Free Bling Addiction by Kylie Adams Page B

living with such freedom about who she was—openly and unapologetically.
    “Do you have a girlfriend?”
    Christina drew back, thunderstruck by the question. It was the first time anyone had ever asked or assumed anything about her sexuality. The answer rolling around in her mind was no, but the words that came spilling out of her mouth were, “How did you know?”
    Keiko grinned. “I can just tell. Take me to the baby wing at a hospital. I’ll point out every newborn gay boy and girl and won’t be wrong about any of them.”
    Christina experienced a strange sensation. She took a soul-searching moment to identify the feeling. It was relief. For the first time in her life, she had been completely honest with another person. And instead of being afraid, she felt emboldened.
    Keiko beamed a mischievous smile. “I think we could get into a lot of trouble together.”
    Now Christina was frightened. Because she liked the sound of that. She liked the sound of that very much indeed.

From: Mimi
    Whatever happened to Vanity St. John?
    9:27 am 10/31/05

Chapter Seven
    W hatever happened to Vanity St. John?
    Vanity read the text and mulled over half a dozen bitchy responses, ultimately tapping out none of them. Did it even matter anymore?
    Three months had passed since the accident. And in the world of celebrity PR where one is famous for being famous and not famous for possessing any demonstrative talent, three months might as well be three years.
    Whatever happened to Vanity St. John?
    Did the fawning public really want to know the gory details of her miserable life? No. Would the hacks for People, Us Weekly, and Star actually scribble down a story that had nothing to do with designer clothes, dating, or the alleged ongoing feuds with Lindsay Lohan and Katee K? Hell no.
    Mimi Blair might be a clever pitch-and-spin girl, but she was hardly Zatanna, Mistress of Magic. There was no sexy hook to the purgatory that had become Vanity’s isolated existence.
    When her Mercedes crashed into the fuel tanker, the difference between serious injury and certain death had been inches apart. She narrowly avoided going out in an explosive fireball blaze. Instead, she got crushed like a soda can, cracking several ribs and shattering her tibia in what the doctors called a triple displaced spiral.
    You’re lucky to be alive.
    That’s what the first responders on the scene had told her. But she didn’t feel lucky then. And she didn’t feel lucky now.
    There was a metal plate in her leg. There were eight screws holding it down. Usually, one surgery was enough to get the job done. But in her case, complications had required four.
    The doctors ordered twelve weeks of bed rest, clearing her only to use the bathroom. So she just lay there day after day, crying uncontrollably from the agony, the muscle cramps, and the spasms.
    Her reliance on painkillers became a concern early into her so-called recovery. They said she was displaying classic symptoms of addiction and took away her precious Vicodin, immediately switching her to Ultram, an arthritis medication. It helped with the pain, so she endured the ugly side effects—swelling, skin rashes, and constant dry mouth.
    It was slow torture. She suffered diarrhea from the strong antibiotics prescribed to prevent bone infection, and beyond that she suffered constipation from the calcium tabs that they told her to chew like candy.
    The endless hours stretched to endless days, the endless weeks to endless months. Her depression seemed bottomless, and Vanity plunged deeper and deeper into it, refusing visits from friends and ignoring their calls. Yet when the odd moment of wanting company materialized, she bitterly resented them for not being there. Soon she grew to hate Max, Christina, Pippa, and Dante more than she grew to miss them. She knew this was irrational and unfair. But these were her feelings.
    Vanity’s life became a cocoon of sleep, television, and more sleep, the monotony broken only by