Park laced her fingers around the bulk of pages. She couldn’t believe any of this was happening. She couldn’t believe she was being offered a major role in a major movie, a movie that could very likely catapult her into an even bigger sphere of fame. It was sheer madness. And yet, something about holding the script in her hands was absolutely thrilling.
“Thank you,” she said softly. She drew closer to Jeremy and kissed him. “You and Gilberto…you guys haven’t mentioned anything about this to anyone, have you?”
“Totally not,” Jeremy replied. “But you’ll consider it, right? I mean, seriously?”
“Yes, I will.” She smiled. “But right now, I have to get going. I’ll call you later.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll miss you tonight.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” she answered with a smile and another quick kiss. Then Park was climbing out of the trailer and onto the street. She scanned the traffic and spotted her limousine waiting at the corner. She didn’t get ten feet before someone called her name.
“Hey, Park!”
She turned and saw Julian Simmons, a fellow St. Cecilia’s Prep student, waving at her from across the wide, busy stretch of Houston. “Hey there!” she called back, wondering what the next few minutes would bring.
The son of music mogul Corey Simmons, Julian was himself a hip-hop star in the making. He had spent most of his junior year on tour promoting his first single, aptly titled “I’m a Freaky Funker.” It soared up the charts and laid the groundwork for what would undoubtedly be a successful recording career. Julian had the looks and the talent. What was more, he had the attitude—aggressive, confident, sexy. The girls loved him and he loved them right back. He was short and muscular, with a shaved head and piercing green eyes. He held the distinction of being one of only five African American students at St. Cecilia’s Prep—and probably the only one who had been caught romancing a fellow senior in the girls’ bathroom.
Park approached him with her cheek already poised in the air.
Julian gave her a quick peck, then wrapped his arms around her waist. “Goddamn, girl! You look finer than a Cartier diamond. You here hangin’ with your boo?”
“Yes. Jeremy’s filming his new movie here for the next few weeks.” Park stepped back and gave Julian a quick once-over. “God, you always have the best clothes.”
“I’m all about Dolce and Gabbana today.” Julian slid his hand down the side of his black blazer. Boot-cut jeans and black leather loafers completed the look.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Park asked. “Did you call in sick too?” She pointed to the big brown bag at his side and winked mischievously. “Looks like you spent the day shopping.”
“Kind of. I got lots to do, babe. Tomorrow I’m in the studio recording another single.”
Park eyed the bag, noting the pink-sequined end of a dress peeking out through a wad of tissue paper and, beside it, the leaves of some sort of plant or bouquet. “A gift for one of your girlfriends?”
Julian glanced down at the bag, then quickly pushed the pink-sequined dress back down into it. “You know me. Always thinking of the ladies.” He smiled. “Anyway, I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you tonight.”
“You need a lift?” Park pointed to the limo. “I’m going uptown.”
“No, no,” Julian said, already backing away. He seemed to be rushing the moment, eager to cut it short. “See you tonight! We’ll party hearty, girl!”
Park waved and watched as he jogged down the length of Houston Street. That was totally unlike Julian. Usually, he would have jumped at the chance to be in the back of a limo with a girl. Nothing would’ve happened between them, of course, but it was always fun to flirt.
Right now, though, Park had other issues on her mind. She hugged the movie script tightly to her chest as she walked to her car. A major motion picture, she thought. Lights, cameras, and maybe more action than I really want.
Most people wouldn’t understand her reservations, but there was such a thing as being too famous.
3
The Canoli and the Queen
Concetta Canoli emerged from the Chamber—otherwise known as the basement of her family’s town house on East Sixty-fifth Street—and shut the door quietly. She stood there for a moment, listening for a sign. There was only silence around her. She smiled. She had once again succeeded as mistress of the secret court.
Climbing the stairs, she carefully plucked the lightweight crown from her head of curly black hair and stuffed it under her arm. Sweat beaded her cheeks. Her role in the club was no small feat: it required stamina and strength and lots of energy. As she thought back on tonight’s meeting, she felt a rush of elation course through her body. Her fellow members had been impressed with her performance. She’d gotten all the little details correct, right down to the bloody finale. Sunday’s afternoon session would be even better.
At the top of the staircase landing, Concetta paused and studied herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror mounted on the wall. Many people would have labeled her heavy or plump or downright fat, but she played herself off as sensual, curvaceous, and pleasantly full-figured. She didn’t fit the mold of a typical St. Cecilia’s Prep student. She didn’t project the image of a celebutante either. While those girls swooned at the thought of slipping into anything other than a size-zero dress, Concetta tried her best to project a strong self-image. And she was fully aware that her family name commanded as much power and respect as anyone else’s. In an odd and somewhat cruel twist of fate, the Canoli clan had built a global empire creating and selling dietary products—from low-calorie breakfast drinks and frozen dinners to fat-free double-chocolate brownies. But that didn’t matter to Concetta. She had abandoned dieting a long time ago. She had given up on drinking a gallon of water a day or smoking cigarettes to curb her appetite. None of it worked for her. It was easier to just hold her head high, act confident, and hope that men everywhere would come to their senses and see that big gals had a lot more lovin’ to give.
She pushed open the basement door with her shoulder. The huge kitchen fanned out before her, complete with three professional stainless steel ovens and granite countertops. It was her favorite room of the house. Not because it held hundreds of delectable treats, but because the kitchen was where the Canoli family held their elaborate and very private dinners. From the spotless gleam of the terra-cotta tiles, Concetta could see that the maids had been cleaning today. The thought made her nervous. Had any of them heard her friends screeching and crying? It was unlikely. Concetta had gone to great lengths in sealing the Chamber appropriately. And if the maids had heard anything disturbing, they wouldn’t say anything. Hell, they were probably too scared to even think about what went on downstairs.
She pranced over to the Sub-Zero and wrestled open the heavy silver door. She shoved aside the frozen squares of her family’s fat-free desserts and went straight for the box of DeLafée truffles on the very last shelf. Popping one into her mouth, she hurried past the living room, past the dining room, through the entertainment room, and up the main staircase. At seven o’clock, it was still early. Her parents hadn’t arrived home yet from their week at the house in the Grenadines, and her younger brothers were probably out shopping for new lacrosse gear. With luck, Concetta would have the whole house to herself for the rest of the evening. That would give her the chance to pretty herself up without interruption. She had been looking forward to the opening night of Cleopatra for months now. There was a lot she had to do there tonight.
Throwing open the door to her bedroom, Concetta stopped short and let out a gasp. “What are you doing in here?” she said, the words slurred by a mouthful of thick chocolate.
Her best friend, Emmett McQueen, was sitting at the vanity in the corner. Shirtless, his hair wrapped in a towel, he didn’t bother turning around as he plucked a few thick hairs from between his eyebrows. “I’m getting ready,” he said flatly. “I told y’all I wasn’t going home.”
“I thought yo
u told me you were going home first to get your clothes, then coming back here.” Concetta frowned. “Not that I care. I just hate being scared.”
“You hate being scared?” Emmett swiveled around in the chair. “Ha! You would never guess that, seein’ how you are in the Chamber.” His Southern twang echoed through the bedroom. “I swear, my heart nearly stops every time you take a step.”
“Oh, be quiet. I’m not that scary.” Concetta strolled across the room to her walk-in closet and reached for the garment bag hanging from the gown rack. She kicked off her shoes, then shook open the DeLafée box with her free hand and rolled out another truffle.
She was actually glad Emmett had decided to stay. She needed him for backup. Though her family had strong ties to Milan, Concetta sometimes found herself unable to match outfits correctly. Once, at a big Hollywood movie premiere, she’d walked down the carpet in a green gown and red pumps; she had thought it looked fine, but the next day she’d been labeled an olive in the tabloids. Emmett, on the other hand, was a fashion god. He could sweep his eyes across a closet and put together a gorgeous outfit in under two minutes. He could even take a drab brown scarf and turn it into the most dazzling accessory to grace your neck, with the right ensemble. He didn’t understand why Concetta always wore oversized shirts and sweaters, especially those frilly Mozart shirts with their dramatic puckered sleeves that nearly covered her hands entirely. She looked like a pirate—and not a sexy one.
They had been best friends for nearly five years. In junior high, Concetta had ballooned—or, as she put it, blossomed—to nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, making her an instant target for cruel jokes and disapproving stares. But Emmett had always come to her defense. With his sharp Southern tongue and unshakeable confidence, he had stood up to the bullies and challenged the mean girls. Both factions had been no match for Emmett: the boys had been put off by his flamboyant ways, and the girls resented him for being such an awesome bitch. But most of the time, Emmett’s antics were subterfuge. Concetta knew this. She knew that beneath the flashy, snippy exterior was a simple guy with a big heart and an incredibly high level of intelligence.
It wasn’t easy being Emmett McQueen. He was the heir to a massive home-shopping TV empire. He had conservative parents and conservative roots. The paparazzi adored him but he didn’t really like being photographed. And, of course, he was totally hot and totally gay, which made him all the more newsworthy.
The last six months had been especially difficult for Emmett. Following an international corporate scandal, his father, Warren McQueen, had been charged with extorting millions of dollars from private investors. The backlash had been downright brutal. For weeks on end, Emmett had watched his family fall apart piece by piece. He had been hounded by reporters outside of school and been the subject of several lurid magazine articles. Then came the final insult—witnessing his beloved dad being marched out of a courtroom in handcuffs, tears streaking the older man’s face. Warren McQueen, sentenced to thirty years in a federal penitentiary, had since written countless letters to his son, begging for forgiveness.
In his heart, Emmett had forgiven his father for being such a complete idiot. But Emmett and his mom were still recovering from the damage of the scandal. They had lost over one hundred million dollars. They had been forced to sell their beachfront compound in the Hamptons and their three-hundred-acre ranch in Dallas. As far as Emmett was concerned, the toughest part of the whole mess wasn’t really financial; it was the embarrassment that came with being disgraced, the pain of being blacklisted by the elite Manhattan social circles that had always welcomed him.
“Where’s your suit?” Concetta asked, dropping the box of truffles onto her desk.
Emmett pointed to the white garment bag on the bed. “All wrapped up and ready to be unveiled.”
“Who are you wearing?” She walked over to the bed and inspected the garment bag. “Oh, wait! Did you get Lex Hamilton to design you a Triple Threat menswear piece?”
“I sure did, honey! And it’s a masterpiece!” He stood up. He unwrapped the towel from his head and dropped it onto the floor, exposing a shock of thick white-blond hair that fell over his ears in shaggy pieces. Reaching for the garment bag, he unzipped it and held up the one-of-a-kind outfit.
Concetta gasped.
The suit was charcoal, pin-striped, made of the finest materials money could buy, no doubt. A gold handkerchief gleamed in the lapel pocket. The tie was dark and flecked with gold thread. The custom-made cuff links of the crisp white shirt were gold as well.
“It’s amazing!” Concetta cried.
“I know. I’ve never looked so good. I swear, little Lexy knows sexy.” He held the suit against his chest and modeled it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Suddenly, Concetta’s face registered anger. She bit down on her lips, and a smear of chocolate arced beneath her chin. “You…you can’t wear that, Emmett!”
He stared at her, shocked. One hand flew to his throat. “And why the hell not? You said yourself it’s amazin’.”
“It is, but…”
“But what?” He laid the suit down on the bed and planted his hands on his hips. “Talk, sister. ’Cause I can’t read minds.”
Concetta spun around and stomped over to the vanity. She peered into the three-way mirror, giving herself a solid once-over. Her jeans were tight at the waist. Her pink shirt, though oversized, was tight at her boobs. And so her eyes went automatically to her butt, which was big and ample and…well…as round as a full moon. She told herself it looked good. But would the object of her affection like it?
Emmett sighed dramatically. “Hellllooo? You gonna talk, or are you gonna stand there like a clove on a baked ham?”
Concetta sighed. “It’s just that you’ll look so good, and he might notice you instead of me.”
“Oh, sister…puh-lease!” Emmett waved his hands in the air as if batting away a swarm of bees. “You’re gettin’ yourself all worked up for nothin’. You’ll be the queen of the ball tonight.”
“But what if I’m not? What if he doesn’t think I am?”
“He already likes you. I know it.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“He sure does.”
“You really think so?”
With a slow nod, Emmett said, “I know so. When it comes to lust, my instincts are never wrong. He’s as hot for you as I am for myself.”
Concetta laughed. That was certainly the truth. Emmett had every reason to be hot for himself—the lean dancer’s body, the blond hair and blue eyes, the perfect features. And all his physical attributes made her panic spike up a notch. “That’s what I mean!” she said. “He probably likes you too. Everyone says he swings both ways.”
“Well, everyone is crazy. Damien Kittle does not like me. He likes you. And I think we’ve seen evidence of that these past few months, haven’t we?”
“Be quiet!” Concetta rushed to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and glanced up and down the corridor. It was clear. When she turned around again, Emmett was staring at her with wide, questioning eyes.
“What’s your problem, Canoli?” he snapped.
Concetta walked back to the closet and began scanning it. “I just don’t want anyone knowing that I like Damien Kittle,” she said. “It’s, like, a secret.”
“A secret? What are you talking about? Everyone knows you’ve got a thing for Damien!” Emmett folded his arms over his bare chest. “Where’s all that confidence of yours gone?”
“He’s British royalty,” Concetta said quietly, staring down at the floor. “I’m…not.”
“So?”
“So that makes it really hard for me to even approach him when we’re all…ya know…in the real world. In the Chamber things are different—I have no inhibitions. Plus, half the time, I don’t even know if he’s joking around with me or taking me seriously.”
Emmett sniffed. He went back to the vanity and sat down. “You ask me, that boy is fixin’ to join some sort
a English circus. Did Shakespeare write anything with clowns in it?”
“Come on, Em,” Concetta said desperately. “You have to help me tonight. You have to give me advice. I’m not good at attracting guys—even though I can’t imagine why.” She threw her head back as she shot a glance in the mirror.
Emmett got up and strolled across the bedroom. On the desk was his trademark accessory—a gorgeous Prada bag that acted as his man-purse. It had become somewhat of a running joke at school, but with the multitude of items he used on a daily basis, he saw no point in carrying around some horrible backpack. At least twice a day he needed his hairbrush and ZIRH men’s moisturizer. In the event of a fashion emergency, he always carried around a black Polo T-shirt, which matched just about anything. Then there were his sunglasses and scarf, an assortment of Mont Blanc pens, and several sets of Cartier cuff links.
Now Emmett dipped into the man-purse and started shuffling through it. He yanked out a small makeup bag and dumped the rest back inside. “I’m gonna do your makeup. You’ll look incredible when I’m finished. But first go into the bathroom and freshen up.”
“You’re the best!” Concetta threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on both his cheeks. She was in luck: when it came to makeup, Emmett was a genius.
Invigorated, Concetta ran into the master bathroom, slammed the door shut, and jumped into the shower. When she emerged ten minutes later wrapped in a light cashmere robe, the sleeves trailing over her hands, Emmett was standing in front of the mirror studying his reflection.
He looked flat-out gorgeous in the Triple Threat suit; it hugged his silhouette perfectly and even made his chest seem broad and slightly muscular. He had slicked his hair back with gel. He had even applied a fresh coat of skin-firming lotion to his face so that it gleamed in the overhead track lighting, though that could have easily been the gold Nars body cream he’d highlighted his cheekbones with.
“Wow,” Concetta said. “If you were straight, Emmett, I’d totally try to seduce you.”
In the Club Page 4
