Reunion Girls (7 page)

Dean Paul

ASPEN'S GIGGLE GOT HIJACKED BY a loud belch as she clung to Dean Paul, bringing him toppling down onto the expansive bed with her. "Oops!" She giggled again. "Do you remember the first night we met?"

"Of course, I do," he whispered, kissing her forehead and gently brushing back her hair with his fingers, wishing she would just pass out. He had no desire to make love to his wife when she was drunk.

"You took me into the men's bathroom at Dolce, and I gave you a blow job in the third stall." More giggles. "Didn't your mother tell you not to marry girls like me?"

He put a hushing finger to her lips. "I rarely listen to my mother."

"Lucky me." Aspen attempted to pull him in for an open-mouthed kiss.

Dean Paul resisted. "Sweetheart, you should probably brush your teeth. You threw up in the helicopter, remember?"

Aspen covered her mouth with her hand. "Does my breath stink?"

"It just needs to be freshened up a bit," he murmured.

Her body went limp in concert with a heavy sigh. And she made no attempt to move. "Your mother spent more time at the reception with Lara Ward than she did with me." There was a sudden sulky expression on her face. "I bet she wishes you had married her."

Dean Paul tried to comfort his new bride with a triple-threat kiss, going from the center of her forehead, to the tip of her nose, and then to the curve of her chin, timing each peck with the delivery of his words. "Don't... be... silly."

"Did you see that necklace she was wearing?" Aspen snarled. "There's no way that belongs to her. She obviously borrowed it. I thought only stars could get away with that. I mean, why would any designer or jeweler think that there could be a PR benefit to her walking around in their stuff? Who cares what
Lara Ward
is wearing?"

"You're obviously giving it a lot of thought."

"I was just saying," Aspen snapped. "And what was up with Miss Gangsta Rap and the sumo wrestler bodyguard? It's not like anybody at a wedding like ours would try to steal her jewelry." She laughed a little. "I wish someone from PETA had been around to throw a bucket of blood on that fur coat of hers."

Dean Paul shook his head ruefully. Here they were, on their wedding night, ensconced in a deluxe city-view suite at the Four Seasons, ready to embark in the morning on a ten-day honeymoon trip to the Greek island of Santorini, yet all his new wife could think of to do was play fashion police, with vomit breath no less.

"And don't get me started on that photographer. What's her name?
Babe?
I mean, what kind of a name is that? Wasn't there a movie once about a talking pig named Babe? Did you see those leather pants she was wearing? It looked like she was on her way to a Billy Idol concert or something." A wicked little laugh. "Sorry,
Babe.
Wrong decade. The eighties are over."

Dean Paul gave her a reproachful stare. "Do you have anything nice to say about anyone who attended our wedding?"

Aspen rolled her eyes. "I'll have to open all the gifts first. You know, I secretly wish we had given the exclusive to
212
instead of
InStyle.
Babe really does know how to shoot people at parties. She makes everyone look great. See, that's something nice. And more people in this city read
212
than
InStyle.
I told my manager that, but he kept telling me to think with a national mind-set." Aspen pulled a face. "Whatever. We live in Manhattan now. Who cares about people in Iowa?" She groaned. "Notice I didn't say live
and work,
since neither one of us has a job."

"Actually..."

Aspen propped herself up on her elbows, gazing at him expectantly.

"Your husband does have a job."

The look on her face was pure shock. "Since when?"

"That call I took right before we cut the cake. It was official then."

"Well... what is it?"

"I'm joining
Hollywood Live
as a New York correspondent."

Aspen's lips formed a thin, tight line. "Did they say anything about me?"

Dean Paul gave her a curious look.

"The people who hired you," she explained. "Everybody knows that I want to get into broadcasting. Did they ask about me? Maybe we could do it together."

"Aspen, I've been in confidential talks with them for months. This started before we even—"

"What am I supposed to do? Just sit around our apartment until the next
Survivor All-Stars
comes along?"

"I thought you wanted to get away from the whole reality thing."

"Yeah, but people request me on the Facebook page!”

Dean Paul shut his eyes for a moment. It was absurd that his wedding night had come to this. "I'm not doubting your popularity, but if you're serious about a career in broadcasting, then it might be time to distance yourself from a reality franchise." He paused a beat. "What does your manager say?"

"He wants me to do a burlesque revue in Vegas. It's like the Pussycat Dolls, except all the girls are from reality shows.
"

"Again, not the best career move if you want to be the next Christiane Amanpour."

Aspen looked puzzled. "Who's she?"

Smiling, he whispered, "Put in some studying before you interview at CNN." Then he raised up just enough to take off his shirt and trousers, tossing them to the floor and rejoining Aspen in his socks, boxers, and ribbed cotton tank. He kissed her sweet, attention-hungry forehead.

All of a sudden, Aspen's eyes got wide. "I could do what Julie Chen does. Host a talk show and interview people who get kicked off
Big Brother.
How hard is that?"

"Maybe you could start out small," Dean Paul offered. "You could get on with one of the local affiliates as a lifestyle reporter."

"Local affiliate?"
Aspen spat the suggestion back in his face. "That would be a step down. I already have a national reputation."

Dean Paul was too tired to explain the finer points. Impulsively flashing her breasts on
Survivor
didn't translate to journalistic credibility. He thought about Babe and her snarky offer to put in a word for Aspen with Jake at MSNBC. No way. He'd rather see her slip on a thong and hit the reality chorus line in Las Vegas.

"I don't have an ounce of energy to get up and brush my teeth." She reached out and threaded her fingers through his hand. "I should take off all this makeup, too, but I can't move." A dramatic yawn. "God, I'm so gross. I guess this means you won't get laid on your wedding night. Will you still love me?"

Dean Paul squeezed her hand in response. "We'll make up for it in Greece."

Aspen leaned her head against his shoulder and proceeded to pass out.

But Dean Paul was wide awake. Everybody thought he was crazy for marrying this girl—his parents, his friends, media pundits. The only thing that had shut up the naysayers was the ironclad prenuptial agreement. If it didn't work out, Aspen walked away with a few hundred thousand dollars and a gag order to never speak about the marriage publicly.

He released Aspen's hand and combed his fingers through his hair, thinking about his parents. What perfect timing. To be in the sky and on his way to Greece when they found out about his new career. The announcement would lead tomorrow's entertainment news. His parents would be angry, dismayed, disappointed—the usual crap. But this time Dean Paul didn't care. It still pissed him off that he'd caved in to their demands and given up his chance to be
The Bachelor.
They were from a different generation. Shit. He'd never make them understand.

All they wanted him to do was finish law school and run for office. The mere thought of it gave him a tight fight-or-flight feeling in his chest. He could practically feel his heart constrict. Why couldn't his parents see the obvious? He wouldn't last five minutes shaking hands and listening to people complain about taxes.

His
Hollywood Live
gig would be a breeze. Easy work. Good money. The syndicated half-hour infotainment series was on the rise, having already supplanted
Access Hollywood
in the ratings race and gaining fast on
Entertainment Tonight.
Dean Paul would be issuing reports from parties and film premieres, and sitting down for flirty one-on-one chats with hot female stars. That sure beat a stump speech in a factory parking lot.

Both of his parents had grown up in normal, middle-class families. They lived in Protestant bubbles where working your ass off was the only sure way to success. What did they know about being famous before birth? That blessing/curse belonged to only a few. It was a crazy, heady way to come up in the world. People were constantly removing obstacles for you. In a natural way, Dean Paul had come to always expect things. An instant table in a packed restaurant. VIP status at the airport. Women who wanted to sleep with him upon eye contact. Basically, he counted on special treatment everywhere. And after almost thirty years of this, who wouldn't be spoiled, lazy, and more than a little messed up in the values department? The truth was, he hadn't gone through life like everyone else. So why start now?

Aspen began to snore a little.

Dean Paul looked down on her. Suddenly, it dawned on him that his wife of just a few hours had never uttered congratulations on the new job. Her animal instinct had immediately pounced on her own career crisis. A smile crept onto his lips. You had to love her. And he did. Much to everyone's marvel. But Aspen was exactly the kind of mate he needed—a woman even more self-absorbed than he was.

He'd developed a crush on her watching
Survivor.
That was an embarrassing secret. Dean Paul was three-quarters in love by the end of the first Tribal Council. Several weeks later, the season finale aired. That night he hit the cast party at Dolce with a buddy from Brown, Kris Everhart, an actor celebrating his first big part as Stabbing Victim Number Two on
Blue Bloods.

The vibe for
Survivor
bash had been media desperation. At that point, half the cast had moved to L.A., ready to cash in on their pseudo-fame.
I want to act. I'm ready for any opportunity that comes my way. I've always dreamed of broadcasting.
All the typical clichés.

What they refused to acknowledge was that almost every reality rat from previous seasons of their own show, not to mention
every other mind-numbing, nonscripted show, had built the same castles in the air that went splat. Still, everyone rented a U-Haul with the hope that they might be the next lucky breakthrough
.

There was something about Aspen, though. She treated the experience for the lark that it was. She vamped around—loud, drunk, and flirtatious. Did he mention beautiful? Her blond, tanned, south Florida sex-kitten looks stood breast-to-breast against the California variety that populated Dolce every night. Dean Paul picked her out. They laughed about stupid things. She confessed her wish of having her own talk show one day. He encouraged the impossible dream. A few minutes later she was blowing him in the bathroom.

But in a quirky switcheroo, Dean Paul had pursued her. Aspen's innocent arrogance captivated him. She didn't think the Lockhart name was such a big deal. So he was the son of a boring old senator and a movie star mother nobody could remember. Woop-dee-do. In fact, Aspen, basking in the afterglow of nanosecond reality fame, actually believed that she was more famous. God, that was cute. And refreshing enough to hold his interest.

Weeks had turned to months. No fights, no hassles. Just great sex, big laughs, and nonstop fun. They became inseparable. The idea to get married had been a joke at first. But it stuck. And hell, it was serious now. She was Mrs. Dean Paul Lockhart. He actually had a wife.

Aspen was right about one thing, though. His mother didn't like her.
She's not substantial.
That's all Sophia Mills would say. But she rarely liked any woman he got serious about... except Lara. Everybody in his family approved of her.

Dean Paul lay there, exhausted but unable to sleep, thinking what a trip it had been to finally get hitched with his three most significant exes watching. The feelings it conjured up were tough to reconcile. But he made sense of them. At the end of the day, he knew why each woman was on the guest list and not the name after his on the invitation.

Lara seemed like a perfect match on paper: smart, beautiful, Ivy League-educated, prestigious family background. The thought that she would be the one he might marry had never left his mind. But deep down, there had always been that something . . . that something which made it easy for him to break up and stay away from her for all these years. It was difficult to pinpoint. But basically, she was too . . . perfect. Too intelligent. Too gorgeous. Too successful. Too organized. Jesus. She was the only woman he'd ever been involved with who made him feel like a knucklehead.

As for Babe, she simply wasn't the marrying kind, at least not for him. A girl from a broken home who hated rich people? No, thanks. When it came down to bringing baggage into a relationship, Dean Paul only allowed two small carry-on items. If you had more than that, find another schmuck. That was his motto. Besides, sex with Babe had been too dirty for her to morph into the role of devoted wife. The things she did to him. The things he did to her. It brought a smile to his face even now. In fact, he felt the beginning of an erection coming on just thinking about it.

Aspen continued to snore.

Dean Paul tried to focus on nonsexual things to stave off any further arousal. He wasn't above a quick round of masturbation, involving, say, a Blake Lively fantasy, but not on his wedding night. That would be too pathetic.
 

A vision of Gabrielle in that hip-hop Barbarella outfit flashed into his mind. Great. Suddenly, he started to laugh as he imagined the look on his mother's face after she got an eyeful of Gabrielle, or rather . . .

Brown Sugar.
It had been classic Sophia Mills disapproval. Nothing tickled him more.

Gabrielle's transformation from good girl to bad girl still puzzled him, especially the bit about growing up in the Detroit ghetto. Dean Paul's parents had shipped him off for a week of missionary work every summer. He knew more about the poor than Gabrielle. But who could argue? She was taking her act straight to the bank. Still, very little about her resembled the woman he'd known at Brown. Back then, all that hard-core sass had been soft-core sweetness. The way she used to look into his eyes frightened him sometimes. There had been so much reverence in her gaze. Whatever she thought he was, Dean Paul had known he could never quite live up to it. That made it easy to leave her.