Cruel Summer (15 page)

“Why can’t you want simple things?” Vanessa asked.

Dante didn’t have an answer. And the tears were in his eyes now.

V
anity was doing push-ups on a private little stretch of South Beach. At seven o’clock in the morning. On a Sunday.

Only
for Patrick Demarchelier, the so French and so cool photographer behind the lens for the silly what’s inside my purse?
InStyle
minifeature.

And silly was the understatement of the century, as there was no purse to speak of in these girl-in-bikini-splashes-in-the-water pictures. Oh, well. Nobody ever said that fashion was logical.

“More jumping, more jumping! Big laughing!” Patrick sang in his funny accent, crouching low in the surf to get the perfect angle of the Vanity St. John-at-sunrise shot.

She played in the sea with little girl abandon, spinning like a whirlpool, feeling more gorgeous than any woman had a right to feel in a Versace two-piece that revealed this much.

“You make me craaaaazy,” Patrick praised. He gestured for his two assistants holding the reflector boards to move in closer. Magic hour sunlight was a precious thing. There were only mere minutes in a day to capture it.

Suddenly, Vanity felt a divine impulse of inspiration, one that would make the magazine photo editor go apeshit and cause the hairstylist and makeup artist to up their daily Xanax dosage.

In the Hasselblad H1D viewfinder, Patrick had his subject in the crosshairs. “Beauuuuutiiiiiful!”

Right now. Do or die. Vanity went for the money shot, the one that would generate deafening creative buzz and give voice to the one-two punch questions: Who cares what’s inside her purse? Why isn’t she on the cover?

Without warning, Vanity took a deep breath and dove into the ocean. The last thing she heard before going under was the delighted cry of fashion’s number one image master.

“Yay!” Patrick squealed.

And then she came up from the deep, knowing this would only work in the moment of one…two…three…
perfection.

A pro like Demarchelier would be way ahead of the action. Unlike so many photographers who cannonballed every bit of their focus into what they thought they wanted and ignored a model’s mundane human frailties, such as needing to blink, squinting in direct sun, or just being uncomfortable in a cool morning sea that sprouted all-over gooseflesh. But Patrick D. got nuance.

Vanity’s breasts broke the surface of the water. The vibrant Miami sunbeams shone on her face. She inclined her head toward them, caught their brilliant light, opened her jewel-green eyes, and parted her voluptuous, salt water-wet lips to reveal just a hint of milk-white teeth. And then she held the pose just long enough to matter…once…twice…three times, basking in the super-intensified rays as if her body were sexually powered by solar energy.

“Got it.”

Two words. And Demarchelier had spoken them. The shoot was over. He lowered the medium-format camera like a hunter might put down his rifle, flashing her a warm, enormous smile.

The
InStyle
photo editor marched down as if she owned the deed to the beachfront location. “All I have to say is this:
Fabulosity.
”

Patrick nodded politely at the adult woman with braces who looked like a vaguely pretty baby-sitter.

Vanity emerged from the water, shivering in the wind. “Oh my God—it’s freeeeezing!” She laughed as her teeth began to chatter.

Kris, the shoot’s stylist, a cute, gay Asian boy with personality for days, dashed over to wrap a white terry-cloth robe around her shoulders. “Walk off with that bikini on, honey, and I’m
so
fired. They’re getting
very
stingy about these things.”

Using a bedsheet as a makeshift curtain to offer modesty while she changed, Kris entertained Vanity with gossip about stars who stole wardrobe items from photo shoots. Meanwhile, she slipped off the Versace and pulled on Active Cat by Puma, a bike shorts and tank set infused with a ginseng scent to simultaneously calm and energize.

Vanity was just relishing those aromatherapeutic benefits when Mimi rushed to her side. “You sneaky little bitch. I think you gave the hairstylist a panic attack. Nobody expected you to get
all wet.
”

“It was instinct,” Vanity said.

“It was
brilliant,
” Mimi countered. “That’s what it was. Something big will come of this. I don’t know exactly what yet—maybe L’Oréal.”

Patrick stepped over to give her a warm hug, kissing both cheeks in that charming European way. “It was a pleasure. You’re truly beautiful. How old are you?”

“She’s
seventeen
!” Mimi exploded, barging in on their exchange with no apology. “And if the entire male eighteen-to-thirty-four demo hasn’t gone blind by now, then they will after they take these pictures into the bathroom!”

Patrick roared with laughter.

“Ew!” Vanity screeched, covering her face in a pantomime of pseudo-disgust over the vile image. The truth was, she hated the wet dream icon factory. But that was the dance in today’s media. A famous hot girl needed
InStyle
one month and
Maxim
the next to keep up with the rhythm of the celebrity beat.

Everybody hugged and sweet-talked their good-byes.

As the crew gathered up their equipment and trudged off in the sand, Vanity meandered down to the shoreline and stared out at the glassy sea, marveling at its tranquil beauty. The water, seemingly so cold just minutes ago, felt as warm as baby’s milk now as it rushed over her bare feet.

“Are you coming?” Mimi called out from ten feet away.

Vanity shook her head. “Not yet. I think I’ll take a walk along the beach.”

Mimi skipped down with Vanity’s pink Nalgene bottle in hand. “Then you might want this.”

Gratefully, Vanity reclaimed the green tea. She guzzled no fewer than eight glasses a day.

“I’d tag along, but there are Katee K fires to put out,” Mimi said wearily. “Everybody wants the first interview with mother and daughter. And there’s an Internet rumor going around that Katee’s really eighteen and will be tried as an adult.”

Vanity took in a sharp breath.

But then Mimi rolled her eyes. “Don’t get excited. The birth certificate that showed up on The Smoking Gun was a very convincing fake. Who cares, though? Lions Gate wants her for a remake of
Slumber Party Massacre,
and her CD is selling like gangbusters. Next week it’s back at number one.”

“How’s her mother?” Vanity asked.

“Recovered and holding out for millions on the movie deal.” Mimi inspected a nail. “If things continue to go
this
well, I might recommend that
you
stab a parent.”

Vanity smiled, digging into her Kooba slouch bag for her iPod. “Even if things go south with Katee’s career, I’m still open to that idea.” She started singing Katee K’s hit, “Some Girl Said.”

Mimi grinned. “Uh, right words, wrong melody. You’re singing ‘Wake Up’ by Hilary Duff.” One beat. “Freudian slip?”

“Oh, not here, dear,” Vanity trilled, realizing that Mimi could bring out the inner bitch in anybody. “But Mama Duff better hope big girl Haylie doesn’t keep up with current events. She might grab a kitchen knife just to find a real career.”

Mimi laughed so hard that she snorted like a pig. “Oh, you are
bad
!”

Vanity airily waved off the mock scolding and started down the beach. Within footsteps, she felt no less than a million miles away, listening to Liz Phair’s “Everything to Me.”

For the first time in a long time, Vanity sensed a strong, grounded attitude about herself. The shoot had gone fabulously well. Probably because she’d done the responsible thing and prepared for it properly—with plenty of sleep and no alcohol. Imagine that.

Max had pressed hard to get her to join the Mansion brigade last night, but Vanity had successfully resisted, having come to the conclusion—with the help of Dr. Parker—that the most dangerous factor in most situations is your own personality. It was a heady realization.

But it helped put her on a healthier path. For instance, she’d sworn off meaningless hookups. Since that foggy encounter with J.J. at the Surfcomber, Vanity hadn’t so much as kissed a guy. Hmm. Perhaps that qualified her to be reconsidered for virgin status. Ha!

Another telling change was the slow development of female friendships. As it turns out, Christina was a fresh and welcome presence—sweet, insightful, loyal, and, oh God,
phenomenally
talented. The way she concentrated on her art with such tireless devotion inspired Vanity to seek out something to call her own. She still didn’t know what that would be, but for starters, she took assignments like the Demarchelier shoot seriously, showing up on time and rested as opposed to late and still recovering from a night of partying.

Even Pippa—with all of her attendant money woes—had become more than tolerable. In fact, the British doll could be a blast—always upbeat, funny, and happy to be with friends. It’d become impossible to dislike her, and Vanity had thawed out on the issue of paying Pippa’s way. After all, it was only cash. Besides, she had plenty of it. Why be tightfisted?

All of a sudden, Vanity stopped, noticing something odd just ahead. She focused her gaze, making out a lifeless body in the sawgrass of the dunes. Probably a drunken casualty of the take-no-prisoners South Beach party gauntlet.

Curious, she stepped closer, if only to make sure that the idiot was still breathing. And then her heart leaped around in her chest when she realized that the unconscious figure was no stranger. It was Dante Medina!

For a moment, she watched him sleep, peaceful on the quiet beach. Oh God, who was she kidding? Time was supposed to kill a crush. Well, it hadn’t. Not this one anyway. Weeks still felt like yesterday. She remembered the first time she’d ever seen him—playing live party boy in front of Black Sand. Now here he was again—playing a dead version of the same on white sand. So much for progress.

“Dante!” She prodded him awake with her foot.

Groggily, he stirred.

“Rough night?”

Dante opened his eyes to discover that he was fully clothed and passed out on the beach. “What the hell?” It killed him to talk. He did so through chapped lips, his voice sounding nothing less than five-years-of-crazy-nights raspy.

“God, what are you doing out here?” Vanity asked. “I got a text from Max. He’s looking for you.”

Still somewhat disoriented, Dante scanned the general area and vaguely checked his pockets. “I guest I lost my phone.”

“Not to mention your dignity.”

Dante struggled to stand up, then massaged his neck with one hand, as if working out a crimp.

Vanity tried not to notice the impressive pop of his bicep.

“Shit.”

She didn’t know whether he was commenting on the embarrassing circumstances or if that was just his general take on life at the moment.

“Do you remember how you got here?” Vanity asked.

He rubbed his eyes. “Not really.” One beat.
“Shit.”
He patted himself down again, harder this time. And then his left hand clasped his bare right wrist. “I got robbed.”

Vanity experienced a tremor of alarm.

“They took everything—my phone, my wallet…my watch.” He went down on both knees. He buried his face in his hands. At first, she thought he was crying. But it was just one, long agonized moan.

“I don’t understand,” Vanity said. And she really didn’t. “What happened? Did you take some kind of drug?”

Dante stood up, shaking his head. “No…I…I had this intense thing with my mom. I got a bottle of whiskey, I took a walk on the beach…that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Consider yourself lucky not to be hurt.”

“Oh, I’m hurt,” Dante argued quietly.

“I mean physically,” Vanity maintained earnestly. “You could’ve been beaten and left for dead.”

“I want to kick my own ass right now. Whoever did this could’ve at least saved me the trouble.” His voice got caught on the last bit.

Vanity tugged at his strong arm, gently pulling him away from the dune. “Come on. I’ll take you back to my house. You can shower there, and we’ll figure out what to do next.”

He hesitated.

“Nobody’s there,” Vanity assured him. “Lala has the twins in Orlando, and my father’s in L.A. on business. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

In the steamy St. John shower, Dante just collapsed against the wall as the water jets rained down.

No phone.

No wallet.

No watch.

He winced as the terrible reality began to take shape in his troubled mind: No ice. Just gone. No bling. That quick. No diamonds. That automatic.

Robotically, he shut off the spray and wrapped a towel around his waist, trying to stop himself from adding up the damage over and over again. All it did was provide slow torture. But maybe that’s what he deserved.

He stepped into Vanity’s bedroom. In terms of hotness, the girl was off the centigrade scale, and this is where she slept at night. Yet he felt nothing, no exotic, erotic thrill, just the dull, listless fog of magnificent regret.