Hollywood High (8 page)

Read Hollywood High Online

Authors: Ni-Ni Simone

BOOK: Hollywood High
5.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
He raised his eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Oh God, Daddy! Then she attacked that actress girl, Heather, during lunch because Heather's mother gave Spencer some perfume that smelled like cat piss. I couldn't believe it! That Spencer chick jumped up and maced her out of nowhere.” I shook my head. “It was nonstop drama, Daddy. The whole mess had my stomach in knots. I just needed to get home, take me a nice hot bath and unwind. Those girls at Hollywood High are crazy.”
“London, stop with all the theatrics. You're not any different from them.”
I frowned. “Daddy, I beg your pardon. I'm
nothing
like those girls. They keep a lot of drama stirred up. I'm telling you, they're nuts.”
“Then explain to me how your face ended up being plastered all over the front page of every online magazine with your breasts hanging out of your blouse.”
I blinked.
Ohmygod, Thanks to Rich, I pressed the send button to my own grave.
“This boy in pink heels and make-up tossed a smoothie in my face.” He tilted his head, giving me a look of disbelief. “I'm serious, Daddy. He calls himself Co-Co Ming. And he attacked me.”
He stood up. “I don't want to hear another word of this nonsense. You've managed to get yourself caught up in a bunch of nonsense on the first day of school. You know better than that. Then you had the nerve to drag Rich Montgomery into your mess.”
“
Rich?
Umm, excuse you. Are you serious? Newsflash, Daddy: Rich Montgomery was the one who set it
all
off. This was all her mess!”
“Watch your mouth. And watch your tone, young lady. Do
not
put any of that mess on her. I know you. And I know how your mouth and attitude can be. So stop with the Miss Innocent act. Rich's father is one of my highest paying clients. You do understand that, right?”
“But I wasn't doing anything.”
“London, that's not what I asked you. I am not going to have what happened back in New York happen here, do you understand? That whole fiasco cost me millions of dollars.”
“Daddy, this is different. You want me to be friends with girls I don't even like. They're effen crazy! I know Spencer's mother is also another one of your clients, but I'm sorry, Daddy. She's about as dumb and dizzy as a pail of seashells. That chick Heather looks like she's a walking billboard for rehab or a loony bin. And Rich likes to call the media on herself. Who in the hell calls the damn media on themselves? Ding, ding, ding . . . Rich, the attention whore, who else! And these are the girls you want me to hang out with. Ugh, I can't get with these crazy-behind girls and all of their histrionics. It is too extra for me. I have got to get back to New York, Daddy. Please.”
“You're not going back to New York so you might as well get that idea out of your pretty little head. You understand me?”
“But Daddy,” I pouted and folded my arms across my chest.
“It's not going to work. And another thing, why has Anderson been on my phone complaining about not hearing from you?”
“Because he hasn't heard from me,” I said sarcastically.
“And why is that?”
“Because I don't want—”
“London, let me explain something to you, it's not about what you want. It's about the life your mother and I have planned for you. I have let you get away with far too many things, which is part of the reason we had to move across the country. Therefore I will not listen to anything that you don't want, because you will do what I tell you to do and that is not up for negotiation. Nor is this a debate.”
Silence.
A few seconds later the house phone rang and Daddy walked over to the cordless phone that sat on the table. “So you might as well settle in.” He handed me the phone. “Starting with your new friends. It's Rich Montgomery. Maybe she wants to hang out. Show you around your new hometown.”
I stared at his hand.
Little does he know.
“I mean it, London. Don't try me.”
I rolled my eyes and took the phone from him. “Hello? Yeah,” I paused. “Okay, see you at eight so we can bust it.” I rolled my eyes at my father and quickly hurried back into the bathroom and locked the door before he could say anything more. Once I heard my bedroom door close I let my prince out of the closet.
My poor baby was all bunched up. “He's finally gone,” I said with a drag.
“Damn, you had me all up in there bent up like a damn pretzel. Any longer and I was gonna end up with scoliosis.”
“Look. My dad wants me to hang out with Rich tonight. But I don't want to.”
He kissed me on the lips. “Nah. You need to go. Put that work in so we can get it poppin'.”
I poked my lips out. “But I want to finish up what we started. I need you so bad, boo. I've missed you so much.”
He pulled me into him. “And I want you, too, but in order for us to be together I need you to handle that tonight. So go hang with your peeps. I'ma lay low until you get back. You just need to sneak me up some grub.”
“I can arrange that,” I said as I untied my bathrobe and let it fall off my shoulders. “But can we at least get a quickie in before I have to get ready?”
He grinned, dropping his towel. “Oh, no doubt, baby. I'm all yours.”
10
Rich
M
elanie Fiona's “4 AM” played softly through the surround sound as I sat Indian-style in the center of my oval king-sized bed, beneath the glittering lights of my crystal chandelier. I did my all to focus on why my boyfriend Corey's text clearly read that he'd be home from Belize tomorrow, but my private eye said that he'd arrived yesterday and was in the club boom-bustin' it up tonight.
Right now.
At this moment.
And even though I'd come up with a plan to creep up on him—with London in tow—and slice his throat, that still wasn't enough to maintain my focus.
And I wasn't thinking about tomorrow's headlines either, or the viral video of Co-Co Ming's beat-down.
And I didn't wonder when I'd finish my American literature, chemistry, or calculus homework. Hmph, Hollywood High was the last thing on my mind.
Instead, my head spun from something much crazier than any of that—like why I couldn't stop thinking about my best friend, Christian, who everyone called by his last name, Knox.
Knox had been my brotherly-type boo since second grade, with only one interruption—well, two. The first one was in third grade when he wrote me a note and asked me to be his girl.
I checked the yes box.
It lasted for a week and then my mother ordered me to dump him; and not because he was ten and I was only eight. There was never an allowed-to-love-and-date age assigned to me. After all being taught to marry well started early. And in the world of wealth and success men were never too old, or too young, they were always just right. So that wasn't the issue.
It was much deeper than that.
Problem was Knox's trust fund wasn't deep enough, which meant his family wasn't rich enough. They had everyday money. Low millions. No more than seven. Not enough to last a lifetime. And to top it all off his father was Daddy's accountant, which my mother likened to the hired help. And although I didn't have many rules, never ever dating, sleeping with, and marrying the hired help or their young was definitely one of them.
So, I broke up with him and for the next few years we remained friends. Until this summer—July 4
th
weekend. My parents celebrated Independence Day at our home in the Hamptons but I stayed home alone in Beverly Hills. Knox's parents were in Myrtle Beach and he couldn't leave California because he was taking summer classes at UCLA.
So he came over to my house to celebrate.
Told me to give the chef the night off and he would barbecue.
So he manned the grill and I bartended the drinks. Barbecue chicken, ginger shrimp, asparagus, orange Popsicle martinis and Jell-O shots were our specialty for the evening. Hours later we were full and loaded. And I drunkenly confessed to him that despite my mother's wishes for us to only be friends, that I'd been in love with him since I was eight and no matter how hard I tried, my feelings wouldn't go away . . . .
I lay back on my seven-foot white leather headboard and squeezed my eyes tight. I had to stop Knox from invading my mind.
He wasn't important.
Running up on Corey and teaching him a lesson for attempting to play me was important.
Getting out of this bed and turning off this melancholy music was important. Shaking this sad side of Rich Gabrielle Montgomery and bringing back Rich the Party Girl was important.
Snap. Snap.
I was losing it and there was no way I could allow my thoughts to keep me off my square.
I sat up in bed and said to no one in particular, “Where are you, Party Girl?”
“Over here,” I answered myself.
I shook my head. This was stupid. But whatever—'cause one thing was for sure and two things were for certain: I didn't do regret and blue most certainly wasn't my color.
I hopped out of bed, changed my CD to Birdman's “I Run This” and just like that I was amped again! I had twenty minutes to be at London's so that we could run up in the club real quick and if everything went as planned, we'd be able to bust Corey in the head, drag him home, and drop it to the floor at a whole other club before the night ended.
As Birdman chanted, I danced from my room to my dressing room and into my walk-in closet. I bounced over to my mirrored wall, tapped the center of it, and my holographic keyboard appeared. I typed in “black club dresses” and in the blink of an eye the section of black club dresses made their way down the automatic rounder and stopped before me. I chose my all black Gucci super-tight and ultra-mini dress.
Dabomb.
Perfect dress to bring Corey to his knees.
Birdman continued to blast through the surround sound as I spun around and broke out into a throwback dance—the Pop-Lock-And-Drop-It. I carried my routine from the closet and into my shoe room—which could compete with the chicest upscale boutique any day of the week.
It didn't take me long to choose my black, Gucci, handwoven, peep toe boots that stopped midway up my thigh, and were so fly that they all but purred.
Meow.
I showered, dressed, confirmed with my private eye that Corey was still in the club tearing up the scene, and summoned my driver to take the Phantom. We picked up my girl, London—who was dressed just right to kill—red Chanel dress that dipped low in the front and stopped midway up her thighs, and six-inch black Tabitha Simmons chandelier sandals. And before I could drop the bomb on London as to why we were really going out she turned to me and said, “Are you and Corey really serious?”
That threw me. Where'd that come from?
“Why'd you ask you ask me that?”
“Because,” London hesitated, “I had somebody who I wanted you to meet. And I didn't want to be introducing you to him if you were really hung up on Corey.”
“Well, who is he?”
“My boy Justice and he's
fine
.” London popped her lips for emphasis.
“Fine,” I said and sipped my champagne. “Anytime fine is said like that, it usually means that Mr. Fine is low money. And this princess doesn't do low money.”
London rolled her eyes and refreshed her drink. “You just insulted me. I don't do low money on any level.”
“Girl, now you know I didn't mean to insult you. You know that's not how we do. We came out to have a good time and that's what we're going to do. Now let's make a toast.”
We clinked our glasses as we pulled up in front of Club Sixty-Six Paradise in Santa Monica. Better known as the newbies and the classless rich kids' hole in the wall.
Ugh.
A place where neither the paparazzi nor I would dare be seen—except for tonight of course.
But, I wasn't here to party or snatch a headline. I was on a mission—The Chin-Check-This-Playa-Playa Mission.
London and I finished our glasses of champagne as the driver pulled in front of the club. I frowned. There was no red carpet, no one taking celebrity roll call, and no velvet rope to separate the VIPs from the common folks. How gross!
“So where are we?” London asked as the driver rolled out the emergency red carpet that I kept in the trunk.
“Santa Monica,” I said as the driver opened the door and assisted London and me out of the car.
“I know we're in Santa Monica,” London said as she shook her hair and dusted invisible wrinkles from her dress. “I meant what's up with the club? What kind of spot is this?”
“Oh,” I said and batted my lashes. “I almost forgot you didn't know.” I quickly refreshed my gloss and popped my full lips.
“Know what?” She gave me a suspicious smile.
“That this is the spot we 'bout to tear up.” I quickly clicked my heels toward the door. Obviously London was on pause so to help her along I turned toward her and said, “Girl, what are you waiting on?”
She blinked. Blinked again. And then hurried over to me. “What. The. Hell. Do. You. Mean. ‘This is the spot we 'bout to tear up?!' ”
“Girl, let me tell you.” I slapped my right hand on my respective hip. “Corey's been lying. Again. And I swear I'm sooooo tired of his lying. It's like he just lives and breathes to lie, lie, lie. So when I texted him and he didn't respond to me for two days. And in that text he had the audacity to say, “I'll be home tomorrow night. Call you then.” No ‘hey baby.' No, ‘I miss you.' Nothing. Just some whack ‘I'll call you tomorrow night.' Oh hell no. I wasn't having that. So, I sicced a P.I. on him.”
“A what?!”
“A P.I. I had to see what kind of slick-playa-playa moves ole-boy was trying to pull over on me. Besides, you always have to know what your investment is doing. And right now this is a losing quarter for me. So come on, let's go inside and make it pop-pop-get it-get it.”
“O.M.G. this is just way too much.” She shook her head and tapped her feet. “I don't believe this. When you called me screaming in my ear I didn't know this was the type of pop-pop-get it-get it you were talking about!”
“What, they don't make it pop in New York?” I curled my top lip. “The East Coast needs to get it together. Oh my.”
“Rich, I thought we were coming to party, dance a little bit. Get. Our. Drink. On. You didn't tell me that we were coming here to run up on your boyfriend!”
“It's just a layover. We don't have to make this our destination. Trust. This will not take long at all. And right after this we can still get our drink on.” I did a quick two-step and a booty bounce. “Ahh, see girl. When we leave here we gon' hit up this spot in Hollywood and bust it. Now come on.” I took a step closer to the door and waved at a few cuties eyeing us. London was back on pause. I walked over to her and said tight-lipped, “Would you come on before somebody out here thinks you're slow?”
“Rich!” London called my name like she was crazy. “I'm serious! My daddy will flip. He's already warned me and besides, I didn't come dressed for this! The least you could've done was clue me in from the beginning and then I would've slipped on some jogging pants!”
“Eww.” I heaved. “Clutching pearls. Please spare me the jogging pants visual, I have a phobia of those things.” I shivered. “Believe me, London, we are not about to get physical. We're ladies, remember? So we'll be out of here and tearing up a whole other club before you can say ‘Weezy!' ”
Before she could continue with her protest I locked arms with her and practically pulled her into the club. Waka Flocka Flame's “No Hands” blasted through the D.J's speakers. There were people everywhere. Sweating. Throwing their arms in the air and yelling something about the roof being on fire. And all I could think was Cheesytothe-max. org.
This little horrid spot was a sea of red, courtesy of the red strobe lights and the naked red bulbs that hung over the dance floor and illuminated the bar. The whole scene reminded me of an indie film gone wrong.
London and I were definitely overdressed and out of place.
“Hey,” caught my attention. I looked to my right and there was a gold-mouth freak, standing before me grinning. “Y'all lookin' good.”
I rolled my eyes toward the ductwork running through the ceiling. I could spot a wannabe gangsta rapper a mile away. “Ain't you Richard Montgomery's daughter? Yo, can I slide you my mix tape? And after that can I get your phone number? And my man over there was looking at your girl.” He turned to London. “He wants to know if you wanna be the bust-it baby in his video?”
Instinctively London and I took two steps back. I frowned. “For real,” I said and batted my lashes. “What's good with you? Like why are you in my space? Back up.”
“Seriously,” London said and looked him over. “ 'Cause the only thing you need to be mixing is a toothbrush and Colgate—”
“And a Tic and a Tac,” I added as I flicked my hand and London and I walked away quickly before this monster could say anything more.
We walked over toward the bar and I couldn't find Corey anywhere in here.
“Hold Up. Wait a minute,” London said as she placed her right hand like a visor over her eyes. “Is that . . .?” She paused. “Is that . . .?” She paused again, and said more to herself than she did to me, “. . . Anderson?”
“Anderson?” I frowned. “Who is Anderson?”
I looked over toward where she pointed and boom, there he was: Corey.
“You mean, Corey?” I said as I stretched my arm toward the dance floor. “Oh hell nawl, I know this mofo is not walking around telling people his name is Anderson! What kind of whack mac-daddy game is that?! Oh I'm pissed. He's walking around calling himself Anderson!”
“Not him.” She blinked and pointed both of her index fingers. “The one standing there with a bottle of champagne in his hand and breaking it down like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant!”

Other books

Annabel by Kathleen Winter
Trail of Tears by Derek Gunn
Forgotten Boxes by Becki Willis
The Million-Dollar Wound by Collins, Max Allan
A Thrill to Remember by Lori Wilde
#7 The Demon Babysitter by Annie Graves