Reunion Girls (25 page)

Finn began to stir next to her. His eyes fluttered. "Who was that?"

"Wrong number."

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

Don't you just adore a sweet reunion story about star-crossed lovers finding romance again? Maestro, please play Vanessa Williams's "Save the Best for Last." It could be happening with Princess Smile-For-My-Camera and her Former Big Man on Campus ex. That tacky tell-all book business is already ancient history, and this twosome could be looking at an empty pair of datebooks. Her hot fling with the feisty cable guy is ice-cold, and rumors are in the wind that his new marriage to Missy Reality Star is on the endangered list.

Babe

THIS WAS A STEALTH MISSION, and she had brought out her heavy artillery—the Nikon with the 400mm 2.8 telephoto lens. You couldn't see her. But she could see you. So clearly that if you were due for a pore-extraction facial, then her picture would tell the story.

Come on out and play, you piece of shit.

Babe waited. Across the street in the vestibule of another building. What had once been a giant coffee lay littered at her feet. She was wired. This stakeout was for justice, not for cash. When would she see a little action?

A Toyota Tacoma with a double cab cruised down Second Street at a suspiciously slow speed. The windows were tinted.

Instantly, Babe knew.

The truck stopped directly in front of her. The driver's window eased down. The man behind the wheel gave her a creepy smile. He looked like he was on crystal meth. “Hey, you're that bitch who got my shot of Gwyneth parking on the sidewalk."

Shit.
She was made.

Glancing around, she started for the truck. Just her luck. Any second now, her prey would probably surface, and she would be otherwise engaged trying to convince this asshole that her story wasn't worth jumping on.

"Yeah, you messed me up that time.
 
Maybe I’ll wait around here and messed you up." It took her a moment to get used to his impatiently fused word strings. He was a skinny little bastard. Tons of hair—long and stringy. Under a baseball cap worn backwards. They called him NPP. Short for No Piss Petie. Why? Because he could knock down Cokes like ninepins and never leave his post to take a leak.

Babe noticed the black felt curtain he had rigged to darken the shooting area in the cabin. This dipshit was a true pic hunter. Notorious for trailing A-listers without mercy.

He even considered their kids fair game. Babe had heard a story once about his relentless pursuit of the daughter of an action star and a top model. The little girl fell off her bike trying to get away from him. He got several shots of her crying on the street with badly skinned knees and walked away. The pictures earned him a bundle.

"Might as well tell me who you're after. I'll be on yo ulike flies on shit."

Once more, Babe struggled with the language. But she got the gist. "This is personal. The mark's semi-famous at best. Not worth your time."

No Piss Petie smiled bigger this time. His teeth needed brushing. His eyes were bloodshot. He had probably been up all night long chasing some starlet from bar to bar.

The CB radio crackled.

"Gwen Stefani is on the move! I repeat: Gwen Stefani is on the move!" The voice reported this news as if it were a matter of international significance.

No Piss Petie eyeballed the area. The debate was raging on his face. To follow orders and go after a sure thing or to get revenge and stick around for a mystery shot? "Just wait. I’ll mess you up one day." And then he slammed his foot on the accelerator.

Babe breathed a sigh of relief as the truck screeched away. She raced back to her spot and settled in for the wait. Where was her quarry?

About a half hour later, she got some activity.

Joaquin Cruz emerged from his apartment building. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing a pair of faded, five-button-fly jeans, the first three undone to advertise the fact that he hadn't bothered with underwear.

Babe captured him in the viewfinder. She zoomed in. God, what a hot son of a bitch. He oozed sex. This stud was nuclear. Her index finger pressed down on the blessed button.

Click. Click. Click.

He took a final drag of the cigarette hanging from his lips and tossed it into the street. For a split second, his dark eyes flashed in her direction.

Babe's heart lurched.
Shit.
Had he noticed her?

The answer became clear when he casually turned around to face his own building.

A sigh of relief passed her lips.

What happened next shocked the hell out of her. She had hoped to find something here. She had never dreamed of finding this.

A woman stepped out of the building. She gave Joaquin an intimate lover's smile and kissed him on the sidewalk.

A tingle of illicit discovery ran up and down Babe's back. Her stomach tightened. As the viewfinder jammed harshly against her cheek, the ball of her forefinger adjusted the focus. It had to be perfect. This must be what it feels like to shoot with a gun. The couple was in the crosshairs. Babe Mancini had the kill shot.

Joaquin Cruz . . . and Aspen Bauer-Lockhart.

Her finger froze on the point of fire. And then she unloaded her ammo.

Click. Click. Click.

Babe found herself stuck at the edge of the picture. She couldn't move. The enormity of the moment lanced into her brain. Seeing Dean Paul and Aspen fight over late night revelers was one thing. But seeing this was quite another. Where the former hummed with possibility, the latter sang with conclusion. Dean Paul would soon be free.

In the lens she still had them. Body to body. Face to face. They were amplified. The polo-playing stud and the new wife of America's golden son. The image stayed sharp as the molecules rearranged themselves in Babe's mind. They were no longer man and woman. They were now letters of the alphabet.

DIVORCE.

Babe's internal jukebox began to play the old Tammy Wynette song.

Aspen's face suddenly took on a weird intensity.

Just as quickly, Joaquin craned his neck toward Babe, his eyes sizing up the scene and her place in it. Right away, an insolent self-righteousness seemed to consume him.

Babe went numb. For a fleeting moment, she felt the guilt of voyeurism, of impoliteness. The accusation in their eyes affected her more deeply than she ever realized it could. So this was how it felt. To be caught in the act of privacy invasion. Nobody had ever spotted her before. She always managed to slink away unnoticed.

At first, Joaquin and Aspen stared right through her. Then they formed a united front of aggression and stepped into the street.

"You!" Aspen screamed.

Joaquin glanced around. He walked more gingerly now.

Babe could see the soles of his bare feet turning black from the concrete.

"I want that camera.” His hand reached out, palm facing upward as if to pantomime the ridiculous request.

Babe lowered the camera. "I want Madonna to quit while she's ahead. Doesn't mean it'll happen."

Joaquin stopped for a car, keeping a firm hand on Aspen, who seemed more than willing to take her chances with the glistening BMW X5 moving past.

"I'll break that camera on your face!"

Joaquin gently restrained his venom-spewing lover. He smiled at Babe disarmingly.

She calculated the distance between them. A good twelve to fourteen steps. If things got ugly, the advantage would be hers. Joaquin couldn't run too far without shoes. And Aspen was in heels.

"Come on, Babe," Joaquin said. "If that picture gets out, people could get hurt."

Babe laughed in his face. "Since when do you care about other people's feelings? The Top-Shelf Club hardly reads like a Hallmark card."

Joaquin's luscious mouth tightened.

Aspen continued to glare at Babe. But there was a question in her eyes. "What the hell is she talking about?"

The polo player didn't answer.

"Ask Joaquin about his friend Eddie," Babe shouted.

Aspen turned to him, curiosity morphing into suspicion.

"Your lover there has a running contest with a buddy," Babe went on. "They like to bed down classy ladies and brag about it on the Internet. I'm sure you'll make the grade, Aspen. After all, you're Mrs. Dean Paul Lockhart. That's real Top-Shelf quality." She paused a beat. "At least on paper."

"Is this true?" Aspen demanded.

"It's just a prank, baby. She's making it out to be something it's not." Joaquin reached for his latest conquest.

But Aspen pushed his hand away.

Two taxis and a Volkswagen Beetle zipped past.

Aspen ventured farther into the street, closer to the holder of the candid proof that would be her marital Waterloo.

Babe watched a Lincoln Town Car coast onto the scene. To avoid mowing down Aspen, it stopped just ahead of Joaquin's building. The rear door opened on the opposite side.

Lara stepped out. She didn't see Babe. She didn't see Aspen. Her concentration on Joaquin was absolute.

Babe knew the affliction well. She had felt it for Jake James once. And the disease didn't disappear overnight, no matter what you were aware of or how badly you were treated. Proof of that was all over Lara's face. The desire for Joaquin had gone to her head like a shot of tequila to a teenage brain. Babe watched her shut the car door and seek him out with need in her eyes.

But then Lara saw Aspen. She froze. As she took in a shocked breath, her face was wiped clean of expression. A second later, Lara registered Babe's presence, too.

Babe knew that this would go down in Lara's personal history as one of her most humiliating moments. That contract was all drawn up. It only needed to be signed.

Lara looked across the street.

Babe beamed back a telepathic message of support and understanding. And then she moved her head up and down in a severe nod that translated:
Yes, that bitch is sleeping with him, too.

Joaquin couldn't seduce his way out of this situation. He looked uncomfortable as hell. All that liquid charisma seemed to be freezing up as he stood there, speechless on Second Street.

Aspen took a step forward, scowling at Lara. "What are
you
doing here?"

Lara stiffened haughtily. "I have no idea." She looked at Joaquin. "But it won't happen again. You can bet on that." Then she slid back into the Town Car, and the driver whisked her away.

Joaquin shook his head and retreated to his building. At the door, he turned to Aspen. "Are you coming?"

“Go to hell!” Aspen screamed.

Joaquin shrugged and disappeared inside.

Babe hiked her camera bag over her shoulder.

"I want that camera! I mean it!" But Aspen made no move to make good on her threat. She just stood in the middle of the road and screamed like a mental patient.

Babe started down the sidewalk. She slipped on her iPod headphones to tune out Aspen. The sleek little music device was cradled in her left hand. She scrolled down until the playlist titled DP lit up. Phil Collins's "Groovy Kind of Love" began to serenade her. It had been playing in the bar that night at the Biltmore. God, she loved this song. She loved Dean Paul, too. Back then . . . and right now.

Several blocks later, Babe called his mobile.

He answered on the second ring but sounded distracted.

Right away she heard voices in the background. "Hi, it's Babe. Is this a bad time?"

"Kind of. I'm in a meeting with Gabrielle and Bizzie Gruzart. What's up?"

"We need to talk. It's important. Can you meet me somewhere?"

There was a hesitation. "Not now. We're in the trenches here. And if I don't work off some stress at the gym later, I just might kill somebody. How about tonight?"

As she tried to mask her disappointment, the mercurial history of Dean Paul's attentions stalked her mind. From the center of his universe to a casual acquaintance. "It would have to be early," she managed to say with an easiness she didn't feel. "I'll have to start the photography gauntlet by eight."

"How about six? Where do you want to meet?"

She thought about it. Sixes and Eig hts came to mind. But so did Hue, the multilevel Vietnamese restaurant and lounge. She liked the seating in the two-room bar. Very sexy. A strong hooking-up vibe. There were intimate couches, too, even a few beds. "Hue," Babe decided. "It's on Charles Street."

"Yeah, I know," Dean Paul said. "I'll see you there." He hung up.

Babe stared at the phone and told herself not to read anything into his curt manner. Just then, a tiny fear registered. Could he know about her involvement in the tabloid photo spread from his wedding? She stopped herself, realizing that
involvement
was too innocuous a word when she had been the mastermind.

Yesterday Babe had come so close to confessing. She had been so angry that she wanted to rub it in his face. At the very last moment, though, she'd backed off. A gut thing told her to. She had earned big money off those pictures and made the Lockharts a laughingstock in the process. She smiled as the image of his mother popped into mind. Babe had luckily captured Sophia Mills during a priceless millisecond when she had lipstick on her teeth. The rag published it under the snarky caption, “Ready for your close-up, Miss Mills?” No, it would never do to come clean on that scheme.

Her ill-fated book deal was altogether different. The Lockharts had squashed her like a bug on that one. It was easy to forgive a failed attempt at betrayal. That's why Dean Paul had been comforting and had given her the you're-so-beautiful pep talk. So the girl from the broken family had thrown a punch and swung into the air. No harm done.

Babe went back to her apartment and proceeded to go about the dreary task of collecting faxes, e-mails, and voice messages for the night's events. She was reading the guest list for a Rihanna CD listening party when Linda Lala called.

"I've been thinking about you," Linda said without preamble. "We should do a project together."

Babe experienced an overwhelming sense of relief. For a moment, she thought her old book proposal was about to come back from the dead and mess up her life.