Free A Very Dirty Wedding by Sabrina Paige Page A

and I push her away, shaking my head.  "Not tonight."
    Seth puts his hands up in the air.  "What the fuck, man?"
    I don't even answer.  I suddenly feel sober, even though I've had four shots.  I also feel pathetic in here, surrounded by my lame friends in this shithole bar, my boots sticking to the floor that feels like it has ten fucking years of filth caked on it, listening to the worst band in the world play covers of shitty songs. "Later," I yell, knowing they won't bother to come after me as I go.  They're too busy chasing pussy and getting trashed.
    Outside, I catch a cab that takes me back out to my mother's place in Malibu.  The house is empty, the sound of my footsteps on the floor echoing through the space.  I'm tempted to yell 'hellooooo' like a fucking kid, just to listen to my voice reverberate through the rooms.
    The place looks ridiculous.  Everything is white -- white marble floors, white walls, white sofa with chrome legs resting on a white area rug.  This is what I've returned to, the newest redecoration of this place, Ella's attempt to "cleanse" everything.
    Walking into my remodeled bedroom the other night was a grand surprise, with the white bed in the middle of the room and a white bedspread that is practically blinding.  I considered hiring painters to paint the whole fucking place black, but decided it was too much effort to spend on irritating my mother.
    The only color in the whole damn place are the paintings, some modern art shit she has hung on the walls so people will think she's more than just a movie star.  She's an art aficionado.  She has taste, people.  She has class.
    Yeah, right.  She can pretend she shits roses all she wants, but it's still shit.  I know the truth, about Ella's past and about my father that Ella tried so desperately to bury.  I'm the reminder that no matter how many awards she wins, no matter how much public perception about her has changed since she's started devoting all her time to causes and visiting war-torn countries, she can't get away from the past.
    I lay down on the bed without bothering to take off my boots.  Ella will just have someone fix the designer bedspread that I'm sure is spun with only the finest silk imported from Mongolia or some shit.  I don't know if they make silk in Mongolia, but it sounds like something Ella would pay for.
    People think I'm just a spoiled rich kid, way too privileged and full of angst about my fairy-tale life.  I'm over-privileged, but I'm not full of angst.  I just don't play a role like these other assholes, the Hollywood types or the uptight kids at Brighton who step on each other as they claw their way to the top.  I'm honest and people don't like it.
    My mother certainly hates it.
    But I don't hide who I am under a veneer, white-wash my life like this damn house.  And that's good enough for me.
    I'm leaving tomorrow for New Hampshire.  The power couple has requested my presence, and Ella has booked me a first class ticket.  There's a fucking pancake breakfast -- how hokey is that?  We're all going to sit around and pretend to be one big happy family, eating breakfast in front of the cameras.  I'm going to pretend that I'm adjusting to life with Daddy Dearest and his perfect daughter.  The daughter I get hard just thinking about.
    It's fucking New Hampshire.  I might even wear a polo shirt.  That will give Senator Douchebag a damn coronary.
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Katherine
     
    "She's a total bitch, right?" Jo asks, snapping her gum.  "Or she's got some kind of terrible real-life deformity that never shows up on the cameras?  Tell me she's not perfect."  Jo squeezes out a giant gob of sunscreen and slathers it across the creamy skin on her arms, setting the bottle in between us.  I pick it up and do the same.  Rose is right; the sun feels warm on my skin, and Jo's presence here lifts my mood.
    It's almost enough to erase the sense of impending doom I feel thinking about my father and Ella's