Sex, Lies and the Dirty (2 page)

Kiss. Wink. Flash.

Everyone’s watching.

Audrina Patridge shows up to the event—not to host or to meet any of
us, mind you. She’s just there, drinking with friends and hanging out. So I despise Audrina now because she not only pulled out of the deal at the last minute, but then she showed up anyway acting like a fucking tough chick. She keeps throwing little bitchy glares our way.

Of course, I can’t say anything directly because Nik Richie isn’t supposed to be here. There’s rumors going around that I am, and after that shit with Alien showing up to my room, I’ve got Duane Bell (my black security guy) tailing me through the club, just in case some idiot from my staff decides to out me again. I’m mostly here to make sure the event goes smoothly and keep everyone on task.

We’ve got the center stage at Body English: bottles of Grey Goose and people taking photos of Leper and Alien making out on one of the maroon leather couches. Hip-hop music thumping. Cameras flashing, and not just from the photographers now. People are either crowding up to get a shirt or pair of underwear, or they’re trying to get a shot of Leper shoving her tongue into Alien’s mouth, sucking on it while Alien reaches over to grab G-Girl’s tit. It feels like the club and everyone in it stops to watch these girls, because it’s not casual or a couple of chicks kissing for attention. These are drunk strippers, so coked-out they’re probably not even aware they’re being watched, photographed, adored. They have no idea how much this is going to help out the business.

After-party. My suite.

The staff is all here along with a bunch of random girls, and in a way you could call this a celebration since the event did what we intended it to do. Mostly due to Leper, Alien, and G-Girl, we’ve left our mark on Vegas, got a ton of footage, and most importantly, got people talking about
The Dirty
⁸
. In hindsight, Audrina dropping out was a bit of a blessing. Body English is buzzing over
The Dirty
, not
The Dirty
and “that chick from
The Hills
.’

So everyone’s here now: drinking, partying, socializing.

I’m a little bit more at ease now that the event is behind us and I don’t need Duane to tail me anymore, but every once in a while I’ll catch a look. Nothing hostile. It’s more like recognition. Like they know who I really am. Slowly, everyone in the room is figuring out that I’m the guy. The secret spreads. It circulates through loose talk and lowered inhibitions, finally getting to the wrong girls. The fame-chasers.

This manifests when I go to take a piss. G-Girl follows me into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I’m pissing and she takes her top off. She’s hammered—almost blackout drunk with her tits hanging out now, and they’re spray-tanned in a way where her nipples have been painted over. I’m pissing, looking at two huge lumps of tan meat, then Leper and Alien are at the bathroom door.

They’re pounding, yelling in their drunken Texas accents, “I’m gonna kick your ass, you fuckin’ slut-bag whore!”

I’m pissing, and G-Girl folds onto the floor. Tits spilling everywhere, and they’re still out there pounding. Pounding and yelling. I shake, tuck my Greg
⁹
away and zip up. G-Girl’s eyes are fluttering. She’s barely conscious, fading, so I open the door and let Leper and Alien see her laying on the bathroom tiles. Drunk and harmless.

I shrug at the two of them, saying, “Hey, I’m just taking a piss. I don’t know what her deal is.” Then I have one of my guys, Tristan, mop G-Girl off the floor and take her away. Her tits are still hanging out, and for all I know she probably thinks she’s walking off with me.

I’m left standing with Alien and Leper.

They’re on way too many drugs and they know who I am now.

Leper decides she’s going to let Alien have me because,
apparently, she called dibs or something like that. They’re respecting the dibs rule because they’re best friends. Never mind the fact that I haven’t the slightest fucking interest in Alien—that I actually think Leper isn’t bad-looking (the +2’s
¹⁰
and Dallas blue eyes do it for me). Because this crazy bitch called dibs, I’m stuck with her throwing herself at me again while Duane ushers everyone out of the suite. It’s four in the morning, and all I want to do is sleep because we’ve got to do this all over again tomorrow (later today, actually) at Rehab.

Alien is telling me, “I just want to talk.”

And I’m like, “Talk? About what?”

“About…my life,” she says. “The site. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Fine,” I say.

Then we’re in my bedroom, and I’m under the clean cool sheets, trying to drift off while Alien meanders in the room. She’s staring. Just looking at me. Not talking. Alien tries to get into bed with me and I say “No.”

She says, “I just want to talk,” and she stinks even worse than this afternoon. It’s piss and old spray tan. It’s sweat and liquor that has dried to her skin, and her face is wrecked. Smeared. And I close my eyes to not see it, thinking,
go away…just go the fuck away
, but I can still feel her getting closer. The smell intensifies: the liquor and drugs and piss seeping through her pores, and I say “No, it’s not happening.”

Alien gets out of the bed, and for a second—one thrilling moment—I think it might be that easy. She’ll walk off and leave me alone. I’ll deal with her shit for one more day and never have to see her again.

She says, “I’m going to kill myself. You’re going to watch me kill myself if you don’t fuck me right now.”

I open my eyes. I look at her.

“I have a daughter,” she says. “I’m going to kill myself.”

So the choice is: I can either take one for the team by fucking this whore, or I could yell for Duane and have him come in and get rid of her.

Then I’m thinking,
There’s no fucking way she’s going to jump
, but that’s when Alien opens the balcony door and throws one of her legs over the ledge. We’re on the sixth floor. It’s just high up enough that she could survive the fall if she doesn’t land on her head.

She’s sitting there, looking at me, saying, “I have a daughter.”

I pause, thinking, then I tell her, “Jump.”

I say it again. Firmer this time. “Jump.”

Alien challenges, “You really want to me jump? I’ll jump.”

I say, “Kill yourself. I don’t fucking care. You’re worthless to me.”

I’m thinking,
Fuck, this better work
.

I say it again. “Jump.” And she’s so out of her mind, so completely fucked on drugs and liquor and some dream that never happened, that she might do it. She might find it easier to just end her life, and I refuse to fuck her to save it.

She sits on the ledge. Sits. Thinking.

Alien says, “No…I have a daughter.”

It’s late morning when I wake up.

I open the bedroom doors and the place is wrecked: beer and liquor
bottles, trash, random bits of food. Cigarettes are on the ground, a little wipe pattern of ash from where some chick stepped and twisted. Tables are flipped over. It stinks. Stinks like stale booze and smoke. And there’s blood on the couch. A lot of blood, like somebody stabbed themselves. No body. Just a huge bloodstain on this light gray couch, the kind of stain that the maid would have to report. It seriously looks like someone died in here, and staring at the stain is making me light-headed.

I walk across the living room, knocking on Duane’s door to find out what the fuck is going on. He opens up, wearing nothing but boxers and a T-shirt and I’m like, “Dude, why is there blood all over the place?”

He says, “Huh?”

We walk over to the couch and I motion to it, the blood. He looks at it, at me, searching for a response. Duane grabs his camera and starts filming it, the huge red stain streaking this fucking couch. You can see clots if you look close enough, and while Duane’s filming this thing I fill him in on last night. “Alien tried to kill herself.”

Duane turns away from the blood, giving me a look like,
That came from Alien?

I say, “No, she tried to jump out the window. Where the fuck were you?”

He busts out laughing and says, “Man, that would have been awesome if she did it.”

I shake my head, get my phone and call Tristan to see if he knows anything. He picks up and I ask, “What the fuck, dude? There’s fucking blood all over the place.”

He says, “Dude, Nik…it’s cool.”

“No it’s not, man. What the fuck happened?” I ask. “It looks like someone fucking stabbed themselves.”

“Oh, nah man, it’s fine. It’s just G-Girl,” he says. “She’s on her period.”

“Then get the fuck up here and clean this shit up, man.”

“Let a maid do it.”

“Tristan,” I say. “You fucked this girl—you unplugged her, you O.J.’d her. Get the fuck up her and clean this shit.”

Meanwhile, Duane is still taping the couch, taping me on the phone and laughing his ass off. Tristan comes up to the room, but I can already tell it’s to argue his case in person rather than clean up the mess. Duane tries to hand him a wet washcloth, bitching about being recorded and that we should “just let the maid do her job.” He starts working on the stain, begrudgingly, but the blood has been soaking into the fabric for so long that all Tristan is accomplishing is getting the couch wet. Nothing’s
coming out, and Duane keeps recording the whole ordeal and laughing.

Then I decide to give Tristan an even shittier job than cleaning period blood.

I say, “Round up the girls and get them down to the pool.”

Of course, they’re probably in any room but the ones they’re supposed to be in. Girls like Alien and Leper don’t go to bed alone, and they’re never where they’re supposed to be.

Leper and Alien make it down to the pool at Rehab, already drunk
on minibar booze and whatever pills they took. Apparently, G-Girl was too embarrassed about the period blood thing to come down, so it’s the Leper and Alien show: stripping, kissing, almost fucking in this cabana that we’re in. Cameras clicking away or recording. It doesn’t take a lot to get them going because they’re still drunk from last night, and security has to constantly watch these girls because the fucking guidos and muscle-heads are getting too aggressive. Hundreds of people are watching this play out, and if you listen closely you can hear random dudes say things like, “Those are the two chicks from last night I was telling you about.”