former drug dealing street thug and ten-page rap sheet convict MC Wickedness, now known as CEO and owner of Grand Records and Montgomery Sports Enterprises. Mr. Number Three on
Forbes
. And this devil really expected me to believe that he was my father? As if Rich, Princess Ratchet herself, and I could ever share a bloodline.

Not.

Never.

Puhlease.

Rich and I could never be sisters. Because one thing's for certain and two things're for sure: Camille may be a washed-up and drunk Hollywood slut, but one thing she's not is a notch on Richard Montgomery Sr.'s belt.

Knock . . . Knock . . .

“Ahh!” I jumped as a black ceramic ashtray just missed me and slammed into the wall. Cigarette butts, ashes, and jagged ceramic pieces flew into the air and fluttered to the floor. “ARE YOU CRAZY!”

“That's exactly what I am!” Camille pointed at me, her voice now deep and sounding possessed. “And if you don't get rid of whoever that is, so help me baby Jesus, I'm going to tear your face off!”

I narrowed my eyes at Camille and sucked my teeth. I turned and looked back through the peephole, and still standing there was Satan, with an attitude.

This tramp had no shame.

God, I wish I had a black beauty!

I just need one.

Just one to take the edge off.

“Heather!” made its way from behind the door.

Just open the door. Tell her to go away. And then slam it in her face!

I twisted the knob, opened the door slightly, and in the shadow of the blinking neon sign that read Twenty-Four Hour Vacancies was my number one frenemy, Spencer Ellington, and it took everything in me not to thumb her eyes out.

How the hell did she find me?

She lifted the cloth medical mask slightly above her full lips. “SweetskidrowWestHollywood! You can run, but you can't hide from Momma. Ain't no ghetto low enough to keep me from you, thanks to my private eye. I can smell the ratchet two miles away. Now, who shot the crack whore and forgot to kill her? Dear mother of Francis, what are you doing here?” She pushed the door open with the tip of a stiletto and pushed her way into the room. Immediately she covered her mouth and dry heaved. “Air! I need! Air!” She rushed over to the open window and stuck her head out. A few seconds later, she fanned her face and turned toward me.

“You really tore the seat out of your panties with this one, Heather. The Pampered Princesses have reached a new low. And I didn't think we could drop any lower than Rich and her sucking down hot wings, licking up blue cheese, and gargling beer!”

She curled her lips and her eyes worked their way over my bare feet, up my legs to my cut-off denim shorts and white tube top, stopping at the unruly curls in my sun-streaked hair. “Before you even say it”—I clenched my lips—“I know I'm at my lowest. I don't need you rubbing it in my face.”

“Excuse you.” She faintly placed a gloved hand over her heart, as if she'd been insulted. “Don't do that, Heather. Don't put words in my mouth. You can't read my mind because if you could, you'd know that I was going to ask you what is that animal humped up under the covers?”

Animal?
“You mean Camille?”

“Camille? That's Camille? Is she”—Spencer cast her eyes down at her watch—“drunk? It's seven fifteen in the morning and your mother's drunk?”

Oh no she didn't! How dare she put down my mother! And God knows Camille isn't perfect but still... Can you say rude?

I placed both hands up on my hips and cranked my neck to the right. “Why are you here? And what. Do you. Want?”

“I'm here to save your life.” Spencer reached in her designer clutch, slid out an envelope and placed it in my hand.

I looked at the envelope, unimpressed. “What is this?” I popped my lips.

“Open it,” she insisted.

Reluctantly, I followed her instruction.

Oh . . . my . . . God . . .

I pulled out a three-million-dollar certified check and blinked in disbelief. I clicked my heels, twice, in case this was a dream. Spencer looked down at me and smiled, her full lashes fluttered and locked into my brown gaze.

Three million dollars?

My eyes filled with tears and I turned my back to her. There was no way I could face her.

Breathe...

Just breathe.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

I can't believe it!

I really. Truly. Can't believe it!

Did this cheap, low budget, skimpy blond fish just hand me a certified check for
three million dollars
? Really? As if this was not Hollywood, California! Tinseltown! And by the time I finished paying my rent—My personal assistant. My driver. My stylist. My makeup artist. My publicist. My palm reader, who keeps me aligned with the universe. My acting coach. My butler. My maid. My personal jeweler. My monthly entertainment. My Korean shoemaker and my exclusive Chinese handbag maker—I'll be broke. Was she serious? Or was I being catfished?

Spencer placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don't thank me now.”

Trick, please. If I weren't so polite and gracious I'd toss this check back in your face and tell you to get the hell off of my property! Even if it is a motel room!

She continued, “You must be wondering what you did to deserve such kindness.” She paced before me like a professor. “Well, the answer to that is nothing. You haven't done one thing. And truthfully, anyone who spends up all of their money and runs through it like pissy panty liners should be banished. Put away. And nobody should ever have to lay eyes on you again.” She stopped pacing and turned toward me. “But I couldn't let you die in the streets, Heather. So, being that I'm nice like that, I decided to save your poor wretched soul with my generosity.”

Whaaaaaat?!

Oh hell no!

Breathe.

Breathe.

Relax.

Release.

She's crazy.

Save me?

Before my legs kick this wench, let me turn away from her again.

I turned and she carried on, “It's not that I make a habit out of playing Captain Save A Crackhead. But I figured I'd make an exception this time.”

I'm not a crackhead and you haven't saved me, you cheap whore! This is an insult! You've torn up my life. Ruined my career. Called the police on my skittles party! And put a thirty-day disruption between me and my get-right. You were dead wrong for that, ole nasty dome licker. I should take a WWE clothesline to your head! Backhand your cheek to the floor.

Three million dollars?

Really?

And you think you saved me?

“Ah!” I jumped and spun around when her finger stabbed into my left butt cheek.

“That's really you?” Spencer looked at me in amazement. “Here I was thinking how outdated this wallpaper is, and it turns out that I'm looking at the back of you.” She sighed and paused, looking up at the ceiling as if she were deep in thought. “You know what I'm going to do for you, Heather?”

“I couldn't imagine you doing anything more than you already have,” I said, my tone dripping with more sarcasm than I intended.

She looked at me and smiled. “I'm going to get you a Brazilian booty lift.”

A what?

“Don't thank me now. Thank me after your first twerk.” She snapped her fingers.

Twerk? Excuse you, Miss Knees On The Floor, I don't twerk. I Tootsie Roll.
“Are you serious? A booty lift?”

“Yes!”

Well, that's the least you can do.

“I also have something else for you,” she said.

Hopefully it's the other half of this check.
“What could that possibly be?”

“I've arranged for you to tape a pilot for your very own television show—”

Pilot? Did she just say my own television show?
“What did you just say to me, Spencer?”

She gave me a sheepish grin and batted her lashes. “You heard me right, boo. You heard me.”

Did she say my own television show?

“I said your own television show,” she confirmed, as if reading my thoughts. “Now”—she tapped a heel—“who loves you, baby?”

My heart dropped as I squealed, “A pilot?” I looked over at the bed where Camille was coughing and stirring beneath the covers.