Lights, Love & Lip Gloss

by Ni-Ni Simone

  “I want my father! And I want you to stop being malicious and hateful.”

  She guffawed. “You silly girl. It most certainly is about money. It’s always about money. And I will not have you speaking to me this way or acting in this fashion. I’m calling security if you don’t settle down!”

  “No! You settle down before you get knocked down! Daddy loves me. Vera loved me. Esmeralda and Solenne loved me! You’re nothing but a hateful, bitter ole snot, Kitty. All my life, anything—or anyone—that has ever mattered to me, you’ve managed to always find some kind of way to snatch them away from me.”

  This beeeeeeyotch had killed my vibe one time too many. And I was sick of her flimflamfluckery! I narrowed my eyes, beaming red lasers of hot gas and steam at her. I was rrrrready to torch her tootie-toot-toot booty up. I wanted to scorch her three ways from Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. But I didn’t want to turn the flames all the way up to ten, just yet. Kitty had always said to never play your whole hand of messy all in one shot. So I took several deep breaths to soothe my raging guts. But the longer she stood there with her eyes all bugged out, looking like she’d sucked in lemons and a pint of hairspray, the more I wanted to set it off on her face.

  I was done with being nice and sweet to Kitty. She’d done nothing but write me off like some bad debt more times than I could count. And I was sick of her snatching my life from me!

  From passing me off from one nanny to another, only to rip them out of my life whenever she felt I’d gotten too close to them, to shipping me off to a boarding school for three years, wanting nothing to do with me. From sleeping with two of my boyfriends once they turned eighteen, to . . . to this—disrespecting Daddy’s memory.

  Adrenaline rocketed through my body as I reached over and slung the rest of her coffee on her. I jumped at Kitty, catching her by surprise.

  “Aaah! What the—!” she shouted. “Spencer, have you lost your goddamn mind?!”

  “No, but I’m about to help you lose yours!”

  We tussled until we both toppled over and hit the floor, rolling around.

  “Stop this nonsense, Spencer! I have to be at the airport in an hour! I don’t have time for this horseplay with you!”

  Whap!

  I screamed. Kitty’s hand went hard and swift across my face. I lunged at her and seized her wrists. “You will not put your hands on me! I’m sick of you, Kitty! I want you out of my house!”

  The kitchen staff tried to pull us apart, but Kitty and I had our horns locked and were in a full-fledged rodeo beef brawl.

  “Spencer, stop this!”

  She screamed as I jabbed the heel of my six-inch pump into her shin. “Aaaah! I’m going to have you put away along with your nutty father! You’ll both be institutionalized!”

  “Oh no! And you’ll be eulogized before that ever happens! I’ve been nothing but loving and kind to you, Kitty! And all you do is mistreat me! And hurt me! And belittle me! You have torn your panties with me, Kitty! Now I’m going to give you a burn from the fires of hell!”

  Oh, we wrestled and tussled and clawed at each other just like the good ole days when I was eight and nine years old.

  Out of nowhere, gunshots rang out, stopping Kitty and me from our rock-’em-sock-’em party. We both screamed. My heart dropped to my feet as plaster from the ceiling rained down on Kitty’s head and mine.

  “Daddy!” I shrieked.

  “Ellington!” Kitty screeched, calling him by his last name. Something she’d always done when she was pretending to be happy and in love.

  Daddy was standing there in the middle of the kitchen in a pair of skintight overalls and lizard-skin cowboy boots with a cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, pointing a shotgun at us.

  “Both of you gals stay where you are,” he growled in warning. “Now, c’mon, Cleola, I gotta get you out of here before them Mississippi boys come and get you . . .”

  “Daddy, I’m not Cleola! I’m Spencer, your daughter! Now put that gun down right this instant!”

  “I know who you are, pumpkin,” he shot back, lowering the rifle. “My mind hasn’t gone completely bye-bye, yet.” He shot a look over at Kitty. “I’m talking about that fine, sexy gal right over there beside you.”

  I laughed. “Daddy, you’re so silly. Hahaha. That’s soo cute. That’s not Cleola. That’s Kitty. My mother. Your exwife.”

  He shook his head. “No, no. That gal right there”—he tossed a knowing glare over at Kitty—“is Cleola Mae from Leflore County, Mississippi. Wanted for murder. Ain’t that right, Cleola?”

  21

  Rich

  I tapped my heels and popped my newly Juvadermed lips, clearly annoyed. Here I’d been in heaven, laid up with my baby boo, Justice, for two days when I appeared on World Star and the Vine in slow motion, being tossed out on London’s lawn.

  “I can’t believe that dirty, half-dead corpse London leaked that video of me,” I’d said to Spencer as we sat on my balcony having brunch and sipping mimosas. “That trolloping tramp attacked me! Tried to take it to my face all because she’s hatin’ on my get-right. Mad because I got the man and the ring. And to think I was anti-hate, -tea, and -shade. Kind enough to go over there to grace her coffin with my love and light, and she attacks me! Hatin’ on me. Sending that security footage of me getting dragged out of her suite, manhandled down the stairs, then tossed out on the lawn like last week’s trash.”

  “Well, you are trash,” Spencer had interrupted while flicking her white linen napkin onto her lap. Then she took a sip of her smoothie, tilted her head, and locked eyes with me. “And for the record, London didn’t leak that video of you. I did.”

  Of all the dirty things to do! She didn’t even have the decency to let me think London did it. No! She tells me she did it! Who does that? And to think I’d been nothing but a good friend to that trick. And what did she do for me in return? Stab me in the front, back, and the sides. Stooping gutter-rat low and spreading lies about my man! Saying Justice drove London crazy. Ummm . . . hellooooooo . . . knock, knock! Anybody home? London was born crazy! My man had minus-zero to do with that. She better check her gene pool, and see if her mama was rockin’ Baby Phat.

  Annnd thennn she leaked the video footage of London attacking me to World Star and the Vine! World Star? Really? And the Vine? How insulting! Scandalous! Low-grade!

  Spencer is a low-down, dirty snake! Which is why I had no problem sitting here looking into this raggedy and over-tanned face, like a leather handbag, TMZ thot.

  I was at Club Lip Gloss having a secret squirrel meeting. The TMZ reporter was waiting for me to spill all of the Pampered Princesses’ secrets . . . Mm-hm. The nitty-gritty of the pampered and the pretty. And, since I invited him here, I needed to drop the goods and I needed to do it quick.

  Heck, they weren’t my friends. Spencer was a slorish Benedict Arnold who had the nerve to call me last night, crying and babbling in true Spencer fashion about some dumb Cleola Mae and somebody being murdered. And her senile father pulling out a shotgun and shooting up the house.

  But, umm, do you think I cared? She needed to apologize to me before she could come crying on my shoulder. No apologies, then she got no sympathy. I didn’t give a rat’s piss about her rickety old daddy or him trying to shoot up the whole house. And I dang sure didn’t care about his bald-headed mistress Cleola Mae, who was wanted for murder. I deserved an apology for being played like some broke trick. World Star? Really? And the Vine? Rich Montgomery would never do it for the Vine! Never!

  And as far as Heather was concerned, it would be a hot, steamy day in the desert before I ever had any loyalty to her. Especially after that skid-row trash tried to drag me in the cafeteria and threatened to beat my face in. Yeah, right? And here she’d run through three million dollars on Korean handbags and powdered nose-candy.

  And that two-faced London . . . mmph. By the time I was done with that unstable slore, she was gonna wish they’d kept her locked in a padded room.

  “Excuse m
e, Rich, are you ready to begin?”

  I batted my lashes, bringing my attention back to the reporter as I nicely crossed my legs and said, “Revenge is much sweeter with a pitcher of beer and a platter of hot wings. ’Cause the pretty white gloves are off and it is no longer about lights, love, and lip gloss. So Spencer, London, and Heather had better buckle up. Now, it’s time to serve them all heels, heartache, and headlines . . .”

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  LIGHTS, LOVE & LIP GLOSS

  Ni-Ni Simone

  Amir Abrams

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The following questions are intended to

  enhance your group’s reading of

  LIGHTS, LOVE & LIP GLOSS.

  Discussion Questions

  1. What were your thoughts/feelings about London’s suicide attempt? Do you know anyone who has attempted suicide? If so, how did their actions make you feel? Do you believe London’s self-esteem and the way she sees and feels about herself will ever change?

  2. Heather seems to be getting back on top. How far do you think she will go before she hits rock bottom again? Do you think she will ever learn to take responsibility for her actions? What do you think she should do now that she knows that Richard Montgomery is her father, but wants nothing to do with her?

  3. Rich believes she’s madly in love with Justice Banks. Problem is, she doesn’t know the truth about him. What do you think Rich will do when she discovers who he really is? Do you believe she is strong enough to walk away? Or will she make excuses to stay?

  4. Once again, Rich is expecting, but she doesn’t know who the father of her future baby is. What do you think she will do? Will she put it on Knox? Or Justice? Or will she do the right thing, and tell both of them the truth? Is she even capable of telling the truth?

  5. Spencer continues to meddle in everyone’s business. The one thing that seems constant is her loyalty to Rich even when she turns on her. Why do you think she is always jumping to save Rich? Do you think Spencer is a true friend to Rich? Or simply being her scheming, conniving self?

  6. Now that Spencer’s father is home, how do you think her life will change? Will she ever get over not being Daddy’s little girl again? How do you think his Alzheimer’s will affect her life? Or her relationship with her mother?

  Explosive rumors and a mega-media frenzy almost

  ended the Pampered Princesses’ reign as Hollywood

  High royalty. Now only one diva can win the ultimate

  fame of thrones . . .

  Put Your Diamonds Up

  Volume 3 of the Hollywood High Series

  Turn the page for an excerpt from

  Put Your Diamonds Up . . .

  1

  London

  Milan, Italy

  “Your body, beauty, and youth are your tickets to fame and fortune . . .”

  “Look into the camera, London,” Luke Luppalozzi, a renowned photographer, cajoled as his camera clicked to life. I blinked my mother’s voice out of my head. “Less stiff, more sass, London! Thrust your left hip . . . Give me seductress, darling!”

  You nasty perv! Sounds to me like you want slutty!

  I was at a photo shoot for a new fragrance—Pink Heat—for some new Italian designer, standing on a seamless swoop of heavy white paper that stretched along the floor for what seemed like miles, from a roll anchored to a beam. I was wearing a pair of six-inch pink spike heels and a slinky pink dress. My sculpted, milk-chocolate shoulders were exposed, shimmering from the glow of the lights. My long, shapely legs were bare. Around my slender, elongated neck hung a five-carat pink diamond necklace, a gift from my mother. Hair and makeup people had been at the ready from the moment I’d stepped through the doors four hours ago.

  My shoulder-length hair was curled into cascading ringlets. Long, thick lashes wrapped around my large brown eyes. My sumptuous lips glowed and pulsed, coated in hot pink lipstick and glossed to perfection.

  On the outside, I was fiiiierce.

  On the inside, I felt everything but. I felt like someone had rolled me in a whole bottle of Pepto-Bismol. And I’d become the big pink Amazon. Ugh.

  God, I wanted to love my life. Wanted to love the excitement. Wanted to love that I was in Milan... Italy, that is; among some of the world’s elite fashion editors, being captured on film by renowned photographers for campaign and print ads—doing something most girls my age only dreamed of.

  I wanted to love the fact that I was finally becoming the daughter that my well-coiffed, well-heeled, well-bred mother had always desired me to be. Flawless. Hair pinned, face painted, poised, and ready to take the fashion world by storm.

  But right at the moment, I was too exhausted to care about any of that. My feet ached from wearing heels all day, standing in uncomfortable positions, being twisted and prodded to hold poses for the camera while gigantic industrial fans blew my hair this way and that.

  Yes. I was a trendsetter.

  Yes. I was a fashionista extraordinaire.

  Yes. I was a lover of heels, handbags, and high fashion.

  But on my terms. Not someone else’s.

  And, right now, at this very minute, this precise second, my mother defined everything about who I was. I wanted this for her. I wanted this for me, because she wanted this for me . . . for herself. This was her life, her world. And she insisted . . . no, demanded, expected, that I be a part of it. That I embrace my orchestrated destiny with grace and fervor and be forever swept into the glitz and glamour of it all.

  But who I was was all back in California—six thousand forty-five-point-four miles; twelve hours and thirty-three minutes away. In La-La Land. At Hollywood High Academy, my elite private school, where I hadn’t been for the last week or so in order to appease my mother’s need to have me on the runway. God strike me for parting my lips and admitting this part, but . . . I’d rather be back at school with the Pampered Princesses—the “It Girls” of Hollywood High than be here with a bunch of snotty models.

  Jeezus, the world must really be coming to an end for me to openly admit to missing the likes of Heather and Spencer! It must be the flashing lights! Yeah, that has to be it.

  Yeah, we didn’t always get along. And yeah, we fought. And yeah, most times I disliked Heather Cummings, the teen-star junkie; even looked down on her. She was the queen of trashy. Leopard prints and pounds of slut paint on her face. But, minus the fortune, she had fame. Everyone knew who Wu-Wu Tanner was. The fun-loving, animal-print wearing suburban teenager Heather had once played on the number one hit television show in America. But thanks to her druggie behavior and showing up strung out on the set, her show was canceled. And it’s been downhill for Heather ever since. Still, like it or not, she had star power. What was left of it, that is. But I digress.

  Anhoo yeah, I despised that dizzy-dumb, scatterbrain chick Spencer, the spoiled bratty daughter of the messy media mogul, Kitty Ellington. But she had heart. She had guts. And she was crazier than bat shit. And thanks to me, she’d gotten her face smacked off right in the middle of finance class when I convinced Rich that it was Spencer who’d stabbed her in the back and told her boo Knox that she’d had an abortion when she’d already lied and told him that she’d miscarried. It didn’t take much coercion. Rich wasn’t the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer either. And she was as slutty as Spencer. No, no . . . she was sluttier. Still, she was my bestie. And sharing her with that floor-mop Spencer was not an option.

  And what my mother failed to understand was, I needed to get back to my life at Hollywood High to ensure Rich and Spencer stayed enemies. Before Rich, who had the attention span of a bobblehead, went back to cavorting with my nemesis.

  And speaking of Rich, why the hell hadn’t I heard from her in two days? I called her four times. Sent her six text messages. And nothing! That was soooooo not good! It was an omen. I knew she’d wait until I got thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean to show her true two-faced ways. And her lack of regard for me and our friendship said one of three
things: She was either somewhere chained to some boy’s bed with her legs up in her famous V-split, or hiding out at some seedy ranch for sexaholics, or she was back in the manicured clutches of Spencer.

  God, I couldn’t stand that trampola. Everyone knew her mouth was a used condom, thanks to the viral video of her sucking down watermelon shots in the girls’ lounge at school with one of Rich’s many boyfriends. But being here, away from my life in Hollywood, was more torturous than being friends with Spencer and Heather. So I’d take being around those two over the likes of the majority of the models I was surrounded by. And that really spoke volumes, considering my contempt for the two of them.

  I was besieged by the likes of the living dead, pony-stepping the runways. A gaggle of models who recklessly eyeballed me and mumbled snide remarks under their collagen-plumped lips every chance they got about me receiving preferential treatment because I was the daughter of Jade Obi, one of the world’s beloved international supermodels. Whatever!

  They had no clue as to what life was like living with their role model, their adored idol. My mother.

  Sure, being the daughter of a famous supermodel came with the advantages of a lavish lifestyle. I lived a privileged life. And being young, beautiful, and rich always made me a target. For the paparazzi. For the haters. And for my mother’s ridicule.

  She was imperious. She was controlling. She was rigid. She was—when I wasn’t who she expected me to be—my worst nightmare. “You’re definitely not ugly. And you’re far from old-looking, yet. Thank God you have my genes. But, fat . . . mmmph. You’re well on your way. . .

  Diet is everything in this industry, London. . .”

  And dieting I have done. For the last two-and-a-half years, she’d been monitoring my weight, measuring my inches, weighing my food portions, counting my caloric intake, keeping it all in a leather-bound journal, browbeating me to no end until I’d finally lost the fifteen extra pounds she required of me to be runway ready. Now weighing in at one-hundred-and-ten pounds, I had arrived. I’d made it back in front of the flashbulbs popping all around me. It didn’t matter to her how I lost the weight as long as it was gone. Buried. To never return for as long as we both shall live. Amen. Amen. Amen.