A Not So Model Home Page 12

  From the moment I walked into the restaurant, the liquor was already flowing. And so were most of the guys. From watching Aleksei’s animated movements, it was obvious that he had already downed several glasses of champagne. His idea of staying clean or sober seemed to change with whatever temptation was in front of him at the time. Anything as long as it wasn’t crystal meth.

  There was a lot of gabbing and chatting before the cameras started rolling. You would have thought it was a black-tie fund-raiser the way everyone was so friendly and charming. Their casualness with Keith’s murder was so smug, it really chapped my ass. I was going to get revenge for Keith by not letting myself be upstaged by the rest of the gang. At least that was my logic at the time. The gloves were coming off tonight. Alex was right, it was sink or swim, and I was certainly capable of swimming with the sharks.

  We all sat down to eat.

  Aleksei began, “Ian, I would like to offer again my condolences over the death of your son.”

  One camera swung quickly in Ian’s direction. Ian went into the “distraught father” role for a moment, giving the camera a quick shot as he wiped a tear from his eye.

  Aleksei continued, “I think it goes without saying that we are all going to miss Keith here.” He poured himself another tall glass of wine right to—and over—the edge of the rim, puddling on the table below.

  “Aleksei, I thought you were supposed to stop drinking?” I said, securing my place on the episode for at least a few lines.

  “Hard alcohol, Amanda! Wine and beer is okay, especially if the wine is natural.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to mother you, Aleksei, but someone here has to call you on your behavior. I don’t think that rehab place you went to did you much good.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Beginnings was for chemical addiction. This is wine. It’s different.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything from their twelve-step program?”

  Aleksei huffed. “They only have four steps. People who go there are busy people. They don’t have time for all twelve. Amanda . . . let me say this, and I don’t want you to take this personally: I had one mother already. I don’t need another. Especially a Mommie Dearest.”

  “Aleksei, my suggestion is that you go find some really good cock to suck. You can’t drink with a dick in your mouth.”

  This comeback had the whole table whooping and clapping. I had nailed it!

  While Aleksei’s looks had probably gotten him everything he ever wanted (including things he never knew he wanted), they wouldn’t give him a quick wit. Like I had learned in life, my intelligence occasionally came in handy. Of course, it had also led me to be saddled with four non-paying condos, a house that was never finished, and on the verge of bankruptcy, but in the meantime, I would let my wit shine and have a little fun with it.

  Aleksei dropped his shield and decided not to trade blows with me right now.

  As usual where food was concerned, the guys at the table picked at their food, avoiding carbs like they would the men’s clothing department at Walmart . . . all except one: Marcus. He was chowing down on his appetizer and starting in on the one pushed toward him by Aleksei. He stopped chewing for a moment and got into the fray . . . in the most diplomatic way possible.

  “I have to agree with what Aleksei just said”—chomp, chomp—“I think Keith was a courageous man”—chomp—“a dutiful son, and a great”—chomp—“American.”

  Marcus wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier—or the most interesting or original—but he was consistent: He never stopped brownnosing. Or showing off his muscles. I swear I’d never seen him in anything but a tank top. I’m hazarding a guess that he doesn’t own a long-sleeve shirt. Then it occurred to me, there probably wasn’t a dress shirt made that would fit his inflated body.

  Aurora had to get in her two cents, stealing the thunder I had established a minute ago with my great comment. “Ian . . . you don’t need me to tell you how much Keith meant to all of us. And how the discovery that you had a son was a great blessing in your life that you never expected. That he was taken from us so quickly doesn’t alter the fact that you now have a larger past to explore and your life has so much more meaning. I want to also say this is a wonderful menu! It’s a great tribute to Keith. Basil and pink grapefruit scallops, roasted guinea hen with bay leaves, Madeira, and dates! Elderflower sorbet for dessert. This is going to be luscious, Ian. Thank you.”

  “It’s just a shame that most of it is going to end up in a toilet thirty minutes from now,” I threw in. What? It was the truth.

  Usually, no one ever heard anyone else talking since they were either talking themselves or just didn’t care what anyone else had to say. But it was one of those rare times when everything went suddenly dead silent, leaving my comment hanging in the clear.

  David Laurant burst into a fit of laughter at my comment, clapping his hands wildly. “Boy, does she know us!”

  “I take offense at that model stereotype!” Aleksei countered.

  “Oh, c’mon, Aleksei. It’s a wonder there’s any porcelain left on your toilet bowl with all that stomach acid pouring into it. Or that you even have teeth left. What the vomit didn’t take, the crystal did.”

  I got back in there. “I have to agree with David. You guys can do what you want in your own rooms, but there’s just one bathroom for guests, and you all seem to be using it to yack up in.”

  Aleksei was aghast that anyone would take offense to his purging down the hall. “Well, I don’t want to use my toilet. It would get nasty.”

  “Well, thank you for being considerate of the others, Aleksei. I have to use that toilet since I am not staying here as part of the show, for your information. And additionally, if the rest of you would leave the seat down when you’re finished, that would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Well, for your information, I do not throw up after I eat!” Aleksei snapped. “It’s just that sometimes my stomach is a little unsettled.”

  “Ho-boy,” Gilles said, giving the hornet’s nest a good kick. “Considering za amount of zperm you swallow, it is no wonder your stomach, she is upset.”

  Marcus laughed. “He’s had more cum in him than a donor freezer at a sperm bank.”

  “Well, at least I don’t drink pee!” Aleksei countered.

  “I don’t drink pee! That’s Gatorade I have in my hydration bottle at the gym.”

  “Not all the time,” Drake added.

  “I need to keep my electrolytes up. Whoever started that rumor, I wish they would stop. I’ve never done that, have I, Ian?” Marcus pleaded, hoping to draw Ian into a hasty defense.

  “Marcus, you know I never hiss and tell. Well, hardly.”

  “Well,” David chimed in, “I seem to remember a certain muscular guy running around Jake Harrington’s New Year’s Eve party in L.A. wearing a diaper and peeing in it.”

  Marcus’s face got so red, I thought it was going to pop. Of course, it usually looked like that from the steroids he took to maintain his knockwurst body. So to be accurate, he went from shiny red to more of a blood orange. Stand back. I think he’s going to blow.

  “Well, since we’re on the subject of alternative sexual tastes, David, I guess you had a good view of me from the top of your platform stiletto black vinyl boots. And the latex corset/bustier combo. It is enforced feminization you’re into, isn’t it, Daisy?”

  David was aghast. “You said you would never tell!”

  “I said I would never mention the pony stuff either. But I guess it’s all the same thing: You’re always wearing tall heels.”

  While I tried to figure out what pony stuff was, David puffed himself up and lobbed a Molotov cocktail back at Marcus.

  “Well, when you’re sitting in an adult-sized baby crib and sucking on a pacifier, you don’t have time for shoes. Unless they’re baby shoes.”

  Drake, usually the model for restraint until Darryn came along, tried to douse the flames that seemed to be breaking into a full-fledg
ed wildfire.

  “Guys, guys, could we keep this civilized?”

  “Oh yeah, Drake . . .” Aleksei sputtered, preparing to fire on all cylinders. “You should talk, Mister Dominator . . . beat ’em up for money! Money!” Aleksei laughed. “You welted Ian’s azz so badly, he couldn’t sit down for a billlllion yearssssss!”

  Drake shot one of his bird-of-prey glances, which for the first time failed to intimidate the guys around the table. Maybe it was because we had an audience of millions of people worldwide for protection? I mean, now that we knew that Drake was a professional dominant, he wasn’t going to leap up and beat Aleksei to a pulp. Was he?

  So that explains Drake’s smoldering, dangerous look, I thought to myself.

  “But, Drake, Drake, Dra . . .” Aleksei continued slurring. “I love you. Love you . . . love the way you strangle me un-tillll I cummmmm.”

  From BDSM to autoeroticism, Drake was a busier guy than I thought. So was everyone in the house, for that matter. The whole cast seemed to be involved in a hotbed of sexual interludes, all going on without me so much as suspecting more than a little hide the salami. I felt like a dumb prude.

  I pushed my chair back from the table a few inches just in case I needed to make a hasty retreat. Aleksei quickly poured himself another glass of wine and downed it like it was the last one on earth. Ian, instead of being equally embarrassed, seemed to enjoy the shock value his prurient tastes were going to give the world when the details were released. I guess if you wanted to be remembered, you wanted to go out with a bloody great bang. People rarely remember the polite and unassuming.

  Aleksei continued his scorched-earth policy and finally turned on the one person who had ribbed him so long and hard: Gilles. Aleksei was quickly getting quite drunk, so his insult was not going to be all that witty, but a punch in the mouth was a punch in the mouth.

  “And you, Mister . . . French fry. Gilles,” he said, pronouncing the silent “s” at the end of his name. “Gilles who squeals during sex. Like a pig. That rubber pig mask he wears during sex! That izzz too funnnny! Oink, oink, Gilles!”

  Gilles got up from the table in a huff and headed in the direction of the sideboard to pour himself another tall glass of tomato juice.

  Lance Greenly, who was standing behind the sidelines watching the luncheon being filmed, suddenly spoke up—a rare occurrence since he almost never talked. And talk he did. Or he raised his voice a little beyond his usual squeak. And shook as he talked, he was so angry.

  “You’re all a bunch of nitwits! Empty-headed nitwits! Here, Ian supports you and gives you more money than you deserve, and still it’s never enough. It just turns my stomach to think of the money you’ve taken and never said thanks to Ian. And now here you are, trying to get your hands on even more! Disgusting!” he finished, then walked away.

  Everyone was speechless for a millisecond, then resumed whatever they were doing. My cell phone rang, causing me to scramble to get it out of my purse and fumble to turn it off.

  “I thought we made an announ-ze-ment,” Aleksei said, slurring his speech, “that we were to turn our fuckin’ zell-phones off before we started filming. I guezz that applies to everyone except beards!” he finished, laughing at his own joke, even though it was a private joke.

  Darryn got up from the table to get more food at the buffet on the sideboard. And to get away from the toxic atmosphere at the table.

  I finally got my cell phone out as it continued to ring and vibrate in my hand like a cicada on too much caffeine. I got my finger into the On/Off switch and promptly broke a nail in a jagged—and painful—rip halfway down to my cuticle. “Ow!” I shouted, and shook my hand to relieve the pain. “Okay, it’s off!” I almost shouted back.

  Exactly four seconds later, my phone rang again. I thought I had turned it off, but I guess I didn’t push the slider Silence button completely off. I tried again, but with my broken nail, it wasn’t easy. Or painless. Success at last. I threw the phone down on the table.

  “And I wuh like to say somesin to Auror . . . a. . . . roar-ah now,” Aleksei said, the slurs insinuating their way into more words. He threw back another glass of wine, missing most of his mouth and saturating his shirt collar.

  My cellphone came to life again, vibrating on the tabletop, which amplified the buzzing tenfold as it danced around, doing the hokeypokey. Aleksei, ready to lock his targeting mechanism onto anything that moved or left a heat signature, fired away at me.

  “Ar-man-dah,” he managed to get out. “I know you have sexual needzzz like the rest of uz, but please get your ga-damn vibrator off the table and keep it in the drawer in your ni . . . stand,” he said, laughing.

  I was shocked at how fast the wine was going to his head. He was getting insanely drunk by the second.

  “So where was I?” he asked, giggling at forgetting his train of thought, which was currently derailed. A train wreck, to be more accurate. “Oh, yeah, Au . . . Au. . . . Wowah!” More giggling. “Wait, I forgot,” he said, falling blessedly silent.

  Marcus tried to wrestle the conversation back to something more inert. “Well, wonderful meal, Ian. I guess we’ll have to think of something to do to work this meal off,” he said with a lascivious smile at Ian.

  “Yes, it is,” Darryn said from a safe distance as he spooned some tomatoes onto his plate. “I mean, a wonderful meal, that is.” He finished, then again took his place next to me.

  My phone buzzed again. I looked around and challenged everyone within eyesight to call me on it. Just try me, my eyes blazed. Someone was desperately trying to reach me. Alex, calling to tell me Knucklehead had inadvertently set the house on fire? One of my listings had a gas leak and exploded, leveling the Vista Las Palmas neighborhood? I looked at the phone and it was an MMS multimedia message of a guy’s asshole. Yes, someone had sent me a picture of their asshole. I looked at the sender and surprise! It was none other than my asshole client (pun intended) Vicktor Teller. The message under his unbleached anus:

  You can kiss this good-bye, bitch. I’ll get someone else to sell my house!!!!

  I was three inches from completely snapping. You read about housewives taking all they can, calmly hitting their husbands with a frying pan, then sitting down to watch the afternoon soaps. I was just about to go there.

  The storm had not yet passed, however. Aleksei roared back to life again. Taking off in yet another direction.

  “Oh, I got a piece of gossip. Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot . . . sizzin’ hot fuggin hot. Hot. You ne’er guess who I zaw kissing here in the house! I was shocked. No, diz-gust-ted,” he said, sticking his finger down his throat in a mock vomiting gesture.

  Unfortunately, Aleksei’s motor skills were sorely lacking and he went a little too far down the pipe, erupting in a shower of vomit that spewed out of his mouth in a Niagara of wine and . . . other things I don’t care to mention, or identify. Unfortunately, Aleksei had some motor skills left: He hit me squarely from across the table with pinpoint accuracy.

  “THAT’S IT!” I shrieked like a banshee, composing myself only to the point of being able to force words out through my clenched teeth. “I am so sick of all this horseshit! I can’t take it anymore. I agree with Lance. I’m sick of the way you guys are sucking up to Ian for his money when most of you couldn’t care less about him! All this bitching and moaning, and your eating disorders, your enemas to avoid going to the toilet like poorer people, and going on and on about stuff that’s so stupid and shallow, it wouldn’t even make it into the dialogue of a Quentin Tarantino movie! Bleaching your assholes, plucking your pubes, and now, I learn, acting like babies with pacifiers, cross-dressing, wearing pig masks, and getting spanked so you can’t even sit on your lily-white assholes!”

  Aurora tried to intervene by reaching up and putting a hand on my shoulder, but I wasn’t finished.

  “I’m not finished with all of you yet . . .” I continued, as David and Marcus tried to leave the room. “. . . and that means you too. I’ve listened to all of you fo
r long enough, so now you can stand here until I’ve said what I need to say. I have had it up to here with everything”—I held my level hand to my forehead, then lowered it to my navel and looked straight at Marcus—“and I’ve had it up to here with you! So you’re short and your balls have shrunk to the size of marbles because you’re juicing all the time to make up for the fact that you’re short. So what! The other guys make fun of you! Boo hoo. People say I look like someone punched Kathleen Turner in the nose. So what?!”

  Several of the guys muttered that they finally figured out whom I reminded them of.

  “Since we’re making the rounds, David, I like you, but you’ve got the empathy of an Auschwitz commandant, and you need to find one personality with one look and stick to it. Gilles, you have an amazing butt and a huge cock, and that’s about it. You have none of the wit, the charm, or the sophistication of the people of Paris. I said it at the beginning and I still stand by my original proclamation: You’re just cheap, gold-digging Eurotrash. Drake, you’re another one I’m disappointed in. You’re smart, handsome, and yet you run around Ian’s estate picking up the shit his dogs leave all over the yard. And now I learn you perhaps earn your keep by beating up Ian. I as much as any of you would like to beat up Ian, but, Drake, you’re wasting your life being stuck here because Ian pays you for it. Go out, get a real job. Yeah, it might not pay as much, but at least you won’t have to put up with anyone else’s shit. Darryn? You I like. You’re perfect. Now for Ian. I can’t believe that a man who created this huge empire can be so petty. You have guys followed, you pit the guys against each other, and you don’t seem to care that you had sex with your son. You need to grow up . . . and go get a haircut . . . I hate that ponytail! And to Mrs. Gorky, my client with her overpriced house in Vista Las Palmas,” I said, looking directly at a camera that was capturing me. “Your house is a dump. D-U-M-P! It’s way overpriced! It has the curb appeal of a sewage-pumping station, it smells like Coney Island at low tide inside because you won’t stop cooking sardines for breakfast, and you look like you hired Marilyn Manson to do your makeup. And to my ex-client Vicktor Teller, you’re an asshole, and here’s the photo of yours that you just sent me,” I said, holding the photo on my iPhone to the camera. “Very classy. With all those wide-screen TVs out there, viewers might just be able to take your whole ass in!”