Lights, Love & Lip Gloss Read online

  I blinked, staring into the sea of super-thin models who would be gliding down the runway in gorgeous couture and flawless makeup, then peeked out through the opening of our large tent.

  Huge posters of famous models for fashion designers DKNY, Gucci, and Cavalli hung outside the cathedral’s windows. The cobblestone streets had been literally turned into catwalks. Piazza del Duomo—the heart of Milan’s central square surrounded by glamorous boutiques and charming restaurants—was one of the outdoor venues where paparazzi, VIPs, frantic fashionistas and all of the shakers and movers in the industry from around the globe were gathering for the weeklong fashion events.

  Out of the seventy-four fashion shows, I’d landed spots in ten of them. And probably would have booked more had my hips been narrower, and my camel humps been steamrolled over and flattened down, and my breasts—which were already duct taped—had been bite-size muffins instead.

  Whatever!

  The point was, I was here. Right where my mother wanted me to be. She’d won. Even after my bathroom meltdown last week during dinner with Daddy, she still reigned.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” a shrill voice said, startling me out of my thoughts. I blinked the image before me into view. There stood a strikingly beautiful blond model. She grinned, her blue eyes sparkling. Her skin was as white as porcelain. This was the first time she’d ever opened her mouth to speak, and she’d eyed me and shot daggers enough times in the past weeks to do so. Why now? “London, right?”

  Her words were thickly coated with a Swedish accent.

  I nodded.

  “I’m Annika.”

  I blinked. Okay, and? Everyone knew who she was. One of the fashion world’s most adored teen supermodels who’d been modeling since she was twelve and had graced the covers of hundreds of magazines over the course of her career.

  “I wanted to come over and finally introduce myself before the show started. You’ve been causing quite a stir among some of the other models. Seems like they think you’re going to be the next ‘it’ girl . . .”

  I shrugged my shoulders. Breathing in, deeply. I noticed a few models, a group of white girls, staring over at us, leaning in and whispering. I glared at them, then allowed my eyes to slowly roll back over toward Porcelain Doll.

  “Anyway . . . you are very pretty, for a black girl.” I blinked. “But I don’t see what it is everyone else is making such a big fuss over. Well, good luck . . .”

  Before I could recover from the sting of her faux compliment, someone called out my name. “London, darling! London!” A perfectly coiffed redhead was briskly walking over in our direction, waving, her gleaming red lips curled up into a grin as she approached.

  Porcelain Doll smiled a wide and phony beauty-pageant smile. “Gisella!” she shrieked excitedly as she air-kissed both of the redhead’s cheeks. “I was just wishing London good luck.” Her fakeness was sickening. But I refused to be bothered by it. All I needed to do was get through this week. Then the masquerade would all be over, soon...

  “Nonsense, darling. London doesn’t need luck. She’s a natural. This is her moment, darling. She was born for this.”

  And it’ll be the death of me . . .

  Porcelain Doll looked over at me sheepishly. Phony beyotch!

  My eyes quickly swept around the organized chaos. Toothpick-thin, pouty-lipped, steely-eyed girls fluttered around the dressing area almost robotically as makeup and hair people buzzed around, preparing to transform us.

  I was one of five girls who were of color. But that didn’t matter. The icy glares, cattiness, and silent hostility were reserved for no one in particular. Everyone dished it. Everyone got it, some more than others—like me. They were all stuck-up and nasty. And I was quickly learning that this trick standing next to me was the worst of them all.

  “And today, beautiful London will dazzle us all, no?” this Gisella chick continued, eyeing me before cutting her gaze back over at Annika. “She will make her mark. And become the fashion world’s most talked about. Now run along. I have things to discuss.”

  Before walking off, Annika air-kissed Gisella, then turned to me, doing the unthinkable while catching me totally by surprise—she hugged me, and whispered, “You don’t belong here. I hope you break your ankles down the runway and they send you back to the jungle where you belong.”

  She stepped back as Gisella looked from her to me, then back at her. And at that very moment, I realized that I was really no different from any of the other models who were here when I reached for Annika’s arm—all the while smiling tightly—pulling her back in, ever so close, then whispering through clenched teeth, “Trick, I will punch both of your eye sockets in, then give you a jungle beat-down you’ll never forget, you coke-snorting pasty-face.” I quickly let her arm go. Then added loud enough for everyone in earshot to hear, “I’m not here to be liked by any of you stuck-up skanks. So let this be your warning: Don’t eff with me. And I won’t eff with you. Or I will take my jungle fists and beat your face in.”

  Her eyes widened. I tilted my head. Then flashed her a phony smile. She got the hint and scurried off. The Gisella chick clapped her hands. “Love it! So Naomi Campbell, darling! Good for you! Don’t ever let any of these little snots walk all over you. This industry is full of haters.” She introduced herself, firmly shaking my hand. “I’m Gisella Grace with Grace Modeling Agency. And you, darling, are absolutely gorgeous. Breathtaking. Stunning. We would love to represent you. I saw the Pink Heat ad that starts running next week. Love it! And with Jade Obi as your mother, my darling, the sky is truly the limit. Everyone will want a piece of you.”

  I cringed. I wanted desperately to tell her I’d already reached my limit. That my mother, whom everyone seemed to adore, had already stretched and pulled and dragged me as far as I could go. I wanted to tell her that I was already at the end.

  My end.

  There was nowhere else for me to go.

  My mother’s voice clanked in my head.

  “London?” she’d started as she stepped across the threshold of my suite and walked into my sitting area. She’d found me sitting listlessly, blindly staring at my favorite Swarovski butterfly. I’d been sobbing off and on ever since Daddy and I’d finally made it home the night of my breakdown. He’d carried me all the way out of the restaurant and held me in his arms until the valet returned with his Bentley. Then he literally slid me into the backseat and strapped me in. Daddy was shaken. He’d never seen me so... broken. I could see his anguish for me. He felt my sorrow. I heard it in his voice. Saw it in his face. And I’d felt it in the way he’d held me in the same way he used to when I was a little girl and would have a scary dream. I was that little girl again.

  His frightened, shivering, baby girl. Daddy’s little angel.

  But I wasn’t his little baby girl anymore. I had grown up and told a bunch of lies and broken a ton of rules. Daddy’s little angel had long disappeared. My wings had been clipped. And my halo had been replaced by a set of sharp, pointed horns.

  My tear-flooded confession—about how I’d been seeing Justice behind his and my mother’s backs, sneaking him in and out of our estate, along with my plot to fix him up with Rich in hopes of scamming her into falling in love with him and helping him get a music deal with her father’s record company—was proof of that.

  Daddy said nothing. He listened. Whatever he thought or felt, he’d kept to himself. And as he solemnly drove off from the restaurant that evening, he’d glance up in his rearview mirror every so often, struggling to find something, anything, to say that would soothe me. And each time, he’d come up blank. He looked as defeated as I felt. We both knew there was nothing he could say or do to take away what I was going through. What I had put myself through. My pain would have to run its course. Until then...

  “London? I’m speaking to you,” my mother continued, her hand planted deep into the bone of her hip. Her tone was indifferent, yet laced with a silent edge. She was livid. I glanced over at her, then shifted my e
yes. I braced myself for a tirade I was certain would follow. I half expected her to slap my face, then drag her nails into my flesh and rip my skin off. But this was one of those rare moments when she and Daddy were home, under the same roof—together, so she’d keep her anger in check. Still, I kept my head down, not wanting to see the fury burning on her face. I kept my eyes trained on my hands in my lap, staring at the balled-up tissue I’d been clinging to.

  “I’m not exactly sure what happened this evening while you were out with your father,” she’d continued. “But he’s very distressed. He tells me you had some kind of meltdown during dinner. And that he doesn’t think it’s best for you to fly back to Milan next week. Is that what you want? To quit because of some emotional crisis?”

  I shrugged.

  “Look at me,” she’d demanded, impatiently waiting. I turned my head back toward my crystal butterfly. I dared not look at her in fear I’d lunge out of my seat and... God forbid. “Well, that’s not acceptable. So no matter what you’re going through, the show still must go on. Pulling out now is in poor taste. You have an obligation. People are counting on you. I am counting on you. You made a commitment. One you need to honor up until the very last flash. Once we’ve returned to the States, if you wish to no longer model, then fine. We’ll discuss your options then. But for now, whatever dark hole you’ve gotten yourself into, figure out a way to get out of it by the time our plane takes off. You will not embarrass me. Do I make myself clear, London?”

  I slowly turned my head and glared at her. “Very.” I turned back away. There was nothing more to say to her. I hated her. I waited until she’d left, then sobbed all over again. Even though I was angry with her, I half hoped she’d put her disappointment and her anger aside for once and console me. I needed, wanted, her to pull me into her arms. I wanted compassion. Something. Not some gestapo! Not some crazed woman wildly wielding a coat hanger at me! I wanted a mother!

  I felt the tears coming.

  “Well, my darling,” Gisella chirped, silencing my thoughts as a short, thin woman in flip-flops and a long black skirt, wearing oversized oval glasses and burnt orange hair summoned me, “it’s almost showtime. Do us proud, my love. All eyes will be on you.” She pulled me in by the shoulders and air-kissed me, then sauntered off, leaving me feeling flustered.

  I spotted Annika sitting in front of a lighted mirror while several makeup and hair people fussed over her. I rolled my eyes, walking over toward my dressing screen. It’s almost over. Just have to push through it. Give ’em what they want.

  “Hi. London, right?” Burnt Orange asked, smiling as she slid a row of pins between her lips. I nodded. “Good. I’m Amber. Now let’s get you ready.” She reached for my first outfit, pulling it off the rack as I started to undress. Within minutes the dress—black snakeskin with a V-shaped neckline—was being pulled down over my hips, then zipped. The dress wrapped around my body like gauze. “DeAndre, makeup!” she yelled, and then, just like that, she was gone. And a tall, brown-skinned guy rocking a blond Mohawk and multiple tattoos and a lip piercing stood in front of me.

  “London Phillips,” he said, whisking me into a chair in front of a mirror. “I’ve heard about you. Yes, yes, yes! Do me, baby! You are giving me face. And body for days.” He raised a big manly hand in the air, stamping a booted foot. “Honey, you are giving me life!”

  In spite of myself, I couldn’t help but smile at his flamboyance as he whipped brushes and powders and tubes out of his black apron. He talked a mile a minute, going on and on and on about the show and the designers and what celebrities might be in the audience, along with the slew of magazine editors. He gossiped and chatted about which models snorted coke, did Mollies, popped pills, and slept around. I half listened, my mind drifting in and out.

  “Jade, what were you thinking, telling London she needed to have plastic surgery?!” I’d overheard Daddy yelling in his study—something he’d rarely done—late in the evening when I’d crept downstairs toward the kitchen. The yelling is what stopped me in my tracks. The thick double doors were cracked open slightly. “Are you out of your mind? There is nothing wrong with the way she is. The only thing your berating and belittling has done is damage her self-esteem.”

  “I have done no such thing!” my mother snapped. “And I resent you for saying that! I have done nothing but the very best for our daughter.”

  I heard Daddy snort. “Yeah, and look where that’s gotten her! London needs a mother, not some obsessed woman who’s neurotic about her weight, body, and looks.”

  “I am not neurotic! There is nothing wrong with me wanting our daughter to always be and look her very best.”

  Daddy grunted. “At what cost, huh, Jade? You’ve done nothing but browbeat her and make her feel worthless. You’ve broken her spirit. You did that. When’s the last time you hugged our daughter, huh? Or told her you loved her?”

  “London knows I love her! I tell her all the time!”

  “Is that before or after you’ve put her down?”

  “Turner, you will not stand there and put how London’s turned out all on me! She’s just as much your child as she is mine.”

  “Yeah, a child you couldn’t be bothered to carry for nine months . . .”

  “I gave you a child, Turner! I gave you what you wanted! What more did you want from me?!”

  “I wanted you, Jade! You! Not some surrogate because you were too goddamn concerned about gaining weight!”

  I choked back a scream. A surrogate? My own mother didn’t even carry me in her own womb. No wonder I’d never seen any pictures of her during her pregnancy with me. I’d asked her about it and she’d always found a way to be elusive. Always found a way to be evasive. Now I knew why. I was a test-tube baby!

  As I stood by the door, eavesdropping on my parents arguing—about me, over me—I felt my stomach churn. I felt guilty for prying. But it was about me. I had a right to know. Didn’t I?

  “You’ve done nothing but put your modeling career before me, our daughter, and this marriage!”

  “Oh, don’t you dare even go there with me, Turner Phillips! Like you haven’t put your law practice before this marriage! I was modeling way before I met you. You knew it was my life!”

  “And wanting to be a mother and wife, instead of galloping up and down runways, should have also been your life, Jade! It’s what you signed up for when you married me! But it wasn’t your life. And now look at us! Look at our daughter! I’ve always stepped back and let you raise London the way you saw fit, but I see now that that was one of the biggest mistakes I made. I should have been more involved.”

  “Yes, Turner, you’re right! Maybe you should have been, instead of running off to your filthy mistress every chance you got!”

  I covered a hand over my mouth. Felt my knees buckle. So the rumors had been true all along. My perfect father wasn’t so perfect. His shining armor wasn’t so shiny anymore. It was tarnished. It had chinks. Daddy was a cheater! And now I knew my mother’s perfect little world wasn’t so perfect.

  “You better serve them, diva!” DeAndre snapped, spinning me out of my daze as the chair turned back toward the mirror. I blinked. “Oh no, oh no! No tears, Miss Superstar! Snap outta that funk!” He spun me back around and yanked out a white napkin, dabbing under my eyes, then retouched my eyeliner. He spun me back around. “Behold! Now this is what beautiful is!”

  I blinked again. He’d given my eyes a dark, sultry look and painted my lips in dark plum. My hair was gelled down tight to my head with a straight side part, then gave way to an explosion of big bouncy curls. I almost didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me. She looked bold and daring. She was beautiful and sophisticated. She was everything I wanted to be, all the time. But couldn’t be. Didn’t know how to be.

  I felt myself slowly unraveling. But it was different this time. I didn’t feel lost and vulnerable. I felt... I felt... I don’t know. Okay with it. Strangely at peace with it if that made any sense.

  “You’r
e pathetic, yo . . .”

  “Honey, you got these little skanks shakin’ in their heels.” DeAndre snapped his fingers. “Okay? I don’t care what the haters say . . .” He spun me around again, then again, stopping the chair in front of him. He lifted my chin and stared into my eyes. “You are hot like fiyah, boo! Now go out there, pop them hips, and burn that catwalk down to the ground!”

  That being said, it was showtime. Everyone started scrambling, shoulder-bumping anyone in the way, out of the way. This was the moment everyone’d been waiting for. Now I waited too. Everything would be all over soon. The show began. And the first thirteen outfits down the runway were a flurry of flounces, frills, and puffy sleeves and cinched-waist silhouettes. It was all happening so fast. Models stumbled off the stage one after the other, quickly rushing back to get into their second outfits. And now... I was up next.

  I inhaled deeply as I waited my turn to walk. Back straight. Chin lifted. Eyes open and focused ahead of the cameras, I stepped out into the blinding lights and pretended to be someone I wasn’t.

  A famous runway model.

  3

  Spencer

  My phone tolled. Oh no, oh no! Then it rang again and again.

  I slowly lifted my mask, glancing at the time. It was six a.m. SIX o’clock in the frick-frackin’ MORNING! But I couldn’t get loosey-goosey and go cluck-cluck cuckoo over the caller disrupting my beauty sleep this time, because the ringtone—“Hakuna Matata” from The Lion King—told me who it was.

  “Hello?” I answered groggily.

  “Cleola, baby?” the gruff voice on the other end whispered.

  I blinked. “Huh?” I pulled the phone away from my ear to check the caller ID. It was Daddy. It sounded like Daddy. But the man on the other end of the phone wasn’t acting like Daddy. “Daddy? Why are you whispering?”

  “You better hide, Cleola Mae. They coming for you, baby.”