Sorority Girls With Guns (29 page)

Harry's photographer is panning the table, so I'm not sure if he's getting me or not, but my cameras are. “I do too,” I say. “Especially since I developed a plan that will help everyone, rich or poor, help the environment while saving money in a challenging economic environment.” I worked really hard coming up with that one.

Tiffany clears her throat so loudly it sounds like the noise my Mercedes' engine made after some idiot frat boy randomly lifted the hood and puked into the engine last year. “She means
we
developed that plan.”

Say what? I planned a lot of arguments to keep Harry distracted from me and Richard, but this wasn't one of them. “You and Morgan have done a great job helping me with the campaign,” I say, sliding my bottom lip up over my bottom teeth so I can flash a fake smile at Harry's photographer.

“
I came up with the idea to recycle for charity!” Tiffany says, half-rising from her chair and turning her head so the whole room can hear her. I guess Harry didn't explain that there's a mike built into his camera.

“
I came up with the idea for us to take our summer vacation on money we earned from green activities,” I say, in what I sure hope is an upbeat-but-firm tone, if such a thing is even possible.

“
We came up with that idea together,” Tiffany says, knocking back the rest of her champagne, and I wonder if this isn't her first glass. She turns and looks right at Harry, whose photographer is shooting over his shoulder. “My friend Shade here really likes taking the credit for everything, including our web series on GluedToYou.”

“
Are you saying that was your idea?” Harry asks.

Tiffany leans over so Harry and camera can get a candid shot of her silicone sisters. “I'm saying that Shade treats me like a dumb blonde, but that's not true.”

“
That's right, check out her roots – she's not really a blonde,” I offer.

“
Neither are you,” Tiffany shoots back.

“
I
am
a real blonde,” I tell Harry. “I just have a genetic problem that causes my hair to grow in the wrong color. I can fix it with bleach.”

 
Richard makes a choking-on-his-champage noise but says nothing.

Tiffany turns to Charlie. “You remember that this project for Green Day was my idea, right?”

Charlie frowns. “Say what?”

Of course he doesn't remember that, because it wasn't her idea. I developed the whole concept myself. Richard pitched in a few ideas for the bet, and Tiffany asked a few questions, but it was my idea!

Tiffany puts an arm around Charlie's shoulder and leans into him, her boobs mashed up against his arm. “You know, back when I was trying to come up with a project Shade and I could do for Green Day? You know I had this idea to take a B Green 2 Save Green vacation?”

Charlie's face is a portrait of confusion, and for a second I think this gambit of Tiffany's isn't going to work. Then, it's like a light switch goes off in Charlie's head, and he finally manages to get both his brains working at the same time. “Oh, yeah, I remember!” he practically yells at the top of his lungs, a big grin spreading across his face as he anticipates Tiffany expressing her gratitude for his outright lie later. He turns to Harry and camera. “Shade and Morgan helped her with it a lot, but it was definitely Tiffany's idea. I don't know how she comes up with so many great ideas!”

“
You know, a lot of people write me off as a dumb blonde, but that's just not true,” Tiffany says. “I have good ideas, and it's time people know it!”

“
So how did you come up with the idea for the Be Green Save Green campaign?” Harry asks.

Tiffany opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, and so on, like a fish trying to breathe on dry land. “I...” she stammers. “Well, I was just thinking about...you know, the different ways that people can help the environment...and the tough economic environment...and it just came to me that I could solve two problems at once.”

I can't believe she just ripped off and ruined one of my best lines in order to steal my idea. I express my disbelief with the biggest look of shock I can contort my face into, which usually involves wide eyes and an open mouth that still covers my bottom teeth.

“
Hey, it's almost time for the band to get started,” Richard says while I'm still formulating a response to Tiffany's hideous lie. “Shade, weren't you going to introduce them?”

“
Yeah.” I stand up and stomp up to the platform. I am perfectly capable of hiding my feelings when it's strategically important, but in this instance I want Tiffany to know how pissed I am so she can fear my retaliation.

Unfortunately, I'm used to stomping off in decently made shoes, not twenty-dollar “BOGO!” pieces of crap. I'm almost at the top of the stage when I slam my foot down...and the heel of my cheap shoe snaps. I lose my balance and fall forward onto the stage, landing on my hands and knees, ass pointing at the audience.

And that's when I hear the rip, and realize why this Badgley Mischka got donated: It was worn so many times that the seam had to be mended, and it was done by someone who didn't know what he/she was doing. The sudden breeze tells me that the seam split just below the zipper, which ends just below mid-back, and the split has spread to at least the top of my butt crack.  I freeze, hoping this will stop the rip from spreading any further. I hear gasps and snickers from the audience.

The first thought that flashes into my mind is that this is all Tiffany's fault.

The second thought that pops into my head is, “How the fuck do I get out of this gracefully?”

The third thought is, “Too fucking late for that.”

Fortunately, I'm pretty flexible and I manage to pop back up onto my feet in one fluid move. I even manage to do it in a way that doesn't make the rip worse, by arching my back and squeezing my butt cheeks together. Then I turn around, as gracefully as I can manage, and slowly back up until I'm parallel with the mike stand in the middle of the stage. I slide sideways towards it, a stupid, nothing's-wrong-here smile plastered on my face.

When I finally slide into place behind the microphone, I grab the mike and go for the pitch. “Thank you all for coming tonight. My good friend Richard Walters wanted me to say a few words on the subject of charity. With that in mind, would anyone care to donate a needle and thread to me?”

This gets a few laughs, and a few groans. I quickly move on. “Richard hosted this party tonight to raise money for the Downtown Homeless Shelter, a wonderful cause that dovetailed with a project I've been working on with several friends – Morgan Lane, Tiffany Betts, Charlie Foster and Matt Sullivan. You might have seen our GluedToYou channel, B Green 2 Save Green, where we've been chronicling our summer vacation living on a green budget. By reusing, reducing and recycling, we've been showing people how they can help the environment and their own pocketbooks at the same time. Plus we saved and earned enough money to donate to this worthy cause.

“
We've always made some great friends, including Paul Winters and his band The Singing Turnips. They drove here in a solar-powered van today, and their equipment is all the most energy-efficient on the market. They've agreed to volunteer their time so more of the money we've raised tonight can go to the Downtown Homeless Shelter. Please give a warm welcome to Paul Winters and the Singing Turnips!”

I do a crazy sidestep out of the band's way, then pull off both shoes and scamper down the stage steps barefoot to scattered applause.

                                                                                
***

 
Fortunately, Morgan never goes anywhere without Superglue and a miniature stapler, and she follows me to the ladies' room to help with the dress reconstruction.

“
I can't believe you didn't wear underwear!” she yells, as I squeeze my ass together and hope she doesn't glue the damn dress to it.

“
Please tell me I can get this thing off without the help of the emergency room,” I grumble at her.

“
Don't worry, I stapled first, then I'm gluing the seam on top of the staples. It'll be a little bumpy back there, but it'll hold better and you won't be stuck to your dress.”

When we emerge form the restroom, I see that people are now milling around in groups, munching hors d'euvres and sipping champagne. The group clustered around Richard includes Matt, Morgan, Hoolio, Harry Harmon and several other reporterish-looking people, sporting cheaply tailored suits and skinny notebooks.

I scan the room for Tiffany and spot her sitting off in a corner, studiously concentrating on her cell phone. Charlie has his arm around her and is whispering in her ear. She's giggling and squirming just enough to encourage him, but her attention is on whatever she's texting.

I decide to deal with her later and head for Richard's group, in case he needs reinforcements. Apparently, I'm not a minute too soon.

A buxom blonde in a suit I once passed on at a seventy-five percent off sale at Dillard's because it's resale value was too low is firing questions at Richard. “I understand why you decided to throw the benefit for the Downtown Homeless Shelter,” she says. “What other charities have you contributed to?”

Richard flashes the dimples. “I haven't had the chance to do as much charity work as I'd like the last few years,” he says. “I'm going into my senior year at college. Of course I contribute to campus charity events, but this summer, I really wanted to host one of my own. When I came to South Padre Island and learned that the Downtown Homeless Shelter was in need of a new facility, I knew this was the perfect opportunity.”

“
So have you always been interested in philanthropy?” Harry asks. “It's not often that I meet someone your age who's so concerned with helping others.”

“
For as long as I've known him, Richard has been concerned with the problems of the less fortunate,” I say, quite honestly.

“
I've always felt that I should help out however I can,” Richard says.

“
Is that something your parents taught you?” asks the buxom blonde.

“
Yes.” Richard's smile tightens a bit. “They taught me that caring about others was the most important thing I could do with my life.”

“
He's always giving me advice about how I can help charitable causes,” I say, again very honestly. And what I mean by “giving me advice” is really nagging me about how my money would be better spent on others than my own shoe collection, but that detail isn't really important.

“
Clearly your parents have provided you with the means to enjoy a lavish lifestyle,” Harry says, gesturing around the room. “You could have spent your time being a playboy, attending parties at country clubs and driving fancy sports cars. What really led you to pursue a passion for philanthropy?”

“
I told you, I've always wanted to help others,” Richard says, hunching his shoulders a little and folding his hands in front of him. That's bad, a sign of insecurity.

“
But why?” Harry presses, narrowing his eyes like an eagle that just spotted a tasty rabbit on the ground. “It's been my experience that people of your stature sometimes develop an interest in charity because they feel guilty about something.”

Richard does a double-take at Harry. “That's a rude thing to say. How dare you judge me like that?”

“
It's a fair question,” the buxom blonde says. “And it leads me to another one: Just who are your parents? I did a web search earlier and found some interesting possibilities.”

“
So did I,” Harry chimes in. “Are you actually the heir to the Walters Brewery fortune?”

This is it. I can't do the talking for Richard now – he either remembers the speech I prepared for him, or he doesn't. All I can do now is watch and hope I don't have to do damage control – for both of us.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Richard sighs, ducks his head , looks at his shoes. Not embarrassed, not scared, more resigned. “You know, this always happens. Even when I'm trying to do something good, trying to help people instead of spending my money on fancy cars and stuff I don't care about, all anyone wants to know about is my parents. I've been in their shadow my whole life, and I just wanted to do something significant on my own. But I'm starting to see that people like you will never let that happen. So if you want to make this a story about my parents, fine, I'll give you their contact info. You can go interview them, and forget I had anything to do with this event.”

With that, he turns around and starts to walk away, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He nailed the speech I wrote for him.

Harry is the first to run after Richard. “Hey, man, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make this a story about your parents – and you're right, you shouldn't always have to live in their shadow. I want to hear about you.”

“
That's right,” the blonde chimes in, bouncing after Harry – and by bouncing, I mean her boobs. She's strategically picked a bra that provides just the right amount of jiggle when she runs. I should use that as a keyword the next time I'm selling big boulder-holders on Feebay (anything over a D cup sells great – those things are hard to find in a comfortable style). “We're here to cover this event.”