Heels, Heartache & Headlines

by Ni-Ni Simone

  “Oh, London,” he said, dryly. “I didn’t recognize the number. I guess that’s what happens when you delete numbers from your phone. Out of sight, out of mind. Feel me?”

  My stomach lurched.

  I held my breath, then meekly said, “I guess I deserved that.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said curtly. “But, uh, how can I help you?”

  My heart ached as I swallowed back the thick knot slowly coiling around in the back of my throat. “I was thinking about you.”

  “You were thinking about me? Ha! That’s a laugh. What for? You’ve never given me a thought unless it was convenient for you. So, what? Now that that YouTube gangster has dumped you for your little bestie, you’re feeling all alone and thought you’d reach out and touch, and I’d take your hand? Is that it?”

  “No,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I don’t care about that. They can have each other.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, okay. Well, count your blessings. I told you that bum was no good for you, anyway. Told you he had three baby mamas and you still wanted to be with trash. You didn’t want a good man, London. You wanted some thieving thug-boy.”

  “. . . 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. 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 . . .”

  I choked back a sob.

  I wanted so badly to tell him that I was ready. Ready for a good man. Ready for him to be my man. Ready to be his girl. Ready to be loved by him. Ready to give him my love. But something deep inside of me wouldn’t let me.

  My lips quivered.

  “I feel so stupid. I should have listened to you.”

  “Yeah, maybe you should have. And I also told you to delete my number, remember?”

  “I know, but. I-I . . .”

  “Hey, listen. Let me call you back. I’m in the South of France with my new boo. I’ll holla.”

  My heart sank.

  So the rumors were true. He was really seeing that Russian model chick. Ivina Something-or-another. I’d seen her around the fashion circuit. And we’d even paired up during Fashion Week in Milan. She’d moved to Paris when she was seventeen. And was signed to Viva Models. And her face was always plastered on the cover of Russian Vogue.

  And now she was with Anderson.

  Bish!

  “Oh, okay. I just wanted to say—”

  Click!

  My stomach lurched.

  I’m sorry . . .

  24

  London

  “I know who your mistress is . . .”

  Those six words had been haunting me ever since I’d heard them spoken. No matter how hard I tried to shake it, the statement “I know who your mistress is” replayed in my head over and over, like some old dirty juke joint song being sung-cried by a love-scorned, jilted lover.

  My mother.

  I’d pressed my ear closer to the cracked door the night she’d spewed those words out to be sure I’d heard her right. There was no mistaking it. She’d said it. Daddy was cheating on her. I know who your mistress is. Those were her words to him, slung out at him like hot grits as they were down in his study, arguing over me.

  A part of me still blamed me for that night.

  Maybe they wouldn’t have argued if I hadn’t unraveled, if I hadn’t become undone, if I hadn’t let go of the proverbial rope and fallen into a dark, ugly pit.

  Maybe.

  Daddy had come home from our father-daughter night, mentally spent that night, after he had to literally scoop me up in his arms and carry me out of Nobu—one of my favorite Japanese restaurants in West Hollywood. We’d gone for dinner. But everything around me started to spin out of control. Fast.

  Much of the evening had become one big blur. But fragments of that night still floated around in the dark corners of my mind.

  That night, I’d felt myself slipping in and out of consciousness, almost like I was having an out-of-body experience. I was there, but I wasn’t there. I was fighting to keep it together. I wanted to be there with Daddy. Wanted to be in the moment with him. But my heart wouldn’t let me.

  A few days prior, Rich and I had had a nasty fistfight at Club Tantrum over Justice—well, not really over him, but about him—and I was still sulking over it. I’d confronted her about my suspicions that she and Justice had hooked up. I’d attempted to show her the anonymous photos sent to me via courier, while I was in Europe, of Justice’s hand spread over the butt cheeks of some girl with a colorful butterfly tattooed just above her booty crack. The hand was Justice’s; that much I was sure of. The tattoo of a small black dagger with blood dripping from its tip on the webbed part between his thumb and forefinger had been the giveaway.

  And the only girl who I knew with a butterfly over her butt crack was . . . Rich.

  But that night down at Club Tantrum didn’t go as planned. Rich got nasty. Became belligerent. Berated me. And, then, the rest of the night got terribly ugly after I tossed my drink in her face. We tore that lounge up before security tossed us both out.

  On top of that, Justice had still been refusing to answer any of my calls. Then he’d blocked my number.

  Justice had dumped me. Rich had betrayed me. Anderson had had enough of me and no longer wanted to be bothered with me. And my mother, with her constant micromanaging of my life, had finally gotten the best of me.

  She wanted to rearrange me.

  In her eyes, from the neck up, I was perfect. “Face, gorgeous. Neck, fabulous; so graceful and swanlike . . .”

  But from the neck down, she wanted to have me go under the knife because I wasn’t catwalk perfect. My ethnic booty was too much excess baggage for the runway. Or as she’d so lewdly put it while swiping her manicured hand over the curve of my behind, “There is just waaaaay too much of this... if we can just do away with this camel hump . . .”

  My mother had called my behind a camel hump!

  She’d said she needed me hanger thin. That she needed to do damage control in order to keep me booked for more shows. For her, my plump rump was a hindrance, a liability to my career on the runway.

  And she couldn’t have that.

  Being a model is what she’d aspired to for me since my birth. Forget what I might have wanted. It didn’t matter. My mother had had her own plans for my life already mapped out for me. And there’d be no deviations from it, as far as she was concerned.

  So her browbeating and ridicule, coupled with the stress of Justice dumping me, then Anderson giving me an ultimatum—him or Justice—then walking out on me when I couldn’t make a choice—it all had taken a disastrous toll on me. All of my lies and loneliness and hurt and secrets had finally ripped me open and spilled out of me right there on that bathroom floor as I cried and cried.

  That night, Daddy saved me from myself. And I told him everything. How my mother wanted to drag me to a plastic surgeon to get rid of my breasts and butt. How I’d been sneaking to be with Justice—even though I knew he and my mother forbade it. How Justice was the reason Anderson broke things off with us. How I’d hurt him.

  I’d cried and cried. Daddy broke in the door, then carried me out of the restaurant in his arms.

  And then, after he had gotten us home and carried me up to my suite and laid me on my bed, he’d gone down and confronted my mother. Till this day, I don’t know how long they’d been arguing. But I know that by the time I’d come downstairs to make my way into the kitchen, going by Daddy’s study, I’d heard them quarreling like never before.

  “You’ve done nothing but put your modeling career before me, our daughter, and this marriage!”

  “Oh, don’t you dare even go there with me, Turner Phillips! Like you haven’t put your law practice before this marriage! I was modeling way before I met you. You knew it was my life!”

  “And wanting to be a mother and wife, instead of gallopi
ng up and down the runways, should have also been your life, Jade! It’s what you signed up for when you married me! But it wasn’t your life. And now look at us! Look at our daughter! I’ve always stepped back and let you raise London the way you saw fit, but I see now that that was one of the biggest mistakes I made. I should have been more involved.”

  “Yes, Turner, you’re right! Maybe you should have been, instead of running off to your filthy mistress every chance you got!”

  I blinked, fighting to shake away the memory. Fighting to fast-forward to the present, instead of reliving that horrible night.

  “I know who your mistress is . . .”

  Daddy was a cheater.

  And now I was in a late-model rental with dark tinted windows—wearing a god-awful synthetic wig and dark shades—crouched down low in the driver’s seat, eyeballing his mistress’s every move.

  So far, it’d been nothing exciting going on. She’d stopped at a high-end boutique on Rodeo Drive. Then, an hour later, she’d stepped out carrying one shopping bag.

  Next, she’d made her way to David Yurman, probably to buy herself some cute piece of jewelry to wear in her nakedness the next time she snuck off with Daddy or maybe some other woman’s husband.

  Rich’s face flashed in my head.

  I gripped the steering wheel.

  That trick was the product of cheaters.

  Her mother was a home wrecker, a nasty, cleanup woman.

  Her father was a low-down, dirty womanizer, a rolling stone.

  And Rich thought her life was so damn fabulous.

  Delusional trick!

  I eyed Logan Montgomery as she made her way to a bakery. Whore! I rolled my eyes as she walked purposefully, tossing her weave over her shoulder, as she made her way back to her Maserati.

  Bish.

  When she pulled out of the parking lot, I tailed her. I kept several cars between us, making sure she didn’t notice she was being followed. After several minutes of driving, she headed toward Santa Monica Boulevard. She turned left onto Sunset Boulevard. Then made a slight right onto Wilshire Boulevard, eventually making her way onto the interstate.

  My parents’ voices floated around the interior of the car.

  “I want a divorce.”

  “Fine! Go be with your mistress, Turner . . . !”

  Trying to keep from swerving off the road, I blinked back the onslaught of more tears. I loved my father with all my heart. I swear I did. I loved him more than I loved my mother, because I felt like he understood me more than she did. And he was more forgiving of my shortcomings than she would ever be.

  However, lately, sometimes I couldn’t bear to look at him. Knowing what I knew. That he was planning to abandon me, leave me stuck with my mother—alone, to run off with his whore.

  My parents’ arguing voices pushed their way into my thoughts again, invading my head, forcing me back.

  “You pushed me into someone else’s bed when you stopped wanting to handle your wifely duties in and out of our bedroom . . .”

  “Oh, Turner, stop! You were screwing that ghetto tramp long before I stopped letting you crawl up on top of me. So don’t you even go there with me! You and I both know the real reason you wanted to relocate here! And it had nothing to do with getting London out of New York or being closer to your firm in Beverly Hills and everything to do with you wanting to be near that gold-digging home wrecker!”

  God . . . what did he even see in her?

  She was uncultured.

  Ghetto.

  Lacked sophistication.

  She was groupie-trash.

  The only thing she had to be good for was her bedroom skills. She had to be turning nasty tricks in the sheets, I’m sure, in order for Daddy to want to walk out on his family.

  To want to leave me; abandon me!

  Sure my mother was a cold-hearted witch.

  And she neglected Daddy and me.

  But that didn’t give this trampy slut the right to swoop in and break up our home.

  Sure, Daddy and my mother might be in a loveless marriage (I blamed my mother for that), but that didn’t give Jezebel the right to snake her way into Daddy’s boxers. She had to have taken advantage of him. Used her womanly wiles to break him. Women like her were treacherous, relentless, when they wanted something. They had no shame.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  They were both harlots. Bottom feeders. They both had thieved their way into the two most important men in my life’s lives. Justice and Daddy. Justice, I was over.

  Daddy, I was disappointed in.

  Rich, I was willing to forgive.

  But this harlot, this, this . . . skank, I wanted to see her suffer.

  Nasty gutter rat!

  She must be lonely and miserable to sleep with someone else’s husband.

  Well, that’s what whores do.

  While tailing her, I realized I couldn’t hold Rich’s whorish ways against her. She was who she was because it’s what she was taught. Her mother groomed her to be slutty.

  Just like her.

  I had to fight the urge to keep from pressing down on the gas and ramming into the back of her car. You’re going to pay for coming in between my family!

  Relax, London. Reel in your emotions.

  I took two deep breaths. Then eased my foot up off the accelerator.

  An hour later, we were no longer on the I-10 freeway. My knuckles practically turned white as I gripped the steering wheel. We were traveling along the Pacific Coast Highway, into Malibu.

  Five minutes later, I eased back and watched as the home wrecker pulled up to a gated entry, rolled her window down, and punched into a keypad. Within seconds, the iron gates slowly opened and she drove through, leaving me staring at the back of her headlights.

  Who lives here behind those gates?

  I wonder if your husband knows about your dirty little secret, you scandalous troll!

  Fortunately, the sun had already set. And, so far, I hadn’t been noticed. And I needed to keep it that way.

  To kill time, I pulled out my phone and began googling Rich Montgomery.

  There were plenty of entries about that trick. Her bio, her shopping sprees, her party life, her family.

  I read every last one of them, absorbing every torturous detail. The most recent accounts were of her and Justice together. They were calling him “JB, the Heart Throb Crooner.”

  Ugh.

  I kept scrolling, then stopped at the entries on her pending birthday bash. Her publicist stated it would be the party of all parties. The most extravagant bash of the century. “All of Hollywood’s royalty will be vying for a slice of the Pampered Princess’s birthday cake.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  I hope she chokes.

  I glanced at the clock. It was almost ten o’clock. I couldn’t believe I was still sitting out here, lurking in the shadows.

  Waiting...

  I picked up my night-vision binoculars again and zoomed in. I couldn’t see a damn thing. I needed to see something. Anything.

  I know who your mistress is. The married, man-stealing whore!

  No, Daddy wasn’t perfect. No one was. But he wasn’t the problem. Rich’s mother was. That ole, nasty, man-stealing bish!

  Just like her daughter.

  I stole a glance at myself in the rearview mirror.

  This wig is hideous.

  I straightened it on my head before reaching into my bag and pulling out a black ski mask.

  I leaned over and grabbed the small can of red paint from off the passenger’s side floor, then grabbed the ice pick and paintbrush.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Rich didn’t want to be friends. Fine. She didn’t have to be. And I’d be damned if I was going to beg her. No. Starting tonight, all of my energy was being diverted to something much more important than her raggedy ole friendship.

  Destroying her man-stealing mother!

  I was going to become Logan Montgomery’s w
orst nightmare.

  Okay, Rich. Let’s see how fabulous your life is when I’m done.

  I slid out of the car. Shut the door, then made my way across the dimly lit street. Dressed in all black, like an omen.

  25

  Heather

  “Clutcheeeeeeeeeeen’ peaaaaaaaaaaarls!”

  Oh my God!

  Oh.

  My.

  God!

  You felt that?

  Was it an earthquake?

  ’Cause I swear I felt the ground shake, open up, and suck me in.

  Or maybe . . . maybe . . . it’s not that deep. Maybe my heart just took flight and jumped off the cliff.

  Because now I can’t breathe.

  But wait.

  Wait.

  Relax

  Count backward.

  Five...

  Four...

  Three . . .

  Get it together now.

  Chill for a minute.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Repeat.

  Slowly, I turned around.

  Of all the party crashers . . .

  Whyyyyyyyy was this thing here?

  I knew Satan was ridin’ my jock, but daaaaaaamn kazam, I had no idea he was on it like this.

  Queen Hoesque-Ratchet-Rich Montgomery was somehow standing in the doorway of my bedroom balcony, mouth alllllllll twisted.

  And judging by the beam in her stretched-wide brown eyes and the greasy smile on her face, she’d just witnessed me and Nikki in a lip-lockin’ escapade.

  Dead.

  Rich’s chubby and bacon-greased lips glowed as they popped and slapped against each other. “Hold up. Wait a minute.” She grinned, shamelessly, batting her fake lashes at least a thousand unnecessary times. “Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Heather with some sugar in her tank. Fix it, Black Jesus. ’Cause I spot some Mexican tea with a dash of rainbow in it.” She placed one arm behind her back and did a holy dance. “Yaaaaaaaaaassssssssss, honey. Yaaaaaaaasssssss!” She waved her hands to the heavens. “I am here for the sizzle-sizzle pride life. Hag-central, baby.” She paused. “Don’t get it twisted, though. All of this baked-bean-brown goodness is strictly stickly. Feel me? Boxer and brief zone. But I see you two kissin’ fish swimmin’ all up and through the lady pond.”