by Kylie Adams
He smiled at the insinuation. “Nothing traumatic, Dr. Phil. I’ve just always been able to get away with shit when it comes to girls. Back in high school, I would date a girl for about three months, get what I wanted, and then pretend like I didn’t know her when I showed up at a party with a new chick.”
“And you’re proud of this?” Finn challenged.
“No, but it didn’t stop girls from dating me. They knew what the deal was.”
Finn took a generous sip of wine. “So explain this, super stud. How is it that you let women like Lara and Emma slip away and end up marrying the Aspens and the Tillys of the world?”
Dean Paul groaned miserably. “Oh, shit. I can’t believe you just pulled the Aspen card. That’s cold.”
Finn laughed.
Aspen Bauer’s claim to fame was a stint on MTV’s The Real World. Her marriage to Dean Paul lasted only a few months, after which she served jail time for fleeing the scene of a hit-and-run accident that left a child in a coma.
“The last thing I heard about her was that she was doing that pay-per-view Lingerie Bowl on Super Bowl Sunday.” Dean Paul shook his head. “I can’t believe I married her. What was I thinking?”
His attention faltered as a model-thin brunette sashayed past the booth. Dean Paul tracked her with a heat-seeking gaze until she was out of sight.
“Do you know her?”
“I’d like to. I bet she tastes good in all the right places.” He laughed and refilled his wine.
“Would you ever cheat on Tilly?” Finn wondered.
“She takes Lexapro. The drive is still there, but it takes her forever to come, so she doesn’t want to be bothered most of the time.We’re a once-a-month couple at best.”
“Is that a yes?” Finn asked.
“How long could you live on boring sex once a month?” Dean Paul countered.
“I don’t know. Probably longer than you.”
“Are you seeing anyone that I don’t know about?”
Finn could feel his face grow hot. Whenever Dean Paul inquired about his dating life, he became instantly uncomfortable.“Not really.”
“Not really? Guess you’re still hanging out in the back rooms of clubs late at night.”
“I’ve never done that!” Finn protested angrily.
Dean Paul zeroed in with a ray-gun gaze. “Never?”
“Well ... it’s been years,” Finn admitted.
“Whore.” Dean Paul drank up and laughed.
Finn glanced around the restaurant. It was past two o’clock, and the lunch rush had filtered out, leaving Balthazar, the French bistro on SoHo’s Spring Street, which was usually crammed to capacity, refreshingly near empty. “You never answered my question.”
“I’m almost hammered. Refresh my memory.”
“Would you ever cheat on Tilly?”
Dean Paul gave Finn a tipsy stare. “You’re assuming I haven’t already.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “Stupid me.”
“I was in L.A. for Hollywood Live last May working the upfronts for the new television season. There was this hot young actress who’s on some CW sitcom that’ll probably be cancelled next week. I hit it. Couldn’t resist. But that’s the only time. Are you ashamed of me?”
Finn raised up both hands in mock surrender. “No judgmenthere. It’s your life.”
“This is just between us, right? If you tell any of those bitches on that show, it’ll get to Simone and then back to Tilly.”
“I know how to keep a confidence.”
“Good. And don’t be jealous. Who knows? Next time I cheat, maybe it’ll be with you.”
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
And you thought Kimora Lee Simmons was a vacuous glamazon in grave need of a tour of hunger-ravagedAfrica. Some say Kimora has the empathy of Angelina Jolie when compared to the latest shallowprincess on the scene. As she wrapped up her first week on that new morning gabfest—a surprise runaway hit—station e-mail boxes were cyber-stuffed with complaints from parents of less-than-beautiful babies, overweight people, Christians, lesbians with bad haircuts, women with more than one cat, and men named Chad. Who will she offend next week?
8
Simone
Simone glanced down at the Christian Dior handbag, then back to her reflection in the boutique’s full-length mirror. The aged leather and suede messenger hobo looked good on her. Very good.
“I don’t know how Punch secured one of these for you without prepayment. This is a wait-listed item, and we’re sold out for the season. I can’t hold it beyond today.”
“In other words, you’re saying,‘Decide now, bitch,’ ” Simone murmured, spinning to survey her most flattering side.
Alexandra, a commission-hungry sales barracuda, pursed her collagen-treated lips. “In a manner of speaking.”
Lovingly, Simone fingered the handbag’s gorgeous hardware.Punch always offered up some sort of discount, but she was off on this particular day. What horrible luck.
Simone adored Punch. She was sophisticated and bubbly. They had bonded over the shared misfortune of having been involved with professional baseball stars. Hard lesson learned: Any eighteen-year-old man who skips college and heads straight into the dugout with a contract for mega-millions in his back pocket should be staunchly avoided.
Alexandra gave a tight little smile of impatience.
Inspecting the purse, Simone stalled for time, her brain computer running the disturbing calculations. Her first salary installment from The Beehive had only managed to stop the financial bleeding momentarily.
All the debts just sucked up cash like a Hoover Dirt Devil. After paying the mortgage, second mortgage, consolidation loan, building maintenance, utilities, and daily living expenses, Simone found herself broke all over again. But this Dior purse was only fifteen hundred dollars. Considering her current state of affairs, adding that to the pile would hardly make a difference.
She fished into her wallet and grabbed the first piece of plastic her fingers could connect with. “I’ll take it.”
“The lady’s got good taste.”
Simone cut her gaze to the man who was suddenly invadingher personal space. Unimpressed, she turned away.
“Hi, Kevon,” Alexandra gushed. “I’ll be with you in a flash. I’m just wrapping things up here.”
“I’ll take one of those, too.” He reached out to stroke the handbag with a manicured, diamond-studded hand.
Reflexively, Simone drew back.
“Hey, don’t freak, Foxy Brown. I ain’t moving in on your shit.”
Simone was appalled. This man had just called her Foxy Brown and cursed at her in public!
“Wrap one up for me, baby.” Now he was addressing Alexandra.“I need a little happy to quiet a bitch down.You know what I’m saying?”
Simone secretly wanted to call 911. This pig should be arrested.
A pained expression skated across Alexandra’s face. “Kevon, I’m so sorry. We are completely sold out of this bag.” She cut an accusing glance in Simone’s direction. “This is our last one in the store.”
The man reached into the front pocket of his baggy warm-uppants and pulled out a bulging wad of crisp one hundred dollar bills. “How much you want for it, shorty?”
Simone could hardly believe the situation. Who was this vulgar beast?
He started to peel off the cash at a rapid clip, sometimes moving two or three at a time. “Just tell me when to stop.”
Simone regarded him like a derelict on the sidewalk. He was black, muscled, outfitted in a white velvet tracksuit and high-top sneakers, and dripping in garish diamonds, includingan enormous dollar sign pendant as large as a door knocker.
After a moment, Simone turned away in disgust and pushed the Dior treasure into Alexandra’s spindle-thin arms. “Would you please just ring this up?”
The shop girl shrugged diffidently and disappeared into the back.
Without warning, bass-heavy hip-
hop music screamed into the air. “All my bitches eating up my cell phone minutes/Every day and all night/These hos just eating up my cell phone minutes ...”
Simone realized with a current of outrage that this misogynisticaural assault was the thug’s mobile ring tone.
“Yo! Just chilling, motherfucker. Crept up in Dior to get a little something-something for one of my dick divers. You know how it is.”
In a huff, Simone stalked away, intercepting Alexandra just as she returned.
With a cold glare, she slapped Simone’s American Express Platinum onto the counter and rudely slid it back in her direction.“Your card was declined.”
“There must be some mistake,” Simone said automatically.It was her rote response to this all too common embarrassmentof late.
“I ran it through twice.” Alexandra sighed. “Do you have another form of payment?”
Simone could feel a flush of heat spread up from her neck. Nervously, she ransacked her purse and snatched out what looked to be half a dozen cards. “I’m having a problem with my bank. Just keep trying until one works.”
She stood there for what seemed like forever, nervously drumming her fingers on the counter until Alexandra returned,this time with a receipt, the sight of which triggered a grateful sigh of relief.
“All of these were declined as well,” Alexandra pointed out, handing over five credit cards. “This is the one that was charged.” She slammed down a gold Visa.
Simone shot back a haughty glare as she scribbled her signature.“I can’t believe you let people like him in this store. I feel like my personal safety was compromised.”
Alexandra laughed a little. “Don’t you know who that is?” Her tone was incredulous.
“Should I?”
“That’s Kevon Edmonds.” Alexandra dropped the moniker with all the frustration one might employ when pointing out the recognition factor of, say, Bill Clinton.
But the name meant nothing to Simone. “Did he escape some grisly murder charge or something? Like O.J. Simpson?”
Alexandra shook her head. “People say he’s the new Diddy. He’s got a recording label, a clothing line, a reality show. The man even has his own brand of vodka.”
Simone shot a glance backward. “Oh, well ... he’s still disgusting.”
Alexandra sniffed. “Your package should be out soon. Excuse me.” And then she darted away to engage the ghetto mogul. “Again, I’m so sorry about that bag. But I know we can find something that will be just as fabulous for your friend.”
Simone turned away. How vile. As she pushed thoughts of Kevon Edmonds out of mind, she attempted to do the same on the matter of her finances. After all, there were larger issuesto fret over. Like what to wear on tomorrow’s show. As much as she loathed to admit it, Emma Ronson had been consistently outdoing her on the fashion front. A drippy news girl! And Simone was a model and actress. Something had to give.
A beautiful Asian woman emerged with Simone’s purse. It was nestled inside a rich Dior box and nestled once more inside an equally rich shopping bag. An empty place in her heart seemed to fill up when she took possession of it. Shopping for luxury items always carried that impact.
Just as Simone was slipping into a cab, her cellular vibrated. The incoming number perplexed her. “Hello?”
“Name your price, Foxy Brown. I’m the kind of brother who doesn’t like to be told he can’t have something.”
Simone placed her hand over the mouthpiece to call out her address to the annoyed driver. “How did you get my cell number?” Her voice was humorless.
“I’m a resourceful motherfucker.”
Simone stewed in a cauldron of silence, feeling violated and preyed upon. “I don’t find this amusing.”
“That makes two of us.”
The taxi crawled along Fifty-Seventh Street. A bus showcasingthe images of Simone, Sutton, Emma, and Finn on a massive promotional poster pulled up alongside in the right lane.
“Don’t call me again,” Simone said icily. “Ever.”
“That’s cold, baby,” Kevon cooed.
Simone could feel her heartbeat accelerate. “I’m not your baby.”
“Not yet. Have dinner with me.We’ll see what happens.”
“When I dream about a dinner invitation, it’s from George Clooney, not Snoop Dogg.” With that, Simone promptly disconnectedthe call and speed dialed Tilly. “You won’t believe what I just saw!” she launched without preamble. “My face on the side of a city bus to promote the show! It was such a weird sensation!”
“The important thing is to be pleased with the photograph,”Tilly said. “I’ve dealt with this so many times in my career.”
Simone took in a quiet breath, allowing the condescendingresponse to evaporate. “Yes, but—”
“And if you think advertising on a bus is strange,” Tilly went on, “try seeing yourself on a billboard in the middle of Times Square.”
“I suppose there is no comparison,” Simone shot back, somewhat acidly.
“Probably not. But I’m still thrilled for you. Finn showed me the opening show’s overnight ratings at lunch this week. It’s off to a very promising start.That’s more than I can say for my husband’s show. They just pink slipped fourteen productionstaffers. Any day now he’s going to be unemployed.”
“Well, at least he has a trust fund to fall back on,” Simone said lightly. “My first paycheck disappeared instantly.”
“Oh, our trust funds are earmarked for the future,” Tilly remarked archly. “He still has to work. And so do I. Your problem is that you don’t budget your money.You just spend, spend, spend with no regard for fiscal discipline.”
Simone’s grip tightened on the cellular. The nerve of this bitch! Her best friend, her enemy ... her frenemy! “That would sound better coming from someone who wasn’t handed the deed to a fabulous Tribeca apartment.”
“That was a wedding gift,”Tilly said defensively.
“A trip to Belize is a wedding gift,” Simone countered. “Being given an apartment puts you on another financial planet.”
“I still budget,”Tilly argued.
“I can’t talk to you about money.”
“You can’t talk to yourself about it, either. That’s why you live in a constant state of denial.”
The cabdriver jerked to a stop in front of Simone’s building.She paid the fare and a decent tip before swinging out. “Have you ever heard of Kevon Edmonds?” She was desperateto change the subject.
“It’s pronounced Kevon,”Tilly corrected. “And yes, I have. He’s a very successful entertainment mogul. But still a poor man’s Jay-Z. Why?”
“He accosted me at the Christian Dior boutique, and then he had the audacity to ask me out for dinner.”
“You should go,”Tilly advised.
“You’re not serious. He’s gross!”
“Yes, but it would be good for your career. Especially now.”
Simone dashed into a vestibule to retrieve her mail, grimacingat the thickness of two credit card statements as she boarded the elevator. “God, I would rather be seen in public with an on-duty garbage man than Kevon Edmonds.”
The moment Simone stepped inside her apartment, she halted, sensing something very wrong. “Chanel?” she called out.
Nothing.
“Let me call you back,” she told Tilly, hanging up as she feverishly raced from room to room, searching for her beloved cat.
And then her cellular rang. She knew who it was. She knew what he would say, too.
“Looking for something?”
Simone’s heart sank.
“I’ve got your pussy right here in my hand.” It was Tommy Robb.
THE IT PARADE
BY JINX WIATT
Fill in the Blanks
It’s no secret that ageless beauty Demi Moore went cougaring and captured hunky Ashton Kutcher in her hunter’s net. She even tamed the baby-faced stud into total domestication.But at least her twenty-somethinglover has brains (he’s outsmarted ever
y naysayer in Hollywood)and impressive bank (his accountsare big to bursting). So it’s too bad that a certain TV news diva who just hit the half-century mark and is now spewing venom on a morning chat show has to settle for a dumb-as-dirt/poor-as-dirt young buck when she moves in for the kill.
9
Sutton
Sutton walked into the Stone Rose at the Time Warner Center feeling not even a few bucks shy of a million dollars.
The Beehive was a ratings hit, Emma Ronson was itching to quit the show, and all the naysayers who swore up and down that Sutton Lancaster would recede into oblivion after leaving Fox News were eating shit on a silver platter.
She slid onto a seat at the bar and surveyed the scene, takingin the ambient lounge music, the Columbia students laughingit up at a corner table, the junior sales executives seeking refuge from their lonely hotels and sterile office environments, and the other women ... just like her.
Some were from Connecticut, some from New Jersey, some from Manhattan—the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side. They were seasoned and well groomed and freshly Botoxed and personally trained as far as their gravity-fighting bodies could endure. And they were all here for one thing.
“What can I get you?”The hot young bartender was talking.
Sutton was listening. She smiled at him. “What would you order?”
“I make a Cosmo that’ll make your toes curl.”
“Really?”
He nodded with confidence.
“Bring it on.”
“You got it.”
She watched him work, instantly attracted to his lazy guy manner. Punishing sessions at the gym were not part of his agenda. He was fit but lanky, probably kept in shape by enviablemetabolism and the occasional game of pick-up basketball.His hair straggled down to the nape of his neck, and the fuzz on his handsome angular face was at least three days’ worth of growth.
He presented his electric pink masterpiece with a cocky grin. “One sip and you’ll tell me to get started on a second round.”
Sutton fingered the stem of the martini glass, seductively stroking it up and down before knocking back a greedy gulp.