by JJ Salem
People were so strange about money. The news of Marc Cohen’s arrest and the list of his bilked clients – at least the famous ones – had generated enough coverage to get passed around the Hollywood playground: the stars, managers, agents, publicists, lawyers, therapists, life coaches, assistants, nannies, stylists, makeup artists, personal trainers, even housekeepers and gardeners. They were all talking about it. And yet nobody was calling her.
Of course, she had heard from Cinnamon, a friend from her 90s era modeling days. Tall, lean and as black as coal, Cinnamon worked a wild, dangerous strut that brought to mind a panther on amphetamines. She had been sought after for runway work but struggled to land the bigger editorial assignments and product endorsements, a set of circumstances that led to a notoriously bad attitude and a serious cocaine addiction. For a long period she just dropped out of sight, then re-emerged as Cinnamon Foster, the wife of the New York Knicks star forward Damien Foster. Now she was an NBA wife, raising children, working for charities, and keeping a killer eye on the man-eating groupies who dared to go after her husband.
Cinnamon had been like the few others who reached out upon hearing the news – sympathetic (Oh, you poor thing), judgmental (How could you trust this man with everything?), and quick to point out that all of her funds were tied up in long-term conservative investments (Don’t ask me for a loan).
It stung that Envy had not heard from Him. Mr. Movie Star. Her one real love and longest romantic relationship. But he was probably too busy with his young starlet bride, their fashion-plate tabloid toddler, and his crazy religion. After seven years together, he had left Envy for a gorgeous British ice queen, and then he left her for a television actress from the moronic CW teen soap, Senior Year. Apparently, being 22 years old and having a blank Stepford-like countenance were qualities that soothed his anxieties about marriage. That would explain why he had proposed to the insipid girl within six weeks.
He had long ago promised that he would always be there for anything Envy needed. All she had to do was call. That was the sentiment on the card accompanying the pink roses that arrived on her birthday each year. And so she finally had. In fact, she had called him three times. The first voicemail was tearful, the second was calm, and the vodka-fueled third one – the message she wished she could take back – was full of hurt, anger, and old resentments.
Envy pushed away thoughts of her most significant ex and began ruminating over all the beautiful and treasured possessions she would have to part with. The situation made for a quiet sadness, and she cried softly into the pillow until she drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, it took a moment to get properly oriented. What time was it? What day was it?
She stretched out for her BlackBerry. There were no missed calls and no texts. A stab of loneliness pierced her heart. Coming to Las Vegas for a change of scenery was hardly the magical answer. She felt worse than ever. All she had done was add to the mountain of bills she could not pay. It stunned her that she had slept for ten hours straight. Who knew that going broke could be so goddamn exhausting?
Envy ventured into the living area and noticed an envelope slipped under the door. At first, she feared it might be some kind of eviction notice. But it was just the opposite – another gift from management, this one with a personal letter attached.
Dear Envy,
I hope that you are enjoying your stay at the London Hotel. It is indeed a privilege to have you as our guest. We are pleased to present this exclusive lifetime membership to Tramp Las Vegas as our gift to you. If you have any special requests, please ask for the nightclub manager, Jab Hunter. He stands at the ready to assist you in any way possible.
With All Best Wishes,
Hart Fox, London Hotel Group CEO
Envy ran her fingertip over the sleek black card. She knew the Tramp in London well. Its legendary club impresario, Johnny Gold, had taken her under his protective wing when she was a naïve, starry-eyed, underage model. His strict rules: No more than two drinks in a six-hour period; avoid drugs of any kind; stay away from rock stars. Those were tenets she still lived by.
Envy smiled. This was an invitation she could not pass up. After all, it was her last night in Vegas, a place she would not be returning to anytime soon. Why not enjoy a little fun? She took her time getting ready, then trundled down to the lobby looking every bit the million dollars she was no longer worth.
Envy knew she was leg-alicious in a pair of glam-rock gold snakeskin pants so tight that saying they appeared painted on would be a gross understatement. There were overstatements too, like the heavy metal jewelry (literally weighing her down) and the Elie Tahari fur vest (sure to guarantee her a spot on PETA’s shit list). Add the vicious Roberto Cavalli spike-heeled booties and her trademark hair – at its blondest and most voluminous ever. She was 40-is-the-new-30 personified, a tip-top goddess who truly lived up to her single moniker . . . Envy.
CHAPTER FIVE Pink Envy
The clock flirted with midnight by the time she arrived. Tramp Las Vegas was already a mob scene. But it was still early. The real chaos would begin in two to three hours. Throngs of please-let-us-in types were harassing the muscled bald bouncer and getting nowhere fast. He looked like the kind of beast whose idea of relaxation was training in Krav Maga, the Israeli army’s combat method.
Envy’s presence at the heavily guarded door created a ripple of awareness in the crowd. There was Vegas hot and supermodel hot. One made you look twice; the other made you stare forever. She felt the heat of a thousand eyes burning into her as the bouncer spotted the coveted membership card between her fingers and motioned her forward with a barely perceptible nod.
Suddenly, Envy felt a man’s hand thread through hers.
‘Take me with you, baby. Don’t leave me out here with these hooligans.’
The cockily flirtatious tone and Sydney-born accent were unforgettable sense memories. Kyden Spragg. She tilted her head to see him standing beside her, grinning with a dirty intimacy that made her blush. They had many problems as a couple. Sex was not one of them.
He still gave off strong Gerard Butler vibrations – handsome, square-jawed and chiseled, roguishly charming, fiercely masculine, a perpetual glint of raunchy humor in his gray-green eyes. But where Gerard had the brilliant Butler career, Kyden had the Spragg jealous streak and penchant for temper tantrums and professional self-destruction.
Envy squeezed his hand affectionately and leaned in to kiss his deliciously rough cheek brandishing a three-day-growth stubble. In spite of everything, she was truly glad to see him. Their one hundred or so break-ups during the filming of Sunsets and Merlot felt like as many years ago. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I took a meeting with some producers. I might be getting my own reality show.’
From starring in features to schmoozing for a timeslot on E! or VH-1. The move was a career death drop. He knew it. She knew it. Hell, the boy parking cars knew it. But Envy smiled back real encouragement anyway.
‘Kyden! What about us?’
Envy turned to see two twentysomething girls – walking billboards for the unfortunate things plastic surgery could do to lips and breasts – lasering him with pleading, hopeful eyes.
‘Sorry, dolls. VIP only. I’ll meet you back in the room.’ And then Kyden guiltlessly led Envy into the inner sanctum of Tramp. Pumped up with pride and relief, he gave her a quick kiss. ‘Thanks, gorgeous. The first round is on me.’
She laughed at him, remembering the fun times, happy to have familiar company for the night, and knowing he would find a way to scam for free drinks.
A young man approached them, introduced himself as Jab Hunter, and produced a business card that declared him Tramp’s manager. Impossibly good looking, athletic, and well bred, he could have easily just walked off a photo shoot for a Ralph Lauren cologne.
Jab was warm, polite, and efficient, making instant arrangements for a reserved banque
tte and complimentary bottle service. ‘What’s your pleasure this evening? We have top shelf champagne, vodka—’
‘Nuvo,’ Envy cut in dreamily. She adored the luscious pink sparkling liqueur of vodka and French white wine.
Jab nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent.’ There was an iPhone discreetly cupped in his right hand that seemed to be an active nerve center to facilitate matters with maximum speed and minimal effort. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of letting our guest DJ know that you’ve arrived. Samantha Ronson is spinning tonight. She’ll be delighted.’
And then, as if on cue, the full orchestral intro to ‘DJ, I Need You (Help Me Dance, Dance, Dance)’ exploded from the sound system. The mini commotion on the floor was instant. Hands went up in celebration. Heads went back in aural ecstasy. There was only one feeling right now at Tramp Las Vegas, and that feeling was Envy.
The grin curling Jab’s sensuous mouth was pure conspiracy.
‘Come on, disco diva, don’t keep your subjects waiting,’ Kyden said, ignoring her half-hearted protests as he proceeded to drag her into the eye of the disco hurricane.
No more sitting at home crying for you
I did that last night
Baby, I’ve got better things to do
Like get dressed up, like shake it off
And move my body til I find someone new
DJ, I need you, help me dance, dance, dance
Play that song, I beg you, it’s my one last chance
The beat, the rhythm, the music is romance
DJ, I need you, help me dance, dance, dance
Envy lost herself in the blissful moment, reliving her biggest hit record and more successful days. The lights were beaming and strobing around them. She took in all of Kyden, who was barely swaying to the music in that too-cool-to-boogie laid-back way that most macho men groove.
He was in the standard Spragg uniform – dark-washed jeans, motorcycle boots, and the tightest shirt he could find. It had worked for him then. It was still working for him now.
Her song ended, and as Kelly Rowland and David Guetta’s ‘Commander’ began pulsing through the speakers, Envy evacuated the dance floor in search of their table. She found the banquette and – more importantly – the iced-down bottle of Nuvo.
Sweaty, out of breath, and comfortable in Kyden’s embrace, she laughed about the surreal scene, smiling and waving at fans, patiently enduring the cell-phone camera snaps.
A dutiful white-haired butler type showed up to pour the blushing pink liquid into two crystal champagne flutes full of small, diamond-shaped ice. He disappeared just as quickly.
‘Thanks, Alfred,’ Kyden cracked, clinking glasses and chasing it down like Gatorade after a field football game. As they settled into the banquette, he did the honors on his refill.
Envy sipped slowly, watching him intently.
He picked up on her stare and grinned the grin of a man who knew his chances of going to bed alone that night were slim. ‘What?’
‘You look good.’
He shrugged. ‘You look fucking amazing.’
She smiled, silently mouthed out a thank you, and drank some more.
‘So when did we see each other last?’ Kyden wondered. ‘I’m trying to remember.’
‘It was at the premiere,’ Envy said flatly. ‘You got up in the middle of the screening to smoke a cigarette, and you never came back.’
Kyden’s matinee-idol face clouded with amused regret. ‘Kind of an asshole thing to do.’
Envy rolled her eyes in good humor. ‘Yeah, kind of.’
‘The good part of that story is that I quit smoking. It was a year later. But I did quit.’ He locked eyes with her and started to laugh uproariously.
His secret hilarity was almost infectious. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Sunsets and Merlot,’ Kyden managed to get out. ‘Jesus, baby, that was a terrible movie.’
‘It didn’t have to be!’ Envy whined. And then against all better will, she began to laugh, too. ‘Seriously! It didn’t!’
There was something magical about time and distance. It gave her the grace and levity to find the absurdity in what had been a period of total emotional madness.
‘But it was terrible,’ Kyden insisted lightly.
‘Okay, it was bad,’ Envy admitted. She and Kyden Spragg had Sunsets and Merlot. Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck had Gigli. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton had Cleopatra. Permanent artistic records of bad relationships – and the bad movies they forced upon the world – were legendary in Hollywood.
‘I haven’t made a film since. It ruined me.’ Kyden said this with slightly less humor.
But Envy knew better. The truth was that he had blown his next project, an edgy independent film about politics called Talking Points. Fed-up with Kyden’s script interference, the director had threatened to walk, prompting the studio to replace Kyden with Mark Ruffalo. The movie went on to sweep the festival circuit and earn Ruffalo an Oscar nomination for Best Actor.
Kyden reached for Envy’s hand, playing absently with her fingers as he slurped down more Nuvo and nodded to the beat of Usher’s inescapable ‘OMG.’
She loved his hands. They used to make her feel safe when he was not being a jealous freak; they used to make her feel desired when he was not being a moody asshole.
‘So tell me, baby. Is it true?’
Envy looked at him. ‘Is what true?’
‘Did you really lose it all to Marc Cohen?’
The answer was right there in her eyes.
Kyden winced. ‘I’m sorry.’
She tried to play tough. ‘What’s done is done.’
‘Sue the motherfucker.’
Her smile was faint. Typical Kyden. He was always threatening to sue somebody during the production of Sunsets and Merlot. ‘It’s not worth it. That would take years, and I’d probably end up paying a lawyer more than I could recover.’
Kyden crunched angrily on some ice. ‘I hope he gets gang-raped in prison.’
‘He won’t end up in San Quentin,’ Envy pointed out. ‘They send the white collar criminals to country club spas.’
The tuxedoed butler reappeared to discreetly top up their drinks. Just as quickly, he was gone again.
Envy laughed a little. ‘All this fuss and I’m actually broke as hell.’
‘You’ll earn it back,’ Kyden said. His tone was upbeat. ‘Television’s not so bad. I’ve been getting by on guest star bits – 30 Rock, True Blood, Burn Notice. I just shot two episodes of Mad Men. It adds up. And this reality thing could be a nice pay day.’
‘What are they doing – following you into anger management therapy?’ It was a bitchy thing to say, but Envy could not resist.
There was a hint of a grin on his face. ‘I’ve mellowed.’
She wondered whether or not to believe him. ‘I have to make some money fast, Kyden. I’m thinking of selling my story to one of the weeklies for a quick fix. Maybe I could get another book deal after that. I don’t know. I fired all of my people. I’m sort of winging it.’
Kyden was suddenly staring as if seeing Envy for the first time. And then his face broke out into a brilliant smile. ‘We should do a sex tape.’
This made her laugh. ‘Nice try, Tommy Lee.’
‘I’m serious,’ Kyden said. And he was.
She opened her mouth to silence the idea.
‘Listen for a second.’ Kyden leaned forward to pitch his crazy brainstorm even harder. ‘Paris and Kim Kardashian made millions on their romps in the sack. Even losers are making a small fortune – Hefner’s ex-girlfriend Kendra, that trainwreck from The Real Housewives of . . . wherever. It would rain money for you, baby. You could cash in big time.’ He patted a small bulge in his front pocket. ‘I’ve got a Flip camera right here. We could go upstairs and do
it tonight.’
She just looked at him in astonishment.
Kyden bulldozed on as if this appalling scheme was the next best thing to a Course in Miracles. ‘Are you going to sit here and tell me that you couldn’t use a few million right now? What are you going to do, baby? Start taking the bus and clipping coupons? You’ve been living like a princess for twenty-five years!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘You could be out of this financial mess like that. Your sex tape would be a monster. I bet everything would fall right back into place, too – the movies, the music. There’s no stigma to this stuff anymore. Besides, you’d be banging me, not some stranger. We have a relationship history. That zeroes out the sleaze factor.’
Envy’s mind was spinning.
‘Come on, baby. We owe the public something for unloading Sunsets and Merlot. A video of us fucking? All would be forgiven!’
She finished her drink and stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER SIX Black Envy
He kissed her in the elevator – hot, wild, passionate kisses that conjured up powerful sense memories. This was the only aspect of their relationship that had actually worked.
Envy closed her eyes. The Nuvo buzz began fogging her mind, even as the reality of what she had impulsively said yes to took on a sudden and disturbing clarity.
Sex with Kyden. A bad idea. Sex with Kyden on video. A worse idea. Sex with Kyden on video to the highest bidder. An unfathomable personal low.
Envy drew back just as Kyden’s right hand stopped cradling her face and started rustling in his front jeans pocket. Suddenly, the Flip camera was gripped tight between his fingers. He powered it on and pressed the RECORD button, a gleam of craven ambition in his eyes as he crushed his mouth over hers.
She resisted, struggling to push him away in her alcohol-induced haze. ‘Kyden . . . stop . . . please . . . ‘