Heels, Heartache & Headlines

by Ni-Ni Simone

  I ran over to the nightstand and snatched my phone off of it, and that’s when I saw that Nikki had called me at least a thousand times.

  “Who is that?!” Camille grabbed my phone. “Hello?” Camille snapped.

  “Give me my phone!” I tried to grapple it away. I couldn’t.

  Camille screamed into the receiver. “You wretched bulldagger! Don’t you dare call here or come back around here! You have ruined me! You have ruined meeeeeeeeeeee! And I will make sure you are torn apart!”

  I reared my hand back and knocked Camille so hard in her head, it’s a wonder she didn’t drop dead on the spot. Instead she dropped the phone and stumbled to the floor.

  I reached for the phone before Camille could regain her balance. “Nikki!”

  Nikki yelled, and I could hear the tears clogging her throat. “I’m done, Heather! Reporters are all over campus! My family is calling me, demanding that I come home and explain what’s going on! My friends are questioning me! Why would you do this to me?!”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Liar! You did! How else would the blogs and everybody know what we’ve been doing for the past month, when it was only the two of us! I’m finished with you!”

  “Nikki, wait!”

  Click.

  The room was spinning again. And it had to be at least a hundred degrees in here. It had to be. And the floor was sliding from beneath my feet.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I couldn’t think.

  And I needed to think.

  Think.

  Think.

  Think.

  “I’m done, Heather! Reporters are all over campus! My family is calling me, demanding that I come home and explain what’s going on! My friends are questioning me! Why would you do this to me?” Nikki’s voice screamed in my head.

  Tears slid down my cheeks and into the creases of my neck. My hands were clammy, and the bile in my stomach eased up my throat.

  I closed my eyes.

  I felt like bugs were crawling all over me.

  It’s starting.

  I’m losing my mind . . . again...

  I gotta get outta here.

  I have to.

  Otherwise, I’ma go crazy...

  32

  London

  Stretched out across my chaise lounge, I scanned Rich’s Instagram page, sneering at the most recent selfies she’d taken. This trick was obsessed with posting selfies on her page. There were over eleven thousand comments on one image of her bent at the waist in some type of multi-print Jersey-type dress, cupping her breasts in her hands. The caption read: COME N GET EM. The dress was cute. Slutty cute. It left very little to the imagination, showing off her smooth, brown thighs and an abundant amount of boob crack. It was sickening. But apparently the vast majority of her Instagram followers thought otherwise, judging from all the likes and favorable comments.

  Bunch of obsessed Stans.

  Of course there were a few haters. There were always haters. And I lived for them, especially when they were slinging hate on someone other than me.

  I read the comments and giggled. One chick in particular really tried it when she posted: THIS THOT NEEDS TO COME ’N’ GET A GROUPON CERTIFICATE FOR VAJAYJAY REJUVENATION.

  “Hahaha! Whore!” I laughed out loud. “The whole world knows your coochie cavern has more visitors than a Motel Six. Tramp!”

  I read another comment. Some chick with the screen name GreenEyedBandit posted: WEALTH & FAME DOESN’T AFFORD YOU CLASS! YOU’RE STILL TRASH!

  “And you think you’re so fabulous,” I said aloud, giggling. “Trick, please.”

  Quickly tapping my screen, I decided to add my own dose of haterade up on her page. I posted: WHORES LIKE HER ARE WALKING CONDOM DUMPS!

  “Now! Boom-bop-drop on that!” I shouted out loud.

  I should write something about her whorish mother, I mused, as I prowled through the rest of her selfies.

  Ugh.

  I rolled my eyes up in my head, stumbling on a photo of Rich and Justice, with him standing in back of her, his arms wrapped around her waist, kissing her on the neck. She had a wide Crest-stripped smile on her face. The caption read: ME ’N’ MY BAE. LOVE HIM MORE THAN LIFE.

  “Yeah, and he’s going to be the death of you too,” I muttered to myself. “Enjoy it while it lasts, dumb bish!”

  A knock on my door drew my attention away from Rich’s Instagram page. “Yes?” I called out begrudgingly. I was so not in the mood for being distracted from my cyber-stalking, but oh well . . .

  The door to my suite opened, and Daddy popped his head inside. “Hey, sweetheart. Can I come in?”

  “Oh, hey, Daddy,” I answered, sweetly. “Sure.”

  I sat up in my seat and eyed him as he walked across the threshold into my room, casually dressed in a thin V-neck sweater and a pair of jeans, with an expensive pair of loafers on his feet. His cologne warmed my room, and I breathed him in.

  I always loved the way Daddy smelled.

  He walked over and leaned in, kissing me on top of my head.

  For the last week and a half, he’d been back and forth to his London office, so it was nice finally having him home again. “So, how’s school going?” he asked, sitting across from me.

  I shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I feel so out of place being back there.”

  Daddy nodded knowingly. “It’ll take some time to get back into the flow of things, but you’ll find your groove.”

  “I hope so. Mister Westwick is really working my nerves with his morning shakedowns.”

  He shook his head, and smiled. “He runs a tight ship.”

  “No. He runs an upscale prison camp.”

  Daddy chuckled. “Well, try to stay out of the headlines.”

  I groaned. “Ugh. Easier said than done. Everywhere I turn, seems like someone’s lying in wait with a zoom lens, trying to catch me slipping . . .”

  My mind drifted back to the days after my return from Milan. Bandaged and broken. Photographers and mysterious cars stayed camped outside the gates of our estate, desperate for a glimpse of the damaged girl, for any juicy morsel of news to turn into a headline. On those rare moments when I’d forcibly leave the confines of my tomb and leave the property, they followed my chauffeur-driven car around town relentlessly, peering out of car windows with their telephoto lenses, trying to turn my misery into a cash cow. London Phillips, daughter of famed model Jade Obi Phillips, clinging onto life by her fingertips.

  I shuddered, dwelling on the memory a bit longer than I should have before shifting in my seat and looking over at Daddy, finishing my thought. “Why couldn’t you be a barber or a butcher or in some other nondescript profession?”

  He laughed. “So you’re telling me you’d rather not have that Phantom Drophead parked out front in the driveway? Or a closet the size of an apartment full of designer digs?”

  My stomach quaked at the thought of a life of public transportation and bargain shopping at department stores.

  What a travesty!

  I shook my head, vigorously. “No, no. On second thought, I’d rather take my chances with the paparazzi.”

  More laughter. “Unh-huh. I thought so.” He shifted in his seat. “So how are things with you and Rich? Have the two of you made amends yet?”

  Why? So you can try to make her my new stepsister? Not! I shrugged. “Not hardly. I tried. But she hates me. And, at this point, I could really care less. I’m so over her, Daddy. I came to her like a woman . . .” Daddy gave me a look. “Well, a young lady, trying to apologize for everything that’s happened between us, and all she did was lash out and give me attitude. I refuse to sign up for any of her disrespect.”

  He slowly shook his head. “I’m sure things between the two of you will work themselves out. Give it some time.”

  I grimaced. “I truly doubt it, so I won’t be holding my breath on it. I’m so over her.” Okay, it was a lie. I’d become obsessed with tearing down her happy kingdom. She thought her l
ife was so picture-perfect. Ha! What a mockery. I couldn’t wait to snatch the proverbial rug out from beneath her bejeweled feet.

  “Have you spoken to Mother?” I asked, changing the subject. I tilted my head and eyed him ever so carefully. I still couldn’t believe he was a cheater, crawling around in the sheets with the enemy’s mother.

  And I couldn’t believe my mother was willing to let a good man slip right through her manicured fingertips by being so damn obstinate, not fighting for her marriage and her man.

  I was so angry with her for that, practically seething every time I thought about it.

  My therapist had the audacity to tell me in my session this afternoon that I needed to let the two of them work things out in their own way, and on their own time. Oh, how lovely that would be—if my mother were doing something to fix things. But she wasn’t. And the longer she stayed away, the more time she gave that thieving whore to pierce her way into Daddy’s heart.

  I wasn’t about to sit back and let that happen. No. Not on my watch. And that’s exactly why I’d hidden tiny GPS tracking devices inside all three of Daddy’s vehicles to keep account of his every move when he was in L.A.

  If my mother didn’t want to fight for what was rightfully hers, then I sure as heck would. I was going to—

  “Your mother sent me a text this morning,” he said, slicing into my musings.

  Oh.

  I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “And? Did she say when she was coming home?” I was sure she hadn’t.

  “She said sometime next week.” He didn’t sound convinced. And he didn’t seem to really care.

  I frowned. “Is she going to be mad at me forever?” I asked, biting my bottom lip.

  Daddy shook his head. “Jade isn’t mad at you, sweetheart. She’s just . . .”

  “Avoiding me,” I concluded for him, shifting in my seat.

  It wasn’t a question, but Daddy responded anyway. “Your mother isn’t avoiding you, London. Why would you think that?”

  I raised my brow. “Well, she’s avoiding something.” Or someone. You.

  “Your mother has a lot going on right now with the modeling agency. We both do.”

  I gave him a yeah-right look. “Daddy, please don’t make excuses for her. Or try to patronize me. There’s something wrong here, and you know it. So if she isn’t mad at me, and she isn’t avoiding me, then what’s really going on? Are the two of you getting a divorce?”

  Daddy’s forehead creased. “A divorce? Why would you ask that?”

  I shook my head. “Daddy, please. I’m not a baby. I see how the two of you barely speak to one another on those rare occasions when you just happen to be home at the same time, except for when you absolutely have to.”

  He ran a hand over his face, then said, “Things between your mother and me have been a bit tense since . . .” He looked away, ashamed, perhaps embarrassed, about what I’d done.

  I finished the sentence for him. “Since my suicide attempt.”

  “No, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Long before then.”

  Oh.

  I decided to confess to him. “I heard the two of you arguing down in your study before we flew back to Milan. It was over me, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Partly,” he offered. “But our problems go far beyond you, London. So don’t ever feel like you’re to blame.”

  I played dumb. Didn’t want him to know that I knew what the real source of contention was for the two of them: My mother was a rigid prude. And he was out feeding his oats to that moose-faced Logan Montgomery.

  Daddy ran a hand over the side of his handsome, smoothly shaven face, and sighed as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Things are complicated right now between your mother and me, sweetheart. But don’t ever think for one moment that either of us loves you any less. You are our number one priority.”

  I stared at him, tilting my head. I’m their number one priority? Really?

  I felt like asking him—in between his law firm and shacking with his mistress and Mother’s obsession with securing models for her stupid ole modeling agency—when, where, and how was I either of their top priority?

  Instead, I settled on, “So the two of you are getting a divorce, then?”

  I held my breath.

  Daddy’s cell phone rang. Reflexively, he reached for it where it lay beside him facedown. I eyed him suspiciously as he glanced at the screen, then sent the call to voice mail.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I exhaled. “Daddy, you didn’t have to. The writing is all over these pristine walls. I’m not blind, you know.”

  He sighed. “Sweetheart, it’s complicated.”

  I gave him a confused look. “How so? Either you both want to be married or you don’t. What’s so complex about that? Is Mommy cheating on you?”

  Daddy’s face twitched. If I’d blinked, I might have missed it. “No, no. Of course not.”

  Uh-huh.

  Of course she isn’t.

  You are.

  I tilted my head. “How can you be so sure?”

  He slumped his shoulders, shaking his head. “I’m not. But I know your mother. Well, at least I believe I do. She’s never cheated before.”

  Mmm. I’m sure she never had a reason to. But Daddy, on the other hand . . . not a word. I pursed my lips. “Yeah, but there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? And the fact that she’s never here, always so quick to run off to Italy, makes me wonder . . .” My voice trailed off. I didn’t really think she was cheating. She was too uptight and frigid. However, I never thought in a million years that Daddy would either. But he was. So I wouldn’t be surprised if she were off getting her swerve on with some Italian stud muffin.

  Daddy was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, “I don’t want you to ever think ill of your mother . . .”

  Umm. Too late. I already do.

  “. . . she loves you.”

  Yeah, okay. What’s love got to do with this conversation?

  Daddy loved me, too. And look at him. Trolling around with the rich and ratchet.

  Logan Montgomery.

  Ugh.

  I felt myself getting sick.

  Daddy leaned forward and fixed his gaze on me. “Listen, sweetheart. I don’t expect you to understand this right now. Maybe someday when you’re married and have your own family you will. But sometimes a couple gets to a point in their relationship where they both want something more, something neither of them are capable of giving—or getting—from the other.”

  “So does that mean they should run off and get it—whatever it is—from somewhere else because they think the grass is greener on the other side?”

  “No, of course not, sweetheart. It’s not always about greener pastures. Sometimes it’s more about couples growing apart.”

  I gave him a saddened look. “Like you and Mommy?” When he didn’t respond, I continued, “Doctor Kickaloo said open communication was key to addressing problems in relationships.”

  Daddy smiled, warily. “Your therapist is right, sweetheart. For any relationship to work, there has to be communication. And a sincere commitment to want to work through things.”

  I swallowed. I wasn’t sure if I really wanted Daddy to validate what I already knew, but I asked the question anyway. “Have you ever, um . . . cheated on her?”

  I know, I know. I should have asked if he was cheating on her right now. Even though I already knew the truth. Still, in my heart, I simply wanted to give him some leeway.

  For what, I’m not sure.

  Daddy looked at me, his face difficult to read. A lawyer thing, I supposed.

  Still, I wasn’t sure if he was pondering an answer that wouldn’t hurt, or if he was trying to conjure up a lie. Either way, I waited for a confession.

  And then...

  His stupid cell phone rang again.

  33

  Spencer

  “Spencer?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, glancing at the screen, adju
sting my earpiece. My screen flashed UNKNOWN CALLER. But the voice sounded like sweet dreams and snuggly teddy bears. I just wanted to cuddle up with whomever was on the other end of my phone line. “How may I direct your call?”

  “I miss you.”

  I rapidly opened and closed my eyelids, my lashes flapping up and down. “Oh, yeah? What is it you miss, Mister Mystery Man?”

  He chuckled. “Nah. I’m no mystery man, boo. But to answer your question: I miss your sweet lips, your warm mouth. I miss the way you used to make my toes curl. I miss them little tricks you used to do with your—”

  “Wait one goshdiggitydang minute, you dirty phone perv! You, you nasty trick daddy! I’m not loosey-goosey with my tricks and treats. So when and where did I ever have these sweet juicy lips on you?”

  He laughed.

  My heart skipped three beats, then almost stopped and dropped me dead.

  I knew that laugh. It was infectious. And it had been so long since I’d heard it.

  I gripped the phone. Swallowed. “RJ?”

  “Yeah. It’s me, babe. What, it’s been that long that you’ve forgotten my voice?”

  Everything inside of me melted.

  RJ.

  RJ.

  RJ.

  Oh how I used to love him. Okay, okay. I still did. Deep down in every inch of my heart, I knew I always would. He’d always held the key to my treasures. Always. He was the only boy I ever truly loved. Or whom I felt always loved me back.

  But why was he calling me now, and after all this dang time?

  I got up from my love seat and started pacing the length of my room, my feet sinking deep into the plushness of my Persian rug, its silk fibers caressing my painted toes.

  Oh, RJ . . .

  Richard Gabriel Montgomery Jr.

  Future heir to Grand Entertainment, his father’s record label.

  My first love.

  My only love.

  And the truth remained the same: No matter how many boys I dropped down and got my wobble on with, no matter how many I toyed with, RJ was the only boy I could ever really love.

  My mind drifted back to Aspen. That one winter break when I’d spent the holidays with Rich and her family. And how RJ and I had lain sprawled out under the covers in front of an open fire, with our naked bodies pressed together like two crème-filled cookies. And how Rich walked in on us talking with our bodies. Ole jabba jaws couldn’t wait to go back and blab to her parents what she’d seen. She’d ruined my love train before I could finish the ride.