by Ni-Ni Simone
Out of nowhere, Rich, Spencer, and Heather zoomed into view. Frenemies turned enemies. Like it or not, in the end, we were still all the same . . .
Fame whores.
Fighting, fighting, fighting. Fighting for love. Fighting for acceptance. Fighting for happiness. Fighting to outdo, outwit, and outshine the other. Fighting to stay hot. Fighting to stay on top. The only difference was, I was tired of fighting. I was turning in my crown and bowing out gracefully. I was done.
I swallowed, willing back tears. And just as I spun on my toe to turn, I caught a glimpse of my mother, beaming. I felt my eyes rolling in my head. Seated to the right of her was Alek Wek, the Sudanese supermodel. And to the left of her was Daddy. Ohmygodno! Daddy’s here! To see me! I caught his wink as he smiled at me, and felt what was left of my broken heart crack into a thousand more pieces as flashes of that night my parents argued resurfaced.
“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 dare 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!”
I’d never heard them fight before. Never. But they argued, and yelled, and pointed fingers. All because of me! I’d caused that! Me! Everything was a mess because of me!
Feeling light-headed, I quickly strutted back up the runway and almost toppled over as I made my way backstage to change into my next outfit. I heard a few models sniggle. I shot them nasty looks, hurriedly changing into my next outfit. I made it just in time as models edged up to take the stage again.
“I want a divorce.”
“Fine! Go be with your mistress, Turner! London and I will move to Milan . . .”
I felt myself starting to hyperventilate. Again, I stepped out into the blinding lights. This time in a red coatdress, draped off the shoulders, and knee-high boots. I worked the runway. Trying to block out the voices in my head. Daddy, my mother, Justice, Rich, Anderson . . . Anderson!
“That dude’s a bum . . . he doesn’t deserve you . . . why do you keep letting him hurt you . . . ?
“At least ya girl Chunky Monkey was ready to show me some love... at least she knows what a real man is all about . . . Stop sweatin’ me . . . I’m done with you . . .”
“Yeah, it’s obvious you like him . . . What, are you a reject? Or am I standing in the way ? I gave him a lil taste of goodness...”
A scream caught in the back of my throat as the image of Justice’s hand in those photos that had been overnighted to me by some anonymous sender back in the States came into view. The butterfly. The two R’s on the antennas! It was Rich in those photos!
I cringed inwardly, pushing through one showing after the other, floating through each one until the final hour. The masquerade was finally going to be over. There was so much commotion. It was frantic. Models were scurrying around to line up. It was ten minutes to the runway finale. Yet, I was surprisingly calm.
It all became surreal. I was here. But I wasn’t. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. A wave of relief washed over me as I stepped in line amongst a sea of flowing satins, quivering feathers, plunging necklines, and fishnet.
I was positioned second to last, wearing a snow-white one-shoulder shift dress with a sheer train and matching satin heels and ankle cuffs. A jeweled crown was set atop my head. My face was covered by a white veil.
I no longer felt wretched and broken.
I felt . . . beautiful.
Two more models were ahead of me, then I’d be next to go. It was almost over. Everything around me started moving in slow motion as I eased up closer toward the stage.
“It’s not my fault that you have to wallow in self-pity knowing you weren’t missed . . .”
The voices inside my head banged around each other, but I was numb to them. I slid my hand into the sliver of a side pocket, pulling out my shiny farewell trinket. I never took my eyes off of the stage ahead of me as I sliced a perfect straight line into the center of my flesh, then slashed across my wrist. The blade bit in deep, causing me to swoon. Heat flashed through me as I stepped into the flashing lights.
Effortlessly, I owned the runway with a signature strong-legged bounce; with each step demonstrating an effervescent power I’d thought long gone. A straight line of blood bloomed, burned, and burst into a lush crimson pool. It dripped heavy and unchecked as I worked the runway one last time.
It was almost over—finally!
“Just look at you. Pig. Hog . . . You straight up worthless. . . I wish you dropped dead. . .”
I was metamorphosing.
I was no longer a moth drawn to a flame.
“When I am done with you, Turner, you’ll be penniless! Let’s see how devoted your mistress is when you’re rotting in a jail cell . . .”
Cameras flashed. Anderson’s voice replayed in my head.
“You don’t even realize what you have in front of you . . . I’m taking off the red cape, hanging up my Captain Save A Dumb Ho hat and moving on. I’m in love with you, London . . .”
I was a colorful butterfly.
I was floating.
I no longer hurt.
I heard the gasps and shrieks.
My heart beat violently at first, echoing in my ears. Then slowed to a deafening pace. I felt myself fading. I blinked. A newborn baby wailed somewhere across the stage. Then it was being violently snatched out of its mother’s fragile arms. But there wouldn’t be babies here... Her little brown face seeped into my consciousness. I had to be dreaming. I blinked. More flashing lights were blinding me. People were scrambling. There was my great-grandmother in a white gown, waiting on the other side of a white gate trimmed in gold, her arms stretched open, smiling at me.
“Come on home to Nana, baby . . .”
My eyes fluttered.
I was getting weaker.
“I know who your mistress is . . .”
“You aren’t taking London with you . . .”
“I most certainly am. Try to stop me, Turner!”
I was slipping. I was almost there. It was almost over.
Tears streamed down my face as I stepped farther into the white lights. I felt large vibrant wings spreading in back of me. My eyes flickered as thousands of butterflies covered me, slowly lifting me.
“And the next call I’ll be making will be to Richard Montgomery, letting him know you’ve been screwing his wife . . . !”
I was flying. Fluttering away. And the world around me faded to black . . .
11
Spencer
Click-click . . .
“Hey, aren’t you Spencer Ellington?”
I tilted my head. “Who wants to know?”
“Kenya Irvington. With TMZ.”
I blinked as the reporter’s camera flashed brightly in my face, disorienting me and trying to burn out my retinas.
“Who’s your new hottie?”
“I’m Midnight Rufus Johnson,” he offered before I had a chance to recover from my flashbulb trauma. “That’s M-I-D-N-I-G-H-T . . .”
Click-click...
“So, Spencer...what brings you way out to San Diego? Are you on the creep with someone else’s boo?”
I rolled my eyes with annoyance. It took all of my self-control not to get gutter mouth on her. But she was pressing the right button to see what kind of shade I was going to toss up on her. I shifted in my seat.
“Ummm, do you mind, sweetie? As you see, I’m here minding my business. Hint, hint: I’m not interested in chitchat. So run along. Please and thank you.”
“Just one question. So are you sharing your new beau with one of the Pampered Princesses? It’s no secret you like borrowing everyone else’s man.”
The c
amera flashed in my face again.
I lost my cookies right there on the spot.
“Ohmygod, Helen Keller! What the fawk! You’re trying to blind me!” I screamed. “You intruder! You ratchet skank! Get that camera out of my dang face before I beat you down to the white meat with it.” I reached for my goblet and slung water on her. Then hopped up from my seat like a wild woman and wrestled her camera out of her hand. “You want photo ops then you will need to call my publicist.” I threw her camera across the room. “Security! Security! Help! I’m being stalked!”
I snatched rolls and cornbread from out of the woven breadbasket on the table and started throwing them at her, hitting her upside the head. She tried to cover her head with her hands. But I was baseball-pitcher ready.
Midnight tried to intervene, but I let him know I had this under control. I yanked a butter knife from off the table.
“I will line your face with slash marks if you don’t pop your fanny away from this table and out of my gotdang face!”
Management quickly rushed over and ushered her out of the establishment, apologizing profusely for any inconvenience. Five minutes later, we were being seated in a private dining room.
We placed our orders. The waitress took the menus and headed off. I eyed Ole Mister MacNasty to see if his eyeballs were going to bounce and roll along to the shake in her rump-a-dump. They didn’t. Because had they bounced to her shake, that would have been a deal-killer. And then Mr. Dream Date would have had to die a slow, torturous death.
“Now, this is more like it,” I said, snapping open the linen napkin and placing it across my lap. I was at Fashion Valley Mall in San Diego with Midnight, having lunch at the Neiman Marcus Zodiac restaurant, then going to the AMC theater to see that ole goofy Madea in her new movie.
“Yo, baby. You went green eggs ’n’ ham on that reporter. Straight hood fists with it. My pet rock got real hard watching you get turnt up. You like hot popping fish grease when you go in.”
“Well, she should know when to scrape the wax out of her own bees instead of trying to pluck her fingers all in mine.”
“Baby, when you mad, you sexier than a bowl of cheese ’n’ grits.”
I tooted my lips up, dismissing the compliment. “Soooo, Midniiiiiight . . . I’ve been meaning to ask you, how was Vegas?” I asked, tilting my head and twirling the end of a curl around my finger. I tended to do that when I was either really, really nervous, about to set it off, or just being coy. Today, I was none of the aforementioned. Heehee. As a matter of fact, I was feeling a little way-too-comfy for my own good. I was relaxed enough to turn my iPhone off and toss it into my purse. And thanks to my raging hormones and purring kitty, I was relaxed enough to slip a foot out of my heels and ease it up into Midnight’s lap and start toe-massaging his almond joy.
“Oh, real love. We got it in real right. Sin City was all that.”
“Uh-huh. And who all went, again?” I leaned forward, regarding Midnight with genuine interest. I really, really liked him.
“It was me ’n’ six of my frat bros ’n’ a few other fellas from the yard.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” I took a sip of my pomegranate lemonade. “And I’m sure you nasty hound dogs had a stash of hookers sniffing around you.”
Midnight shook his head. “Nah, nah. It wasn’t even that kinda party. Not for me anyway. I already got my eye, my nose, my taste buds, my tongue on someone.”
I grinned. “Oh. Let the dogs out, Daddy. Do tell.”
“Nikki was the only female with us.”
I blinked. “Nikki? Nikki as in the same Nikki that’s always gooey-goo-goo popping it up in Knox’s face? Nikki as in the hooker? The Nikki that Rich can’t stand?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. But it isn’t about nothing, ’cause she’s like one of the fellas.”
I raised a brow. “Oh really? And how’s that? Is she really a he? A he-she? ’Cause last I saw, she looked like a real girl to me with real boobs and real bouncy booty cheeks. Well, not as bouncy as mine. But they still bounced. And so did her boobs. So how is she one of the fellas? Is she wearing a pair of boxers over her pink-laced thong or something?”
Midnight shifted in his seat. “Nikki’s cool peeps. That’s all I’ma say on that. Trust me, dumpling. She ain’t checking for none of us. But, yooooo, that’s crazy ’bout BJ’s homegirl . . .”
“BJ’s homegirl,” I repeated, frowning. “Since when does a blow job have a homegirl? Where they teaching that at? Mmph.”
Midnight laughed. “Nah, nah, cherry pie. BJ stands for big jawn, baby cakes. It’s what I call ya girl, Rich.”
“Rich?!” I shrieked. “Hold up, wait a minute . . . You’re dark-chocolate cute and all, but you’re not even about to disrespect my bestie. No, no, no. It’s not even going down like that. You have Rich confused. Her big jaws only open for hot wings and beer. Not man parts. Get it right. Or get left with my handprint across your fine face, and my nails clawed into your beautiful cheeks. I will crack your face. You not gonna do my friend. Don’t do me. Don’t get turnt up for what? I promise you I will gut your eye sockets up in here.”
“Yeah, that’s it, baby. Talk dirty to me. Gut. Me. Trick me up, lil mama. Take my sight. I don’t need to see what I can feel.”
I swallowed. Drool gathered at the corners of my mouth. I licked my lips in heated excitement. Ooh, this boy had me tempted to say, Let’s skip dessert and head straight for the nightcap. But first I had to know... “Why did you feel the need to bring up Rich and her jaws at the dinner table? How disrespectful. Now who is this BJ you’re talking about? And don’t even think about playing riddles with me. Give it to me chopped raw.”
Midnight licked his lips. “Marry me, boo. You sure know how to pull at my heart. And my friend likes you too.” He glanced down at his lap and smirked. “You got him achin’ for you. But, a’ight. Here’s the deal. But I need for you to keep this on the low-low, you feel me? You can’t flap them pretty lips on this one. This is some LA Confidential–type ish.”
I blinked. “Flap my lips on it? Boy, I don’t flap my lips or my tongue up on just any-ole-thing. I got to like you, first.” I yanked my napkin from out of my lap and tossed it up on my plate, covering my half-eaten meal.
Midnight shook his head. “Yo, chill, chill, buttermilk. I’m not talking ’bout puttin’ in that lip service. I’m sayin’ what I’m about to tell you gotta stay on the hush-hush. Between you and me, boo.”
“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say that? Geesh, Midnight. Didn’t your parents teach you how to communicate? I mean, really. I’m going to need you to work a little harder on your communication skills. All of this deciphering is hectic on my brain cells.”
“I got you, muffin. But, uh, anyway... dig this. Rich’s girl. What’s her name?” He scratched his temple. “That extra-tall one, like seven feet tall . . .”
“Does she have a long neck?”
“Yeah, yeah. Her,” he said excitedly. “Real golden-brown glamazon-type. Prettier than a batch of chicken deep-fried in fresh grease.”
I narrowed my eyes. “So you twirled your dipstick in her sourdough?”
“Nah, nah. Not even. But you know who I’m talking ’bout, right?”
I played along, pretending to be dumber than a doorknob. “Ummm, does she have like a supersize head and big feet that look like flippers?”
“I don’t know about her feet, babe. All I know is, she was one of them big, sweet, juicy jawns. Keeping it straight gulley with you, that night all I saw was those big fluffy breasts and those two big buttery biscuits she had stuffed in them jeans she had on.
“She was skyscraper tall. Smooth brown skin. I ain’t gonna hold you, boo. I almost gave up on the Statue of Liberty and wifed her that night, but she walked like she was holding a potato chip wedged between her booty cheeks. Ole uppity tight-drawls jawn.”
I felt my pressure cooker about to whistle. I banged my hand on the table. “How dare you disrespect me, talking about some other girl like that? R
ight here to my face! Where they teaching that at? Have you no shame?”
He reached over the table and grabbed my hand. “Aww, daaaaayum, sweet potato. Don’t be like that. She didn’t mean anything to me. I mean. Yeah, she looked good. But hands down she doesn’t have a thing on you. Word to mother, you the sweetest, juiciest, freshest . . .”
“And don’t forget the finest,” I said, eyeing him with raised brow.
“True indeed. The finest of them all.”
I twisted my lips, pulled my hand away. “Uh-huh. Now tell me something I don’t already know. Why are you all jolly green giant ho-ho over some big-faced trick?”
“It’s not even like that, honey dip.”
“Then what is it like? Because from where I’m sitting that’s exactly what it’s looking like. Now, I’m going to count to twenty, then count backwards to give you a chance to free your mind before I go stunt-girl crazy up in this eatery. One, two, three, four . . .”
“C’mon, now. You don’t even gotta go all urban on me.”
“Five, six, seven . . .”
“All I’m tryna do is remember that jawn’s name so I can tell you about how foul she is. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Nope,” I said spitefully. But of course I did. London. Mmph. “Eight, nine, ten . . .”
“See, now you’re mad. Forget it then. I probably shouldn’t put her out there like that anyway.”
“Oh no. Put the bish out there. Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . .”
“Are you really gonna keep counting?”
“Umm, yes, I am. I am trying to stay loving and kind, but you are really trying to take me to the dark side. You’ve really pushed the bullet, Midnight. Now you’re going to have to deal with the smoking gun. I feel my other side about to show her derrière, and I’m telling you now it’s about to get real funky up in here if I don’t cool down my jets. Now go ahead. Keep talking.”
“Nah, I’m done, honey-boo. The only beef I like to have is on a plate slathered in steak sauce, not with my boo-thang.”
I smirked. “Oh, so now I’m your boo-thang?”
He leaned in, lowered his voice. “Yeah, you my boo-thang, babe. You already know what it is. You my eight-piece chicken ’n’ rib combo. You my jumbo shrimp basket, babe. You my king crab legs soaked in beer suds. My lobster soufflé. My Philly cheesesteak smothered with onions, green peppers, lots of ketchup, and a little mayo. It doesn’t get any deeper than that.”
