Reunion Girls (16 page)

Queen Bee lost her balance and went down fast, crying out in agony as four acrylic nails scraped the pavement and broke off.

The driver reappeared.

Gabrielle saw a flash of metal.

A gun!

"Sugar, get in the car!" Baby Bear shouted.

This time, Gabrielle obeyed him to the letter, diving into the rear cabin of the limousine.

"Shoot that bitch!" Queen Bee screeched.

Gabrielle experienced a moment of total fear.

The first shot rang out like a clap of thunder.

Gabrielle closed her eyes.

The second shot shattered the windshield.

There was a rumbling inside her chest. She wondered if it would all end right here, right now. A senseless fight in the street. Over a stupid song. And a man she cared nothing about. The irony burned in her brain. In the end, she would have lived the phony life story the record label had made up for her.

The next few minutes played out like a blurry montage in a movie she didn't want to see.

Blistering sirens.

Cops hitting the scene.

Bystanders gawking.

The hotheaded driver facedown on the limousine, two officers working hard to restrain him.

Queen Bee resisting arrest with a steady stream of, "Get your hands off me!"

Baby Bear looking dazed on the sidewalk as blood pumped from his right arm.

In the distance, a man with an iPhone, beaming with glee as he recorded every horrible moment . . .

It had been fourteen hours, and she was still manacled to this station-house bench.
Oh, God! How much longer?
The metal cutting into her wrist hurt like hell.

Gabrielle was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. Her mouth was dry, her lips cracked and longing for moisture. She just wanted to be set free. Despite her pleas, nobody would give her any information about Baby Bear. They just wanted her to relay her version of events over and over again.

She felt as if she had told it a million times. And each recall was exactly the same. Gabrielle had remembered things with unflinching clarity. They tried to trip her up with their endless questions, but she never changed her story. It had been the truth. The first time and the millionth time.

She watched the detectives who conducted her interview resurface.

The lead interrogator motioned for Kris Kirby.

The officer jumped to attention.

There was a brief conference.

Kris returned with a smile on his face and promptly removed the handcuffs.

Gabrielle gazed at him gratefully, massaging her sore wrist. There was a question in her eyes.

"You're free to go," Kris said. "But please be careful. Those were some rough riders you tangled with. They had two more firearms hidden in the car. It could've been much worse. Your friend was taken to Mount Sinai. He's going to be fine. His injuries were minor."

"Gabrielle!"

She spun quickly to see Lara standing in the precinct entrance, then thanked Kris for his kindness and rushed to embrace her, taken aback by how good it felt to have a friend right there when you needed one.

Lara withdrew to give Gabrielle a once-over. "Thank God you're okay."

"I'm fine," Gabrielle assured her. "Baby Bear—my bodyguard—he was shot."

Lara nodded. "I know. It's all over the news."

Gabrielle put a hand to her heart, experiencing a sudden panic. All of her belongings—her purse, her cellular. And then she remembered. They were in the limousine, which had been impounded. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"Of course," Lara said, reaching into a sleek leather bag to hand it over.

Gabrielle struggled to recall Baby Bear's mobile number. Finally, it came to her. Waiting for the connection was torture.

He picked up right away, sounding groggy.

"Baby Bear!"

"Sugar!" More energy now.

"Where are you?" she demanded.

"In the hospital."

Gabrielle started to cry.

Lara reached for her hand and squeezed tight.

"I'm okay, Sugar. I just got it in the arm." He laughed a little. "It takes more than one bullet to knock out my big ass."

Gabrielle smiled through her tears. "It's all my fault. You told me to get in the car, and I didn't listen. If only—"

"Sugar, stop. Those cats were looking for trouble. Queen Bee and that punk-ass driver are the only ones to blame."

"The police just released me. I'm coming to see you."

"Get some rest. You've been in that station all night long. I'm cool here. Got my whole crew with me—my mom, my brother, two of my cousins, some of my boys. Don't worry about me. Just take care of yourself."

Gabrielle signed off.

"I have a car and driver out front," Lara announced. "You're coming home with me."

Gabrielle started to protest.

"You're a woman in crisis. Nothing would please Privi more than to pamper you for a day. She'll run you a glorious bath and cook you a fabulous meal." Lara grinned. "Of course, you'll have to endure a good scolding from her, too. But that's all part of it."

Gabrielle smiled. She remembered going home with Lara for Thanksgiving during their sophomore year at Brown. Privi had been a highlight of the visit, so warm and comforting.

Lara took her hand. "It's settled then. Now come with me." She sought out a rest room and, once there, proceeded to pull out anything Gabrielle might need from a bottomless Louis Vuitton duffel bag—Evian water, hand sanitizer, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a washcloth and towel, La Prairie foaming facial cleanser, a hydrating Chanel lipstick, Hermes scarf, D&G sunglasses, and a Burberry trench coat.

Gabrielle laughed. "You're a lifesaver!"

Lara sparkled with pride. "Just brushing your teeth and washing your face will make you feel like a new person."

Gabrielle indulged. The sink was dirty, the hot water nonexistent, but the simple acts of cleanliness felt marvelous. With a few giggles, she swiped on the lipstick and donned her disguise, the scarf over her head, dark shades, and long coat completely transforming her.

She surveyed her reflection in the mirror. "I look like one of those celebrities hoping to leave a plastic surgeon's office undetected."

All of a sudden, a distinct shadow of dread clouded Lara's face.

Gabrielle titled up the sunglasses to gaze at her directly. "There's something you haven't told me, Lara. What is it?"

Lara paused a beat. “Media Takeout.”

Gabrielle's heart sank.
 
The urban website was notorious for digging up dirt.

"They posted your mug shot this morning."

Gabrielle let out a deep sigh. "Well . . . I've looked better."

Whatever Lara was about to say next, it appeared to be the most troubling news of all. "They also made the connection between Brown Sugar and Gabrielle Foster."

She said nothing.

"They even scrounged up your senior prom picture."

It was worse than she imagined. Now Morgan Atwood would be drawn into this. Gabrielle flipped down her sunglasses again. Stoically, she stared at Lara. "Okay. How bad is it?"

"I won't lie to you, Gabrielle. This won't be easy. As far as scandals go, it already has a life of its own."

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

The new union between Mr. Everything and Missy Reality Star has whipped the matrimonial record of Zsa Zsa Gabor and Mexican playboy Felipe De Alba (in the early '80s, those two called it quits after one day). But this observer finds it curious that an extended honeymoon in Greece was abruptly cut short. Airport spies say the just-married lovebirds barely spoke to each other throughout the transatlantic flight back home. Could there be trouble in paradise already?

Dean Paul

THEY WERE ON THE CABLE car to Fira, Santorini's capital, when Dean Paul made the announcement.

"I've made arrangements for us to leave tomorrow."

Aspen didn't look at him. "That's five days early. I'm surprised you made it this long."

"What does that mean?"

She turned on him hotly. "This was supposed to be
our
honeymoon, and you haven't focused on me at all. First, it's your stupid job, and then day after day you've worried about one of your ex-girlfriends. Why didn't you just marry one of those bitches? Hell, why didn't you marry
all
of them? Then you could move to Idaho or Utah and live in a commune."

"It's not about that, Aspen." He reached for her, but she pulled away. "This shitstorm about those pictures won't die down. My parents are freaking out."

Aspen rolled her eyes. "Oh, it's your parents now. So I'm not even in the top five."

"It's not a contest."

"Not a fair one anyway. I can't compete."

Dean Paul sat silently for a moment. "We'll go on another honeymoon. Soon. I promise."

"I want to finish this one."

He could feel his patience eroding. His wife was just being petulant now. "Since when? You've complained about everything. The shopping sucks. The sun is too intense. The mule drivers are rude. We've had sex twice. You're either not in the mood or too sensitive from sunburn. I honestly thought you'd be relieved to go home."

"Home?
New York is your home, not mine. My opportunities are on the West Coast."

"How many times have we gone back and forth on this? We're starting a new life together."

"Correction—
you 're
starting a new life. What am I supposed to do?"

He didn't answer.

"I don't see why you can't talk to the
Hollywood Live
people about hiring me, too. We could do it together. As a couple. That's how we should approach everything."

He gave her a strange look. "So that's what this is really about. Your jealousy about my new job."

"I'm not jealous. I just can't believe you're being so selfish. It could be
our
job."

"Aspen, come on! This is supposed to be a marriage, not some kind of act that we take on the road. We need to establish separate professional identities. Anyway, I thought you wanted to report on politics."

"I do." There was a slight whine to her voice. "Why can't I have a show like Megyn Kelly? I'm prettier. All she does is sit there and ask people questions about whatever lawsuit is in the news. I can do that."

"It's not that simple. As I understand it, she has an extensive legal background."

"Oh, please. I've got friends who went to law school, and I know more than they do just from watching
Law and Order
.”

Wearily, Dean Paul stared at the magnificent view. Santorini's famous volcano was right there, its mysterious beauty and multicolored rocks breathtaking. The sky and water were a perfect periwinkle blue. This should be the happiest week of his life.

But Aspen could be so frustrating. Moments like this triggered a sense of panic. Had it really been love that made him go all the way to the altar? Or merely some superpowered infatuation? Finally, he spoke. "If that's what you see yourself doing, then the last job you should want is
Hollywood Live.
Overcoming
Survivor
will be enough of a battle."

"Do you have a problem with
Survivor
?
”

He shook his head. "Of course not. It's how we met. Choose your next job very carefully. That's all I'm saying. Make sure it will take you in the right direction."

Aspen rolled her eyes again. "What are you—some kind of life coach all of a sudden?"

Dean Paul sighed deeply, accepting the fact that nothing he said would be taken in the context intended. At least not now. He would try again later. Threading his hand through hers, he squeezed tightly. "No, I'm not a life coach, sweetheart. I'm just your husband."

Aspen took in the scenery, scowling, as if the incredible beauty of this small Greek island on the south end of the Cyclades complex was completely lost on her.

They made it back to the Santorini Palace Hotel. He tried to interest her in dressing to the nines and going out for a fabulous dinner, but she declined. Instead, Aspen swallowed enough Ambien to knock her out long before bedtime. Miserably, Dean Paul spent most of the night packing their things.

The journey back home was an endurance test. A private jet to Athens. A flight to Paris. Another plane to Boston. And now the final leg into New York's LaGuardia. They were heading into their seventeenth hour of travel, and so far they had exchanged maybe a dozen words.

In Boston, Dean Paul stocked up on every New York newspaper and tabloid to assess the damage. The photographs were still Topic A. Jake James had succeeded in piling on the embarrassment this time. His little cable show had started a brushfire that was evolving into a torching blaze.

And the son of a bitch had been smart as hell about it, this according to one fawning media critic. Jake had held court at his anchor desk and presented the pictures one by one with his own hands, ensuring that any outside coverage of the scandal would include him. It had been his master stroke.

Every outlet covered the story. Jake James bubbling under became Jake James boiling over. Ratings for his nightly program spiked. Advance orders for his new book doubled. The asshole had even succeeded in turning the story into a morality argument. Why were men like Dean Paul Lockhart objects of idolatry? What had they given back to society to deserve such worship? God, it was such hypocritical bullshit. But the debate raged on.

He scanned one story and saw where his parents had issued a terse "no comment." But there was no chance that Mom and Dad would be so tight-lipped with him. Dean Paul rubbed his tired eyes, dreading the confrontation. He was frustrated, jet-lagged, and pissed off.

Flipping through
212,
he noticed Babe Mancini's photo credit on a VIP candid spread. The name seemed to pulsate on the page like a blinking cursor. He still couldn't believe she was selling him out like this. Sneaking those private pictures to her pit bull boyfriend. Shopping around a trashy book deal.

He remembered the day of that shoot. A lazy Sunday. Raining off and on. It always rained at Brown. There was even a popular poster in the dorms that read IT RAINS TWO OUT OF EVERY THREE DAYS, EXCEPT DURING THE RAINY SEASON, WHEN IT SNOWS LIKE A BITCH.