by Kylie Adams
“American Express Gold Rewards.”
“Oh,” Simone said flatly. No money had gone out to that account. Oops. Well, who could really blame her? She had so many different cards. As busy as she was, Simone really needed a bookkeeper to sort out everything.
“I can take a payment over the phone right now,” the woman pressed.
“Yes, you’ve made that quite clear,” Simone snapped. “But at the moment, I’m not prepared to do that.”
“How much can you pay? We’re willing to work with you on a scheduled payment plan. Of course, your card privilegeswill remain suspended until the balance is paid in full.”
Nervously, Simone began digging into her leggings.Within seconds, her nails had made a vicious run going from calf to ankle. “I need some time to ... study my cash flow situation. I’ll have to call you back.”
“When can we expect to hear from you?”
“Very soon. By the end of the day at the latest.”
“I’ll note that on the account.”
Simone hung up. She took in a deep breath, trying not to panic. Eleven thousand dollars. It seemed impossible. Well, not really. She had charged the limited edition super large bottle (twenty heavenly ounces) of Juicy Couture perfume. That alone had been three grand. Now she only had eight thousandto account for.
Part of her problem was her inability to sleep through the night. Sometimes she could just lay there for what seemed like hours, worrying herself sick about Tommy Robb or the state of her personal finances. And then, to soothe her nerves and boost her mood, Simone would find herself shopping online in the wee hours.
Neiman Marcus provided the best therapy. She always paid extra for express shipping and the deluxe gift wrap, even includingencouraging notes to herself. Two days later, she was opening a lavish box with a card that read, SIMONE, YOU DESERVETHIS! The only sense of remorse came when the Jean Kents of the world started calling. Sixty days should not be considered past due. They should give her a month or so to get around to opening the bill, and after that, at least another two months to arrange proper payment. Under that civilized arrangement, her account would still be in good standing.
Simone gazed at her reflection in the dressing room mirror.She tried to engage herself in deep thought on the perils of reckless spending. But she became preoccupied by the fact that she really needed a Resculpting Facial at Tracy Martyn. There went three hundred dollars. So much for soul-searching.
On a sudden impulse, Simone called her longtime agent, Sue Hotchner.With all the attention surrounding The Beehive, there had to be a way to make a fast paycheck.
Sue answered her line with the muffled sound of food in her mouth. “Sue Hotchner.”
“Hi, Sue, it’s Simone Williams.”
“Hold on a sec.” There was the sound of more eating, rustling wrappers, and then a hacking smoker’s cough. “Sorry about that. How are you, sweetheart? The show is doing great. I’m proud of you.”
Simone managed a faint smile.“According to the critics, I’m just along for the ride.”
“Fuck ’em,” Sue barked. “Your show’s a hit. That’s all that matters.”
“It doesn’t pay enough,” Simone said matter-of-factly.
Sue fell silent for a moment. “It’s too soon to renegotiate, doll. Wait until the show gets picked up for a second season. I’ll go to bat for you then.”
“I understand that,” Simone said. “But I need money now. As fast as possible.”
“Are you on drugs?” Sue asked sharply.
“No!” Simone protested fiercely. “I have a sky high American Express bill.”
“Oh, well, that’s respectable. I can get behind that.”
“I need something on the weekends,” Simone said. “Or at night. The show has me tied up in the morning and most of the afternoon, so the little acting gigs don’t work anymore.”
“It just so happens that one of my soap stars fell through on a Target store opening in New Jersey this Saturday. Pays five grand for just a few hours’ work.”
“I’ll take it,” Simone blurted without so much as a micro-momentof consideration. After all, five thousand dollars was five thousand dollars.
“They want a hunk, but I think I can sell them on you.”
“What do I have to do exactly?” Simone asked.
“Cut the ribbon at the official opening ceremony, pose for pictures, that sort of thing. Let me get it set up. I’ll call you back.”
Simone nodded proudly, impressed with her industrious, proactive approach to the American Express problem. And then a ripple of awareness flowed through her ... that the cheese factor for this gig was high.Very high.
A department store opening. In New Jersey. Just when she thought true success was within reach, it had come to this. The handlers of Miss Hawaiian Tropic had probably turned it down.
But what else could Simone expect? Lower tier opportunitieswere the rule—not the exception—at the Sue Hotchner Agency. The best opportunity to come Simone’s way in years had been The Beehive.And she had stumbled across that on her own during a long wait to audition for Sassy Black Hooker Number Two on one of the Law & Order franchise shows. Sue had worked the phones and somehow wrangled an interview for Simone. But a real agent would have known about the show from the jump.
Sutton and Emma were polished television pros with top-flight agents behind them. Even Finn had managed to score a serious representative at the William Morris Agency. And here was Simone, stuck with a second-stringer like Sue Hotchner, a fat, chain-smoking hustler who worked out of her apartment on the Lower East Side.
Simone’s mobile vibrated.
It was Sue. “Hi, doll. It’s done. Ribbon cutting is set for ten o’clock. They’re thrilled to have you. I’ll e-mail the rest of the details.”
“Great,” Simone murmured, her enthusiasm already down for the count. She knew that by Saturday she would probably prefer waterboarding torture to following through on the appearance.
She began gathering her things to leave and noticed Jinx Wiatt’s book on the edge of the end table.
I find that many self-proclaimed stalker victims are simply not ready to let go of the relationship, either. They’re holding on just as hard.
As the horrible woman’s words ricocheted in her mind, Simone felt a renewed sense of outrage as she stomped over to the sofa and began to flip though the bitch’s self-help tripe. She stopped on a section entitled THE RULE OF EXTREMITIES: SHOCK YOUR EX RIGHT OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM.
ONE SUREFIRE METHOD FOR GETTING OVER AN EX—AND GETTING OVER HIM FAST—IS TO SHOCK YOUR SYSTEM WITH SOME OPPOSITES-ATTRACT EXCITEMENT. GO TO THE EXTREME, GIRLS. IF YOU BROKE UP WITH A BANKER, THEN START DATING A BANK ROBBER—OR AT LEAST A GUY WHO’S BEEN ARRESTED ONCE. TAKE INVENTORY OF YOUR BEDROOM HABITS, TOO. WHATEVER YOU DIDN’T DO WITH YOUR EX, DEFINITELY DO WITH YOUR NEW MAN. LIGHT BONDAGE, ROLE PLAY, ANAL—UNLESS YOU’VE BEEN A COMPLETE SLUT, THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING LEFT TO ADD TO YOUR SEXUAL RÉSUMÉ.
Simone tossed the book aside. It was garbage. And the woman who wrote it was toxic waste. The nerve of her to suggest that she was somehow participating in Tommy Robb’s madness as a way to stay connected to him. The suggestion was completely ridiculous. She glanced at the book again. Ex Marks the Spot: How to Know When You’re Really Over Him. What rubbish.
Unable to resist and hating herself for it, Simone began to read more from a section called DON’T FOOL YOURSELF INTO THINKING THAT YOU’RE JUST WAITING FOR SOMEONE EXTRAORDINARYTO COME ALONG.
THE ONLY WAY TO GET OVER AN EX IS TO SADDLE UP AND RIDE AGAIN, EVEN IF THE NEXT GUY TURNS OUT TO BE A TOTAL JERK, TOO. ONE PITFALL OF A NASTY BREAKUP IS TO SIMPLY GIVE UP ON DATING UNTIL YOU MEET MR. FANTASTIC. AND CHANCES ARE YOU’RE WAITING ON A BETTER VERSION OF YOUR EX. IF YOUR GUY WAS A TELEVISION ACTOR, THEN YOU PROBABLY WANT A MOVIE STAR. IF HE WAS A CORPORATE EXECUTIVE, THEN YOU PROBABLY WANT A CEO. AND SO ON. THE KEY IS DATING, DARLINGS ... NOT WAITING. SO IF A CUTE DELIVERY DRIVER ASKS YOU OUT FOR PIZZA, TELL HIM THAT YOU’L
L BE READY AT SEVEN.
Once again, Simone tossed aside the book in a visible show of disgust. The trouble was, Jinx Wiatt’s chatty prose seemed to be speaking directly to her situation. A secret part of Simone was holding out for Derek Jeter, a bigger name in baseball than Tommy Robb would ever be. And since the breakup with him, Simone had stopped dating altogether. Hmm. Maybe she should stop skimming the goddamn book and just read the stupid thing from cover to cover.
Half-ashamed, she snatched Jinx’s ex manifesto and shoved it inside her Louis Vuitton shopping tote on her way out the door, realizing with great frustration that she had serious trouble with men, money, and career. Oh, God! Was anything in Simone’s life working?
She waved good-bye to the remaining crew members that lingered and moved quickly toward the studio exit, anxious to get back to her apartment to cuddle with Chanel and find out what financial crimes were waiting in the mailbox.
“Okay, it’s on now, bitch!”
Simone glanced up to see an obscenely dressed black woman rushing toward her on the sidewalk. She froze.
“That’s right, high yellow ho! It’s on!”
Simone just stood there, observing the scene as if she were outside her own body. “Excuse me, do I know you?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know who I am, bitch!”
“This isn’t an act,” Simone insisted, her fear rising. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Do you see me now, ho? Do you see me now?”
Simone glanced nervously at passersby, deeply ashamed that even a stranger might assume that she would have any reason to engage in conversation with such a dreadful woman. “You must have me confused with someone else.” She started to walk away.
But the woman moved fast to block her. “There’s only one high yellow bitch trying to talk to my man.” She punctuatedher accusation by jabbing her index finger into the centerof Simone’s chest. “And that’s you, ho.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And please keep your hands off me. God knows where they’ve been!”
The woman splayed out her hands. “I’ll tell you where these hands have been, bitch. I had them wrapped around Kevon’s big black dick this morning while I sucked him all the way to heaven and back. That’s where they’ve been.”
Reeling from shock, Simone gasped. This had to be the most vile woman she had ever encountered.
“And that’s where these hands will stay. Believe that, bitch. No high yellow designer-wearing uppity-acting ho is going to move in on my man. Hell to the no. Luscious Brown don’t play that shit.”
Simone tried to determine which aspect of Luscious Brown was worse—the cheap blonde weave, the platinum-enhanced teeth, the breast implants that were at least two sizes too large for her frame, the tight white leather jacket and matching miniskirt, or the freaky nails that extended an inch or more and jingled with little charms attached to the tips. Simone came to the quick conclusion that the entire package was beyondtragic.
“Do you hear me, bitch?” Luscious shouted.
But the worst part about Luscious Brown was not her appearance.It was Simone’s realization that she had something in common with her. Polar opposites or not, they both wanted the same thing.
Kevon Edmonds.
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
Winners and losers. That’s the way the world keeps score. But a certain group of randy young bastards who pride themselves on playing the cougar game at Stone Rose might want to consider a recount. Accordingto one chatty member of this littlefraternity, every night one lad in the group draws the short straw and has to pick up the “cougar with the oldest tw*#.” It rhymes with knot, darlings, and it’s just not a nice word. In fact, I hate to even repeat it here. But it turns out the man who lost came out the real winner in the end. That aging TV talk show host he seducedand bedded is now his sugar mommy.
17
Sutton
“How do I look?” Scooter asked.
Sutton adjusted the spread collar on the Italian cotton paisley button-front shirt by Etro. “Absolutely delicious,” she whispered,running her hands across his impressive pectorals.
“A woman’s never bought me clothes before.”
“How does it feel?”
“Kind of hot.” He smiled at her.
She smiled back.
The Barney’s sales associate hovered. “It’s a beautiful shirt. Very classic.”
“Do you like it?” Sutton asked.
Scooter strutted over to the full-length mirror and gave himself an approving nod. “I do. I think it suits me.”
Sutton slipped a credit card to the associate. “We’ll take it.”
Scooter noticed a sales tag dangling from the shirt cuff and inspected it curiously. His eyes went wide. “Jesus! This shirt is over three hundred dollars!”
Sutton laughed, then sotto voce to the sales associate murmured, “He’s used to shopping at Old Navy.”
Scooter disappeared into the fitting room and returned wearing his own cheap long-sleeve thermal, delicately handlingthe designer garment by the collar.
The associate stepped forward to take possession. “We just got in some amazing new jeans by Roberto Cavalli that would look great with this.You look like a thirty-two. Am I right?”
Scooter looked at Sutton, a question in his eyes.
She grinned. “Try them on.”
The associate needed no further prompting. In record time he was back and ushering Scooter into the fitting room again.
He emerged wearing medium-blue wash jeans with snakeskin-lined pockets. They were just snug enough, clingingto his drum-tight ass as if the denim’s life depended on it.
“How do they feel?” Sutton asked.
“Awesome,” Scooter said. Once more, he stole a peek at the sales tag. “Holy shit! These cost six hundred bucks!”
Sutton stepped toward him and slipped a hand underneath the waistband. “If you want them, they’re yours.”
Scooter glanced over to the associate. “Excuse us for a moment. We need to have a short conference.” And then he took Sutton by the hand and pulled her inside the tiny fitting room.
Taken by surprise, she started to laugh. “What are you doing?”
Scooter cradled her hips with his hands and moved in close enough to breathe her breath. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Buy me expensive things.”
“Maybe I want to.”
He gave her a sexy, lopsided grin and pressed into her. “It sort of makes me feel like a gigolo.”
Sutton could feel his arousal through the top-grade denim. An insatiable need to have him—right here, right now—rose up within her.
Scooter leaned in and gently bit down on her lower lip as his hands slid south to cup her ass. “Do I fuck you that good? So good that you’re willing to pay for it?” He pulled her closer against him.
Sutton got drunk on the power and heat of his hardness. An insane, all-consuming desire left her speechless, almost breathless.
“Answer me,” Scooter demanded thickly. “Do I fuck you that good?”
Sutton swallowed hard. “Yes.” She had no idea what was going to happen next. But she knew with every advancing heartbeat that it would be exquisitely dirty.
In a surprise move, he turned her around, pressed her against the wall, and pushed up her skirt, handling her with deliberate firmness, just a few degrees away from being rough. She could sense his fingers working on the buttons of the Cavalli fly.
He whispered into her ear, “Have you ever done it like this before?”
Sutton shook her head. She was ashamed and turned on at the same time. All that she yearned for was him inside her. It was a raw, naked need.
Scooter shoved two fingers inside her open mouth.
Greedily, Sutton sucked on them as she savored the heat of his hard cock against her.
“Do I fuck you good eno
ugh for a new pair of leather boots?”
Sutton nodded, desperate for him to enter her.
Scooter’s hot hands pulled at her panties, providing an opening. “Do I fuck you good enough for a Rolex?”
Sutton nodded again.
And then in one vicious thrust, Scooter knocked out what little breath remained in Sutton’s lungs. He was fast, ruthless, and selfish. In fact, when he climaxed only a few minutes later, he withdrew and immediately began to get dressed, offeringno regard for her pleasure.
For a long moment, she stood there, trying to recover. There was the stark realization that he had just used her body. And there was the more surprising one that she had secretly enjoyed it, orgasm or not. Being a receptacle for his lust filled Sutton with a near-delirious sense of pride. She thought of those stupid executives at the Fox News Channel and their secret memo about the “fuckability factor” of on-air female talent. She had ranked the lowest. If only they could see her now.
“You really are a nasty girl, aren’t you? First a blow job in the bathroom at the bar and now a quickie right here. I just might have to finger-fuck you in the cab on the way back to your apartment.”
Sutton tried to suppress her reaction, but a little smile of pleasure crept its way onto her mouth.
“Is everything okay?” the associate inquired with a cocked eyebrow as they reemerged onto the sales floor.
“Everything’s awesome,” Scooter said, tossing him the Cavalli jeans. “We’ll take these, too.” Suddenly, his eyes wandered,zeroing in on a drop-dead attractive associate strutting toward them.
“If you’re looking for something casual, Mr. Friedberg, then these shirts by Etro would be a great choice. They’re very popular. Perfect for a night out to a party or a club.”
Sutton’s stomach did a couple of revolutions as she saw Garrison trundle behind the stick-thin blonde.
He gave the line up of vibrantly printed shirts a derisive snort. “Looks like something a fag would wear.”
Then he noticed Sutton and shrewdly looked at Scooter, the male associate, and back to her again, putting it all together.The man missed no small detail.
