by Ni-Ni Simone
I never fully forgave her for that.
I blamed Rich for ruining what could have been my almost perfect love story.
Almost.
I sighed. “Um, why are you calling me, RJ? What, you ran out of English snow bunnies to spear your man sword in? Have you gotten tired of emptying your ball bag into every British hoochie, willing to spawn a nation of little mixed babies? Don’t think I don’t know all about your bed bouncing, RJ. You, you manwhore! Rich has told me all about your daytime romps with the Queen’s peasant girls.”
“Rich is a liar,” he calmly stated. “She’s a hater. And you know it. She’s always hated on me, even as a little girl.”
Well, he had a point. It was true.
Still . . .
“And what about all them weeds you’ve been pulling up and smoking, huh, RJ? I heard you’re a full-blown weed head these days. What are you over there smoking, anyway, dandelions? Wild violets? Clovers?”
He chuckled.
“I don’t know what’s so diggity-dang funny, you, you grass junkie! I’m not interested in having another junkie in my life. Heather was enough. Although she was crushing pills, and you’re digging up weeds, still . . . a junkie’s a junkie, no matter how you chop it up and smoke it.”
He laughed uncontrollably. And that only pissed me off. Just like an addict to take nothing serious! “Let me guess. Rich told you that crazy mess too.”
I huffed. “Well, yes. Duh. How else would I know you were one match away from rehab?”
“Spencer, I’ve tried weed—not weeds—a few times. That’s it. I got caught with a blunt and got arrested last summer, and my mom flew here and tried to choke the life out of me. You know how loose she can get when she’s turned up.” I giggled. Yeah, like her raggedy daughter. Those two were ratchet.
“I haven’t touched anything since then,” he continued. “Rich is terrible. She’s a pathological liar. But that’s still my sister. And I love her no matter how many times she tries to smear my name to my parents—well, my mom. She knows Pops isn’t going for it.”
I opened the French doors to my terrace and stepped out into the warm air. The sun shone on my bangles, and their diamonds danced in the light, almost blinding me.
I blinked.
Yeah, yeah, yabba-dabba-doo. I feigned a yawn. “So, why are you calling me?”
“I’m home for Rich’s birthday party.”
I rolled my eyes up in my head. Whoopty-dang-doo! RJ hadn’t been home in over a year. It was to be a brief visit, from what I’d heard. Nevertheless, he was here. And he didn’t even have the dang decency to phone me or to stop by to say hello. Nothing.
Screw him!
I clucked my tongue. “And?”
“And I wanna see you, Spencer.”
“Uh-huh,” I responded dryly. “Why?”
“I miss you.” His voice dipped dangerously low. “You’re all I ever think about, Spencer.”
In my mind’s eye, all I could see was RJ hovering over me . . . all I could feel is his hands cascading all over my body.
My body shook.
Stop it, Spencer!
Get your mind out the gutter. And out of this boy’s boxers.
“I need to see you, baby.”
I smirked. “Oh, so now I’m baby?”
“You’ve always been my baby, Spencer. Just because I’m across the globe, that hasn’t changed what I feel for you, what I’ve always felt for you.”
I swallowed. Ran my fingers through my curls. “And what’s that, RJ?”
“Love,” he whispered into the phone, causing my body to slowly heat. “Real love, baby.” He sighed into the phone. “I can’t wait until Rich’s party. I need to see you now, Spencer.”
Rich hated me with RJ. She always felt like I’d chosen him over our friendship when we were younger, which is why I got my creep-creep on with him two summers ago and kept it on the low-low.
The idea of her finding out that he and I were off creeping somewhere, again, would surely drive her batty.
A slow grin inched across my lips.
“I’ll be there when you open your eyes in the morning,” I finally said, wrapped up in the heated memory of how he used to claw the sheets and mutter my name every time I’d climb his pet rock, the way I had climbed the Swiss Alps.
Wild and reckless . . .
34
London
Usher was singing the hook to Wale’s “Matrimony” when I finally decided to flip on the radio. I sat cocooned inside the tinted windows of my latest rental—a navy blue Honda Accord, on another stakeout.
I tracked Daddy’s car here.
No, no. Actually, I tracked him back to the gated house, the same house I’d followed Rich’s mother to a few weeks ago. It was clear. They both had access to the same house. Was it Daddy’s secret man cave? Was it their little private love nest?
My mind raced with questions as I sat parked across the street, waiting, for him, for her. But thirty minutes later, the gate slid open and out came Daddy again. Alone.
If my mother didn’t want to know what Daddy was up to, shame on her.
But I sure as hell did.
And tonight, his Bentley led me here.
In Malibu—again.
On the Pacific Coast Highway—again.
This time at Nobu.
Perched up on top of the waves.
One hour and ten minutes out of L.A.
I was seething. How dare he meet his concubine—his, his . . . tramp—at one of my favorite restaurants. I’d never step foot in that establishment again, knowing he’d had a clandestine meal with his whore there.
So what if Nobu had other locations?
It was the principle.
The memory of Daddy being here would always be stamped in my head. And no matter how much I loved the sushi and sashimi, knowing Daddy had been here playing footsie under the table with Rich’s mother would leave a bad taste in my mouth. It would ruin my appetite, for sure. So there’d be no point in going. Ever.
My temples began to throb.
I took a deep breath.
Before I found myself in therapy and had my big-girl voice under control, I would have killed for a pack of those scrumptious lemon Oreo cookies. I swear. I would have eaten a whole sleeve right on the spot. Or would have sunk my teeth into a box of oatmeal cream pies. I’d be sitting, slouched down in this rental with my lips covered in cream-cheese frosting.
Eating my way into a sugar attack.
I cringed at the thought. I refused to give in to my binge cravings. Thanks to my therapy, I was putting my B.E.D. (Binge Eating Disorder) to B-E-D. But the stress of Daddy’s affair was making it tempting to lick across a few powdered donuts.
Stop it, London!
Get a grip!
I shifted in my seat. Then glanced over at the restaurant.
Where the heck is this trick?
Maybe she’s already inside.
Hmm. Maybe.
Luckily, I was in the perfect spot to observe the entrance to the swanky restaurant without being seen. I’d watched Daddy go in by himself, capturing his every move on camera. But I knew he wasn’t dining way out here alone. And I knew he wasn’t meeting some client here, like he’d claimed when he took the call, said a few cryptic words, ended the call, then told me he had to meet a new client. No. Client, my plump rump! My gut told me he’d planned to do some fine dining, then go off and roll around on some silk sheets somewhere nearby.
A Nikon AFS 800mm camera was in my lap, mounted with a super telephoto lens. It was a recent purchase guaranteed to snap vivid pictures at a great distance.
I sat in my rental, trying to imagine what it’d be like being a private investigator, being hired to spy on someone’s cheating spouse. I was sure it was a dirty job. But someone had to get his or her hands muddy. Still, my heart ached for the one on the receiving end of his or her mate’s betrayal.
Cheaters be damned!
Catching my reflection in the rearview mirr
or, I adjusted the front of my wig, then flipped its bangs from out of my face. Curly brown hair flopped over one eye. This was what my life had become.
Wearing wigs.
Crouched down low in rentals.
Spying on Daddy.
Stalking his mistress.
Wale changed to Meek Mill, who had all eyes on him.
And I had all eyes on Daddy.
And on that despicable Logan Montgomery.
With the disguise, I wasn’t too concerned about Daddy spotting me. He’d never expect this from me. Besides, I was careful to stay at least two cars in back of him the whole time I tailed him.
My mother’s voice echoed in my head. “I know who your mistress is . . .”
I shook her voice and reached for my cell, then called her. She answered on the fourth ring, breathlessly. “Hello?”
“Are you and Daddy getting a divorce?” I asked, point-blank.
“Excuse me?” she shrieked. “What did you ask me?”
I repeated the question. I could tell she was taken aback. But I didn’t care.
“Where in the world did you get that notion, London?”
I sighed. “Well, are you?”
She let out a heavy breath. “Are you taking your medication, London? You sound a bit . . . how do I say... off.”
My jaw clenched. “I’m not off, Mother. And I’m not hearing voices, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’m the sanest I’ve ever been.” Yeah. Now that she’d stopped counting my calories and micromanaging my carb intake.
“I’ve insinuated no such thing,” she huffed.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, Mother. Whatever you say. I didn’t call to argue with you.”
“Then why are you calling at this ungodly hour?” she asked, brusquely.
“When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know,” she stated, curtly. “Now, with the launch of my new fragrance in a couple of weeks, I’m not sure when I’ll be there.” I’d forgotten that her new fragrance, Jade,—after two years of trying to perfect her signature scent—was finally making its way into high-end boutiques and retail stores across the globe.
I frowned. “That’s not what Daddy said,” I stated, feeling my anxiety kick up a notch. “He said you’d be home sometime next week.” I reached for my bag and dug out my bottle of anti-anxiety medication. “Now you’re saying in a couple of weeks.”
“Well, things changed, London.”
I popped two pills and swallowed. “As they always do when it comes to you, Mother. It’s always about you, isn’t it?” I reached for my bottled water.
“You had better watch your tone with me, young lady. Is this what that fancy, high-priced therapist is teaching you, London? To be disrespectful, huh?”
I took a deep breath and unscrewed the cap. “No,” I snapped, eyeing the entrance to Nobu. “She’s teaching me to be assertive. To stand up for myself and to speak my mind, something I was always too afraid to do. Now answer my question, Mother. Are you and Daddy divorcing?” I took a sip of water. Swallowed again.
She snorted. “London, stop this. Do you hear me? I have no intention of discussing this with you, London. Your father and I are fine.”
I huffed. “Ohmigod, Mother. Please, stop with your lies. Don’t think for one moment I don’t know what’s really going on.” I would finally tell her what I’d overheard that night down in Daddy’s study as I stood by the cracked door and listened. “I know Daddy’s cheating on you. So, stop with the lies. You can stop pretending everything’s so perfect in your world. I know the truth. You’re not perfect. And neither is your marriage. There are cracks, Mother. And the longer you stay away, the wider they become.”
“London,” my mother snapped. “How dare—”
“No, Mother. How dare you? How dare you let Daddy’s whore win?” I choked back a sob. “How dare you not fight for your marriage, for Daddy?!”
“London! I will not stand for your tone or for this line of questioning! I will not tolerate this level of disrespect. You had better mind your manners . . .”
“Or what, Mother? Are you going to threaten to snatch my trust fund? Turn your back on me the way you’ve turned your back on your marriage, on Daddy? Well, guess what? You turned your back on me the moment you chose going back to Milan over me.”
“Nonsense, London. I’ve done no such thing. You could have come too. But you wanted to stay there. You made your choice.”
“And you’ve obviously made yours, Mother.” I wiped tears from my face with my hands. “You should have never had me if you didn’t want to be a mother!”
“London, you stop this nonsense, right this instant! I gave birth to you. Of course I wanted you.”
“More lies, mother! You didn’t birth me. Your surrogate did! Yes, I know all about it. I overheard that, too, Mommy dear. So don’t lie.”
I could hear her sucking in the air around her on the other end of the phone. “Okay, London. Yes. I paid for a surrogate. What else was I supposed to do? I was becoming one of the most sought-out models. Casting calls were in abundance. So, yes, London, I’m guilty as charged. That doesn’t mean I didn’t want you. You are still as much a part of me as if I’d carried you myself.”
I snorted. “Ha! Yeah right. We both know you’ve always wanted your career more. You should have just given me up for adoption like you—”
I stopped midsentence and blinked. Shot up in my seat. There was Rich’s mother. Adorned in her fine jewels and slutty wear.
“Look. I have to go. It’s obvious you aren’t interested in being a mother or fighting for your marriage or for Daddy. But no worries, Mother. I’m not losing Daddy to the likes of some other woman.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means just what I said,” I responded, tersely.
“London, you stay out of this. Don’t you dare—”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Mother. Like it or not, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
“London, do not meddle in your father’s and my affairs. I’ll handle this my own way.”
“Bye, Mother. It’s too late.” I hung up, then quickly grabbed my camera and zoomed in on Rich’s mother. Through tear-blurred eyes, I snapped the perfect shot of her making her way toward the door.
If I were perfectly honest with myself, I’d say Rich’s mother was pretty—okay, okay, breathtaking—if you went for the hood goddess type. Mmmph. Apparently, that’s what Daddy wanted these days. Hood trash.
I was on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack. I swear I felt it coming like a raging storm. I reached for my medication bottle and unscrewed the top, then popped another pill. For a fleeting second, I entertained the thought of taking the whole bottle but quickly decided against it. With my luck, I’d survive and end up a vegetable. No, thanks.
Still . . .
Between Daddy’s trotting off every chance he got to be with Rich’s mother, and my mother’s nonchalance about it, I felt myself slowly becoming unglued. I quickly grabbed my cell and sent a text to my therapist. I needed a therapy session—ASAP—first thing in the morning.
I narrowed my gaze at the restaurant’s entrance. They’d been inside for almost fifty-five minutes. How long did it take to suck down a sushi roll and a bottle of sake?
Geesh.
What in the world were they in there doing, for God’s sakes?
I wish there was a way I could slip inside to see them front and center.
The glass doors of the restaurant finally opened—it was about damn time!—and Rich’s mother stepped out first. Daddy held the door for her as she went through. She tossed her head back and laughed at something he’d said. Even from this angle, her diamond hoop earrings danced under the light, the stones glinting ever so bright.
She looked so carefree.
So, so damned happy!
My nose flared.
I didn’t remember ever seeing my mother laugh so freely around Daddy. But here was Logan Montgomer
y just a heeheeheeing.
Easing my window down a bit, I poked the lens of my Nikon through the opening and took multiple shots in rapid succession of them together.
Oh sure. They were ever so careful not to hold hands or walk arm in arm. Still, they were comfortable enough together to look like a couple.
Oh God, oh God!
His hand went to the small of her back as they walked, the first sign of intimate contact. He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed again.
His hand went back to his side.
Through the long lens of my camera, I watched Rich’s mother steal my father away from his family, from me. By the look on the two lovebirds’ faces, they were seemingly enjoying each other’s company. I fought the tears that were threatening to spill over.
My heart ached.
The truth was excruciating.
Not only was that, that wolf-dragon clearly ensnaring Daddy in her web of seduction with her sultry body and cunning ways, Logan Montgomery was also clawing her way into his heart.
“Bitch,” I hissed.
Oh, how I wished her a slow burn in hell.
35
Rich
“Heels, heartache, and headlines seem to follow famed socialite Rich Montgomery everywhere she goes. From public brawls with her fellow Pampered Princesses and boyfriend Justice Banks to being arrested and released on charges of alleged underage drinking and driving while intoxicated. Phone calls have been made to her reps; however, no statement has been released. More when we return from commercial break . . .”
“Turn it off!” I screamed at my stylist’s assistant, as he stood in a freakin’ trance watching E! News lie on me and rip me to shreds.
“What is wrong with you?!” I yelled, seconds from drop-kicking his scrawny behind dead in the throat. I looked down at my stylist, Stephanie, who was clearly frustrated with not being able to zip my dress and said, “He gotta go!”
Stephanie looked over at her assistant, and his guilty behind simply grabbed the remote and hit the POWER button. But he didn’t leave; instead, he gave me a fake smile and an even phonier apology. Whatever. I had bigger things to worry about. Like how I was hot and cold at the same time and felt like I was about to throw up at any minute or, worse, pass out. Or like how my effin’ birthday ball was happening at this very moment with paparazzi and guests packed into the ballroom, waiting on me.