by Ni-Ni Simone
“In addition to the imposed stipulations, Rich Montgomery, you are hereby sentenced to ten days in the Lorna P. Johnson Youth Detention Center, where you can clutch your pearls and be fabulous.”
I crumbled to the floor. “Nooooooo!”
The judge banged her gavel down.
“Sheriffs, get her out of here. Next case . . .”
35
Heather
Kee-kee-kee . . .
Oh, God, what was that awful cackling sound?
My head pounded.
Kee-kee-kee . . .
Someone was laughing.
“Ooh, yasssss, hunnnty. Look at that stank bish. Dead to the world . . .”
Hunh?
Was I dreaming?
Yes, yes. I had to be.
Damn it. Why did Camille have the AC up so high?
I inhaled. My nose scrunched. Something smelled foul, like rancid meat and Swiss cheese. Ugh. Disgusting.
“Damn, though. That phatty right,” I thought I heard someone say.
But, nah . . . that couldn’t be. I was dreaming, right?
My lids fluttered a bit, but they refused to open.
I heard someone tsk. “Boo, please, that thing’s fake . . .”
Wait. Was that Co-Co?
“Anyways, why you looking at that? She’s all plastic, all sil-i coned out. I’m the real deal, ready, willing, and able . . .”
“Yeah, but you a dude, brah. I don’t roll that way.”
Kee-kee-kee . . .
“Well, close your eyes, and let’s pretend . . .”
“Nah, B. I’m good on that.”
I heard someone’s lip smack, or teeth suck, or something.
“Oh, well. Your loss. You’ll be missing out on all of this duck sauce.”
I sniffed again. Ew, I thought, grimacing. It smelled like a funk factory in here.
Did Camille forget to take out the trash?
Kee-kee-kee . . .
“Mmmph. Look at her,” I heard.
It definitely sounded like Co-Co. But Co-Co wouldn’t be in my room. Camille would rather shoot him between the eyes than welcome him inside.
Kee-kee-kee . . .
My head throbbed. It felt like someone was banging cymbals inside my skull.
Lord, I wish they’d shut up all that cackling. Yeah, this was definitely a dream. No, a nightmare. Yet there were no images of anything or anyone swirling around in my head.
I was so, so tired. I tried to snuggle deeper into my—
Wait. Why was my mattress so hard?
Eyes still shut tight, I stretched my arm out and patted my mat—
Ohmygod! I wasn’t on a mattress. I was on a wood floor. No sheets, no blankets.
One eye snapped open, then fluttered back shut. It was so damn bright in here. I blinked a more few times and tried to lift my head, but it was lead-heavy.
Finally, I was able to force my eyelids open long enough to peer through my long purple lace front wig. In a haze, I strained to focus my view. Head still pressed to the floor, I blinked, then managed to lift an arm to swipe hair from out of my face.
My eyes batted several more times.
The room finally came into view. And there stood two sets of feet. A long pair of smoky gray Timbs and a pair of dainty feet stuffed into silver peep-toe pumps.
And then I felt it.
The draft. A chill swept over my body, and I shivered.
“Well, look who has finally been resurrected,” a voice said.
My other eye opened, and then they both widened as I shot up from the floor and met the gaze of Co-Co and some tall, husky dude with lots of big clunky gold chains dangling around his neck from, from . . .
Last night.
“Aaah!” I screamed, realizing I was in nothing but my red thong. Where were my clothes? I threw my arms over my boobs, trying to cover myself. “What the hell happened here last night? Where are my clothes?”
“Girrrrrrrrrrrl, you slayed,” Co-Co said, throwing me some quilted blanket. “No need to play coy now. We’ve all seen everything you’re made of.” He giggled. “You’re new name is Pole Rider, hunty.”
I cringed, wrapping the questionable blanket around me, stomping around the sparsely decorated loft until I reached my clothes, which were somehow strewn in a pile over in a corner on the other side of the large space.
We were at a party last night. I’d done a walk-through at Club Tantrum and had towed Co-Co along. And then from there we’d gone to a new spot called Sweet Sensations. I made my coins, then we—wait. What did we do after that?
I groaned as my memory suddenly became clearer. But I still didn’t recall coming here.
“How’d I get here?” I questioned, slipping into my purple jumper. I shoved my feet into my crystal-studded heels.
I remembered drinking (yes, there had been lots of drinking!) and lines of goodness and lots of dancing. God, no! It was all coming back to me. I’d been up on a table and then on a stage, getting caught up in the hype.
“Oh,” Co-Co said. “You remember Dope Boy, don’t you?”
I blinked, then shook my head and frowned. “No.”
He grinned, showing a row of gold fronts. “What’s good, ma? You sure know how’ta party.”
“Is this your place?” I asked, ignoring his lecherous leer.
He nodded. “Yeah. It can be yours, too, if you want it to be.”
He licked his lips, and I rolled my eyes.
“How did I get here?”
“Miss Hunty,” Co-Co said, snapping his fingers and thrusting his pelvis, “we rode the limo and got allllll the way lit, boo. We had that one-fifty-one, that sizzurp, Ciroc, endless bottles of Cristal, and goodie bags of White Mink.”
I groaned. White Mink was another brand of Co-Co’s powdered goodness, which—as he told it—was a crushed mixture of Ritalin, NoDoz, Dramamine, and cocaine.
I tried to swallow, but it hurt like heck. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. My fingers tingled. I shook my hands out, trying to get my circulation flowing again.
I looked around for my purse. “What time was the party over?”
Gold Fronts and Co-Co glanced over at each other.
“Girrrrrrl, the party was two nights ago.”
36
London
Saturday night was finally here.
The night of reckoning, I thought, as I glanced out the window of my limo. I reached for a bottle of champagne, then set it back on the bar, deciding against it. I didn’t want to be sloshed. But I needed something for my nerves. I reached into my purse and pulled out my pill case, opening it and taking another one of my anxiety pills.
I swallowed it dry.
I’d been stalking Anderson’s social media pages all day to make sure his plans to party with his frat brothers were still on. They were. God, I felt so desperate. Heck. I was desperate. But what else could I do? I didn’t have any other choice. Without taking drastic measures, how else would I get Anderson to notice me?
And I needed him to see me. Tonight. All. Of. Me.
The thick glass partition slid down. “We’re here, Miss London,” my driver said as we pulled up in front of Club Sixty-Six Paradise in Santa Monica.
Under normal circumstances, this wasn’t a place I’d be caught dead at. But there wasn’t anything normal about any of this. I was on a mission to reclaim what was rightfully mine—my place back on Anderson’s arm.
The limo stopped. And then, seconds later, the driver was opening my door, helping me out. My stomach lurched. I’d never gone to a nightclub by myself.
Let alone one like this.
I hadn’t been here but one other time... with Rich. I shook the images of her running up on her ex-boyfriend Corey, who’d she’d learned had been cheating on her with multiple girls, and attacking him.
“Shall I wait for you?” my driver asked, shutting the door behind me.
I nodded. “Yes. No. I mean, you can come back if you’d like. I should be no more t
han an hour.”
“Very well,” he said. He stood outside and waited for me to open the doors of the club. I frowned. Where were the doormen? Where were the red carpet and velvet rope? I glanced back at my driver, then waved, then stepped inside, the heavy double doors closing behind me.
Missy Elliott’s “I’m Better” blasted through speakers. The whole club was bathed in the glow of red lights. The place was packed. People were everywhere. Wannabe rappers. Wannabe models. Wannabe actors. College students. And then there were a slew of trust-fund babies tossing bottles and bouncing to the beat.
When the DJ slid Chris Brown’s “Party” on, the crowd went wild, moving and bouncing in mock Chris Brown fashion. I heard catcalls and girls doing their sorority calls. And then I heard barking.
I squinted, trying to adjust my eyes to the strobe lights and fog to catch a better look. But all I could see was a sea of bodies jumping up and down. I didn’t know where to look or when to stop staring.
Clutching my purse to my chest, I stood on my tiptoes, straining to get a better look. But all I saw were people dancing, not just on the floor, but on tabletops as well.
“Daaaaamn, baby,” someone said in back of me, leaning in my ear, “you hotter than a bowl of pepper sauce. Can I get a lick?”
I froze. My heart stopped.
I craned my neck over my shoulder and came face-to-face with a gap-toothed guy wearing dark designer shades and a do-rag. He flicked his tongue at me, and I almost screamed.
“You fine, baby. Wanna dance? I wanna give you my babies on the dance floor.”
Ew. Yuck. I frowned. If I were anything like Rich, I would have knocked him in the head with my purse or offered him a breath mint. But I wasn’t Rich, so I simply moved away from him, nearly running toward the other side of the club.
I positioned myself near the bar and looked out over the dance floor.
“You know, if you stand on one of the tables, you’ll get a better view, and you’ll give us all a better view of you,” a brown-skinned guy said, bending down to shout in my ear, a flirty grin on his face.
In back of him were a group of guys all gawking at me, grinning.
Suddenly, I felt severely overdressed (and yet very naked at the same time) in my five-inch gold metallic open-toe T-strapped Giuseppe Zanotti sandals and slinky off-the-shoulder black way-too-form-fitting dress that outlined every curve and dip of my body.
A dress I would have never dared to wear if it hadn’t been for the fact that I was on a mission.
I blinked. “No. I’m good. Thank you.” And then I was ignoring him leering at me. I stood on my tiptoes again, letting out a sigh of relief when I finally spotted a group of fraternity guys in the center of the dance floor, all wearing purple and gold.
Oh. My. Gaaawd. Was that Anderson lifting some girl up in the air and spinning her around, while his boys barked and did rhythmic steps?
The guy spun his dance partner around several times, then let her down, and she slid between his legs before grabbing him by the waist and grinding on his butt.
I frowned.
Someone handed the guy a bottle, and I watched as he shook it—a magnum of champagne—and then started spraying two girls wearing pink T-shirts and white booty shorts and what looked to be six-inch heels.
I blinked.
It was him . . . Anderson!
Now what was I to do? Stalk over to him and demand he put her down? Or did I play it casual and shimmy my way over to him and pretend I didn’t notice him?
Ugh. I didn’t shimmy. And I didn’t I have the guts to simply storm over there and tap him on the shoulder. But it was now or never. What was a girl to do . . . ?
“Wanna dance?” a voice asked over the music.
I sized the guy up. He was nondescript, almost nerdy, and seemingly harmless enough. Still, I wasn’t interested.
“No. No thank you.”
He looked disappointed. “Well, let me buy you a drink, please.” He waggled his brows. He saw the look on my face. Then added, “No strings attached. You just look like you could use something to relax you.”
“Um . . .”
Wait. What was I thinking? I wouldn’t get to the man of my heart’s desire by playing wallflower. No. I had to play the game and make my way to the dance floor.
I forced a smile. “Sure.” One drink couldn’t hurt. Could it?
* * *
Three finished drinks later, heels stuffed in my purse, apprehensions gone, caution tossed to the wind, the goody-goody girl persona tucked away, I was on the dance floor singing along to Nicki Minaj’s “I Am Your Leader.”
I’d left my fourth drink half-empty on one of the cordoned-off tables. I couldn’t remember the guy’s name I was dancing with, but he wasn’t the guy who had been buying me drinks. He said he was a rapper, on Grand Records.
Grand Records?
Wait. Isn’t that?
God, what’s his name?
Born Sun, or Born Allah, or something like that.
“Baby, me and my mans wanna take you home,” he said, leaning into my ear. His warm, Hennessy-soaked breath tickled my earlobe.
I giggled over the music. “Oh, I already have a driver,” I said, my words coming out in one big slur.
God, my head was spinning.
Bright lights flashed.
Another shower of champagne rained down on everyone’s head, and I giggled again as I twirled under the flashing, multicolored lights, throwing my hands up and letting myself get wet.
And then... and then Born-something-the rapper was pulling me into him, his pelvis pressed into me, his hands sliding up the sides of my dress. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the music, but his hand crept up just below the edge of my panties.
I pushed his hands down and spun out of his grasp. God, I hadn’t come for this. To be pawed on. All I wanted was my man. Where was my man?
I want my Anderson. Anderson, baby. I’m here. Blurry-eyed, I glanced around the fog-induced dance floor. Where had Anderson gone?
Mr. Nasty Rap Boy was right back in back of me, one arm gripping around my waist, while his free arm grabbed my boob. No, no, no . . .
I spun out of his grasp and tried to walk off the floor. But he yanked my arm and pulled me back into him. “Yo, don’t walk away from me, you li’l tease. I’m not done with ya trick-azz.” He nipped at my ear. “You know you want this wood.” He slammed his pelvis into me. “You feel that?”
God, no, no, no . . .
The throbbing in my head wouldn’t stop. The dance floor spun, and more fizzy liquid sprayed over us.
“Get your filthy hands off me, you asshole!” I screamed, slapping him. I pushed him in the chest, and he stumbled back. His eyes narrowed as fury washed over his face and as he drew his hand back. And I saw his fist coming.
Ohmygod. He was going to hit—
To my complete bewilderment, a huge beefy hand caught Rapper Boy’s fist as if it were a baseball landing in a mitt.
“Nah, brah. Not here,” a big burly man wearing a black suit and a headset said over a Mozzy rap song, squeezing the rapper’s hand, causing him to drop to his knees and scream. Cameras flashed as the bouncer roughed the rapper up, dragging him off the dance floor.
I backed hastily away, wanting to get out of this rattrap as fast as I could before the rapper boy’s posse caught sight of their friend being hauled out of the nightclub and it turned into a melee.
I would have run if my legs hadn’t been wobbling. So I quickly turned and bumped right into—
Anderson.
I blinked. He was holding an icy bottle of Cristal and had a scowl on his face.
“London? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Oh, Anderson,” I squeaked. And though my mind was in a haze, I remembered leaping up and throwing myself on him, wrapping my arms around his neck, and kissing all over him. “Mmm. Mmm. I miss you so much. I love you, Anderson.”
I heard my words slurring.
“Whoa,” I
heard Anderson say. His voice droned in and out over the music. “Are you . . . drunk?” He pried me off of him, sliding me back to my feet.
And then suddenly I didn’t feel so good. I felt woozy. Everything blurred. My purse dropped. And the last thing I heard was a loud thump as I fell to the floor.
37
Spencer
I always knew Low Money was from the kingdom of holand.
Bwahahahahahaha . . .
LONDON PHILLIPS CAUGHT SAUCED, SLURRING HER WORDS AND
DROOLING OVER THE VERY RICH AND VERY BEEFY ANDERSON
FORD AT A SANTA MONICA NIGHTCLUB . . .
At the bottom of the caption were two black-and-white photos of ole Miss Puritan. One was of her hugging onto Anderson, her legs wrapped around his waist, her dress hiked up over her hips, while her arms dangled haphazardly around his neck. And she was planting what appeared to be either kisses all over (or licking on) his face (eye roll). And the other photo was of her sprawled out on the dance floor, her dress barely covering her amazonian assets.
Heeheehee.
I balled over in a fit of laughter before I continued reading the article.
Rumor has it London desperately wants her once-upon-a-time parent-approved beau back. Partygoers watched as a very inebriated (um, code word for sloppy drunk) London practically offered the young billionaire her ovaries on a champagne-soaked dance floor. Um, no shade, but doesn’t Anderson Ford have his sights—and perhaps his hands and other body parts—on a very hot Russian who shall be nameless? Hint, hint—she’s a famous teen supermodel . . .
I sucked my teeth. London was so thirsty. Desperate. And apparently she was a lush too. I took another glance at the two photos, and this time I shook my head.
What a tragic mess!
I moved onto the next headline.
POPPING BOTTLES WASN’T THE ONLY THING LONDON PHILLIPS
WAS CAUGHT DOING SATURDAY NIGHT. LOOKS LIKE THE TEEN
SOCIALITE WAS POPPING THE OOCHIE-WALLY TRYING TO GIVE
MONEY SHOTS AS SHE BACKED THAT THANG ALL THE WAY UP ON
UP-AND-COMING-RAPPER, BORN SUN-ALLAH, WHO’S KNOWN BY
THE STREETS FOR HIS GRAPHIC LYRICS AND THUG PERSONA...
