Dollhouse

by Kim; Khloé Kardashian Kourtney

  Dollhouse

  Kourtney, Kim, and Khloé Kardashian

  Dedication

  To our fans

  Contents

  Dedication

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part II

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part IV

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Part V

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Acknowledgments

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART I

  Sisters

  Chapter One

  Kamille

  Sitting in a café across the street from her family’s restaurant, Kamille Romero sipped her açaí berry smoothie and lifted her face to soak in the sun. It was a deliciously warm day, not too humid for August in L.A. She had spent the afternoon at her favorite spa—not one of those New Age-y spas, but a serious, old-school spa run by a scary-efficient Romanian woman named Bogdana. Kamille’s arms, legs, and bikini still stung from the honey-scented wax. But it was a good kind of pain, and besides, beauty was painful, right? Waxing and tweezing, like dieting, detoxing, and working out, all hurt.

  And they all cost money. She’d had to try two different credit cards to pay her bill at Bogdana’s, since it turned out one of them was maxed out. Kamille was going to have to talk to her mother, Kat, about giving her another raise, or at least an advance on her next paycheck. The last time they’d had this not-fun conversation, Kat had actually suggested that Kamille consider cutting back on the weekly spa visits and a few other “luxuries.”

  Luxuries, seriously? As far as Kamille was concerned, these were all necessities. Kat herself had taught Kamille and her sisters to take pride in their appearance and maintain a strict grooming ritual, including regular hair removal. Just because they were poor now didn’t mean they had to be furry and ugly, did it?

  At least Kamille made an effort. She couldn’t say the same thing about her big sister, Kass, who was naturally pretty but couldn’t be bothered to do much with her appearance. (Kass’s idea of glam was carrying a purse instead of throwing all her stuff into her USC backpack.) Or their baby sister Kyle, who cared more about looking shocking than stylish. (Fishnets and skull chokers were so yesterday.)

  Kamille’s cell buzzed. She smiled; maybe it was a text from her boyfriend Finn? She hadn’t heard from him all day.

  But no, it was a superannoying text from her mother: DOLL, WHERE R U?

  Frowning, Kamille typed: MY SHIFT STARTS 430.

  Kat replied: NO 4! GET YOUR BUTT IN HERE!

  What? Kamille rolled her eyes. Her mom could be such a controlling bitch. Ever since she’d opened the restaurant four years ago, just after their father’s death, she’d put the girls to work. Which was not cool. At age twenty, Kamille was meant for something bigger and better than waitressing or busing tables. She just wasn’t exactly sure what that “something” might be. But her destiny was out there, waiting for her, as sparkly and spectacular as the Kodak Theatre on Oscar Night . . .

  Her phone started ringing. The screen lit up: MOM CALLING, along with a picture of Kat in her “Hot Mama” T-shirt.

  Kamille hit “ignore call” and flagged down the waitress for another smoothie.

  David Alexander Romero had been a famous film producer. But more important, he had been the most awesome dad in the world.

  His sudden death had been terrible enough. Kamille was never going to get over that pain, ever. But a few days after his sailing accident, Kat found out that he had secretly invested the family’s savings with his best friend, who was a big-deal investment banker to the rich and famous. And that the best friend, now officially a major asshole, had been arrested for committing fraud and leaving all his clients broke—including the Romeros.

  Everything changed after that. Kat had to sell their lavish mansion in Beverly Hills and move them to a way more modest house in Los Feliz. Kamille was sixteen then; Kass was seventeen; and Kyle was twelve. The designer clothes, the expensive family vacations, the fancy parties . . . all that was in the past. The agents, actors, directors, and other Hollywood A-listers who’d always kowtowed to their father suddenly didn’t seem to know who Kat and the girls were.

  Kamille learned an important life lesson then: that money was power, and that no money meant no power. It was a lesson that haunted her to this day and seriously made her want to scream and throw things—at walls, at people.

  Kat, to her credit, didn’t curl up and die. Thank God. She used David’s life insurance to buy a defunct restaurant in West Hollywood and turn it into Café Romero. Somehow, miraculously, the restaurant was an immediate success. It didn’t bring back the millions they’d lost, too bad, but at least they weren’t homeless. Although it would have been way better if Kat weren’t using her own children as labor. But, whatever.

  The next big change was when Kat married her longtime friend, Beau LeBlanc. Fortunately, Beau—a retired Dodgers pitcher—was a nice guy. Occasionally, he even took Kamille’s side against Kat when she was being insane (which happened a lot—Kamille and Kass had a private joke that “PMS” stood for “Psychotic Mom Syndrome”). Beau’s kids from his previous marriage, Benjamin (aka Benjy) and Brianna (aka Bree), lived with them most of the time, and weren’t too annoying.

  Besides, Kamille and Kass had their own place now, near the family house, so they could come and go as they pleased. And Kass was a great roommate. Sort of. Most of the time.

  When Kamille strolled into Café Romero at 4:35, Kat was going over the evening’s menu with her head chef, Fernando. The late-afternoon sun lit up the distressed-yellow walls that always reminded Kamille of their family vacation to Italy, freshman year of high school. The vases of gerbera daisies looked pretty on the mismatched vintage tables that her mother had rescued from some estate sale in OC.

  Kamille glanced at her phone. Nothing. She had texted Finn six times today, and he was still MIA. Where is he? she wondered irritably. She wished he was on Twitter so she could spy on him, like she had done with her previous boyfriends (and continued to do sometimes, when she was bored).

  “I think we should go with a risotto special,” Kat was saying to Fernando. “Let’s do something with the new morel mushrooms we just got. How about with some asparagus?”

  “A morel-and-asparagus risotto, sounds delish,” Fernando agreed. “Let me just check in the kitchen and make sure we have enough stock. I need to get in there and start prepping, anyway.”

  “Ask Kass about the stock, she’s b
ack there doing inventory. I think she made a huge batch last night with the leftover roast chicken?”

  “My goodness, is there anything that girl can’t do? Hello, angel!” Fernando waved to Kamille. “My, don’t you look to die for in that adorable dress? Versace?”

  “No, Dolce and Gabbana,” Kamille replied. “I got it at Barnee’s.” She didn’t explain that it was from Barnee’s (with an e) Consignment Shop on Melrose—not the high-end department store Barneys (with a y). Of course, she’d had to have it dry-cleaned three times before she wore it, to get rid of the previous owner’s lingering BO and cheap, nasty perfume. But she couldn’t afford to be picky. “Hey, is there fresh coffee?” she called out to Kat.

  “Do you see a Starbucks sign out front? You’re thirty-five—no, thirty-six minutes late. Can you type up this menu for me, usual format? Then print out a hundred copies?” Her mother waved a piece of paper at her.

  “Kyle’s better on the computer,” Kamille grumbled.

  “Kyle’s not here yet. She’s even later than you are. Why is it that Kassidy is the only one I can depend on around here?” Kat snapped.

  Kamille knotted her fists, stifling several choice swearwords. She was sick-to-death-tired of constantly hearing what a saint Kass was. It had been going on for years, and seriously, who cared? So Kass had been valedictorian in high school. So she was at the top of her class at USC. So she worked long hours at the restaurant, doing everything from waiting tables to organizing the bills to whipping up gourmet fucking chicken stock like some Rachael Ray clone.

  Kass was a saint because she had no life. She didn’t date; she claimed she was “too busy.” She hardly ever drank, which meant that she was superboring during girls’ nights out. All she ever did was work and study, study and work. If Kamille did that 24/7, she could be a perfect, overachieving geek, too.

  Oh, well. At least there was Kyle, who was even higher on the MSL (aka “Mom’s Shit List”) than Kamille. Usually.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Kass wandered out, poring intently over a legal pad.

  “Kass, my daffodil, how much chicken stock do we have?” Fernando called out as he passed her on his way into the kitchen.

  “For soup?”

  “For risotto. Entrée-size portions.”

  “More than enough. Mom, we’re way low on the gluten-free pasta. I thought you placed an order last week?”

  Kat squeezed her eyes shut and began massaging her temples. “Kass, I really can’t deal with the gluten-free pasta crisis right now. I have the biggest headache. And we’re out of the house red. And I need to figure out where in the hell your sister Kyle is. Why am I always having to chase you girls down?” She picked up her phone.

  “Let’s just substitute the McManis Merlot, we have like ten cases,” Kass suggested. She came over and gave Kamille a quick hug. “I am so glad to see you,” she whispered. “Not to name names, but someone’s in total, raging PMS mode. And I’m not talking about Fernando.”

  Giggling, Kamille hugged Kass back. Her sister could always cheer her up, even if she was one of the reasons Kamille needed cheering up to begin with. “Yeah, I kinda figured. How are you? How was your day? I heard you leave the house at like five A.M. or something.”

  “It wasn’t that early. But yeah, I wanted to get to the library early to do some reading for my econ class.”

  “Um, the semester hasn’t even started yet?”

  “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to get a jump on it.”

  “Oooo-kay.” Kamille knew better than to question her sister’s crazy study habits. “Hey, what are you doing later? I’m meeting up with Finn”—she snuck a peek at her phone; still no text; fuck him—“and Simone and this new guy Simone’s dating, Lars. We’re going to this new club.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Kass picked up a wineglass from a nearby table and held it up to the light. “You know, I wouldn’t call what Simone does ‘dating.’ That girl is such a slore—honestly, she’s like one giant yeast infection.”

  Kamille raised her eyebrows (which were perfectly shaped versus out-of-control fuzzy, like Kass’s). “God, you are such a bitch! Besides, you’re one to talk. At least she has fun.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? I have fun!”

  “Right, uh-huh. When was the last time you—”

  “Girls!” Kat interrupted, her phone still glued to her ear. “Stop fighting and get back to work! We have a lot to do. Kamille, please get on those menus, now! And, Kass, can you help Fernando with the prep? Goddamn it, Kyle, why are you not picking up? Do I have to implant you with a tracking device, already?”

  “P-M-S,” Kass whispered to Kamille. They cracked up.

  “What’s so funny?” Kat snapped.

  “Nothing, Mommy!” Kamille trilled.

  “Oh, there’s my friend Pippa on my call waiting. Did I tell you girls that I invited her and her son, Parker, to our next Sunday Night Dinner? Remember Parker, Kass?”

  “Oooh, setup! Love connection! Can I be the maid of honor at your wedding?” Kamille crowed, slapping Kass on the butt.

  “Kam, stop that!” Kass yelled.

  “It is not a setup, I thought it would be nice for Kass and Parker to catch up,” Kat said defensively. “Kyle Elizabeth Romero, this is the last message I’m going to leave you today!” she shouted into the phone. “Haul your ass into the restaurant right this second, or I am grounding you. Forever! Oh, sorry, Pippa, sweetie, I thought that was Kyle’s voice mail. What? What do you mean, you need to get an emergency vaginaplasty?”

  “A vagina what? Ew, never mind,” Kass whispered to Kamille. “And what does she mean, it would be nice for me and Parker to catch up? Is she serious?”

  “See, Mom thinks you need a life, too,” Kamille teased her.

  “If Parker Ashton-Gould is her idea of a ‘life,’ I’d rather go out with you and the giant yeast infection,” Kass retorted. “Just kidding, ha-ha. You know I love you, right? Even though your taste in friends is highly questionable?”

  Kamille fake-smiled at Kass. Sometimes she wondered if her sister really did love her. Kass could be so mean, so judgmental, so downright bitchy.

  But maybe that was just how sisters expressed affection?

  Chapter Two

  Kass

  Kass set her keys on the front hall table, slid off her shoes, and placed them neatly on the shoe rack in the closet. The house was blissfully silent, i.e., no loud music or loud laughter or loud sex, which meant that Kamille wasn’t home yet. Good. She would take advantage of the peace and quiet to get some much-needed R & R. It had been a long night at the restaurant, and she couldn’t wait to kick back with a mug of hot apple cider and a biography of Abraham Lincoln she’d been dying to read.

  Thank God she’d said no to an evening out with Kamille and her little entourage. It would have been different if it had been just Kamille and her, hanging out at home with some Ben & Jerry’s and an old black-and-white movie. But the idea of clubbing with Kamille and Finn and Simone and Simone’s latest accessory . . . well, frankly, Abe Lincoln was way better company.

  First of all, Kass really didn’t understand the appeal of clubs. Who wanted to stand in line for an hour at the mercy of some rude doorman, just to pay a fortune for a watery drink, shout to be heard above bad pop music, and get hit on by losers? (Not that Kass got hit on much—or ever—but still.)

  For another thing, Kass loathed Simone. She’d always felt this way about her, ever since Kamille and Simone (inexplicably) became friends in sixth grade. Kass knew Simone was trouble the first time they’d all had a sleepover at the Romero house. Kass was thirteen then, and Simone and Kamille were twelve, and there were several other kids at that particular Taco Bell and horror-movie marathon, including boys. Kass got her period for the first time that night (speaking of horror), and she spent hours in the bathroom trying to figure out how to insert a tampon. (This angle or that angle? Was it supposed to feel like a torture device?) She’d finally resorted to pads, which
were so huge and bulky, like diapers, but at least they didn’t hurt.

  Unfortunately, the next morning, their old dog, Valentino (God rest his soul), managed to fish several discarded napkins out of the bathroom wastebasket, gnaw them to shreds, and leave the bloody remains scattered all over the house. The she-witch Simone gleefully pointed them out to the sleepover guests; she also identified them as Kass’s, chanting stupid songs about crimson waves and cotton ponies. Kamille had actually laughed along with everyone else—for a second, anyway, before yelling at Simone to shut the fuck up and helping Kass to clean up the mess.

  Simone had always brought out the worst in Kamille.

  And as for Finn . . . Kass had made it a point not to get too close to any of Kamille’s boyfriends because she went through so many of them, so quickly. Pretty much one every three months, like a new diet trend or a new workout routine. Each time, it was the same, with Kamille announcing ecstatically that [fill in the blank] was absolutely and undeniably The One. Then some major drama would happen, and there would be a tearful, devastating breakup . . . after which the pattern would repeat itself.

  Kamille never had a problem getting a boyfriend. With her deep blue eyes, voluptuous body, and wild, curly auburn mane, she was drop-dead gorgeous. (When the Romero girls were growing up, people would call her the “pretty” sister, then hastily add that Kass was the “smart” one, as though that was supposed to make up for the implied insult.) Kamille’s problem was getting (and keeping) a boyfriend who really and truly cared about her. Why did she always seem to attract jerks with commitment issues?

  Kass sighed. Relationships really were more trouble than they were worth. It was a good thing that she herself had chosen to focus on her education. Straight A’s were forever. Men most definitely were not.

  Her cell buzzed. It was a text from Kamille.

  SO FUN HERE CUTE GUYS COME MEET US!

  “Right, uh-huh,” Kass muttered. Heading down the hall, she lied-slash-typed: SORRY IN BED ALREADY. LOVE U!