Cruel Summer (2 page)

He squeezed. There was poetry in the pressure. And his touch lingered long enough to matter. “You’re Simon St. John’s daughter?”

She nodded, pursing high-gloss lips steel-trap tight. Where did this guy come from? Okay, so the sperm donor responsible for her first breath knew the recording business. But in the great American fame game, he was Vanity St. John’s father more than anything else. She had the first-class modeling assignments, the endorsement deals, the paparazzi chronicling her every move for
Us Weekly,
the book editors burning up the wire to publish everything from her diaries to her shopping lists.

Dante smiled. His amazing eyes were probing. The look on the face that would haunt her dreams tonight told her that he knew something that she didn’t. “Chances are I’ll see you around,” he said before sloping off, signaling his friend to follow.

Vanity watched them disappear through the steel door that led to Black Sand and its monster-length bar, its mammoth dance floor, and its private rooms where wonderfully terrible behavior went on until five in the morning.

As Dante slipped through the coveted entrance, the raging music from inside charged into the hot South Beach night. The wicked cut “Don’t Phunk with My Heart” by Black Eyed Peas enlivened the outside crowd for the few seconds they were lucky enough to hear it.

When Vanity woke up this morning, her world had been chockablock full of guys like J.J. the model. Typical red-blooded males who ran on the adrenaline of beer binges and sex schemes. But Dante Medina was something else entirely. As his name roamed around in her mind, the butterflies flew loose in her stomach.

And Vanity sensed a powerful feeling that her life had just changed.

O
n Max Biaggi Jr.’s planet, speed limits were for kids who financed used cars with fast-food paychecks.

His Puma-clad foot leaned heavily on the Porsche 911 accelerator.

Varoom!

The twin-turbo, flat-six engine roared. Oh, damn, could this baby fly. Like a sleek black rocket in blast-off mode.

Blink.
The speedometer went triple digit. Just that quick. He redlined it in every gear along the MacArthur Causeway. The moon was shining. The Biscayne Bay breeze was blowing. The party was waiting. In Miami. A place where nights were
not
for sleeping.

Thump-thump-thump
went Ciara’s “One, Two Step,” blasting so loud from twelve Bose speakers that it drowned out the 444-horsepower revs. So what if the track had pumped hard more than a year ago? It was after midnight in South Beach. And a sick Missy Elliott groove was more sacred than gospel music.

All of a sudden, blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror. Then a blistering siren screamed over the infectious crunk jam.

Oh, shit. For a moment, Max’s heart stopped beating. Like he needed another ticket. Or another DUI. He pulled over to the side, popped a chicklet of cinnamon gum, and got his driver’s license ready for inspection.

The cop was a bulked-up steroid case with a porn star mustache. He gave Max a nasty stare. He gave the gleaming Porsche an even nastier one. The easy rich man/poor man math was all over his face: Just the annual insurance bill on this hot rod added up to more than the officer’s take-home pay.

Right now Max was just an anonymous rich brat. The only way to handle police like this was to be obsequious until the famous daddy card played itself out. Until then, he’d keep a wary eye on the trigger-happy finger flirting with the Taser that dangled from the cop’s hip. Miami-Dade’s finest were no strangers to zapping twelve-year-olds who skipped school with 50,000-volt shocks. A teenage speed demon could easily get that for so much as mouthing off.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Max asked. It was the best he could manage in terms of respect for authority, though the impression lingered that the word “officer” should be substituted with “dumb ass.” He dutifully handed over his license and registration. Then he started the silent countdown. One thousand one…one thousand two…

“Hey, are you Max Biaggi’s kid?” Cop code for “almost off the hook.”

Max smiled yes.

The officer’s puffed-up attitude deflated faster than a pricked balloon. Now his posture was that of goobed-out fan. “
Hijack
is one of my all-time favorite movies.” Cop code for “
definitely
off the hook.”

“Yeah,” Max wanted to say, “that’s why he got twenty-five million for
Hijack II.
Because of idiots like you.” But he just grinned, as if the news made him proud to be his father’s son, which, considering what bullshit that was, made Max the better actor in the family.

“Tell you what,” the officer began, “I’ll let you go with a warning this time.” He scribbled an address onto the back of a business card. “And if you could get your dad to send me an autographed picture, that’d be great. Have him inscribe it to Philip. One L. It’s on the front.”

Max smiled, slipping the card into a storage slot on the dashboard. “Consider it done.” Of course, once he took off, he’d toss it out the window and feed it to the wind.

“Let me ask you something,” the cop said. His voice went down an octave. “What’s he like in real life?”

Max wanted to laugh. If the officer only knew how toxic that question was. His father didn’t exactly save the world from terrorist plots, escape machine-gun fire with a drop-and-roll, or protect his family at all costs. No, that was the big-screen Max Biaggi. The “real-life” version was a total lame ass, the kind of man who couldn’t do a single sit-up without his personal trainer barking out motivation, the kind of father who treated his kids as nothing more than
People
magazine photo ops.

But Philip the action film fan didn’t wait for an answer. His big fist playfully punched Max’s shoulder. “I’m probably embarrassing you, huh? I bet you’re no different than most kids your age.” He laughed a little. “Embarrassed by your parents. Even if your dad is a big star.”

“Try ‘big asshole,’ you brain-dead gym rat.” Max had the words ready to play, but he never pressed the button.

“Do me a favor and slow down, okay? I know you want to give this nice ride a road workout. I like to do the same myself sometimes.”

“In what, your Ford Taurus?” But again, Max didn’t press play.

“Be safe and stay close to those speed limits.” He peered at Max a bit more seriously now. “Have you been drinking tonight?”

“No, sir,” Max said, the deference turning his stomach as he lied about the Red Bull and Level that he’d hammered down before getting behind the wheel. “I was just in a hurry to pick up a date.”

The cop gave him a conspiratorial one-guy-to-another wink. “A kid like you must do pretty good with the girls.”

Max pretended to be shy about such things. He just shrugged and allowed himself a half smile. “I do okay.” The truth was, in the last two days, he’d hooked up with six different girls. But who kept count?

“Take off, kid. And be careful out there.” He started back for his blinking patrol car, then spun around. “And don’t forget my autograph!”

But Max Biaggi Jr. was already gone. And the Philip with one L reminder was already flying litter. If that cop wanted an autograph bad enough, he could join the online fan club at maxbiaggi.com for fifty bucks a year and get a machine-signed one.

Max unhooked the Sidekick II from his belt and speed dialed Vanity St. John. Once upon a time, they’d been “friends with benefits.” And, oh man, the benefits had been awesome. Now they were just friends, though. Her choice. But Max would go back to the old arrangement anytime. All Vanity had to do was say the word. “What’s up, Rope Bitch?” he sang, bobbing his head to the beat and ignoring more traffic signs.

“Turn the music down!” Vanity yelled.

Max faded out Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz. “Is that good?”

“Better,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Looking for a party. I just cleaned out Christina and some of her anime freaks. It’s time to celebrate.”

“Christina’s anime crowd?”
Vanity’s tone was halfincredulous, half-scolding. “God, you must really be desperate.”

Max laughed. “Hey, it’s all green, baby. It’s all green.” Word had circulated around Miami that he was the go-to guy for poker—both modest-bet games for the risk-challenged and high-stakes buy-ins for the diehard gamblers.

They usually took place at the famous Max Biaggi mansion on Star Island. Max Jr. and Shoshanna, his fifteen-year-old sister, claimed the basement as a playroom. It was a cool hangout—pool table, a few surfboards, plasma-screen TV, Xbox, and a stereo-enabled iPod. Max preferred being the host. That way he could relax, have fun, keep a running tally of who owed what on his Mac laptop, and shrewdly decide which small-timers might be ready for some bigger action.

As for Christina Perez and her crew? Definitely not. Those pathetic souls had entered his poker sanctum with designs on tripling their weekly allowances to get to some anime convention in Dallas. Granted, Christina had left with some pride. But the others limped out with crushed hearts and flattened wallets. One dude lost his entire Gap paycheck for the last two weeks of mall slavery. Sucker.

Max’s game of choice was Texas Hold ’Em. Simple five-card deal. At least it seemed that way. Ha. Players cruising on ego fuel were quick to delude themselves into thinking they were poker aces, and eager virgins were quick to bet big on what they thought would be a sure hand. At the end of the day, it was all about strategy. Winning meant thinking like a chess champion.

Max didn’t just love the game. He was officially obsessed. After all, being good at poker was all about lying and deception. Ask any hot girl in the 305 area code about his age: Max could lie and deceive his ass off. A tense game in his basement was the ultimate thrill ride. He could always tell who had a killer pair of cards to lay down, who was bluffing to stay in the mix, and who was heading for a money meltdown.

“Poor Christina,” Vanity lamented. “How much did she lose?”

“Don’t worry. She ended up holding her own,” Max said. “The girl won’t be posting her
Sailor Moon
DVDs on eBay next week.”

“Right,” Vanity said. “She’ll just be hawking her art supplies and basically selling off her future.” One beat. “All because of you.”

Just like Max and Vanity, Christina would be a senior in the fall at the Miami Academy for Creative and Performing Arts. She was crazy for Japanese anime and dreamed of having her own series one day. And Max had no doubt that she would. Christina knew what she wanted and she worked toward it every single day. Meanwhile, Max and Vanity called themselves acting majors, but they were both just coasting through to graduation.

“Where should we meet up?” Max asked. “Black Sand?”

“Maybe Mynt,” Vanity said. “Mimi says I should put in an appearance there tonight.”

Max shook his head, grinning. Mimi as in Mimi Blair, Vanity’s power girl publicist. Not many seventeen-year-old girls had their own handler to tell them where to go and how long to stay there. How wicked cool was that? Shit. Maybe he should get one. And if they all looked as smoking hot as Mimi, why not hire two? His father would sign off on the bill. Action Dad preferred the spending of money to the spending of time anyway.

Yeah, that’s what Max needed. His own publicist. He worshiped Donald Trump. Something about the man fascinated Max. For one thing, he was drawn to the way Trump walked around as if he were ten feet tall, no matter what business analysts, critics, or late-night comedians were saying about him. Freaking brilliant. Especially the methods he used to promote his own image. They were awesome. And a man needed some strong PR muscle to brand himself. One night, a few months ago, when Max and Vanity were almost drunk and counting up his winning stash, she’d pronounced him Baby Donald. The name stuck. Now it was even on his license plate in abbreviated form:
BABY DON
.

“Are you there?” Vanity asked.

Her question rocked him back to the issue of Mynt. It was a South Beach superclub with deep green walls that got washed in menthol green light. Pretty cool. They said that the scent of mint wafted through the air vents, but every time Max had ever partied there, all he could smell was cigarettes, sweat, and sex. “Yeah, I’m here,” he said, finally. “We’ll meet you there.”

Vanity hesitated. “Who’s
we
?”

“Pippa,” Max answered. “I’m on my way to pick her up now.”

Vanity groaned. “Well, so much for that pot of cash you won tonight. The girl won’t have a dollar to her name. Trust me.”

“I thought you liked her.”

“I do. But she never has any money.” Vanity launched into a mocking British accent. “I’m so broke. Please buy me a Vitamin Water. Can you pay for my movie ticket?” Then she sighed heavily. “God, it’s so annoying. I’ve only known her a few weeks, and the girl owes me at least a hundred dollars! I mean, come on, I thought her father was a millionaire.”

“He is,” Max said. One beat. “Or was. I’m not sure what the deal is. All I know for sure is that her mother divorced him and that they moved here with practically nothing. Did you know she only gets sixty bucks a week for allowance money?” He laughed. “Shit, I spend that much on
gum.
”

“Sixty dollars?”
Vanity echoed. The shock in her voice said the amount sounded more like sixty cents. “Well, that explains why she was wearing an Old Navy outfit the other day.” Bitchy laugh. “Maybe we should start a relief fund. You know, like they did for the Tsunami victims.”

“Oh, baby, you’re
cold,”
Max said. But his voice rang with nothing but praise. He loved every second of it. His Sidekick II alerted him to a text message. One glance. “Speak of the devil. I just got a text from her. Hold up.” Checking the screen, he read it and smiled.

WHERE THE HELL R U?

Then he quickly typed out a reply.

ON THE WAY. C U SOON.

“Okay, I’m back. She was like, ‘Where the hell are you?’ I’m telling you, the girl wants me.”

“Either that or the free drinks,” Vanity countered.

“Be nice,” Max warned. “Seriously, Pippa’s really nervous about being the new girl in the fall.”

“Oh, so you’re just there for her on a social level.” Vanity’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Not
entirely,
” Max admitted. “The girl
is
hot. I wouldn’t mind marking my territory before we go back to school.”

“God, you’re such a pig!” Vanity laughed.

“Hey, I need to get to her before the new guy does.”

“What new guy?” Vanity asked.

“Oh, it’s my stepmonster’s new charity project,” Max said. “She’s fronting tuition for our housekeeper’s son to join MACPA’s music program.”