Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
The limo Barbara had ordered turned out to be an enormous black Yukon Denali that had a stereo system so loud, the side mirrors vibrated with each bass note.
In her red leather skirt, matching jacket with no shirt underneath, stiletto boots, and red fedora, Barbara was giving sexy pimp vibes.
When I climbed in, she looked me up and down appreciatively.
“Nicely done, Nikki,” she told me. “You represent well, and that’s a good red-carpet look.”
The thrill I got at finally receiving a qualification-free compliment from Barbara mixed with panic. “Red carpet?”
She laughed. “Yeah, Second Coming. All those photographers will be curious to see who I’m with—especially when I hype Sugar and its new EIC.”
Barbara wasn’t lying. From the moment we pulled up in front of Hades, a hot new club in the West Village, flashbulbs started popping.
I’d never experienced this level of photographic enthusiasm or anything like the overall scene.
As we lined up to walk the red carpet, we joined a scarlet throng of boldface names, many of whom were slit-eyed and tottering sideways as if they had been pregaming before the event.
“Hey, Barbara!” the photographers called, jockeying for attention. “Over here. Look over here. To the left, please.”
Barbara smiled as if she’d been doing this all her life, then grabbed me by the hand. “Hey, everyone!” she yelled over the din. “Meet Nikki Rose, the new editor in chief of Sugar, the hottest magazine to hit newsstands since Groove!”
The flashbulbs started popping in my direction.
“Over here, Nikki. Smile for us. Who are you wearing? To your right, please. Who made the shoes? How do we spell your first name?” I felt like a star and a total geek all at the same time.
From the corner of my eye I could see Barbara watching me, gauging my performance.
I had no idea how to pose, which way to turn, or who to answer first. I plastered a huge smile on my face and told them I was wearing Catherine Malandrino, Barbara Bui, and Sergio Rossi.
Then I put a hand on my hip like I’d seen celebs do in paparazzi photos—hoping that I didn’t look like a complete fool—and called out, “And my name is Nikki Rose. N-I-K-K-I.”
Barbara smiled approvingly, then led me inside, where I knew for certain that my life had truly changed.
Hades was designed to look like, well, hell.
The jaded New York City clubbers’ version, of course.
Flames shot up the bloodred walls, torture instruments hung from the ceiling, and women in red leather dominatrix outfits danced in suspended cages.
There were also seven different rooms representing the seven deadly sins.
Walking past the lust room, I caught sight of what looked like a tangle of human flesh writhing on the dance floor and on every available sofa.
As I grabbed a glass of champagne from a waitress who wore only a red bra, boy shorts, and thigh-high boots, I sure hoped God had a sense of humor.
The red sea of hard-partying celebs was also like nothing I’d ever seen.
Every time I turned, another celebrity would come into view: Usher, Will Smith, at least two of the Spice Girls, Nelly, Aaliyah, Lenny Kravitz, Lil’ Kim, Justin Timberlake.
Not one person had defied MC RedHot’s strict dress code.
The first person I knew was one of the senior editors from StyleList’s entertainment department. She kissed my cheeks, never actually touching me lest our makeup be smudged, and asked, her voice full of sympathy, “How’s it going, Nikki? Are you okay?”
“Hey, Suzanna. Everything is great. Wait until you see my first issue.”
“Of course, everything is great,” she enunciated carefully, patting my shoulder. “You just keep it up.”
I had no time to react because I felt someone pulling at my hand.
I swung around to find Barbara standing in front of me next to a man with deep umber skin and shiny black curls, wearing a form-fitting red tank top that showed off his muscular arms and diamond-encrusted watch.
He looked me up and down, then ran a hand over his short ringlets, whistling low.
“Barbara Porter, you have outdone yourself this time,” he said.
“You are stupid,” she said, punching his shoulder lightly. “This is Nikki, Sugar’s new editor in chief. Nikki, this is Jerome Jermaine, songwriter and music producer extraordinaire.”
Barbara widened her eyes for emphasis so I knew that this was someone I needed to know. Good thing he seemed pretty eager to know me too. “Well, hello, my dear. Aren’t you the perfect embodiment of a Sugar woman—smart and sexy,” he said, bending down to kiss my hand. “Call me JJ.”
“Why thank you, JJ,” I flirted back, trying to get the hang of mixing work and pleasure. “You are too generous.”
“You have no idea.” He chuckled wickedly. “We should have lunch or, better yet, dinner sometime soon.”
Luckily, Barbara came in with the assist before I had to conjure up a response. “Yes, we’ll all have to hang out soon,” she said, silky smooth. “Now I’m going to take my new girl around.” She winked at him. “See you later, JJ.”
Barbara proceeded to introduce me to enough music label executives, celebrities, and well-lubricated party people to fill the New York Post’s Page Six for years.
I had met a few famous people at StyleList, but this was a different crowd, more Vibe and Village Voice than Vogue and The New York Times.
After a couple hours, my head was spinning from all the famous and infamous hands I’d shaken and cheeks I’d air-kissed—as well as the champagne I’d been nervously drinking like it was Perrier.
Von appeared at that exact moment, girlfriend in tow, with an extra bottle of water.
He was rocking red hammer pants and a loose V-neck knit sweater that revealed a tangle of gold chains against his freckled chest. I gratefully chugged the water while he and his girlfriend had some words in the corner.
She stormed off and Von dejectedly shuffled back to me.
“What happened there?” I yelled over the music.
“I was two hours late to pick her up,” he yelled back. “Now MC RedHot is mad at her, and she’s furious at me. We’re probably a wrap after tonight.”
I was starting to detect a pattern. “Von, how long is your average relationship?”
“About a month. But I once dated a hand model for three months—until I lost her English bulldog in the park.”
He looked glum again, so I pulled him onto the dance floor.
The DJ had just mixed Q-Tip’s “Vivrant Thing” with 702’s “Where My Girls At,” and I needed to keep my mind off my relationship issues as well.
I only lasted a couple songs because my new boots were no match for my energy.
Desperate for a break, I found a cerise leather sectional sofa in a corner and perched on the edge.
Taking another glass of champagne, I was about to get comfy and people watch for a while when I heard a shrill voice behind me.
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” The earsplitting voice carried over the loud music.
I turned to see where the yelling was coming from and was confronted by a svelte woman with long jet-black hair, toasted-almond skin, and gray eyes.
From a distance, she was beautiful, but as she leaned over to me from where she was seated on the other side of the sofa, I could see her hooded eyelids, the brown lip liner sloppily drawn to make her lips look fuller, the tracks of her weave.
“Are you talking to me?” I asked, not sure what to make of the tone of her voice.
She turned to her friends, seated around her like ladies-in-waiting, all tall, striking women in identical tight dresses, and smirked.
“Am I talking to her? This bitch don’t even know,” she said.
They all laughed. Through the clamor, I thought I recognized a voice.
On the sofa’s far arm perched Luna, wearing a low-cut red catsuit.
“Tell her, Serena,” Luna egged the tall woman on.
“Did we invite you to sit here?” Serena wiggled her neck at me, her face inches from mine.
“I didn’t realize I needed to be invited to sit on a sofa in a club,” I said defiantly.
The women all cackled in unison. Serena calmly looked me up and down. “Bitch, this is a reserved area. Puff Daddy”—she practically genuflected when she uttered his name—“is on his way over here and he don’t want to see your sorry ass up in his private VIP, exclusive, reserved section.”
As Luna and her model crew laughed, I debated whether to mock the absurd redundancy of that sentence and stand my ground or roll my eyes and confidently flounce off.
Opting not to be at the center of a bar fight at my first Red Party, I stood to leave.
When I felt another hand on my arm, I assumed it was Barbara wanting me to meet some more people, but I turned to see Kiara, looking amazing in a red Balmain dress with rubies in her ears.
Kiara hugged me hard then twirled me around to check out my outfit.
“Fabulous, love! Next time let’s go shopping together.
Maybe we can score some showroom freebies.
” Then she looked past me to survey the scene on the sofa.
“And what do we have here?” It was clear that Kiara and Serena were not exactly girls.
“I was just leaving. Apparently, Puff Daddy is on his way over and I’m not invited to sit on his special, VIP, exclusive, reserved, private sofa,” I told her, emphasizing every word.