Reunion Girls (29 page)

In the darkness, it was difficult to make them out, their faces partially shielded by baseball caps, their clothing nondescript.

"Leave me alone." Her voice was loud, firm, and clear.

"What was that? I can't hear you, tar baby. Speak up." It was the same voice—the leader, the straw stirring this increasingly sickening drink. His two companions were obvious underlings.

She surveyed the scene and experienced a mounting panic. Tuesday was not a typical party night, and as her watch ticked past one in the morning, this area of the campus appeared to be deserted. The sense of invasion infuriated her. All she wanted to do was take a walk, get some air, and clear her head.

Spinning back around, she extended her walking strides and hoped they would lose interest. When she heard them approach, it was too late.

"Don't play so hard to get, brown sugar." He grabbed her and pulled her in the direction of a wooded area.

Gabrielle got in one scream before the hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her. She tried to fight back. But his strength overpowered her at no contest.

They forced her deeper into the woods and shared jokes, as if the inevitable were a spirited group-sex adventure and not rape. "I can't wait to get a taste of this brown sugar. I bet that boyfriend liked it. Now I'm going to try it."

The reference paralyzed her. Was this just trash talk? Or did he actually know Dean Paul? Gabrielle tried to adjust her eyes. But the mixture of her fear with the darkness left her almost blind.

They pushed her down into the dirt. The leader went first. He tore into her roughly as the others chanted him on. In a minute or two it was over. The next man took his turn. But his penis was soft.

"Maybe you'd get hard if we'd run into a boy."

He gave up under the harsh ridicule as the third man forced himself into her mouth.

By then her mind had shut down. All Gabrielle could think about was how out of the realm it was. Beyond any ken of her understanding. Her parents had raised her in their white Utopia, a place where she thought nothing bad could ever happen. And right now she hated them for it. Would she ever be able to forgive?

When they stumbled away, Gabrielle mechanically put herself back together and returned to her on-campus apartment. She went to bed and woke up the next morning in the same clothes. If there had not been dirt in her underwear, she never would have believed that it had happened . . .

She prepared herself for the full day ahead. Bizzie Gruzart was meeting her at the hotel for breakfast. There were hairstyle, manicure, and makeup artist appointments. After that, she would rendezvous with Lara at Bergdorf Goodman to select a wardrobe for the interview. Dean Paul had told her to expect the
Hollywood Live
crew at about one-thirty.

Gabrielle took in a deep breath as she slowly conjured up the courage to speak of that horrible night for the first time. She had never uttered a word of it to anyone. But today she would break her silence about what had happened to change her. And, more importantly, who had been responsible.

Come on, brown sugar. Give us some of that sweet chocolate.

Now Gabrielle had a face to go with that voice.

It was Jake James.

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

It's called gravity, darlings. What goes up, must come down. And did that quick-talking, hard-punching cable creep ever fall fast. Certainly you tuned in months ago when the hip-hop queen for a day told that harrowing tale of college rape. Riveting television. Mr. Motor Mouth can deny, deny, deny, but is anybody on his side? Not a certain news network. The suits booted his show off the air. Another book? Don't hold your breath. The first one had a successful launch, but tanked once the bombshell detonated. Another job on TV? Not in this lifetime. Analysts say the man is walking anthrax to female viewers. Spies report that a criminal case never got off the ground because the accuser would not submit to the he said/she said ugliness of a trial. Is she scared of a defamation suit? Not this tigress. Rumors insist that she's ready to countersue in civil court if he so much as looks in her direction. One of those high-powered agents told moi that this former up-and-comer has sunk so low that he's considering a local talk-radio job in Nebraska. How delightful to hear that they have radios in the state. Yours truly thought they just grew corn there.

Dean Paul

"WE COULD BE IN BED." Emma Ronson placed her hand on the inside of Dean Paul's thigh as she said this.

"That's false advertising. If we were, you'd be sleeping right now."

Emma gave a defeated little sigh. "You try getting up at three in the morning five days a week."

"Hey, I kiss you good-bye."

"You lay there like a crash test dummy. Occasionally, you pucker your lips."

"Like this?" Dean Paul did the honors.

Emma leaned in to meet her luscious, glossy lips with his. "Mmm . . . are you sure we have to do this?"

He skated his tongue softly along the ridge of her lower lip. "I'm positive."

"I don't know which is worse," Emma said.

"What's that?"

"A man who's still on good terms with his ex-girlfriends or a man who's not."

Dean Paul hooked an arm around her, his fingers grazing the fine silk of her Hermes blouse. She could protest from here to Sixty-First Street. But Emma Ronson was ready to see the women who had come before her. And she was ready for them to see her, too.

Along with the insanely expensive blouse, she wore a Gaultier tweed skirt, black Wolford tights, and smart Prada flats in a country brown. She looked very adorable. And very cool. With her knife-blade-straight blond hair and rose-cheeked complexion, it was stylish English schoolgirl all the way. The kind of beauty that women envied supportively and men coveted respectfully.

For a girl under thirty, Emma Ronson had accomplished a lot. There was the double degree from the University of Miami in broadcast journalism and political science. The quick ascension at NBC-owned NewsChannel Four to weekday co-anchor of the top-rated
Today in New York,
which aired from five to seven each morning.

That meant rising out of bed at the ungodly hour of three. It also meant no sex after eight o'clock. She was Manhattan's girl. The city had an intimate relationship with her. Everybody woke up with Emma Ronson. But Dean Paul went to bed with her. Game, set, match. Her universal appeal only seemed to tick upward each day. Emma could do something as quotidian as admit her personal finance frailties in one segment, and then hold her own against Senator Rand Paul in the next.

As the cab slowed to a stop in front of Feinstein's at the Regency, he laced a hand through hers and squeezed tightly. They swung out of the taxi at eight twenty-nine. The show started at eight-thirty. On the street a ripple of awareness began to percolate. Inside the elegant cabaret it reached full potential. She was New York's favorite girl. He was America's favorite son. They were together. And the sighting was an event.

The house lights went down.

Dean Paul guided Emma to the reserved cafe-style table near the front. Gallantly, he ushered his fiancée into her chair. Then he slid into his own seat like a little boy late for assembly.

A few tables away he saw Lara and Babe. Two parts of an unbeatable trinity here to support the third. They looked amazing.

Life agreed with Lara. It always had.

And Babe carried herself with a new confidence, the kind that radiated true internal worth, not external arrogance subbing for insecurity.

The offstage announcer made the simple introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . please welcome Varese Sarabande recording artist . . . Gabrielle Foster."

The soft, theatrical gel lights went up.

She walked out onto the small stage in an Atelier Versace mermaid gown. The Swarovski crystals sparkled. The hand-painted silk tulle gleamed. Her deep copper skin glowed.

Applause erupted.

The loudest appreciation came from her parents, Matthew and Diahann Foster. They were standing up, whistling like mad, and beaming with pride in tribute to the daughter who had come back to them.

After the bombshell interview that had destroyed Jake James, Gabrielle returned home to Grosse Pointe, Michigan. The sojourn lasted a few months. It was a time to heal and reconnect with the world and the people she had rejected. The reunion proved enriching, both emotionally and creatively.

Dean Paul learned this for himself when he conducted the follow-up story for
Hollywood Live.
Gabrielle, back in the postcard-perfect place of her youth, enjoyed long, lazy days. She spent countless hours with her mother and father's old record collection, immersing herself again in the soft, easy listening sounds of Barbra Streisand, Neil Diamond, Rita Coolidge, and Roberta Flack.

The rediscovery of the soundtrack from her childhood elicited a new discovery of the voice within. Her voice. Gabrielle could sing. It was a subtle, sultry instrument, a pure talent never hinted at during the staccato rapping sessions from her work as Brown Sugar.

Varese Sarabande, a boutique recording label based in California, signed her with great alacrity. Soon after, she began the process of recording her first traditional vocal CD, a collection of contemporary standards that her parents had taught her to appreciate. It was their culture. It was hers, too.

Months later, her new project enjoyed a quiet release. By then, the bombastic tabloid attention was gone. There were new scandals to pound mercilessly into the public consciousness. Like the one involving Aspen Bauer in Los Angeles. His ex-wife and Joaquin Cruz had fled the scene of an accident that left a young pedestrian in a coma. Criminal charges were pending.

Dean Paul shut his eyes for a moment as the piano player's fingers danced across the keys in the opening bars of Gabrielle's first number. He thought about what she had told him, about this second chance in the music business being so much sweeter. She preferred the intimacy of a small label. It left her free to connect with the music. And here tonight, in this venue that seated no more than a hundred and forty, it left her free to connect with the audience.

The piano player found the melody.

Gabrielle closed her eyes, parted her lips, and swept him away. Her vocals were as close as a whisper in the ear, her delivery as heartfelt as a woman thinking while writing a letter to a lover.

Dean Paul Lockhart eased back and sipped his Belvedere on the rocks. He watched the gorgeous singer. He listened to her beautiful song. And it dawned on him that the lyrics were the story of his life.

"I'd rather leave while I'm in love . . . while I still believe the meaning of the word . . ."

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

"The more things change, the more things stay the same." If this scribbler had a dollar for every time dear sweet Granny said that, you could pick any finger and be sure to find a nice-sized pink diamond on it. The woman was brilliant! Don't believe moi? Read on, darlings. It's been a year since the wedding of the century (which became the quickie divorce of the century), and the groom's sassy exes have moved up and on. Missy Party Planner is sporting a rock from that scrumptious young plastic surgeon. A cutie, a doctor, and free Botox! All together now . . . we hate her
.
Missy Shutterbug is all the rage with her coffee-table book on New York nightlife and a series of exhibitions in snooty art galleries. Don't worry. She's not crying herself to sleep. Spies say she's keeping company with a hunky Broadway star. And Missy Rapper-Turned-Chanteuse is packing them in at that intimate cabaret spot. Plus, rumors are swirling that she's singing love songs to her own musical director. Ooh—very Michelle Pfeiffer in
Fabulous Baker Boys.
Are you wondering about Mr. Wonderful, that miracle man who once had all of them in a tizzy? Well, you can't teach an old dog new tricks (another one of Granny's favorites). His exclusive relationship with Missy Morning News Anchor is kaput. How does yours truly know this? The poor thing was sobbing about it to her girlfriends just one table away at Sixty-Six. It's a paradox for the ages. How a woman can go from Supergirl to Basket Case based on one man's attentions. Quick! Somebody stamp a warning label to this guy's forehead: danger—heartbreak ahead.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 

J.J. Salem is a
USA Today
bestselling author whose work has been published in several languages. As a young teenager, J.J. worked odd jobs to splurge on the hardcover edition of Jackie Collins’
Hollywood
Wives. At 15, his first attempt at something Jackie-ish, a short story called “Tempt Me,” was banned from a high school creative writing contest. In college, he studied Jacqueline Susann’s
Valley of the Dolls
as the primary subject of his master’s thesis in American Studies. He has published 22 books in a wide array of genres, including suspense, romance, chick-lit, teen fiction, and celebrity biography.

Visit my website to learn about more titles and to receive a free ebook, the sinfully glam novelette VEGAS ENVY.
 

www.jjsalem.com