Reunion Girls (20 page)

His gaze was serious. "Understand me?"

"You've been silent for so many years. No contact at all. Not even a postcard. Now you're back." She glanced at the white-gold wedding band screaming from his ring finger. "And married."

Dean Paul stared down at his open hand. "It's not like I never thought about you, Gabby. Because I did. Often. But we didn't exactly leave things on a high note. There were no promises to exchange Christmas cards."

"As I remember it, you left me. Isn't that one of your relationship signatures? You always do the leaving.”

"I was just a college guy."

"And you're just a married guy now. One week in and already looking up ex-girlfriends. Impressive."

He looked uncomfortable. "I don't want to talk about that. I came here for you. I want to help. If you'll let me."

Gabrielle could tell that her calm intrigued him. What he didn't know was that she had tripled her Xanax dosage. A doctor had prescribed it years ago to curtail panic attacks after the incident at Brown. It had become a daily habit. Every morning she popped a Centrum and a Xanax. A long time ago she stopped thinking of it as a drug. She preferred the term "emotional vitamin."

"I don't know what you could do," she told him. "You're a very famous man, Dean Paul, but you don't have much pull in the black community."

He gesticulated in the wild, exaggerated manner of many hard-core rappers. "Hey, don't sell me short, boo. I can be down."

Gabrielle laughed at him. Really laughed. In a way that she had been unable to for days.

He grinned. "You have the sweetest laugh. It's good to hear it again."

Her amusement faded. There had been an intimacy between them at the wedding. There was an intimacy between them now. Confusion and fear swirled in her brain. If pressed, Gabrielle knew that she would give in to anything he wanted, no matter the consequences. The sanctity of his marriage. The safety of her heart. All of it was fair game. She felt that vulnerable.

"Why did you do it, Gabby?" His question caught her off guard. "I can see pursuing a career in music, but you completely reinvented yourself."

"You don't understand the world of hip-hop."

"And you do?"

She gave him a dumb look. "I am black."

"Congratulations. But if that's all it takes, why are you hiding up here?"

Gabrielle rose and stepped over to the window. Then she turned to face him. "I wanted to create another identity. To be someone else. The kind of person who doesn't let bad things happen to her."

Dean Paul regarded her intently. "I don't get it. You used to talk about home all the time. I think of you as being more spoiled than I was. To hear you tell it, Grosse Pointe was a plastic bubble."

"Maybe it was," she said quietly. "And that's the worst training for the real world."

He stood up, suddenly agitated. "What happened, Gabby? You were never the same after we broke up. Everybody used to say so. They put it all on me. Like I had just stomped on your heart and left you in ruins. I stayed away because I never wanted to own up to the fact that I could have such an effect on a girl. Just by leaving her? It was too intense. Scared the hell out of me. But that's not what changed you, is it?"

Gabrielle's lips were trembling. She was so close to telling him her secret. In fact, the first word was right there in her throat . . . but it died there, too. At the last moment, she spun to face the window.

"Gabby!" His plea was urgent.

She groped for the strength to not break down. "Did you come here to help or to perform some kind of mental exorcism?" Miraculously, there was a distinct wryness in her tone.

Dean Paul released a deep sigh. "Just tell me how I can make this easier for you."

Gabrielle breathed a sigh of relief. The inquisition had ended. She was safe for the moment. Turning back to face him, she smiled. "Some PR flack in a cubicle wrote my press bio. Can you believe that? I know it's my own fault for going along with it, but I didn't dream up that nonsense."

"When you're dealing with the media, there's no such thing as context. My dad taught me that a long time ago." He grew quiet for several seconds. "Who's handling your requests?"

She stared back at him blankly.

"For interviews," he explained.

Gabrielle shrugged. "The record label, I guess. Baby Bear is taking whatever calls are routed here."

Dean Paul shook his head in severe disagreement. "That's no good. You need your own handler. Someone who's looking out just for you." He left her there and returned seconds later with a stack of pink messages in his hand. As he sifted through them, his eyes widened. "Shit, Gabby, everybody is courting you—Gayle King, Katie Couric, Diane Sawyer . . ."

"How long do you think it will take before they go away?"

He considered the question. "There's a snowball effect to scandals. Some begin to feed on themselves, and when that happens, you can only hold on tight for the ride. I think this one has that quality. At some point, you'll have to talk. You can't just stay locked up in this tower like Rapunzel."

Gabrielle knew that. But hearing confirmation of it still unnerved her.

"That guy outside is security. He's no publicist. You need to take control. The record label might own Brown Sugar. But you own Gabrielle Foster." He tapped on his iPhone, his beautiful face rigid with determination. "Before I leave, you're going to have a publicist of your own." His tone was absolute.

A resistance rose up within her. "I don't understand why my record company can't act in that capacity. They have an entire PR department."

"Sure, that's looking out for their interests. Who's looking out for yours?"

"At the end of the day, I am their interest," she argued. "I still have two more albums on my contract."

He looked up. "That doesn't mean they have to let you back in the studio. I have a friend who's an executive at RCA. When they want to burn out a contract, they release a hits compilation, maybe a collection of previously unreleased tracks that didn't make the grade for other CDs, anything to keep an artist on her way out the door from incurring new production costs."

Gabrielle was silent.

Dean Paul thundered on. "I don't think you realize how big this is. Everybody is interested in hearing your side of the story." He waved the messages as evidence. "You've crossed over, Gabby. There are people out there who have never heard a Brown Sugar song, but they know the name Gabrielle Foster. You have an opportunity here to turn this around."

His passion gave her a ray of hope. But the doubts still lingered. "You haven't heard the things people are saying on the radio. You haven't read social media. So many people hate me."

"Rap fans," Dean Paul scoffed. "They're taking sides in a nasty street fight. Who cares? Wave the white flag. Let Queen Bee claim victory on the hip-hop front. It's the only win she'll ever get. Do you think Diane Sawyer’s calling Queen Bee for an exclusive? In her dreams! There's no mystery there. I could drive out to Coney Island and find ten more Queen Bees on the same block. You're the one they want, Gabby. It's not Brown Sugar they're chasing after. It's you."

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

The party wars are heating up. Event Planner #1 (Ms. Perfect Princess) is helming a major bash for those gorgeous Asian twins while Event Planner #2 (Ms. Vespa Road Rage) is giving a cable stud's book launch the full treatment. Why not just settle this feud with a slapping, scratching, hair-pulling slugfest in the middle of Times Square? Yours truly would gladly ring the bell and bellow, "Let's get ready to rumble!" This could get very ugly, darlings. Spies tell me there's more than professional VIP rivalry at stake. Let's see . . . two women plus mutual hatred equals . . . come on, this is easy math—a man. And not just any man. Girls on top don't slobber over the Smoothie King counter boy. They save the swooning for the rich and famous. And it doesn't hurt if he makes Brad Pitt look ordinary.

Dean Paul

"WHY DON'T YOU TAKE OFF your shirt?"

Dean Paul looked down at Finn Robards. "You've been waiting a long time for the chance to say that to me, haven't you?"

Finn's eyes were eclipsed by big, dark, and flamboyant Christian Dior sunglasses. He continued sunning on the lounger, betraying no reaction. "Maybe." His voice was singsong. "But you usually beat me to it. Let's face it. You don't exactly sit around waiting for people to ask."

Dean Paul took in the open view of the West Village and the Hudson River. They were poolside on the roof of SoHo House, a private members club and hotel on Ninth Avenue.

Finn wore one of those nothing-to-the-imagination Speedo numbers, the style favored by champion swimmers and fat European men. His body was bronzed, waxed, and sculpted to perfection. He sighed to announce his annoyance and tilted up his shades. "You're blocking the sun. Not to mention making me nervous." He tapped the lounger next to him. "Sit with me. Slip off your shirt. Have a drink. We'll visit. A little sun would do you good. Your Greek tan stopped just short of perfection. One more day and you would have had it."

There was a plush white towel neatly folded onto the empty chair. Dean Paul stretched it out, peeled off his Thomas Pink shirt, and kicked back. For September, it was uncomfortably hot. "Happy now?"

Finn smiled. "It's a mild improvement." He snapped the waistband of his Speedo. "I can get you one of these . . ."

"I'll pass. But thanks."

A waiter approached.

Dean Paul ordered up a bottled water.

Finn shook his head, shooing the server away. "I'm sorry I couldn't meet you somewhere more convenient. But when I'm working, I have to protect those hours. It takes real discipline, you know. To be a writer."

Dean Paul cast an odd glance over to Finn. "Yeah, I can see that you really put yourself through the grinder."

"I'm thinking about my screenplay. I studied under David Helmore. He calls this Quality Reflection. It's as important as the actual writing itself. David has serious Hollywood connections."

"He's the guy who offers the two-day workshop for seven hundred bucks, right? I've seen his flyers around the city."

Finn blanched. "I've taken his seminar eight times. You always learn something new. When I finish my script, David's going to give me notes. That's why I'm so serious about Quality Reflection. I want the screenplay to be the best it can be before he looks at it."

Dean Paul felt an obligation to bat the conversational ball back and forth before cutting to the chase. "So what's the movie about?"

"My life," Finn said.

Dean Paul almost laughed. But he stopped with a big smile at the last moment. "Well,
if you
can't write it . . ."

The waiter returned with the water.

Dean Paul was thankful for the distraction.

"So how's married life?" Finn asked.

"It's great."

"Really? Not according to what I read from Jinx Wiatt."

"We didn't talk on the trip home because Aspen slept most of the way. She was zoned out on pills." He shook his head. "That woman gets one tip from a flight attendant and makes the leap that my marriage is in trouble."

"You did abort the honeymoon," Finn pointed out. "That's reason to wonder."

"You can thank my ex-girlfriend and her trailer-trash lover for that. My parents summoned me home."

Finn checked his Ritmo Mundo watch, then flipped over onto his stomach. "I take it you won't be at the book party tonight."

"I would show up for a book burning."

Finn propped himself up on one elbow and regarded Dean Paul seriously. "I think you should go. If I were you, I'd cover it for
Hollywood Live,
too."

Dean Paul laughed. "Yeah, that's a great idea."

"It is," Finn insisted. "You showing up with your head held high and a production crew orbiting around you to promote
his
book would drive Jake James insane. Think about this for a minute. It reduces him to nothing. He bashes you in the book. He tries to humiliate you with the pictures. And you're still not pissed off enough to boycott his party. Even better, you're helping him out with the
Hollywood Live
bit." Finn giggled gleefully. "A medieval torture device couldn't cause that much pain. He'll be miserable on his big night. And you'll shine like a star. It's the perfect revenge."

Dean Paul grinned. He liked the sound of this. He liked it a lot. "I never pegged you as the Machiavellian type."

Finn straightened his arm and rolled back onto his stomach. "I've known that I was gay since I was six years old, and I've survived every species of bully. That's all Jake is. A big, loud bully. And the best way to fight bullies is to show them that nothing they do can rattle you."

Dean Paul looked at Finn in a whole new light. He had known him since their days at Brown, but he had never taken him seriously, always reducing him to one-dimensional roles like Lara's gay friend or the rich homo who organized the elaborate parties.

There was a short stretch of silence between them.

Finn was the first to speak. "I was surprised when you called. I didn't figure you for the fag stag type. What's on your mind? I assume it must be Lara."

"I'm worried about her."

"Why? Because she's having the best sex of her life, and it's not with you?"

"She told you that?" There was genuine alarm in his voice.

"See that Chanel bronzing mist on the table?"

"Yes."

"Spray some on my back, would you please?"

Dean Paul picked up the bottle. With a reluctant awkwardness, he raised it over Finn's back and pumped out a few sprays. "Don't ask me to—"

"Just rub it in," Finn snapped impatiently. "If that fraternity in college didn't bring out your inner queer, then this certainly won't."

All of a sudden, Dean Paul felt silly. He shook his head and began to massage the oily mist evenly into Finn's skin.

"Oh, yes," the laziest writer in America moaned. "I always knew you had nice hands. A little lower . . ."

Dean Paul halted immediately. "That's it, Finn. I'm done." He used the towel to rub off the sun product from his hands.