Cruel Summer (7 page)

“You said that you’re in bed, right? Tell me what you’ve got on.”

She hesitated. “Knickers and a little tee.”

“What color?”

“White.”

“Hmm. That sounds hot.”

“Are you trying to have phone sex with me?”

“Not yet. We have to have real sex first. Phone sex comes later.”

“Oh, really?” Pippa wondered. There was a challenge in her voice that told the Hollywood baby boy he stood no chance of getting a shag from her.

“Yes, really,” Max fired back.

If there was a cockier lad on the planet, Pippa hadn’t met him yet. “Well, I hope you don’t get knob rot waiting for that day.”

“Why? Because you’re wet for Dante now?” Max tried to sound cool, but a hint of jealousy had crept into his tone.

“He’s lush, but I don’t fancy him. Not my type.”

“You must not like mutts,” Max said.

“What do you mean?” Pippa asked.

“He’s half-Puerto Rican, half-black,” Max explained.

“It’s not that.” His implication that she was prejudiced infuriated her. “God, you’re such an asshole!”

Max laughed.

Pippa giggled. “You know, I thought he was going to beat seven shades of shit out of you last night.”

“We were drunk,” Max remarked easily. “No biggie.”

“I can’t even remember what started it.”

“I talked a little trash about his mom. She’s one of our maids. Maybe I should accuse her of stealing something.”

Pippa was outraged. “Max!” Still, she found herself laughing. He was
so
incorrect.

“I know, I’m a dick. But that’s why you’ll end up banging me one day. Dante’s too serious for you. I’ll make you laugh,
and
I’ll make you come.”

“We’re mates, Max,” Pippa said earnestly. “I don’t want to ruin that.” She thought about how much she missed her friend Annabelle. She also thought about how nasty Vanity had been to her since she’d arrived. “Can I tell you something?”

“What?”

“You’re the best mate I have in the world right now.” As Pippa gave breath to those last words, her voice quivered with emotion.

“That’s a sweet thing to say,” Max said softly. Then he grew quiet, as if carefully choosing his next words. “But at the very least you’ve got to show me your tits.”

“Max!” Pippa exclaimed. “I’ve never met a bigger pig in my life!”

He laughed.

Pippa laughed with him. She really did have a mate in Max. And it was a great feeling.

“Still tired?” he asked.

Pippa thought about it. “Not as much.”

“Good. Get dressed. I’m coming to pick you up.”

“What about my mum?” Pippa asked.

“Figure something out,” Max told her. “There’s always the window. That’s a classic escape.”

Pippa went through the motions of wavering, even though ninety-nine percent of her had already decided to go along. “Just so you know, I don’t have
any
cash.”

“No worries. You can drink all night for free,” Max said. “On one condition.”

Pippa was already rolling her eyes. “And what might that be?”

“A flash of those tits.”

Pippa shook her head, laughing at him. “Fine! I’ll show you my puppies. But just this once.” She hung up and rushed around, careful not to make too much noise. After all, her mum spent more hours crying at night than she did sleeping.

Memories of Pippa’s huge walk-in closet at the London estate blistered her brain as she slid open the door to her new cramped storage space, hoping to find something to wear. Not much to choose from. Her finest pieces had been sold. She scowled at the warped top shelf and the bits of chipped paint that littered the floor. This place was a total hole. Meanwhile, Max and Vanity lived like a duke and duchess in their palatial homes.
So
unfair.

Pippa snatched one of the few designer frocks she had left—a great number by Ann Demeulemeester. It was a sexy, dangerously short distressed white cotton dress with shoulder straps as thin as dental floss. All the better for Pippa to show off her killer tan and flawless body.

She snatched her best and only pair of spike-heeled Manolo Blahniks and tiptoed to the loo, where she mussed her hair into a just-shagged mess with Dirt by Jonathan Product. Then she quickly applied mascara, swiped on some lip gloss, and—just for kicks—put on her John Richmond shades with
VIVA
emblazoned on one arm and
RICH
emblazoned on the other. Sunglasses at night. How brilliant. Finally, nosebleed sandals still in hand, she ducked out into the warm night to wait for Max.

The moon was out, lighting up the blackened blue of the sky and painting the palm trees in its glow. Pippa basked in the peaceful moment, alone here in the darkness, dreaming dreams as the fireflies twinkled. She shifted her bare feet, and a loose stone from a deep crack in the concrete lodged into her tender heel. Wincing at the pain, she slipped into her Manolos, a precious item she held back from those bitches who’d attacked the Keith family rummage sale like bloody vultures. Oh, God, she wanted money again. Fistfuls of cash. It’d make everything so much better.

From a distance, she heard the low rumble of Max’s Porsche. The sound triggered a flicker of disappointment. Secretly, Pippa wanted to be by herself for a bit longer. But that wasn’t in the cards. As every boy racer’s auto fantasy approached, its headlights went dark, and the sports machine coasted to a stealthy, silent stop in front of her poor, pitiful shack. That’s when a ripple of excitement did a somersault inside Pippa’s stomach, telling her why she did the things she did. It was her own Girl’s Guide to Getting Over a Family Holocaust.

Sneaking out.

Having a laugh.

Cockteasing boys.

Getting trashed.

Forgetting the past.

Pippa slid into the passenger seat, experiencing a sonic assault of “Pimpin’ All Over the World” by Ludacris and Bobby Valentino. The interior cabin light was on, providing just enough illumination to give Max his thrill and to secure her credit line for the night.

Straps off. Dress down. No bra. Full view.

Max threw back his head in complete astonishment, staring at her perfectly proportioned beauties as if they were the unofficial eighth wonder of the world. Then, as if spellbound, his eyes lingered on the starfishlike scar a few inches underneath her left breast. He swallowed hard.

“Okay, show’s over,” Pippa chirped, pulling up her dress.

“How’d you get that scar?” Max asked.

“When I was born, my esophagus wasn’t connected to my stomach, so I had to be operated on at two hours old,” Pippa answered, feeling no shame or self-consciousness. The distinguishing mark belonged to her, and she was right proud of it.

For a prolonged moment, Max gazed at her with genuine fascination and obvious lust. “Goddamn, that’s hot. It makes me want to nail you even more.”

Pippa laughed. “Stop being such a perv and drive!”

Max wiggled his eyebrows and floored it, roaring the Porsche engine to maximum revs.

Pippa glanced back, half wondering if the ruckus had been loud enough to wake up her mum, then dismissed the thought altogether. Too late now anyway. Tomorrow she’d deal. Tonight she’d party.

“We were just here,” Pippa whined, as Max led the charge toward the door police at Mynt.

She wanted desperately to hit B.E.D., a club with loads of mattresses. A girl could just lie about and get waited on like a princess. And if she felt like snogging a dreamy lad, then she could do so to her heart’s content behind the billowy white curtains. Total heaven.

“Every night here is different,” Max informed her. “And it’s only our first stop.” As he approached a bulky bouncer, Max offered him a cool nod, then watched the man work fast to remove the rope barrier, his free arm splayed out wide to separate the son of a famous movie star from the nobodies lined up with hopeful dreams of getting inside.

This made Pippa wonder if Max Biaggi Jr. had ever waited for
anything
in his life. And a gut instinct told her that—besides a shag with her, for which the bloke would be waiting forever—the answer was no.

Max walked in, cruised in, strutted in. He gave off nuclear attitude. Like he owned the club lock, stock, and liquor supply.

From the power speakers, Mariah Carey cooed a lazy hiphop groove, telling the party crowd to “Shake It Off.”

Pippa scanned the long, narrow hot zone, her eyes adjusting to the glossy green décor accented with earth-toned couches where the pretty, prettier, and prettiest people hung out, chilled out, and made out.

“Check it,” Max said, gesturing across the room.

Pippa glanced over to see rocker Tommy Lee tattooed, trashed, and tangled up in a gaggle of suntanned Miami beach girls. One word:
Yuck.

“Show him what you showed me, and maybe he’ll let you see it in the flesh,” Max said.

Pippa gave him a confused look. “See what?”

“His dick,” Max said. “It’s supposed to be, like, a foot long or something. Unless the camera adds inches or something.”

She pulled a face. “Not interested. Apparently,
you
are, though.”

Max laughed, sidled up to the bar for two Red Bull and Levels, and returned, looking bulletproof in a place so jammed with beautiful people that even the superattractive could develop self-doubt. But not Max.

And not Pippa, either. God had blessed her with an amazing figure—long legs, a tiny waist, breasts that could make the lads cry for their mums, slightly broad shoulders, and a tummy so pancake flat that it concaved a bit, no matter how many bags of M&M candies she wolfed down. Of course, she still had body issues. What teenage girl didn’t? Pippa secretly longed to be shorter, like some of the girls in her ballet class back in London.

“God, I can’t believe I’m cranking it up again,” Pippa remarked, as she accepted the offering from Max, downed the vodka, and chased it with the Red Bull.

“Never give in to a hangover,” Max said. “It’s accepting defeat.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip, gladiator,” Pippa chortled. Then she passed him her empty containers, puckering up her lips into a beautiful pout charade. “More.” One beat. “Pretty please?”

There was a second drink. Followed by a third. And when the fourth cocktail arrived on the beat drop of “Lose Control” by Missy Elliott with Ciara and Fat Man Scoop, Pippa felt an uninhibited buzz going strong. She smiled at Max. She smiled to herself.

The futuristic techno sample from Cybotron bent the air of the packed club. Suddenly, the hard-charging rhythm kicked in, whipping bodies into a frenzy. Even Max was dancing—in that ultracool way that only some guys could pull off.

But Pippa didn’t hold back. She let her body go loose over the beat, wiggling her ass, throwing back her head, laughing and laughing, shimmy-shaking in a show that proved to every other female in the special orbit of Mynt that a true dancer was present and accounted for.

“Shake what yo mama gave ya, girl!” Max hooted and hollered.

Pippa grooved between Max’s stretched-out legs, pointing at him, her long finger aimed like a gun between his happy, bleary, wide-open eyes. Spinning around, she dipped low, just barely grinding against his crotch, bringing out a caged howl from the rich brat of Star Island that made him sound like the guest of honor at the wildest bachelor party on earth.

The music flowed within her, and Pippa felt a strange sense of total surrender. In fact, her body didn’t belong to her anymore. It was a slave to the rhythm.

Max’s eyes were all over her. So were other eyes. Male ones. Females ones, too. Mynt was full to bursting. And a girl with too much booze on the brain who looked like her and moved like this was a clap of party thunder in the night.

“Dance on the bar, baby,” a male voice yelled.

Pippa turned.

It wasn’t Max. It was Tommy Lee.

Several more people screamed their agreement.

Even though Pippa felt in charge of the situation, all freedom had gone away. They wanted to watch her dance. She wanted them to see her dance. And as the raw power of mutual wish fulfillment raced through her bloodstream, she negotiated the climb onto the bar with eager assistance from the crowd buried there at least ten-deep.

“Rump shakin’ both wayz/Make u do a double take.”

The Missy Elliott sound track ruled her body as it rocked to the beat in a series of intrinsically choreographed moves.

Sexy.

Seductive.

Sultry.

By miracle alone, her stiletto-heeled Manolos clung to the wet bar as she spun, kicked, and twisted before the salivating strangers. It was a dull night for the Miami party posse…until Pippa Keith gave them murder on the dance floor.

“Get it crunk and wired / Wave ya hands scream louda.”

She shook her hair from side to side, pushing her hips forward as her hands found the upper-outer quandrants of her buttocks and pumped her midtorso back and forth, punctuating the gyration with a flash of tongue over her lips.