by Nik Richie
So I got all of these people into one room—a convention hall, to be exact, and let the A&R people watch the showcase of rappers and hip-hop artists perform. It was like urban American Idol: act after act getting on stage and doing whatever they do. Rapping. Attempting R&B. I was paying more attention to the record label people, their faces, looking for signs of interest. Something telling me that my method worked and that Carlo’s didn’t. It went on for hours: record label reps watching, performers performing, and me, Corbin Grimes, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for one of these A&R people to sign someone (didn’t matter who) so I could finally say that I had done something worthwhile. I wanted the money, but I also wanted to prove Carlo wrong.
He was still on his online rampage about Corbin Grimes, but I didn’t fight back. All I had to do was get one of these acts a record contract and everything he said would be meaningless. Just one. The problem was the talent wasn’t there. That’s what the record label people were telling me. It kind of threw me off because I was still thinking of it as a numbers game, which is partially true. The other part of the equation is that I was pulling talent from the back of magazine ads (which are pretty much the want ads of the music industry).
Maybe Carlo had it right. Maybe this was the reason why he never actually tried to get any of these people signed or listened to the music. He knew it would be a waste of time. Either that or he tried and failed just like I had. He was still talking trash online, but I gave it another shot. I did the same exact thing in New York and got the same results: no one was good enough. It wasn’t a numbers game. I tried to do something legitimate and lost every penny of the $40,000 that I made scamming.
The scam was where the money was at.
I had to learn that the hard way.
13Capital Imaging Group.
14Cigarettes.
15Retired people that come to Arizona specifically for the warm weather.
Dolce Vendetta
As soon as everyone finds out I’m Nik Richie is when a new club out of Dallas calls for an event, and they don’t want the Dirty celeb thing we’ve been pushing in Vegas. They want me. They want the guy in charge, and they’re willing to pay $15,000 to get me there, flight and hotel included.
“The club is called Dolce Vendetta—it’s brand new,” the booking agent says. “And we want you to be our opening celeb appearance. We’re slotting you ahead of Kim Kardashian.”
I’m a bit standoffish at first because my mind naturally flashes back to Scottsdale, back when random people were getting the shit kicked out of them because they were suspected of being me. Announcing publicly that Nik Richie is going to be at a certain place at a certain time could wind up being a bad move. Granted, I’ve never taken all the threats seriously, but you never know which ones are bullshit and which ones are real until someone is waving a gun in your face. Anyone looking to dish out a little payback could be waiting there for me. All they’d have to do is pay a cover charge.
And the booking agent asks, “So, will you do it?”
The truth is I really don’t have a choice.
We need the money that badly.
Nik Richie has never appeared at anything before, never even been to Dallas, so I decide to try and make a good impression by wearing an off-the-rack suit from Nordstrom (three-piece, gray with a white dress shirt) and black wing tips. I look like a businessman, and therefore am not feeling completely at ease because I usually avoid suits if I can. That, and the paranoia is still buzzing in the back of my head because any one of these club kids could be a guy I called a “douchetard 16” or “tenderfoot 17” or something they took offense to. Maybe I called one of their girlfriends a “shim 18” or “slug 19” or made mention of some physical feature I found disgusting. Someone in this club could be holding a grudge, so as a precaution, I’ve got four of the biggest, blackest security guards in Dallas. I also brought along Nick Gagliano and Ryan Jacque, who are sitting on either side of me in the booth. Drinking. Checking out the crowd, but it’s difficult because this place is a fucking dungeon and the light is mostly focused on the few broke go-go dancers they have up on platforms.
Not long into the event, I get to see how people react to Nik Richie when he’s live and in person. People stare. They take pictures. Some of them do this from a distance, waiting for the security guys to move out of frame before a Blackberry or iPhone fires from the dark. Girls come up to the table—first, confirming that I’m really “the guy” as they say, and this is followed by us shrugging together as a camera phone is held out at arm’s length.
Flash. Thank you. Repeat.
Bottles are delivered, but not the typical Grey Goose and mixer combo. It’s Cristal and Dom and top-shelf stuff that’s considered too expensive for the club to comp us. These high-roller guys at the nearby tables are sending this shit over, giving a nod with a long-distance toast to acknowledge it came from them. More booze comes. Girls come. Hot Dallas girls with those Texas accents so foreign to me they’re almost another language. The security guys are being paid to watch everyone be nice to me at this point. Gags and Ryan are both hitting on girls. We’re drinking, having a good time. The club kind of sucks, but I’m getting paid to be here and the booze is free.
Then, completely at random, I see Leper.
The last time I saw Leper was in Vegas. She and Alien were supposed to do that Dirty Celeb appearance at Privé—basically, repeating the Hard Rock event. True to whore form, these bitches thought that they were like Jersey Shore or something and started demanding money. It wasn’t enough they were getting an all-expenses-paid trip to Vegas and all the substances they could handle—they wanted cash on top of it. We bullshitted them into getting on a plane, but that’s about as far as it went. They never showed up to the event and I literally only saw them once: when we crossed paths on an escalator in one of the hotels.
I was going up.
They were going down.
Neither of us said a word.
We pulled off the event anyway thanks to 8-Belles and Blonkey 20, who are a couple of my horses 21. Levine actually didn’t care about Alien and Leper flaking. Turns out he just wanted to meet me, but after that point I kind of had a fuck you attitude toward those two girls.
Things change though.
Dallas isn’t like Vegas.
Tonight, Leper is wearing a cherry red corset, the kind that’s so tight you can’t even breathe normally. Little black miniskirt. An almost natural-looking tan. She’s a bottle server, but word on the street is she’s fucking terrible at it, so the management pays her to look hot and flirt with high rollers. So technically, when Leper comes up to my table to talk she’s just doing her job. Security recognizes the uniform all the Dolce girls are wearing, pulling aside the ropes so she can pass through. I look at her, and things kind of go mute because I’ve got so much history with this girl but it’s only the third time I’ve seen her in person. I think I should be a dick to her, but I’m in Dallas and she’s one of the only faces I know here. And she’s smiling.
She smiles and says in her little Texas accent, “See? I knew you were the guy.”
Leper puts it all on the table at the club. It’s the first time that she’s not only somewhat sober, but genuine with me. Under the loud house music, Leper says that she’s sorry, that Alien led her down a dark path. One can only assume that means drinking too much, doing too much coke, too many pills, fucking too many random dudes, doing the wrong things to make money. Essentially, all the things they get posted on the site for. Rumors in Dallas have been going around that Leper and Alien will even do the occasional porn video when their funds get low or no one is around to spot them any cash.22 Considering how they acted in Vegas, it’s not hard to believe these things.
Leper says to me, “I loved you. I wanted you the whole time, but Lacy claimed you and there was nothing I could do about it.”
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
I say, “It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.”
The party is winding down. People are drunk. Hooking up. And somehow I already know that I’m going to end up with Leper tonight, even if I don’t want to.
After-party.
The ZaZa hotel.
It’s myself, Gags and Ryan Jacque, a few girls they worked on at the club, and, of course, Leper, still wearing her Dolce Vendetta uniform. Occasionally, she’ll squirm or try to adjust the corset to make it more comfortable, but you can tell she’s dying to take the fucking thing off.
Our entire floor smells like weed because Lil Wayne is randomly here. We pass him and his crew in the hall, and the first thing I notice (other than the smell) is the guy is tiny. My height. About 140 pounds. He’s wearing designer sunglasses (Wayfarers maybe) to avoid eye contact, but it’s obvious he’s scoping out every chick within ten feet, including Leper. He does this thing where he points at her and keeps walking, then some dude—which I’m assuming is his assistant, comes up and starts talking to Leper.
He says, “My friend would like to know if you’d be interested in coming up to his room,” totally ignoring the possibility that maybe Leper is my girlfriend or that we’re together. Celebrities can get away with that.
Leper doesn’t say anything though, turning and looking at me like I should answer for her. I say, “Go, it’s Lil Wayne. He’s famous.”
And she says, “No, I love you. I wanna be with you.”
I don’t respond. The group of us keep walking until we get to Gagliano’s room where we order room service: chicken fingers and other stuff to soak up the liquor. Gags and Ryan are with these two chicks, drinking, flirting. They’ve pretty much sealed the deal. I tell everyone that I’m going to run down to my room to get out of the suit, but I’m not 100% sure I want to come back. It’s late. Our flight leaves at six in the morning.
Right when I’ve decided that I’m just going to crash is when I hear something going on behind me, maybe twenty feet down the hallway. I keep walking, not bothering to turn around. Then, distinctly, it’s Gags saying in his croaky voice, “Leper! Leper! Go! Nik wants to fuck you!” as he ushers her out of his room.
I’m at my door, pulling the room key out of my pocket, and footsteps are getting closer. She’s standing next to me, smiling. Her tits look great in the corset, and then I see that her hands are behind her back untying the fastenings.
I say, “Kelli. No,” but because Leper has got a fair amount of Crown Royal in her system, she thinks I’m playing hard to get. “I’ve got to be on a fucking plane in two hours.”
She keeps pulling at the fastenings on her corset, saying, “No, this thing is just tight is all. I just want to talk.”
I’m thinking, Great, another chick from Dallas that just wants to talk? Is that the code here?
I tell her, “I’m changing,” and we both walk into my room. Leper watches me from the entryway, letting the door shut behind her as she gets back to work on the corset. It’s pushing her tits up to her collarbones, and even though the nice thing to do would be to help her out of it, I don’t want Leper to mistake a simple courtesy for interest. Finally, after a couple minutes, the corset loosens and she’s able to push it down her body with her thumbs. Her breasts fall out, and I catch myself looking at them because she recently had another boob job and they’re just now dropping. Her body is tight, and her face is skinny and well-carved. Leper’s looking at me with those blue eyes and I have to keep telling myself I can’t fuck this girl.
Nik Richie with more civilian groupies in Dallas, Texas.
You can’t fuck her. You can’t fuck a Dirty Celeb.
People have never understood that part of it, but it’d be like sleeping with an employee, a subordinate. Nik Richie doesn’t sleep with his underlings. My legacy is that I’m extremely rigid in my standards, and Leper’s jeopardizing that right now with those tits, that body, those eyes. That smile.
She asks, “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”
There’s a “Cocaine Kills” tee nearby (something I was actually supposed to wear) that I hand her. Leper puts it on, tugging down until the bottom of the shirt is around her mid-thigh. My phone buzzes and it’s Gags saying: You better fuck her dude.
Leper asks, “Who is that?” and me, thinking I’m clever, I say something in an attempt to get her back off. I tell her that I’m currently dating a celebrity.
“Nobody knows about it,” I say. “Her name is Hillary Duff.”
First of all, I have no idea why I say Hillary Duff because I don’t find her attractive in the least. She’s a little bit of a horse when you think about it. That’s the name that pops out of my mouth though, and maybe it’s because I saw her on E! News or heard one of her stupid songs by accident or subconsciously picked it up by reading a Star Magazine. I’m not sure. Hillary Duff isn’t my type, but for the sake of keeping Leper at bay she’s my serious girlfriend.
What I quickly realize is that Leper is no longer trying to fuck me, Nik Richie. The scenario has skewed in that drunken little brain of hers. Shifted. A little bit of that fame-chaser coming back. Now she’s trying to fuck Hillary Duff’s boyfriend, and I know the lie has truly backfired when she starts saying things like, “I promise I won’t tell Hillary. It’ll be our little secret,” while she grabs my prick and squeezes.
I say, “Leper, no,” but I’m smiling.
She smiles back and says, “Why do you call me that? I’m not like that,” touching more. Her lips press gently against my neck, my face.
“I can’t do this,” I tell her. “Hillary’s gonna kill me.”
“It’s okay, I’m not going to let you stick it in me 23,” she says, but I can tell it’s total bullshit. She lets me grab her tits, and then my hand smoothes down to her ass where, to my extreme displeasure, is a butterfly tattoo not totally unlike what Alien has. On the nightstand is a hotel clock. I’ve got about thirty minutes before I’m supposed to leave, which is basically just long enough to fuck Leper and not endure any of that after-sex weirdness of cuddling or whatever. I’ve got a condom. No one’s going to find out.
I ask, “You promise not to tell Hillary?”
Leper stops kissing me, stressing how serious she is, telling me, “It’ll be our secret. I want you so bad. I want to fuck you so bad.”
I get the condom. Leper fucks the shit out of me.
Her cunt is a little loafy, a little lippy. Not cut quite as tight as most girls I’ve been with, but I’m writing that off to her having so many partners over the years, and I can’t deny she’s incredible in bed. Actually, too wild, like maybe she has to really show off because of who I am or who she thinks I am. She’s screaming and pummeling her body on me, saying, “Daddy, daddy, daddy—fuck me good, daddy! Oh, you’re fucking me so good, sweets!” in that slurred-out Texas accent, and then I feel like I have to play the game back: do something crazy. Do something that these girls, these pseudo-porn-star coke-whores are used to, so I slide an arm between us and wrap my hand around her neck. Fucking. Squeezing. Choking her. Squeezing hard so her face starts to deepen. My other hand slides under, into her ass where I jam two of my fingers inside her and she’s screaming harder as I choke her, saying, “Oh sweets oh sweets oh my fucking God, daddy!” but it’s obscured through the booze and accent and pressure I’m putting on her vocal cords. I fuck her, and she starts holding her breath so that she can come harder and then I come inside her, gripping my eyes shut. Tight. We come, and then I roll off of her because I need to catch a plane, grabbing the nearest articles of clothing I can find. An awkward silence has already begun to set.
Then Leper says, “I betcha Hillary Duff never fucked you like that.”
I say, “You know what, Kelli—she hasn’t.”
From the bed, Leper is watching me pack. Nude. Relaxed. She asks me if she can use the phone sitting on the nightstand.
“Kelli, this is your room,” I say, packing jeans, shirts, socks. “Sleep in. Wake up. Be safe. I don’t care.”
“Can I have your number?”
“Nobody ha
s my number. I never give out my number.”
“Well…how do I get a hold of you?”
I tell her, “E-mail me.”
“What’s your e-mail?”
“Nik@thedirty…N-I-K at the dirty,” I say, packing—just throwing everything into the luggage in no particular order. I don’t even have time to shower, so I’ll be boarding the plane stinking like booze and Leper. Meanwhile, she’s raiding the minibar, pulling out every tiny bottle of Crown Royal that’s in there. Leper gets back on the bed, unscrewing one and picking up the phone out of the cradle.
She dials the front desk, maybe for more room service, but then I hear her say, “Yeah, uh, I’m looking for Dwayne Carter’s 24 room.”
I stop packing and shoot Leper a look like, Are you serious right now?
She goes, “No, it’s fine. I just want to meet him…take pictures. That’s all.”
“Whatever, I don’t care.”
The Monday I get back, there’s a submission that comes in titled: “Leper bangs celebrity after Dolce Vendetta event,” and I’m thinking, Oh great, not even a week and the bitch has already told everyone that we hooked up. It’s not like I’m going to post it, but I’m annoyed that after all her “it’s gonna be our little secret” bullshit that she can’t keep her mouth shut.
So I open the submission, and in the text body it reads: “Leper bangs the shit out of Lil Wayne,” and then there’s a bunch of pictures attached of her and Lil Wayne holding each other and whatever while Leper is wearing the “Cocaine Kills” T-shirt. No underwear. They’re making out, probably stoned out of their minds.