Put Your Diamonds Up! (6 page)

I scanned his face and wondered for a moment if he knew. Justice's face flashed through my head and guilt suddenly ripped through me. Tears filled my eyes and my heart thundered. And just as I was about to run out the door, the look in Knox's eyes kept me planted still. I knew then that it was safe to say...

“I would
never
cheat on you! Never! I can't believe you would say that to me! I've been nothing but true to you! If you don't trust me then maybe we don't need to be together! I refuse to be with anyone who can't trust me.”

“You know what? Maybe you're right. Bounce. I'm not gon' sweat you because either way, you're moving like you're single.”

“I'm not moving like I'm single.” My lips quivered. “I'm moving like a woman in love.”

He shot me a look that said, “Bull.”

“So you don't love me? Is that what you're saying?!”

“This is not about my love. That's not up for discussion. It's you and yo' ish I'm starting to side eye.”

I don't believe this. I need to say something to make this better
.
Let me think . . .
“You know I love you! You know I've always loved you.”

“No. You've always expected me to sweat you.”

“I'm not asking you to sweat me.”

“Then what are you asking me? Because, on the real, I'm confused. All I know is, your mouth says one thing, then you turn around and do something else.” He paused, keeping his eyes locked on mine, shaking his head. “Every time I turn around, Rich, it's something different with you. And it's getting real old, real fast. For real.”

“Knox.” I walked up on him and reached for his hand. He pulled away. And instead of me reaching for it again, I draped my arms around his neck and braided my fingers together. He stood stiff, unimpressed. I went to kiss him and he turned his head, my lips landing on his cheek. But that was okay. I still had this under control. Now I knew exactly what I had to do to make this all go away. “I'm sorry,” I whispered, my first step into turning this around. Apologize.

“You're always sorry.”

“You're right. I am. And I know I'm always doing something that makes you doubt my love for you.” That was step two. Acknowledging I'd done something wrong, even if I thought I hadn't.

He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. And it's getting tired.”

“Can you forgive me?” I kissed him softly on the left side of his neck. “I'm just going through so much at home.” I moved my kisses to the right side of his neck. “My mother is always on me. Nothing I do is good enough. You know how she is.”

Silence.

“You know how hard I had to fight her just to be with you. And now that she's finally given in, I'm not going to let anything ruin that. I'm not tryna ruin it.”

More silence.

I moved my kisses to his collarbone, working my way to step three. “I'm not going to mess up again. I promise. You're always on my mind. I won't ever go more than a day without calling you.” I lifted his T-shirt above his head. I moved my kisses over his chest. “You're all I need.”

He let out a deep sigh. He wasn't saying much. No, no... he wasn't saying anything at all. But I could feel his body starting to relax. That was all I needed. My magic kisses were slowly working.

“I know you still love me.”

Silence.

I unbuckled his pants, dipping down low and planting kisses around his waist. I gazed up at him. “Do you still love me?” I asked, my tongue teasing him to ecstasy. “I love you.” Then I heard him groan as I eased back up, running my hands up his chest. “Tell me, Knox. Do you still love me?”

“Yeah.” He moaned. Then, catching me by surprise, he scooped me up into his arms, walked over to the bed, and laid me on it. “I love you . . . maybe a little too much.” His mouth covered mine and I closed my eyes, getting swept up in the heat of his kisses.

Step three, completed.

My work here was done.

Milan, Italy

 

F
ive a.m., I sat before the vanity table in my room, naked underneath my robe, gazing into the large mirror outlined with huge light bulbs. I'd just finished my mother-obsessed-weigh-in thirty minutes earlier. One hundred and ten pounds is what the digital scale read when I stepped on, holding my breath as she logged my weight into her leather-bound journal. I had passed with flying colors.

Mmmph. Whatever...

I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes, rubbing the side of my still-stinging face from where she had slapped me just fifteen minutes ago. I stared at the welt slowly spreading across my cheek; then closed my eyes . . .

“Look at you, my darling, London,” my mother had gushed earlier, standing slightly behind me, her hand placed gently on my shoulder as we both stared at my naked reflection in the full-length triptych mirror. Full, firm breasts. Ultra small waist. Slightly curved hips. “Your face, gorgeous. Your neck, fabulous; so graceful and swan-like.” She eyed my boobs, practically pushing out a sigh of disgust. “We'll keep taping your breasts as needed, for now.” She turned me sideways for a side-view of my reflection. There sat two brown, rounded globes of all-natural goodness.

“Dear God! There is just
waaaay
too much of this.” I cringed as she ran a manicured hand over the curve of my behind. “If we can just do away with this camel hump. I need to do damage control. The sooner we get all this removed, the more shows I'm sure you'll book.”

I fought the urge to grimace. I was so tempted to smash an egg in her flawless face and tell her how I'd recently read in
Teen Runway Fashionista
that just as the days of thin, nearly nonexistent lips were long gone, so too were flat-back, invisible booties. Just as they looked for full, pouty, ethnic lips, designers were now craving models that had a little more junk in the trunk. But somehow I figured it didn't matter to her what the fashionistas in the teen world had to say about it. As far as she was concerned, my plump rump was a hindrance. A distraction. A liability.

And she wanted it gone!

I eyed her questioningly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I folded my arms.

Three years ago, she wanted to drag me off to Mexico to have me infected with a tapeworm—a procedure illegal in the U.S. The year after that, she wanted me to have my jaw wired. Then, last summer, she wanted to have a hard plastic mesh sewn onto my tongue for a month with fishing line as sutures—some crazy weight-loss procedure started somewhere over in Latin America that some nutty whack job cosmetic surgeon brought back to the States—knowing damn well it would be extremely painful if I tried to eat anything.

And now this!

I stepped away from her and the three-panel mirror, slipping back into my robe. “I'm doing
every
thing you ask of me, Mother. IV therapies. Colonics. Wheatgrass smoothies. Belly wraps. Master Cleanses. But surgeries . . . ” I shook my head. “No.
That
is one of your crazy plans I am
not
doing. My butt
and
my breasts stay.”

She huffed. “The breasts we can work around, but that backside of yours, not so much. I fear your work in the industry will be limited to print ads. And . . .” she paused, shaking her head. “At some point, plus-size fashions.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, what difference does it make if I'm modeling print ads or end up a plus-size model? It's still modeling, isn't it? That
is
what you've wanted, right
?
Me modeling?”

She frowned. “What kind of foolish question is that? Of course I want you modeling. As a high-fashion model, London,
not
traipsing around on some disastrous cattle circuit for Ashley Stewart or Lane Bryant.”

“I am
not
doing it, Mother. And you can't make me.” I eyed her sternly for emphasis, placing a hand on my hip. She might have been able to control my trust fund and dictate where I lived; she might have monitored my weight and bullied her way into my personal life and directed who I dated and stayed friends with. But she was
not
going to make me have plastic surgery. She'd taken enough away from me already!

It was too early in the morning for this. And I had a mother I couldn't even talk to. All I wanted to do was stay curled up in bed with my head beneath my covers. I wanted to sleep away the rest of my time here on this earth. Pretending to be happy with my new forced life was beginning to wear the edges of my nerves thin.

And I wasn't up for being pinned and prodded and shouted at and shoved and critiqued by a group of bubblehead assistants and demanding designers. No. I wasn't up for it. Not today. The idea of keeping up with the farce for appearance's sake 24/7 was becoming too much to bear. I was homesick.

Lovesick.

And sick and tired of being sick.

Everything was slowly crashing down around me.

Ain't no body checkin' for ya . . . but me . . . and I don't even know why I eff wit' you . . . I feel sorry for you . . .

I blinked back tears, recalling my argument with my mother earlier this morning. “You say you love
all
of me? Yeah, okay. Whatever! I can't tell. And I can't wait to see just how much you and your uppity fashion houses
really
love me when these 34C's and this
camel hump
booty are bouncing down the catwalk! Or have you already told them that
you
planned on dragging
your property
into some plastic surgeon's office for reconstructive renovations?”

Slap!

My mother's hand landed on the side of my face, swift and hard. And a fresh gush of tears sprung from my already weeping eyes. I couldn't believe she'd slapped me. Stunned, I held the side of my face in my hand.

“I know this isn't the life
you
asked for! I
gave
it to you! And, make no mistake, London. Like it or not,
this
is your life!
This
is your world! Fashion! The lights, the cameras, and all of the glitz and glamour that come along with it, is
yours
! If I seem
harsh
to you, if I seem
cruel
to you, it's what I've been preparing you for from the moment you took your first step. Everything I have
taught
you,
told
you,
shown
you, has been to protect you! And hopefully prevent you from making some of the same mistakes I made.

“
You
have an advantage over the rest.
You
don't ever have to worry about being on the bottom, because I am one of the few on top of the fashion-industry's totem pole, still racking in millions without stepping a heel on a runway.
I've
paved the way for
you
! You don't want this life... ?”

She glared at me. “Too goddamn bad!
Until
you are eighteen,
until
you are sufficiently able to take care of yourself without getting your hands on one damn dime of the trust fund that your father and I have so graciously entrusted to you,
this
is the only life you will have!”

She was about to turn to leave, then stopped. “I love you, London. You are my child—my only child. And the only reason I don't beat you senseless and have you rolled out of here on a gurney is that you have castings today. You had better
work
as if your life depended on it. Because it does!”

I watched my mother through furious slits of rage as she disappeared, her fashion glide still evident in each elegant step she took, slamming the door behind her.

I blinked, bringing myself back to the present.
Screw her!
I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Putting her damn hands on me! You want me to be your protégé, your puppet? Then so be it!
I reached for a jar of Annick Goutal's face cream, removed the lid, and gingerly applied the multivitamin moisturizer to my face.
I'll give you exactly what you want and be the model you've always wanted me to be! Even if it kills me!

I glanced at the itinerary my ever-so-efficient mother had set aside for me, feeling overwhelmed. How did she expect me to get through all of this crap with a wide smile when she'd practically slapped my face off and I had so many other things weighing heavy on my mind?

And right now, the thought of Justice possibly breaking up with me was all I could think about. That and the fact that Rich was blatantly avoiding me was pissing me off. I'd done nothing to that bed-hopping whale to warrant her opening my text messages and
not
replying back. How did I know this? Because we all had iPhones that indicated when someone opened a text you'd sent to them. And I knew she wasn't dead because she was constantly updating her Facebook status, tweeting, and Instagramming. So there was absolutely no excuse for this level of rudeness. None whatsoever!

Glancing at the time. I sighed, and reached for my cell.
I'm going to try this hooker one last time.
I dialed Rich's number.
Then I'm done calling her
. I'd decided late last night in between bouts of crying that I would wait until I got home to address her. What other choice did I have? It wasn't like she was breaking her neck to fly out here for the weekend like she'd promised.

Lying beeeeyotch!

“Heeey, Rich,” I chirped into the phone, my tone seventy-eight percent sweet and twenty-two percent nasty. “The least you could do, heifer, is return my calls. And I
know
you've seen my texts. And you're all up on Facebook. Don't get cute.
Anyway
, whatever. It is what it is. I really wanted to talk. But I'll be home in two weeks.
Hopefully,
you'll find time to squeeze in a phone call or two between now and then.” I ended the call, then tried Justice again. The phone rang once, and went straight to voice mail. I couldn't leave a message. The mailbox was full.

I stared into the mirror.

My life was in turmoil. And my mother had the audacity to want me to slay a bunch of fashion dragons.
Yeah, I'll
work
it all right!
I slung my call sheets to the floor. Then used my fingertips and began gently massaging the moisturizer into my face, glaring at my reflection. All I saw was my mother staring back at me.

I hated her!

I hated Justice!

And I hated me more!

I wiped my hands, sighing.
And Rich can't even be a friend when I need her to be! All that selfish ho ever thinks about is who she can lure next into some motel room. She's probably somewhere right now tricking with Spencer!

I stared at my phone, checking for messages that I knew weren't there.
Damn you, Justice!

I choked back more tears.
Nope, I said I wouldn't cry. Said I wasn't shedding another tear on that boy! If he doesn't want me, then I'm not going to beg him to be with me!
I swept my manicured fingertips over my eyes before tears fell.

Somewhere, buried between layers of
“I'm sick of you,” “you're so stupid,” “you're effen fat,” “you're worthless,”
and
“ugly,
” I knew I was beautiful, even though I didn't always feel it or see it. Somewhere stuffed between all the lies and fights and sweaty body-tingling make-up sex, I knew I didn't deserve how Justice treated me. I knew I deserved someone who loved me and wanted to be with me. But how could I let go of Justice when, time after time, he'd reel me back in with empty promises, warm tantalizing kisses, and toe-curling sex?

Somewhere wedged in between broken promises and Justice's cold-shoulder treatment and deadening silence, he'd managed to consume me. He managed to turn me into a needy, obsessively jealous girl who constantly lied to and defied her parents and kept dirty secrets, all in the name of love.

A love that wasn't even my own. A love that I allowed to keep hurting me when I knew it was no good for me. How could I break away when Justice pulled me in with his charm and told me I was his universe, that I was all he ever wanted? How could I ever doubt him, when all I kept doing was holding onto hope?

“Nothing's gonna change with us, ya hear? We're in this together, thick as thieves, for life . . .”

“Lying bastard!” I spat, rummaging through my vanity drawer and digging out the crumpled up photos I'd received the other day. “If you were all mine, then why is your hand up on some naked whore? Why aren't you answering my calls, huh? Why?”

Our love was unstoppable. Unbreakable. That's what he'd always told me.

Then why the hell does he always keep breaking up with me?
“Why does he keep hurting me?”

“Because you keep letting him,” a sarcastic voice said, floating into the room behind me.

Startled, I jumped from my vanity, spinning around. My heart quickened. “Ohmygod! You scared the crap out of me! I didn't hear you come in.”

Anderson smirked, shaking his head as he shut my bedroom door behind him.

“Well I guess you
wouldn't
hear me when you're all wrapped up in your one-woman pity monologue, again. Your door was ajar. I knocked. And once again, I walk in on you having another one of your emotional meltdown moments over . . . let me guess. That bum. Your secret hood lover.”

He stepped further into the room.

I eyed him as he crossed over toward the chaise in the far right corner of the room, stretching his legs out, then crossing his feet at the ankles. He reached over, grabbing my
book
—the portfolio of my photographs.

“I don't need your lecture right now. And I'm not interested in one of your holier than thou sermons, Reverend Doctor Do Right.”