Put Your Diamonds Up! (7 page)

“Oh, don't worry. No lectures. No sermons, Street Sweeper. I know you love it hood-ratchet, Mama,” he said mockingly, flipping through the photos. “It's pathetic.”

I swallowed. “You don't know what you're talking about,” I said defensively, tightening my sash around my waist. I hated that he knew that I was so broken. I felt naked and exposed in front of him. “Why are you here?”

He looked up from my portfolio. “Isn't today your big day? Didn't your mother tell you I was coming? I wanted to see you. And be here with you when you went for your gatherings . . .”

I sucked my teeth. “They're
go-sees
,” I corrected. “My go-sees.”

“Yeah, those. By the way, you're beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, these pictures of you are . . . beautiful.” He allowed his gaze to penetrate me.

I shifted my eyes, swallowing back more tears along with a nervous energy I'd never experienced around him before. This was Anderson, for God's sake! Not some superstar jock I had a silly schoolgirl crush on.

Or did I?

“I bet you wish it was that leech sitting here instead of me, don't you?”

I frowned. “Well, he's
not
here. And I don't need you here, either.”

Anderson stood and walked over to me. “When are you going to stop, huh?”

I cocked my head. “When am I going to stop what?”

He held me with his gaze, stepping in closer. His cologne wafted around me as I tried not to breathe him in. “Letting that punk play you. You know he's no good for you, London. I keep telling you that you deserve better.”

I turned from him, holding my face in my hands, shaking my head. “Anderson, go.
Please.
I don't need this right now.”

“You don't need
what,
London?” I could practically feel the heat from his body on me as he stood behind me, barely touching me as he spoke low in my ear. “Someone caring about you? Someone willing to love you? Someone wanting to build a life with you? Is
that
what you don't need?” My shoulders shook as I tried to keep my emotions in check, but I was spinning out of control.

Anderson turned me to face him. “Tell me. What is it you don't need, London?”

“This,” I said, wiping my tears with my hands, and drying them on the sides of my robe. I tried not to look at him. “You getting all up in my head, confusing me.”

He
tsk
ed. “Confusing you? Me? And how am I doing that? By being the man you wish your little fleabag boyfriend could be? Nah, I'm not confusing you. You're already confused. All I'm trying to do, all I've ever been trying to do, is help you see the light.”

I glanced up into Anderson's eyes and saw something flickering in them. And the intensity of his gaze made me uncomfortable. Nervous. Uncertain. I felt like I was seeing him for the first time.

My lips quivered. I opened my mouth to say something, but Anderson leaned in and kissed me on the lips—lightly at first, then with more force, causing my lips to part. His tongue slipped into my mouth. His mouth was warm and familiar and tasting ever so slightly of peppermint.

I quickly pulled away before I got caught up in . . . him, and in the strange feelings that were slowly growing inside of me and starting to heighten my guilt. My heart belonged to Justice, even if he had stomped on it a thousand times over.

I swallowed hard.

Anderson wrapped his arms around me and held me tight against his body. “I want you, London.” He planted slow wet kisses down my neck, and all the tension drained from my body. “And I'm here for you. I've always been here for you.”

“I can't do this, Anderson.”

He took a deep breath. He ran his hand over his smooth-shaven face, and stepped back. “You know what? You're right. You can't. And neither can I. I'm done throwing myself at your feet. I'm not going to exert any more of my energy on to someone who doesn't want me the way I want them. Maybe you should try it.”

“What are you saying?”

“Tell me you don't ever wanna see me again and I'll walk out of your life right now. For good, London. No more games. No more pretenses. No more drama. It's
all
of me or nothing at all.”

I closed my eyes, feeling a piercing in what was left of my already shattered heart. I didn't want Anderson to not be in my life. But I didn't want him as a boyfriend. I mean, maybe a part of me did, but . . . I mean, maybe . . . No, I couldn't. Still, I'd come to rely on him in more ways than I'd ever imagined. He was the only one I didn't have to pretend around.

I swallowed, fought back more tears. “I-I can't. But I want for us to still be—”

“Still be
what
, London?
Friends?”
For a moment I thought I saw hurt in his eyes. He tsked. “I don't think so. I'm not signing up for that. Not this time. You want a friend; call the psychic hotline for one. Because I'm done being your advisor, your confidante, and the keeper of all of your lies and secrets. I'm taking off the superhero cape and moving on. I'm in love with you, London. But I'm not playing this game with you. Delete my number. And I'll do the same. I'll let you off the hook and tell your parents that I've ended our so-called relationship because I'm no longer interested in being with a girl I could never love.”

My chest tightened as he turned to leave. I choked back tears. Suddenly I heard my mother's voice in my head, haunting me.
“Anderson is a real thoughtful young man . . . he'll make a fine husband . . .”

I heard myself countering her.
“Anderson isn't who I want . . .”

“You will learn to love him . . .”

Dear God, it's too late! I think I already do...

I swallowed. “Anderson . . . wait.”

He kept walking toward the door.

“Anderson,
please.”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to me. “What is it, London? Because when I walk out of this door, it's for good. I'm done trying to be your savior. I'm done
playing
boyfriend with you. You don't even realize what you have in front of you.” He shook his head. “You either want a man who is ready to love you and accept you for everything that you are and aren't. Or you want to keep being with some idiot who keeps disrespecting you. The choice is yours. Now what do you want?”

My lips quivered.

I didn't know what I wanted. All I knew is, I didn't want to keep hurting. I didn't want to keep feeling empty. I didn't want to keep feeling unloved. I didn't want to keep feeling unwanted. And I didn't want to be left alone.

Not now. Not ever.

I opened my robe and let it drop to the floor.

Milan, Italy

 

“L
ondon, daaaaarling,” my mother said, sounding overly excited as she whisked through the door of my suite. “Wake up! Up! Up! Up! I just received some fabulous news, my darling! Jason Wu has his eye on you!”

She has got to be frickin' kidding me! She's barging into my room, disrupting my misery-inspired pity party God, she's so obnoxious!

“London, my love, I can see it now: Teen sensation London Elona Phillips takes Milan by storm. You'll be booked incessantly with shoots for magazines, including
Vogue Italia
and
British Vogue
. You'll be casting for the Paris, Milan, and New York fashion shows. Oh, London, darling, you are on your way!”

God, lay my weary soul to rest, not now . . . right now!

I'd lain perfectly still, pretending to be comatose. Hoping my mother would get the hint and leave me the hell alone. I wanted to die in peace. But when I heard her shuffling around my room, snatching open the draperies, I knew, once again, withering away wasn't going to happen. Not today.

I held my breath as my mother whizzed through the details of which fashion designers vied for me to hit the catwalk in their couture. Like I gave a damn!

“After Jason designed that fabulous inauguration ball gown for Michelle Obama, he's been to die for, darling. And Valentino and Miu Miu, darling!” she added gleefully. “They both want you for Fashion Week! Oh, London... wake up! We must celebrate!”

Celebrate?

Lady, beat it! I'm dying inside!

I am mourning!

And the idea of being trapped in the
mwah-mwah
ritual of the fashion industry and cutthroat cattiness while being chained to its grueling schedule of late-night fittings, six a.m. starts, layers of makeup, endless hair changes, and three shows with three-hour advance call times for hair, makeup, and rehearsals every day for a week was not cause for celebration.

Talking to my man was!

My head was buried deep beneath the charmeuse silk of my Kumi Kookoon blanket, along with my aching heart and swollen eyes. I'd cried most of the night until I was finally able to drift off to sleep for a few hours before waking up drenched in sweat from a horrible dream I'd had. My man was somewhere out there laid up with some ole nasty, mysterious big-booty skankazoid! And I was here! Helpless!

Who would let someone take naked pictures of her like that? A skid-row troll doll would! That's who!

Receiving those photos yesterday coupled with my mother's constant badgering about the upcoming fashion show premieres and the multitude of demands from an annoying fashion photographer, then not being able to reach Justice, only heightened my anxiety and had me on edge. I called his phone over a gazillion times and each time he kept sending me straight to voice mail. And all of my text messages have gone unanswered.

Something had to be terribly wrong! He'd never gone this long without at least responding to one of my text messages—even if it was to argue. Justice never went more than two or three days without returning my calls. Okay, okay... one time he ignored me for two whole torturous weeks. But that was because I'd upset him really bad—although I'm still not sure exactly what I'd said or done. But he said I was getting on his nerves. That I was suffocating him and that he needed space and time to think.

In the past, I'd been mindful to do everything right to keep Justice happy. Give him sex whenever he wanted it. Drop whatever I was doing when he felt like making time for me. Not question him. Not stress him. Not be all up under him. Except for not successfully hooking him and Rich up, I'd been the perfect girlfriend. Even if it had been initially my idea to hook the two of them up so he could use her. I played and replayed the plan in my head over and over. Rewinding it. Fast-forwarding it.

I'd introduce Justice to Rich. Rich would play hard to get—wishful thinking, of course, because we all knew how she turned into a vamp at the sight and sound and smell of a fine boy. Any boy, for that matter.

Still...

I'd play my part. Encourage the nightwalker to give Justice a chance. Pretend to be his best friend, instead of his girlfriend then sit back and watch him weasel his way into Rich's father's recording studio, ultimately landing him a record deal. And a bright future on top of the billboard charts as R & B's hottest crooner.

Photographers from various newspapers, tabloids, and magazines would surround him, wanting exclusives. He'd have tons of drooling, panty-tossing groupies who I'd have to Taser and beat off of him with a stun baton.

Justice would become an overnight sensation. He'd dump Rich. And he and I would finally run off and get married and live happily ever after. But first, I'd have to find
happy
and figure out a way to get to
ever after
.

In the meantime, I'd have to be stressed out wondering, worrying, how Justice would be able to stay out of Rich's lair. Yes, the original plan was to use Rich to get him a record deal. But the thought of him falling into bed with her, let alone in love with her, was too much to bear. She was like a black widow spider—lethal, hanging upside down in her web waiting to sink her teeth into her next prey. Slowly sucking the life out of him while seducing him to death.

I closed my eyes for just a moment and the photos popped in my head. The thought of Justice being with some slore, holed up in some seedy motel room making hot, sweaty love was a smarting pain. The kind of stinging hurt I'd liken to slicing into skin with a rusty razor blade, zigzagging open the flesh, then gliding a sliced lemon over the skin, squeezing its juices into the wound.

Justice Banks was my life. Without him in it, I ached. I throbbed. I agonized. Just the thought alone was enough to throw me into a full-fledged panic attack. Every time he ignored me, made me invisible, he'd slice me. Right now, I felt like I'd been pushed into a sea of lemon juice.

I croaked back tears as my mother snatched the Chinese raw mulberry silk comforter away. “I've booked us a day of luxuriated splendor at Boscolo Milano, darling, for five-star spa pampering. We'll get you waxed, plucked, and ready for this afternoon's shoot with Hermès. Hermès, darling! Can you believe it? And since it's right in the heart of the fashion district, we can shop, then dine at one of our favorite
ristoranti.
”

Can't you see I'm in distress, lady? I don't care about eating at some damn Italian restaurant or shopping!
I heard myself screaming in my head.

I felt a lump swelling in my throat as I remained stone still. I dared not utter a word as I heard my mother flit about my room. All I wanted to do was remain tucked between my Egyptian cotton sheets until it was time for the coroner to come in and announce my time of death. I'd had more mother-daughter bonding than I could stomach in this lifetime. I just wanted to croak, breathe in my last breath, meet my dressmaker, then be reincarnated.

Into my own woman.

With my own voice.

With my man beside me.

I adjusted the silken mask over my eyes and turned to face away from her annoying voice.
Dear God, where are You when I need You the most?

“London, why are you lying there unresponsive? Do you not hear me talking to you?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“Oh, and . . . by the way, we'll be flying to New York in the next week . . .”

The minute I heard New York, it was like music to my ears. I missed New York terribly. With trying to acclimate to living on the West Coast since the end of last school term, my parents thought it best I not go back unless it was absolutely necessary. They'd thought it best I leave my old life behind and start anew. And I hadn't been back since the end of last school year.

The idea of heading back to the East Coast was divine. I felt my pulse quicken. Although I needed to get back to L.A., I needed to get back to the States more. And New York was a start. My mind was already spinning out my escape. I'd slip out of my suite in the still of the night wearing some hideous biker chick disguise, then hail a taxi to JFK or LaGuardia airport.
No. Scratch that. No airports. That'll be the first place they'd look.

Lord God, I'd have to travel cross-country some other way. Hmm. I wonder if they have first-class service on those Greyhound buses. Ugh. I can't do bus service. I'd rather hitchhike and ride on the back of some farm boy's pickup truck. Hmph. If Rich was any kind of friend, I'd be able to call her and have her send her family's private jet. Screw Rich!

My mother's voice cut into my thoughts. “We'll fly out to New York, spend a few days there so you can rest, then be back in time for Fashion Week.”

Rest? Yeah, right. How about you get out and let me rest
now
?

I silently rolled my eyes up in my head behind my mask.

“We're scheduled for a consultation with Doctor Nona Grupalanna . . . she's a renowned plastic surgeon who comes highly . . .”

Wait a minute! Did I hear her correctly? Consultation?

I shot up in bed, yanking the mask from my eyes
. “Whaaaat?!”
I shrieked. “Consultation for what?”

My mother stepped out of my walk-in closet holding up a pink, knee-length wrap dress. I frowned. After my shoot yesterday for Pink Heat, I didn't want to look at anything else
pink
for a long while. “For your breast reduction,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone as if she were talking about the weather. “We have to get you down to an A-cup.”

I frowned, swinging my feet over the edge of the bed, reaching for my cell sitting on my nightstand. “Mother, you can't be serious! I'm
not
having my breasts reduced to an A-cup.”

There were no calls! I glanced over at the clock. Eight a.m.
Okay, that means it's eleven p.m. back home.
I sent Justice a quick text:
GM, BABE. I MISS U
&
NEED U
!
PLZ CALL ME WEN U GET THIS.

“Oh, you most certainly will. Aside from binding them down, there's no other option. I thought with the diet your breasts and that big jungle-bouncing rear end of yours would have shrunk to match your gorgeous waistline. But they didn't. I need you hanger thin. Not voluptuous. You are too curvy, London. I have to be proactive to keep you working, darling. One day you'll wake up and those C-cups will have ballooned into double Ds and that colossal derrière of yours will start to drag to the ground. I can't have that.
No, mia cara Londra. Sei troppo bella per essere grasso
.”

I rolled my eyes at her. I hated when she spoke English and Italian in the same sentence. Oh my darling London, nothing! I didn't give a damn about her thinking I was too beautiful to be fat. I wasn't fat—although sometimes I felt like I was, because
she
made me feel fat. Because Justice would tell me I was fat. They both had a way of making me feel like a hippo. Still, I wasn't interested in surgery. I'd starve myself first before I let anyone slice, suction, or staple anything on me.

I stood up and huffed indignantly. I was ready to have it out with her. “I'm not having anyone cut out any parts of my body, period. If the Italians don't want me on their runways, then so be it.”

Before I knew what was happening, my mother was up in my face lightning fast. “You will
not
use that tone with me, London. You almost ruined everything once with your weight gain.” She glared at me. “I. Will.
Not.
Risk. You. Becoming some cheesy model who catwalks bedsheets or some god-awful, ill-fitted potato sack down a runway.”

She stroked my cheek. “I love you, my darling. One day, you will appreciate everything I'm doing for you . . .”

In that moment, I floated back to my childhood. I was five again. From charm school to being shuffled from casting call after casting call, to spending hours walking up and down a red carpet rolled out in the middle of our foyer, while balancing phone books on my head and walking in custom-designed heels way too big and high for my small feet, to being expected to stand like a mannequin, changing poses every fifteen minutes until I'd perfected the pose, the walk, the pivots, the hip thrusts. From go-sees to cattle calls and callbacks, my life has been a whirlwind of flashing lights, thick matte satins and frilly tulles.

“And you will thank me
.
But for now . . .
you
can show your gratitude by
acting
like you appreciate all of the wonderful opportunities being placed at your feet.”

Opportunities?

Really?

I let out a deep breath.

My man was ignoring me. My mother wanted to have me gutted and disfigured just so I could fit into her crazy mold of what beautiful was, or wasn't. My so-called bestie still hadn't had the decency to return any of my calls. And my mother expected me to happily embrace staged chances. The life she wanted for me.

She was delusional.

Rich was ignoring me.

Justice was avoiding me.

Was everyone back at home that absorbed in their own little worlds that they couldn't take a minute, or two, or three, to reach out and touch? What was going on back in L.A. that had me feeling as though I was missing out?

My phone finally vibrated, causing my heart to jump. I quickly glanced at the screen. It was a text from Justice.

My knees buckled as I read:
WTF
?!!!!
WHY IZ U ALL UP ON ME
?
STOP SWEATIN' ME
!!!!
WORD IZ BOND YO
! F
ALL BACK
!
LET ME BREATHE.
U
ACTIN
2
EFFN THIRSTY YO
!
IM NOT DIGGIN IT N IM OVER U.
D
O U LONDON N LET ME DO ME.