Playground (16 page)

and place them in extra large McDonald’s cups. We make our

grand entrance up the bleachers blaring Run-D.M.C.’s “It’s Like

That” from an oversize ghetto blaster.

“You guys should come out with me tonight. I know this slam-

ming nightclub in Hollywood. A bunch of girls are going.”

“Let me guess, Playmates?” Sonya rolls her eyes.

“I’m rushing right over,” says Michelle sarcastically.

“Why would I want to be seen with a bunch of sleazy Playmates?

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

I mean, what’s the dealio? You’ve been dissing us, big-time,” Hunter

says, studying me curiously.

“They’re cool,” I say protectively, watching them exchange

glances among themselves. “They’re not what you think.”

“Embarrassing?” Amber smirks.

“You have to admit, those girls don’t have the best image. I

mean, they’re whores,” Liz states matter-of-factly.

“They’re fun and totally down-to-earth,” I say.

“Listen to you defending them,” Hunter laughs and I turn red.

“You’re in, right?” I nudge Michelle.

“I would, but I lost my fake ID.” She shrugs.

“I keep telling you, we don’t need ID,” I say, exasperated.

Hunter holds an unlit joint between her lips and rolls her eyes

at me.

“Seriously, Jennifer, why the sudden change?” Hunter eyeballs

me over her Vuarnet sunglasses.

“It’s either them or us,” Amber says. I don’t respond, once

again torn between my teenage life and the adult life I have at the

Mansion.

“Whenever you’re ready to get back in touch with reality, you

know where to find us.” Sonya flips her long hair, smacking me in

the face.

104

Ten

I hit all the hot spots in town: Nicky Blair’s, Vertigo, Helena’s,

and Eva’s. Dad’s out every night and encourages me to meet him

since my friends are unavailable.

He and I have it all worked out.

At Helena’s, the valet takes my Mercedes and I push past the

crowd of wannabes milling in front of the door. The doorman

knows who I am and smiles when I slip him a twenty. It doesn’t

matter that I’m only fifteen. Normal rules no longer exist.

I enter Helena’s drenched in makeup, strutting in three-inch

heels and wearing a silver sequined top that catches the strobe

lights. Disco balls hang from the ceiling as tweaked-out girls stride

by in rayon jersey Issey Miyake jumpsuits that shine with wildly

printed patterns. The DJ spins a remix of Exposé’s “Point of No

Return” as Stoli gimlets, coke, and Quaaludes flow down the

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

throats and up the noses of tan and thin-limbed actresses. I ask

Robert Downey Jr., Rob Lowe, and Emilio Estevez if they’ve seen

my father. They point me in the right direction.

An effortlessly hip, gorgeous soap opera actor laughs with a

group of friends. He’s twentysomething, tall with sandy-blond hair

and a rare killer smile. He’s pompous, but in an unoffensive way.

“Hey dipstick, where have you been? Rehab?” I overhear one of

the guys ask.

“No, son, I’ve been sticking your mom,” the actor responds.

His friend wraps his arm around a cocktail waitress, whisper-

ing in her ear, “Sweetheart, you know, you actually look good when

you don’t try so hard.”

“Let it go, dorkbag,” she smirks.

“Seriously, when are we gonna fuck again? You know you

want it.”

The waitress rolls her eyes at him.

The actor pats his buddy on the shoulder.

“Easy, tiger,” the actor says to his friend before continuing to

move through the crowd. I look at him and then away, peering

around casually until I spot my father at a booth. He greets me with

a warm welcome, proudly introducing me to friends left and right.

Dad escorts me down a hallway into the VIP room, where a muscu-

lar guy nods to my father, unclasps the velvet rope, and lets us in.

The women in the room are awash in Claude Montana’s de-

signs: skintight leather pants glued to their loins and futuristic-

looking shoulder pads under ruffled silk blouses. They teeter in

Tokio Kumagai shoes, hand-painted and reflecting the Expres-

sionist styles of Kandinsky, Pollock, and Mondrian.

We stop at a table filled with middle-aged men who crane their

necks when hot young girls glide by. Dad can’t sit still for two sec-

onds. The Whispers’ “Rock Steady” plays in the background.

I order a cocktail. Dad pats my ass and I cringe.

“You look so delicious I could eat you up,” he says.

“Don’t,” I answer.

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Playground

He takes my arm, pointing to one of his underage hotties.

“I want to introduce you to Chase.”

“Another bulimic teenager?”

“She’s twenty-two,” he admits with no qualms.

“She must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“Free, actually. Flew in from Arizona all by herself.” Dad’s

foaming at the mouth.

“Yeah, well, she looks like she’s about to die. Maybe you should

take her to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal.”

Dad and I are then distracted by two stunning girls locked in a

heated French kiss. Their boyfriends lurk beside them on standby.

“It’s called intergroup dating,” I inform him.

“Friends of yours?” Dad questions.

“Interested?” I ask as Dad reviews his choices.

By now, checking out girls with my father is too familiar to

seem scandalous. I wave to Hef and the circle of young beauties by

his side. I nudge my dad.

“What are you waiting around for, sloppy seconds?”

“Very funny.” He grimaces, but we both know it’s true.

I give Hef a kiss hello.

“Hello, darling,” Hef says. “Your father actually made it out

tonight.”

“You know he’s been shacking up with Chase again, he just

won’t admit it,” I say, and we laugh quietly.

Kendall smiles at me and excuses herself from the table. I watch

her walk away. She’s slinking like a panther, her black dress barely

covering her body. She owns the room, easily and without even

trying.

My gaze is interrupted when the waitress hands me my Long

Island iced tea. I drink it greedily, loving the sweet mix of vodka,

tequila, rum, and gin.

The soap opera actor stands in front of me when I look up. My

father makes the introductions.

“Jennifer, this is—”

107

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“Hayden Winters,” the actor finishes, extending his hand.

He is fatally handsome: all-American face, flawless cheek-

bones, and piercing blue eyes.

“He’s an actor on some soap,” says Dad, looking around unin-

terested.

“Cool,” I say nonchalantly.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“I’m in school,” I answer casually.

“Which one?”

“Beverly.”

“You look much older,” Hayden says. My father takes off with

the bulimic as Hayden reaches into his pocket and pulls out an

invitation.

“I’m having after-hours at the Beverly Hills Hotel if you want

to cruise by.”

“I have tennis in the morning, but we’ll see,” I say, accepting the

invite.

“You don’t want to hang out with me?” Hayden smiles and his

white teeth sparkle.

“I didn’t say that.”

I flip my hair carelessly while staring at his arms, his chest, and

his stomach, which is rippled underneath his tight Polo shirt. He’s

perfect, like a Calvin Klein model.

One of his friends yanks him away.

“I better see you later.” Hayden winks, grabbing my arm affec-

tionately.

He turns around one last time and our eyes meet.

I continue roaming, bumping into Tommy, one of the regulars

from the Mansion.

Tommy leans into me and whispers, “Hey, hon. Have you seen

the Minister?”

“I haven’t seen a minister since I dropped out of Sunday

school,” I laugh.

“Your father knows him. Where is the Big Q?”

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Playground

“What are you talking about?” I ask, completely confused.

“Your father,” he declares, surprised I’m unaware of his nick-

name.

I look at the big smile on Tommy’s face.

I finally nod, knowingly: the Big “Q” refers to Quaaludes.

“Have any?” I ask.

“I don’t, but the Minister does.”

Tommy pulls me over to a man wearing all black, with a barely

visible white collar.

“I want you to meet Doc’s daughter,” Tommy introduces me.

“I’ve known your father for over twenty years,” the Minister

says jovially, taking out a business card and handing it to me.

“Nice to meet you, Minister.”

“Call me if you need anything,” he offers sincerely, inconspicu-

ously slipping me a few Quaaludes.

“It’s a gift—treasure them.” He winks.

“Thank you.” I smile as Tommy and I walk away.

“He’s huge. He’s the biggest dealer in town,” Tommy whispers

as he spots his wife from afar. “I gotta split. Catch you later.”

Dodging my father, I head down a neon-lit hallway. I bump into

Kendall and am instantly pulled into her luminous green eyes. We let

others pass as we lean against the wall. For some reason we’re both

surprised to run into each other. This is the nature of the club scene,

after all: being surprised by the familiar and pretending it’s new.

“Hey, kiddo.” She wipes her nose. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” I say. “You know, just hanging.”

“Hey, promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about the

other day?” she begs. “You know, about the special delivery.”

“No worries. I won’t say anything.”

“It’s our little secret.” She places her hand over mine, nestling

her fingers in between mine. My nerves take over for no reason. I

pull my hand back.

“I just met the coolest guy. He’s so nice and he’s got the cutest

ass ever!”

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

“Good for you,” she says.

Kendall leans in and kisses me sensuously on the lips. A warm,

tingling sensation runs through me. She pulls away before I have

time to think or respond. She steps back, smiles, and disappears

into the club.

Moments pass before I can move.

Paranoid, I look around to see if anyone might have noticed,

but no one’s looking. I glance down at my drink. How many cock-

tails have I had?

I pull Hayden’s invite out of my pocket and decide it’s time to

leave.

I arrive at the after-hours in the Beverly Hills Hotel at 3:00

.

a.m

The valet takes my car and I ride up the elevator to suite 1011. En-

tering the room, I look around for familiar faces, but find none.

Suddenly an arm wraps around me. Hayden welcomes me

with a big smile.

“So, you did want to come see me!”

We examine each other, our attraction apparent.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Hayden asks.

“Sure,” I answer as a Persian princess in gaudy gold necklaces

and matching hoop earrings joins us. She stands, awkwardly tee-

tering in a pair of Patrick Cox platforms, like she’ll topple over at

the slightest gust of wind.

“Hi, Hayden,” she says, shooting me a dirty look.

I glare back.

“Hi, Davita,” Hayden responds politely.

The girl takes another assessment of me and continues moving.

One of Hayden’s costars pours drinks at the bar.

“Yo, Winters!” he yells. “There’s a shot over here with your

name on it.”

“I’m busy,” Hayden answers.

“You’re busy?” his friend shouts.

“Dude, I’ll catch you on the next one,” Hayden yells, and his

friend finally notices me.

110

Playground

“Oh, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and your

new
girlfriend
.”

“Okay,
easy,
Slick.”

Hayden affectionately slides his arm off me and walks over to

do the shot with his buddies. The testosterone flowing at the bar is

palpable. Hayden stands in the center of it, all eyes on him, his per-

fection, his status.

Hayden smiles over at me and winks.

Two Quaaludes later, Hayden and I have it all figured out.

We’re chilling in the back bedroom, lounging on soft overstuffed

pillows. We feel as though we’ve known each other for years. I lie

back, admiring his great looks, knowing that every woman he meets

must fall for him.

“Thank you so much for coming. You’re really cool.” Hayden

stares at me with a look of desire. “I’d love to be in a relationship if

I found the right girl.” He strokes my arms and I roll my eyes.

“Shut up, I know you’re a big player.”

“Not true, I’m a monogamous type of guy. What’s most impor-

tant is to please the woman,” he says. I put my finger over his lips.

“Listen, honey, don’t speak. It’s better that way,” I tell him, pat-

ting him affirmatively on the leg.

Hayden brushes a strand of hair from my face as I adjust my

butterfly clip. He gently runs his fingers over the body glitter on

my neck. His trademark smile sweeps across his face. I flip him

over on his back and straddle him.

Hayden laughs, pulls me in close, and kisses me. Our bodies

are pressed against each other and I can feel how excited he is.

Rubbing my hands over his jeans, I tease him for a while until I get

up, over it.

“I gotta go,” I say. My Swatch watch reads 4:30