Get Ready for War (12 page)

I
slid behind the wheel of my McLaren, courtesy of Kitty—uh, my mother—then waited for the valet to shut my dang door. I tossed the furry-faced fellow a twenty, then sped off, leaving Hollywood High, with all of its palm trees, in the dust. After that little workout on them two cheese doodle-dos, aka the Starlets, I needed to get home, run me a long, hot bath and luxuriate. Nairing up a bunch of hoes was exhausting; especially when you had no dang help from the boom-bop-crunk-it-up drama queen herself. I was disgusted. That loud-mouthed Rich couldn't bust a window open if it slammed down on her pudgy neck. She's such a scaredy-crow.

I couldn't get over how she ran out of the bathroom with her boobies and booty bouncing up and down. Oh, it was awful seeing all that junk in her suitcase. I wanted to laugh. She sprinted down the hall like the fire in her cootie-shoot had returned with another disease. My. God! Blondwig.com strikes again. Mmmph. If Man-eater didn't watch where she dropped her thongs, she was going to end up back on the Ten Most Nasty Hoes list, again.

Rich is a mess!

I pressed a button and Nicki Minaj started jibber-jabbering, or whatever that is she does. “Roman's Revenge.” I giggled, thinking how fitting the song was since I had just finished bringing it to two little itty-bitty piggy hoes trying to crisscross over into the wrong lane. Whoop, whoop. Beez in a trap! But I pulled out my bag of whip-azz and did it on them.

“Rah-rah, like a dungeon dragon,” I sang and finger-popped, swinging around the corner. “Sing, Nicki! They don't want it with me. I get crazy!” I bounced up and down in my seat, swinging one arm in the air. “Rah-rah . . . whoop, whoop . . . Fly cutie like me . . . snatching out hoes' teeth, chopping off their feet . . . bringing them slutaroos to their knees . . . tryna bring it to me . . . please . . . Nair 'em up, Nair 'em up! Get your hair up!” I burst into laughter, swerving into the traffic. Horns blew.

I flipped them a finger. “Oh, blow it out your gas pipes!” I yelled. “Y'all don't want it with me.” I floored the pedal, and my Benz quickly shot up to eighty. I zoomed in and out of traffic. “Whoop, whoop . . . get out the way!” I went back to singing the rest of the Nicki song—well, my version of it—when the music was interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing over the music. I rolled my eyes, hitting a button on the steering wheel.

“What do you want? You low-down dirty Pillsbury pill popper!” I snapped. “I'm singing and laughing and minding my own dang business so why are you calling me?”

“I-I,” Heather stammered, “I want to apologize for saying all those mean, nasty things to you. I'm sorry for hurting you. I—”

“You're sorry for
hurting
me? Oh no, Miss Tylenol. Don't be sorry. You declared war! You tried to set it off in the kitchen and fried up the wrong sausages, girlie. And now I'm gonna gut you from the rooter to the cooter, then feed you to the wolves . . .”

“Spencer—”

“You crossed the wrong railroad tracks, trickie. And now your caboose is mine.”

“Spencer—”

“Oh no, Miss Prescription Freak. You turned the gas on the wrong one. No, the right one! I'ma light your fire, girlie. You going up in smoke! Do you hear me, ho?!”

“Spencer, please let me—”

“How about I let you slurp my sewer, you gutter rat? Now I see why your ole drunk mother hates you, and your father never wanted you! You're evil and ugly, you . . . you . . . you wiggly-eyed albino python! You're a two-headed snake, Heather! I want nothing to do with you! And if you ever call me again I will spray-paint you a permanent suntan, paleface!”

I pressed the button, ending the call. The music eased its way back through the speakers. The nerve of her! She might have forgotten what she said to me that day at her little pill party. But I hadn't.
You are the dumbest ho I've ever come across. Your name is wedged in between dumb and dumber . . . Friends ? We were never friends and never will be! I don't like you. You're a sneaky, dirty, conniving little ho. Oh no, excuse me, big ho . . .

I wiped a lone tear as I raised the volume up. I was not about to sashay down Horror Lane, rehashing every nasty thing Heather said. Oh no. Heather Cummings was dead to me! All I needed to do was have her funeral, then toss the dirt on her.

I pulled up into my circular driveway, surprised to see Anderson's car parked in front of the estate.
Anderson! Oh no! Oh God oh God oh God!
I screeched on the brakes, rammed the car into park, then quickly jumped out of the car, leaving the door wide open. I ran up the four steps, then swung open the front door. I raced through the house, finding him sitting out on the terrace with Kitty hovering over him like a hungry vulture.

“Kitty!” I screamed as I was greeted with a back-shot view of Kitty's roadside. The side that most men rode on. I knew what trick she was up to. She was trying to get her booty rocked. She had on a white see-through camisole and black lace boy-shorts, and a pair of white mink stiletto slippers. All I could see were all my other boyfriends that Kitty had marched off with. She was the Pied Piper of Nasty. The ho-gram. But not this time. And not with Anderson!

“What in the hell do you think you're doing?! What in the heezysneezy are you wearing? And why are you back here? I thought you were in New York.”

She straightened her body and faced me, grinning. “I was, dear. I flew in on the redeye to see my darling daughter. And to—”

“Swoop down on my man.”

Kitty tossed her head back and laughed. “Oh, Spencer, darling, collect yourself. You and that overactive imagination of yours is going to get you committed to the nut ward sooner than not.”

Anderson jumped up from his seat, walking over to me. “Gum drop, you're home from school early.” He planted a kiss on my forehead. “Is everything all right?”

I eyed him, then shot Kitty a dirty look. “No, it's not. Apparently I'm just in time for the freak show.”

I glanced down at his crotch and saw his goody bag. I gasped. It was stretching the fabric of his dress pants. He tried to place a hand over all his excitement. Dirty dog!

I fumed as Kitty licked her lips.

“Anderson, what are you doing here when you know I was in school?”

“Your mom invited me over. She was kind enough to get my mom season tickets to her show.”

“As promised,” Kitty purred, letting a sly grin slip over her painted lips as she slipped an arm through his. “I am always a woman of my word.”

I pulled him from her. “Oh, please. And you couldn't overnight them?”

“Of course not, dear. What kind of woman do you think I am? I like to personally deliver
all
things Kitty.”

What a slutasaurus!
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, spare me the pig feet and pickle juice act. You don't really want me to answer that. The only thing it looks like you're ready to deliver is a platter of hot nastiness. But if you know what's good for you, you had better tuck your old dusty servers away before I cool-breeze your burners. And go put some clothes on. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Kitty pulled at her camisole. And one of her boobies popped out. She didn't even bother fixing herself. “Anderson, dear, please excuse me while I have a word with my darling, delusional daughter.”

He nervously shifted his eyes from her chest and cleared his throat to say something, but I stopped him in his tracks. “Yes, Anderson, please excuse us. Go up to my room. I'll be there in a minute to pick up where my scandalous mother left off.”

He kissed me on the cheek, then turned to Kitty. “Missus Ellington, thanks again for the tickets. My mom is going to be extremely thrilled.”

Kitty waved him on, batting her eyes as she stuffed her breast back into her camisole. “Oh, no problem. I'll do
anything
—and I do mean any-thing—for a fan.”

I smirked. “Don't you mean man?”

Anderson quickly excused himself, then walked toward the winding staircase that led upstairs to my suite. We both eyed him, waited for him to disappear, then pulled the claws out. “How dare you,” Kitty snapped through clenched teeth, “embarrass me like that!”

“No,” I shot back, slamming a hand up on my hip. “How dare
you
invite my man over here behind my back, flouncing around in that flimsy come-get-'em getup.”

She laughed. “Last time I checked, he wasn't your man. Or have you forgotten that major detail? My God! I know I didn't give birth to a bimbo, so you can't possibly be standing here thinking that fine, sexy stallion is your man. Tell me that isn't the case. Or I will make a call to have you put away today.”

“Put me away?” I asked incredulously. “How about, you're the one who needs to be put away for walking around in that slut suit. You're forty-one dang years old and it's time you started acting like it.”

“How dare you! I'm thirty-six!”

“Yeah, right, Mother. In which dream?” Next thing I knew, I started screaming at her in French. She hated when I did that. I was so dang sick of her. “
J'en ai marre de vous! J'en ai marre de vos moyens sournois! Vous
don't give a damn about me, Kitty!
Vous vous occupez uniquement de Kitty. Vous savez que j'aime Anderson! Pourquoi ne pas vous rétracter vos griffes seule fois... Vous
are ridiculous—”

Kitty's eyes flared open. She shortened the distance between us, her heels clicking against the calamander wood floor. She yanked me by the arm. “Don't you use that tone with me, young lady! I am still your mother. And you will speak to me in English. Now repeat yourself or get every syllable slapped out of your mouth.”

I yanked my arm back, pushing her. “I wish you would. And we will both be going out of here on stretchers. Now try it.”

She blinked.

I narrowed my eyes, pointing a finger at her and zigzagging it in the air. “I saaaaaaaid I'm sick of you! I'm sick of you and your sneaky ways. I saaaaid, all you care about is Kitty. You know I like Anderson. So why can't you, just this once, keep your claws off. Now how's that for translation?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears. If I liked her, I would tell you how pretty I thought she was. But right about now, Kitty was simply just pretty dang sneaky! “A word of advice, Spencer dear: Get rid of the jealous act. It's so not becoming. Do you actually think Anderson is going to be with a girl like you? Ha! You're too unstable, dear. A man like Anderson needs a strong, powerful woman who knows how to follow rules and play the game the way it's supposed to be played. Then alters the rules when he least expects it. Not some dizzy little tart who gets her panties all up in a knot every time she gets knocked off base. Learn how to play your position, darling. And you won't ever have to worry about someone else coming along and taking your spot.” She flipped her hair. “You have a lot to learn, Spencer. And you had better hope you look half as delicious as I do when you reach my age, dear.”

“Don't try me, Kitty. I mean it. I already warned you once.”

“Spencer, darling, save those idle threats for that little cartoon clique you play with. And you girls call yourselves the Pampered Princesses.” She snorted out a laugh. “Ha! What a joke. That Heather's a junkie in rehab; probably getting high right now as we speak. Rich doesn't know whose bed she wants to be in next. London is keeping more secrets than a whore in heat. And you”—she shook her head—“my darling daughter . . . you're too busy chasing other girls' boyfriends and having ridiculous tantrums when you can't snag them for yourself. What a mess. All of you.”

I blinked.

“Don't serve me, dear, 'cause I will slice you up on a platter. But since you are my only child and I am the loving mother that I am, I'm going to give you a reprieve. I will let you redeem yourself.”

“
Loving mother?
You? Oh, spare me! Define
mother
, Mother. Is it somewhere between the nonexistent words
mom
and
mommy
? Because that's what you are, Mother—nonexistent. So don't
you
serve me any of your hot-trash talk about being anything to me other than a pain in my sweet, fluffy cheeks. So spare me. I don't have to redeem dipsy-doodle-doo with you. Now hopscotch your stank-self back on over to New York, and stay the hell out of my eyesight. I'm sick of seeing you here.”

She stepped back into my space. I reached for the large crystal vase filled with white orchids, sitting atop the oval table, prepared to whop her upside the head with it. Kitty and I fought twice before over her sleeping with a boyfriend. And I would scramble her eggs again, if she tried to juice Anderson.

“Oh, sweet, darling Spencer, get a grip. There's no need for violence today, dear.” She walked up and cupped my face in her hands. “You are so much like me when I was your age. Strong-willed and free-spirited. And as beautiful as they come. But you are still so very wet behind the ears, dear. When I was your age, I was luring men—filthy-rich men, not boys, into my bed. And now, I'm luring all the young studs. You don't know the first thing about being a woman, sweetie. Now you can do one of two things. You can take some motherly advice, or you can keep doing what you do. But from where I'm standing, the only thing you'll end up with, darling, is a set of chapped lips, a sore throat, and a nasty case of rug-burns for spending your life down on your knees, waiting for belt buckles to hit the floor.”