Read Get Ready for War Online

Authors: Ni-Ni Simone

Get Ready for War (34 page)

I gave her a blank stare. Obviously, she meant she was a step away from being a hooker. But I felt too sorry and sad for her to bother correcting her.
Tears filled her eyes. “I'm miserable, Spencer. I want out of this place. I want my life back. It's been hell being away from the flashing lights.” She looked around to see who was in earshot, then leaned in and whispered, “If it wasn't for my counselor helping me pass the time away in here, I'd probably lose my mind. No. I know I would. He has been the best thing that could have ever happened to me in here.”
I smirked. “Mmmhmm . . . I bet he has.”
“He has. But it's not enough.”
“Yeah, but it's nasty.”
“Well, maybe it is. But who are you to judge me? Desperate times call for desperate measures. So I had to do what I had to do. This isn't about you. It's about me. And there comes a time when you have to know the recipe for your own success and make it happen. I want out of here. And I will do whatever I need to do to make it happen. And if that means I have to kiss him a little bit, love him a little bit, and get my Becky on, then so be it. 'Cause, guess what? When it comes time to recommend me out of this hellhole, guess who is going to sign those papers without hesitation? Mister Mills. You know why? Because one hand always washes the other.”
I sat back in my seat and crossed my ankles, impressed. Heather was growing up; doing momma proud. She was talking my kind of language. Using what you had to get what you needed.
Nothing was off-limits when it came to getting what you wanted.
I grinned. “Then let's wash hands.”
She furrowed her eyebrows, giving me a confused look. “And how will we do that?”
“Well, one way is we can go into the bathroom to get soap. Another way is, you can tell me everything you know about Anderson Ford. And I do mean everything. And if you tell me the right thing that makes me tingle, when all is said and done, I'll have a surprise and a very big bonus treat for you. You know that little probation problem of yours you have until you're eighteen? Well, Kitty knows the head of the probation department very well. I mean Friday night after bingo, well, when his wife goes to bed, he slips out at two and three in the morning to get his West Hollywood stroll on down Santa Monica Boulevard. And let's just say he isn't out picking up groceries.”
Heather's eyes popped open. “Oh my . . . prostitutes ?”
I batted my eyes. “A special kind of prostitute.”
“A mess,” she said, shaking her head. “And what about the judge?”
I grinned. “All you need to know is he owes Kitty a few favors.”
“But—”
“Not a word,” I warned her, cutting her off. “All you need to do, Cinderella, to step back into your Hollywood heels—before the stroke of midnight catches you—is give me the goods on Anderson and . . . trust me . . . I will see to it that your carriage is trimmed in eighteen-karat gold for the royal ball. And you'll be back on top eating pumpkin seeds in no time.”
Heather shifted back in her seat. Her eyes glimmered brightly. She licked her lips in anticipation. “So if I tell you everything I know, you'll have Kitty get me off probation?”
“Exactly.”
“And I'll be free to do what I want? I can have my life back?”
“Yes.”
She eyed me as if she wasn't sure if she could trust or believe me. “And I won't have to sell my soul to do it?”
Well, partmycheeksandspreadtheseas ... Heather had no idea that she had already sold her soul the first time she snorted up those Skittles. And she sold it again when she bent over the devil's desk. Oh, bless her. Her soul was signed, sealed, delivered, and paid in full a long time ago. And there were no refunds.
I sweetly smiled. “Of course not, Heather. Your soul is right where it needs to be. Have I ever lied to you? I told you I was going to do you in. Didn't I keep my word? Aren't you here? Didn't you make the headlines? So obviously you know
I
know how to make it happen. And I know how to make it disappear. Now tell me about Anderson and Co-Co.”
She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in. “Well, this is what I know . . .”
I sat and stared in utter shock as Heather dished the dirt on how Co-Co had tossed back a whole bottle of pills and tried to kill himself over Anderson. That they had been lovers. That he was Co-Co's first. That all Anderson was doing was using London as a cover. That his parents never expected that he liked . . . boys. And Co-Co was okay with keeping their relationship a secret until he caught Anderson with another boy who Anderson left Co-Co for.
“I'm telling you, Spencer. Anderson Ford is a user. He toys with people's emotions, gets all up in their heads, then tosses them to the side like they're nothing. What that heartless bastard did to Co-Co and God knows who else is despicable.”
I blinked.
Sweethairybuttcheeksandhandcreams . . . Now it all made sense to me. Anderson was one of those trisexual guys who wanted the cake, the frosting, and the crumbs, too. He was the worst kind of low-down queen there was.
All that fluckery about needing to be with London to get his inheritance was a bunch of hot lies. Him telling me that he wanted to wait until the time was right to make love to me... lies! Had me believing he really thought I was beautiful and sexy, and wanted to be with me. And the only thing he really wanted was to be
me
.
I was speechless.
And to think I invested all of that time on him, wasting good sexual energy trying to seduce him, thinking he was fresh, untouched, unspoiled man meat. Imagining all of the blue-ribbon things I could have taught him. How I wanted to open up the doors to the schoolyard and teach Buff Daddy how to play in my treasure chest, and all the while he was a sneaky little Puff Patty who had high heels and handbags on his mind. No wonder he didn't want to sleep with me! All that time he had me thinking there was something wrong with me because he didn't want to blaze my trail or butter my biscuits. And there wasn't one dang thing wrong with me. No, he was the problem! And he was trying to work me up to be the next cover because London was out of control.
He really made a fool out of me!
I swallowed back my anger.
“Do you have proof?”
Heather nodded. “Co-Co has pictures.”
“Well, I need to see them.”
She wagged a finger at me. “Ah, ah, ah . . . it's your turn.”
I uncrossed my ankles, clasping my hands in front of me. Kitty once told me before she shipped me off to boarding school that everything about Hollywood was intertwined in high drama, high fashion, and high stakes. Well, guess what? Now that I was loaded with this juicy piece of news, you had best believe they could add high casualties to the list, because Rich, London, and Anderson were all going to get shot down.
I leaned in and reached for Heather's hand, eyeing her. “I know who your father is . . .”
Discussion Questions
1.
Rich felt as if she was forced to have an abortion and she resented her mother for that. What did you think of that? Do you think Rich had a right to be upset? And if you were in a similar situation, how would you feel?
2.
What did you think of London and Justice's relationship? Do you think it was a healthy relationship? Why do you think London was unable to let Justice go?
3.
What do you think about Heather being in drug rehab? Do you think she will change? Or do you think she will become more vindictive and continue to use?
4.
How do you think Heather's life will change when she finds out who her father is?
5.
Spencer spent a lot of time getting revenge on London. Why do you think she hated London so much? Do you think the two of them could ever be friends?
Don't miss the first book in the series,
HOLLYWOOD HIGH.
Available wherever books are sold!
1
London
L
isten up and weep. Let me tell you what sets me apart from the rest of these wannabe-fabulous broads.
I
am
fabulous.
From the beauty mole on the upper-left side of my pouty, seductive lips to my high cheekbones and big, brown sultry eyes, I'm that milk-chocolate dipped beauty with the slim waist, long sculpted legs, and triple-stacked booty that had all the cuties wishing their girl could be me. And somewhere in this world, there was a nation of gorilla-faced hood rats paying the price for all of this gorgeousness.
Boom,
thought you knew! Born in London—hint, hint. Cultured in Paris, and molded in New York, the big city of dreams. And now living here in La-La Land—the capital of fakes, flakes, and multiple plastic surgeries. Oh ... and a bunch of smog!
Pampered, honey-waxed, and glowing from the UMO 24-karat gold facial I just had an hour ago, it was only right that I did what a diva does best—be diva-licous, of course. So, I slowly pulled up to the entrance of Hollywood High, exactly three minutes and fifty-four seconds before the bell rang, in my brand-new customized chocolate brown Aston Martin Vantage Roadster with the hot pink interior. I had to have every upgrade possible to make sure I stayed two steps ahead of the rest of these West Coast hoes. By the time I was done, Daddy dropped a check for over a hundred-and-sixty grand. Please, that's how we do it. Write checks first, ask questions later. I had to bring it! Had to serve it! Especially since I heard that Rich—Hollywood High's princess of ghetto fabulousness—would be rolling up in the most expensive car on the planet.
Ghetto bird or not, I really couldn't hate on her. Three reasons: a) her father had the whole music industry on lock with his record label; b) she was West Coast royalty; and c) my daddy, Turner Phillips, Esquire, was her father's attorney. So there you have it. Oh, but don't get it twisted. From litigation to contract negotiations, with law offices in London, Beverly Hills, and New York, Daddy was the powerhouse go-to attorney for all the entertainment elite across the globe. So my budding friendship with Rich was not just out of a long history of business dealings between my Daddy and hers, but out of necessity.
Image was everything here. Who you knew and what you owned and where you lived all defined you. So surrounding myself around the Who's Who of Hollywood was the only way to do it, boo. And right now, Rich, Spencer, and Heather—like it or not—were Hollywood's “It Girls.” And the minute I stepped through those glass doors, I was about to become the newest member.
Heads turned as I rolled up to valet with the world in the palm of my paraffin-smooth hands blaring Nicki Minaj's “Moment 4 Life” out of my Bang & Olufsen BeoSound stereo. I needed to make sure that everyone saw my personalized tags: LONDON. Yep, that's me! London Phillips—fine, fly and forever fabulous. Oh, and did I mention... drop-dead gorgeous? That's right. My moment to shine happened the day I was born. And the limelight had shone on me ever since. From magazine ads and television commercials to the catwalks of Milan and Rome, I may have been new to Hollywood High, but I was
not
new to the world of glitz and glamour, or the clicking of flash bulbs in my face.
Grab a pad and pen. And take notes. I was taking the fashion world by storm and being groomed by the best in the industry long before any of these Hollywood hoes knew what Dior, Chanel, or Yves St. Laurent stood for—class, style, and sophistication. None of them could serve me, okay. Not when I had an international supermodel for a mother who kept me laced in all of the hottest wears (or as they say in France,
haute couture
) from Paris and Milan—Italy, that is.
For those who don't know. Yes, supermodel Jade Phillips was my mother. With her jet black hair and exotic features, she'd graced the covers of
Vogue
,
Marie Claire
,
L'Officiel
—a high-end fashion magazine in France and seventy other countries across the world—and she was also featured in
TIME
's fashion magazine section for being one of the most sought-out models in the industry. And now she'd made it her life's mission to make sure I follow in her diamond-studded footsteps down the catwalk, no matter what. Hence the reason why I forced myself to drink down that godawful seaweed smoothie, compliments of yet another one of her ridiculous diet plans to rid me of my dangerous curves so that I'd be runway ready, as she liked to call it. Translation: a protruding collarbone, flat-chest, narrow hips, and pancake-flat booty cheeks—a walking campaign ad for Feed the Hungry.
Ugh!
I flipped down my visor to check my face and hair to make sure everything was in place, then stepped out of my car, leaving the door open and the engine running for the valet attendant. I handed him my pink canister filled with my mother's green gook. “Here. Toss this mess, then clean out my cup.” He gave me a shocked look, clearly not used to being given orders. But he would learn today. “Umm, did I stutter?”
“No, ma'am.”
“Good. And I want my car washed and waxed by three.”
“Yes, ma'am. Welcome to Hollywood High.”
“Whatever.” I shook my naturally thick and wavy hair from side to side, pulled my Chanels down over my eyes to block the sparkling sun and the ungodly sight of a group of Chia Pets standing around gawking. Yeah, I knew they saw my work. Two-carat pink diamond studs bling-blinging in my ears. Twenty-thousand-dollar pink Hermès Birkin bag draped in the crook of my arm, six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos on my feet, as I stood poised. Back straight. Hip forward. One foot in front of the other. Always ready for a photo shoot. Lights! Camera! High Fashion! Should I give you my autograph now or later?
Click, click!
2
Rich
T
he scarlet-red bottoms of my six-inch Louboutins gleamed as the butterfly doors of my hot pink Bugatti inched into the air and I stepped out and into the spotlight of the California sun. The heated rays washed over me as I sashayed down the red carpet and toward the all-glass student entrance. I was minutes shy of the morning bell, of course.
Voilá, grand entrance.
An all-eyes-on-the-princess type of thing. Rewind that. Now replace princess with sixteen-year-old queen.
Yes, I was doin' it. Poppin' it in the press, rockin' it on all the blogs, and my face alone—no matter the headline—glamorized even the cheapest tabloid.
And yeah, I was an attention whore. And yeah, umm hmm, it was a dirty job. Scandalous. But somebody had to have it on lock.
Amen?
Amen.
Besides, starring in the media was an inherited jewel that came with being international royalty. Daughter of the legendary billionaire, hip-hop artist, and groundbreaking record executive, once known as M.C. Wickedness and now solely known as Richard G. Montgomery Sr., President and C.E.O. of the renowned Grand Records.
Think hotter than Jay-Z.
Signed more talent than Clive Davis.
More platinum records than Lady Gaga or her monsters could ever dream.
Think big, strong, strapping, chocolate, and handsome and you've got my daddy.
And yes, I'm a daddy's girl.
But bigger than that, I'm the exact design and manifestation of my mother's plan to get rich or die trying—hailing from the gutters of Watts, a cramped two-bedroom, concrete ranch, with black bars on the windows and a single palm tree in the front yard—to a sixty-two thousand square foot, fully staffed, and electronically gated, sixty acre piece of 90210 paradise. Needless to say my mother did the damn thing.
And yeah, once upon a time she was a groupie, but so what? We should all aspire to be upgraded. From dating the local hood rich thugs, to swooning her way into the hottest clubs, becoming a staple backstage at all the concerts, to finally clicking her Cinderella heels into the right place at the right time—my daddy's dressing room—and the rest is married-with-two-kids-and-smiling-all-the-way-to the-bank history.
And sure, there was a prenup, but again, so what? Like my mother, the one and only Logan Montgomery, said, giving birth to my brother and me let my daddy know it was cheaper to keep her.
Cha-ching!
So, with parents like mine my life added up to this: my social status was better and bigger than the porno tape that made Kim Trick-dashian relevant and hotter than the ex-con Paris Hilton's jail scandal. I was flyer than Beyoncé and wealthier than Blue Ivy. From the moment I was born, I had fans, wannabes, and frenemies secretly praying to God that they'd wake up and be me. Because along with being royalty I was the epitome of beauty: radiant chestnut skin, sparkling marble brown eyes, lashes that extended and curled perfectly at the ends, and a 5'6”, brickhouse thick body that every chick in L.A. would tango with death and sell their last breath to the plastic surgeon to get.
Yeah, it was like that. Trust. My voluptuous milkshake owned the yard.
And it's not that my stuff didn't stink, it's just that my daddy had a PR team to ensure the scent faded away quickly.
Believe me, my biggest concern was my Parisian stylist making sure that I murdered the fashion scene.
I refreshed the pink gloss on my full lips and took a quick peek at my reflection in the mirrored entrance door. My blunt Chinese bob lay flush against my sharp jawline and swung with just the right bounce as I confirmed that my glowing eye shadow and blush was Barbie-doll perfect and complemented my catwalk-ready ensemble. Black diamond studded hoops, fitted red skinny leg jeans, a navy short-sleeve blazer with a Burberry crest on the right breast pocket, a blue and white striped camisole, four strands of sixty-inch pearls, and a signature Gucci tote dangled around my wrist.
A wide smile crept upon me.
C
rèmedelacrème.com.
I stepped across the glass threshold and teens of all shapes and sizes lined the marble hallways and hung out in front of their mahogany lockers. There were a few newbies—better known as new-money—who stared at me and were in straight fan mode. I blessed them with a small fan of the fingers and then I continued on my way. I had zero interest in newbies especially since I knew that by this time next year, most of them would be broke and back in public school throwing up gang signs. Okay!
Soooo, moving right along.
I swayed my hips and worked the catwalk toward my locker, and just as I was about to break into a Naomi Campbell freeze, pose, and turn, for no other reason than being fabulous, the words, “Hi, Rich!” slapped me in the face and almost caused me to stumble.
What the...
I steadied my balance and blinked, not once but four times. It was Spencer, my ex-ex-ex-years ago-ex-bff, like first grade bff—who I only spoke to and continued to claim because she was good for my image and my mother made me do it.
And, yeah, I guess I'll admit I kind of liked her—sometimes—like one or two days out of the year, maybe. But every other day this chick worked my nerves. Why? Because she was el stupido, dumb, and loco all rolled up into one.
I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, slowly rolled them back down and then hit her with a smile. “Hey, girlfriend.”
“Hiiiiii.” She gave me a tight smile and clenched her teeth.
Gag me.
I hit her with a Miss America wave and double-cheeked air-kisses.
I guess that wasn't enough for her, because instead of rolling with the moment, this chick snatched a hug from me and I almost hurled. Ev'ver'ree. Where.
Spencer released me and I stood stunned. She carried on, “It's so great to see you! I just got back from the French Alps in Spain.” She paused. Tapped her temple with her manicured index finger. “Or was that San Francisco? But anyway, I couldn't wait to get back to Hollywood High! I can't believe we're back in school already!”
I couldn't speak. I couldn't. And I didn't know what shocked me more: that she put her hands on me, or that she smelled like the perfume aisle at Walgreens.
OMG, my eyes were burning...
“Are you okay, Rich?”
Did she attack me?
I blinked.
Say something...
I blinked again.
Did I die . . . ?
Say. Something.
“Umm, girl, yeah,” I said coming to and pinching myself to confirm that I was still alive. “What are you wearing? You smell—”
“Delish?” She completed my sentence. “It's La-Voom, Heather's mother's new scent. She asked me to try it and being that I'm nice like that, I did.” She spun around as if she were modeling new clothes. “You like?” She batted her button eyes.
Hell no. “I think it's fantast!” I cleared my throat. “But do tell, is she still secretly selling her line out of a storage shed? Or did the courts settle that class action lawsuit against her for that terrible skin rash she caused people?”
Spencer hesitated. “Skin rash?”
“Skin to the rash. And I really hope she's seen the error of her . . . ways . .
.
” My voice drifted. “Oh my . . . wow.” I looked Spencer over, and my eyes blinked rapidly. “Dam'yum!” I said tight-lipped. “Have you been wandering skid row and doing homeless boys again—?”
“Homeless boys—?” She placed her hands on her hips.
“Don't act as if you've never been on the creep-creep with a busted boo and his cardboard box.”
“How dare you!” Spencer's eyes narrowed.
“What did I do?!” I pointed at the bumpy alien on her neck. “I'm trying to help you and bring that nastiness to your attention. And if you haven't been entertaining busters then Heather's mother did it to you!”
“Did it to me?” Spencer's eyes bugged and her neck swerved. “I don't go that way! And for your information I have never wandered skid row. I knew exactly where I was going! And I didn't know Joey was homeless. He lied and told me that cardboard box was a science experiment. How dare you bring that up! I'm not some low-level hoochie. So get your zig-zag straight. Because I know you don't want me to talk about your secret visit in a blond wig to an STD clinic. Fire crotch. Queen of the itch, itch.”
My chocolate skin turned flaming red, and the South Central in my genes was two seconds from waking up and doing a drive-by sling. I swallowed, drank in two deep breaths, and reloaded with an exhale. “Listen here, Bubbles, do you have Botox leaking from your lips or something? Certainly you already know talking nasty to me is not an option, because I will take my Gucci-covered wrist and beat you into a smart moment. I'm sooo not the one! So I advise you to back up.” I pointed my finger into her face and squinted. “All the way up.”
“You better—”
“The only commitment I have to the word better, is that I
better
stay rich and I
better
stay beautiful, anything other than that is optional. Now you on the other hand, what you
better
do is shut your mouth, take your compact out and look at the pimple-face bearrilla growing on your neck!”
She gasped.
And I waited for something else nasty to slip from her lips. I'd had enough. Over. It. Besides, my mother taught me that talking only went so far, and when you tired of the chatter, you were to slant your neck and click-click-boom your hater. But, never with the hands, that was so unlady like. Instead, one was to clip their nemesis with a threat that their dirtiest little secret was an e-mail away from being on tabloid blast. “Now, Spencer,” I batted my lashes and said with a tinge of concern, “I'm hoping your silence means you've discovered that all of this ying-yang is not the move for you. So, may I suggest that you shut the hell up? Unless, of course, you want the world to uncover that freaky videotaped secret you and your mother hope like hell the Vatican will pray away.”
All the color left her face and her lips clapped shut.
I smiled and mouthed, “Pow! Now hit the floor with that.”

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