Beautiful Disaster (5 page)

That face, those eyes. Max was the mirror image of his father. How could she ever look at him and not be reminded of this horrible night? No, it was best to pull away. For her sake. And for his, too. If Max ever found out about…God, Pippa didn’t even want to ponder that.

All she could think about was leaving Miami. Everything had gone so wrong. She had to get out. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. Pippa wanted nothing more than to quit stripping, too. But for now, at least, it was a necessary evil. She needed every bit of cash she could get her hands on. And who knew how long it might take to finalize the trust?

The limousine coasted to a stop, and the driver killed the engine, then swung around to open the rear passenger door.

Pippa stepped out to find herself in Cheetah’s dingy rear parking lot. There was her junkyard Chevrolet and next to it a gleaming white Infiniti Q45…Hellcat’s car.

The mean bitch leaned against the luxury sedan, smoking a cigarette and playing with the catch and release of her switchblade.

Pippa said her good-byes to the driver, located her keys, and made a beeline for her vehicle.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Cinderella,” Hellcat taunted. “How was the ball?”

Pippa worked hard to ignore her. The events of the night had left her shell-shocked. The last thing she needed was a run-in with Hellcat.

“So did the glass slipper fit?”

Pippa pretended not to hear, determined to simply get in her car and drive away.

The key was just about to unlock the door when Hellcat flicked away her hand. “I’m talking to you, bitch.”

Pippa felt a surge of unstoppable, all-powerful rage. Her moves were swift and certain, yet dangerously out of control. She had the advantage of surprise, and the melee ended with Hellcat sprawled on the hood of the Infiniti and the business end of the switchblade millimeters from her throat.

“Now
I’m
talking,” Pippa hissed, moving the weapon even closer to skin and vein, simultaneously astonished and empowered by her own propensity for violence. “You struck a nerve. I’ve been called a bitch one too many times tonight.”

Hellcat swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what your problem is with me,” Pippa went on. “Maybe it’s because I’m young and lush, and you’re an old cow. Maybe it’s because that crappy stage inside is as good as it gets for you, and I’ve got bigger things in life waiting for me. It doesn’t matter, though, because your problem ends tonight. I suggest you find a way to cope. See a therapist. Buy a self-help book. Try yoga. But leave me alone!”

Pippa snapped the blade closed and tossed it across the parking lot. Then she got in her car and drove away, feeling an eerie, detached sense of calm.

Her Nokia sang to life to the music of “I’m in Love (wit a Stripper)” by T-Pain and Mike Jones. It was Max’s dedicated ring tone. Reluctantly, she picked up.

He seemed grateful to hear her voice, and as he relayed the story of Shoshanna’s overdose and near death, Max lost control of his emotions more than once, crying openly, telling her how much he missed her, needed her, and loved her.

But his sentiments didn’t penetrate her numbness. Pippa just concentrated on the road and listened to him ramble on, realizing that the night had changed her, almost turned her into a different girl altogether. Because Max, her best mate, was pouring out his heart, and Pippa felt absolutely nothing.

She was as cold as ice.

From: Mom

I heard about Max’s sister on CNN. I want you home on the next plane and away from that group.

3:09 am 4/09/06

I
’ve got a source that says she died on the table, and they brought her back to life,” one freelance photographer said.

“I hear she was only in a light coma, but is out of it now and doing fine,” another shutterbug replied.

A female news reporter checked her makeup with a jeweled compact. “Are we sure it’s a drug thing? Maybe one of her implants sprung a leak.” She chortled. “Can you believe that was her father’s idea of a birthday gift for turning fifteen?” Staring in the direction of First Avenue, she huffed impatiently. “I’m paying back a fortune in journalism school loans to wait around for this shit. I should be the one in there suffering from an overdose.”

The first photographer laughed, taking a final swig of Red Bull and crushing the can.

“If you think that’s funny, you should see my pay stub,” she grumbled. “I can’t earn side money off these freaks. How much do you guys stand to make for a shot tonight anyway?”

“Max Biaggi alone usually fetches around a thousand,” the second photographer offered. “But this will be him rushing inside the hospital to see about his dying daughter. Should easily clear twenty-five grand.”

Christina struggled to get through the cluster of bodies blocking the hospital entrance. The mercenary zeal of the tabloid media disgusted her. Nothing was sacred anymore.

Carb led the way, aggressively pushing toward the door until they were safely inside. “You okay?”

Christina nodded, stunned that he had insisted on accompanying her to NYU Medical Center without so much as a pause to find clean clothes.

He remained shirtless in his vomit-soiled jeans, yet he still looked good enough to eat. And this aesthetic appreciation was from a lesbian.

Christina smiled. “You don’t have to stay, Carb. I promise not to jump off the roof of this building.” She held up her Sidekick II as evidence. “And I say this
after
reading the most recent text from my mother.”

“At least allow me to transfer you to the custody of a friend before I take off,” Carb said.

“I’m here to offer
him
support,” Christina pointed out.

“Oh yeah? That sounds like the blind leading the blind.”

She halted, slightly offended. “I’m not crazy, you know.”

“I’ll take your word on that. Because I’ve only known you to be falling-down drunk, dangling from the roof of a building by a string of Christmas lights, or throwing up things that you ate two years ago.”

“If you only knew how boring I really was,” Christina said softly.

Carb grinned. “We’re a half hour into this new friendship, and you’re anything but boring.”

She laughed.

“It should be this way,” Carb said, taking off fast, his long legs in full stride.

Christina struggled to keep in step.

“Jap!” The familiar voice carried the familiar, much-hated nickname.

Christina glanced up to see Max rushing in her direction, looking exhausted, relieved, and desperate for company.

When he reached her, his embrace was all-consuming. “Sho’s resting now, but I just saw her a few minutes ago.” He drew back and took both of her hands in his. “Jesus, I was so scared, Jap. She came close to…shit, I can’t even say it. But she’s okay now. The doctor just wants to keep her here for the next several hours. You know, for observation.”

Christina squeezed his hands. “It’s a lucky night.”

Max nodded, cutting his eyes over to Carb. “Who’s the Chippendales dancer?”

Christina smiled and made the necessary introduction. “He’s a new friend,” she told Max. “A lifesaver, in fact.”

“I should go,” Carb said.

“Yeah,” Max agreed, a little too quickly. “Maybe find a shirt or something.”

Christina beamed a secret look to Carb, an apology in her eyes.

He grinned, silently assuring her that it was no big deal. “Take care of yourself. I’m heading out.” Carb started to walk away.

“Wait!” Christina called out. “How do I get in touch with you?”

“You’ll figure it out one day.” And then Carb Duffy was gone.

Regretfully, Christina watched him disappear, then turned back to give Max a scolding glare. “
Find a shirt
?”

Max shrugged, impervious to any wrongdoing. “Hey, it needed to be said.”

Christina rolled her eyes. “The media wagons are circling. There’s a group out front waiting for your dad to arrive.”

A dark expression clouded Max’s face. “The son of a bitch doesn’t even know about this yet. He won’t answer his phone.”

“He’ll know soon enough. My mom saw it on CNN. She wants me home on the next plane.”

Max shook his head in disgust. “Well, at least she gives a shit.”

“That’s debatable,” Christina murmured.

“Take it from me,” he argued gently. “At times like these, an overbearing parent would be nice.”

Christina said nothing. Max had no idea what she faced upon return to Miami. A mother who would rather see her dead than gay. Two weeks at Salvation Pointe being brainwashed by Jesus freaks.

Given the choice, Christina would prefer the parent who didn’t give a damn. She considered confessing all to Max, then thought better of it. Right now he had his own problem with Shoshanna. This was hers to deal with. Besides, he would never understand what if felt like to be under the suffocating rule of a controlling parent.

Christina glanced around. “Where is everybody?”

“I talked to Dante a few minutes ago,” Max said. “He’s trying to find Vanity.” He sighed, holding up his Sidekick. “Then I got through to Pippa and broke down like a blubbering idiot. She didn’t have much to say, either. Probably thinks I’m a whiny little bitch.” He wiped his eyes and looked close to tears again.

Christina touched his arm. “I’m sure she was taken aback. Everybody counts on you for a laugh, Max. You’re the comic relief. It’s hard to watch that person fall apart.”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure her out anymore.” He shrugged and grinned at Christina. “I’m glad you’re here, though.” And then he pulled her in for an embrace.

Christina hugged him tightly, needing it just as much. “Shoshanna’s okay,” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

For a long second, he became very still. “Ugh…you smell like puke, Jap.”

“Shut up and cry, Max.”

“New York’s a big city—”

“Is it?” Dante cut in savagely. “Didn’t know that. Thanks for the geography lesson, Sipowicz.”

Curran was already pissed. Now he was more pissed. “Listen, smart-ass, if we could put dedicated man hours on every drunk girl who gets in a fight with her boyfriend and disappears for a few hours, then that would mean we were living in Candyland.”

Dante was fuming.

“Just relax and give this some time,” Curran went on. “Most of these things sort themselves out. We’ve talked to everyone on duty. Nobody saw her leave the hotel. We have every reason to believe she’s still on the property.”

“If I have to go room to room and knock on every goddamn door of this hotel, then that’s what I’ll do!”

“Try knocking on just one door.” As Curran painted the threat, his cheeks turned red. “You’ll be taking a ride with me to the precinct. Bet on it.”

Dante experienced a helpless anxiety. There was no time to wait. The horrible feeling lanced in his gut told him so. He pointed an accusing finger at Curran. “Dude, if anything happens to her…it’s going to mean your badge. I’ll tell this story to anybody who’ll listen, and you’ll be lucky to get a gig as a night watch rent-a-cop.”

Curran shook his head dismissively. “Why don’t you get some sleep, tough guy? Could be that this girl’s just hiding from
you
.”

The fight was out of Dante. This NYPD loser was a complete waste of time. He tried to think about his next move, wondering if he should call Simon St. John, Vanity’s father. Then he vaguely noticed the hotel’s assistant manager taking a call on his Bluetooth earpiece.

“Yes…I’ll head over there right now…eight thirteen…got it…Crystal, who’s registered to that room?”

Dante rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes.

“Jayson James…okay…comp one night’s charges to the guest who called in the complaints.”

Dante spun around to face the manager. A hot current of certainty shocked his body. It was electric. “He’s got her.”

“Who’s got her?” Curran asked.

“Jayson James,” Dante said. “He’s the guy responsible for the Internet sex tape. Vanity’s father buried him in lawsuits.”

“So where do we find this Jayson James?”

Dante ignored Curran and zeroed in on the manager. “Room eight thirteen, right?”

“That call isn’t related to this matter. It’s just a loud music com—”

Dante vaulted toward the door, praying to God that he wouldn’t be too late.

The will to scream had evaporated from Vanity’s psyche. This would be the end. Right here. Right now.

A bloody finale.

J.J.’s knife swooped down again, his face a mask of unspeakable rage and drug-ravaged disconnect.

Vanity braced herself for the impact, but once more J.J. had shifted aim at the last possible moment, gutting the mattress mere inches from her body.

The torture was unbearable. On some level she just wanted him to stab her straight through the heart and get it over with.

But J.J. seemed to have enough presence of mind to realize this, so he gleefully prolonged the inevitable kill.

Megadeth’s “Symphony of Destruction” continued to roar inside the room. The track was locked in repeat mode. It played over and over again.

Vanity felt her mind shutting down. Facing her own mortality was too much to endure. Especially now. There were so many regrets gnawing away at her soul as she lay here, sweating out the seconds until she was butchered.

She would die not being at peace with anyone in her personal orbit. The connection to her mother was almost nonexistent, and the rift with her father seemed to grow wider each day.

Almost every primary relationship in Vanity’s life had either deteriorated or been left in a fractured mess. Her dealings with Max were superficial at best. Pippa had all but disappeared from her life. After tonight’s drunken kiss, Christina would probably never speak to her again. And Dante certainly had no reason to, either. So maybe she deserved to go out like this.

But she wanted another chance. To prove her value as a friend. To change her life. To make better choices. Oh God…leaving everyone…the way things were…that saddened Vanity more than the idea of dying itself.

J.J.’s eyes took on a strange expression, as if the joy for cheap scare thrills had given way to a lust for blood and murder.

He raised the knife. “Any last words, dirty bitch?”

Vanity stared into the face of her killer and felt nothing. What escaped from her lips was a sad, broken, vacant whisper. “Just do it.”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

J.J. froze, startled by the ferocious pounding on the door. “They’re here.” He spoke in a crazy, paranoid voice.

“Mr. James, this is the police.” The male voice rang out with authority. “I’m asking you to open the door. If you fail to do so, we will be coming inside on our own.”

“It’s not the police. It’s your father’s lawyers. They’re here to take everything away from me. They want it all.” J.J. talked in a rapid clip as he paced the limits of the room.

Vanity’s gaze tracked the door with laser intensity.

“Mr. James?” It sounded like the policeman’s final warning.

She turned to J.J. and knew instantly that he stood ready to break. There was an insane panic in his eyes that chilled her. “It’s not the lawyers,” Vanity told him. “They’re in Miami. We’re in New York.”

For several long seconds, J.J. just stared at her. “Liar,” he finally said.

The suite door burst open.

J.J. lunged without warning. He screamed like a wild beast. And he stabbed at Vanity with sadistic abandon.

The knife’s tip narrowly missed her shoulder, but the blade sliced into her upper arm. Blood gushed.

Vanity was too shocked to scream or feel any pain.

And then she saw him…Dante…exploding inside the room, colliding with J.J. in a full-on body tackle that sent both of them crashing down to the floor.

Seconds after that, it was over.

Two officers subdued J.J.

The hotel manager called for an ambulance.

One of the officers cut her free.

Dante ripped a sheet to tourniquet the stab wound, inspecting her body for other injuries. “I don’t think he got you anyplace else.”

But she just lay there, immobile, unable to answer.

“Vanity!” Dante cried. His warm hands cradled her face. “Are you with me?”

Finally, she grinned, ever so faintly.

And then he pulled her in for an embrace so loving and so tender that Vanity could only feel her heart swell with gratitude—for being alive.

“Yes, Dante…I’m with you.”

“Wait a minute. I’m the firstborn of a freaking action star. So how does this welfare case manage to swoop in and play the hero?” Max asked.

“Because there was a fight scene, bitch,” Dante said. “And you refuse to do your own stunts.”

Everybody laughed.

Dante, Max, and Christina were gathered around Vanity’s hospital bed at New York University Medical Center. Though tired, she felt surprisingly good. The stab wound had been treated and dressed, and the emergency room intern had promised an early morning release.

Attentively, Dante brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead with his hand.

Vanity smiled at him as she took in more ice shavings.

Max continued on. “Jap is the one we should really be feeling sorry for.”

Christina gave him an amused look. “And why’s that?”

“Well, think about it. Sho got media coverage. Vanity’s got the press chasing her like jackals. Then there’s you, hanging upside down off the side of a building by a string of Christmas lights…and you can’t get so much as a mention in a neighborhood newsletter.”

“Max!” Vanity protested, smiling as she said it. He could be so hilariously awful.

“Well, I prefer it that way!” Christina insisted with good humor.

Max hooked an arm around Christina’s waist and pulled her in close, kissing her on the side of the head. “I know you do, Jap.”