The Liar's Club

by Layla Jordan

Genres: Sports Romance

Synopsis

The lap of luxury isn't all caviar dreams for three fake friends. . .

Thanks to her mega-producer new husband, Sinclair Fines has everything she's ever dreamed of until her not-quite-ex-husband gets out of the pen with blackmail on his mind. . ..

Brijetta Hamilton is married to the hottest action star in Hollywood. Every tabloid wants to know how the former plus-sized girl managed to pull it off. . ..

Jalessa Love was once hailed as the next IT girl, but after pulling one diva stunt too many, she's hustling to keep her name relevant. So what if it means making a play for both Sinclair and Brijetta's husbands. Backstabbing is never personal. It's only business--show business. . ..

"Readers prepared for hardcore sex scenes, domestic violence, and plenty of explicit trash talk will find just what they're looking for." --Publishers Weekly

Release date: March 5, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Whoever said “money can’t buy you love” has never so much as stepped a pinkie toe onto Rodeo Drive. Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Christian Dior, their mere existence is proof that there’s heaven on earth. Every time I strut down the pristine three-block stretch of expensive boutiques, I feel and look like a billion bucks. And why shouldn’t I? I’m a dime diva. Long locks (weave), even golden honey complexion (MAC), and coke-bottle curves that make even the white boys’ tongues in this Barbie-doll-infested town roll out of their heads. Hell, I don’t mind. My big tits, small waist, and round ass are about the only real things my momma gave me. My street smarts and hustler mentality are courtesy of my father, God rest his soul. Add all those wonderful attributes together, and you get a fierce bitch who has landed herself an insanely rich producer husband, Omar Fines.

Omar. The first thing that pops into my mind whenever I think about him is cha-ching. I mean the man has mad loot. None of that hood rich bullshit that’s an epidemic in my hometown. I’m talking no limits. We have three homes in the States—Beverly Hills, Manhattan, and the Hamptons—and two homes in Europe—Paris and Spain. Not to mention the yachts, Learjets, and fleet of Italian cars. I’d like to say this is the lifestyle that I’ve always dreamed of, but before I met Omar, I didn’t know people lived like this—let alone black people. I mean, I’d heard of rich people, but you really have no idea what money can buy unless you have it. Now, I know that may sound a bit ignorant, but check it. I’m from the gutters of Detroit. My mother, Felicia, crackhead extraordinaire, was so trifling that we kept getting kicked out of the projects. Do you know how hard it is to get put out of public housing? That takes a special kind of fuckup. So for most of my teenage years, I didn’t have an address. We laid our heads down at whoever’s friend of the moment would take us in.

Now look where I am. So what if my head is a little blown up? Let me kick back and enjoy the shit for however long this is going to last.

Money can’t buy you love. Puh-lease. I love my homes, jets, boats, and cars. I love my apartment-sized walk-in closets that look like mini-boutique stores. I love my jewelry. I love this entire lifestyle. But if the question is do I love my husband, Omar? Well, that’s a little more complicated. True, he looks a hell of a lot like that actor in the old Rocky movies, Carl Weathers. Tall, chocolate, and totally ripped from the hours he spends pumping iron in the gym—well, that and his extensive steroid use. The latter left his dick so small that the first time I saw it I thought about filing a missing dick report. Don’t laugh. Marrying a small dick is a serious adjustment, and it’s not something that a woman should do all willy-nilly without weighing the pros and cons.

Okay. So there wasn’t that much deliberation. I snatched that five-carat, emerald-cut diamond ring before Omar’s knee hit the floor. Hell, in that moment, I thought, I can do this. I’ll just buy tons of sex toys. Sheeiit.

I totally underestimated how much I love a good dicking down. If you don’t agree, then I hate to be the one to tell you that you just ain’t had a brother that hit it right. I love sex—and not just the standard three positions: missionary, cowgirl, and doggie style. I’m a certified freak and unrepentant dick addict who needs a helluva lot more than what my husband is working with. So ... I creep.

Surprise, surprise, right?

And don’t judge me. I hate that shit. All that finger-pointing and gossiping bullshit when you know damn well deep down inside that if you were dealing with a grown man with a dick a few inches bigger than your clit, you’d be doing the same thing. Hell, most of America creeps nowadays. Look at our politicians, movie stars, professional athletes—hell, look to some of your own family members. Chances are you know quite a few people on the creep, if you’re not doing it yourself.

The trick is not to get caught, which is difficult in the age of camera phones, YouTube, and saved text messages. Pulling off a successful creep is equivalent to obtaining a PhD in neuroscience out here. But let me be real: As long as Omar’s money is raining, I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to keep it right and tight, and play my position as the perfect Hollywood trophy wife for as long as the position is available.

Today is another sunny California day when I step out of my custom-made, white Bentley Mulsanne dressed in a Prada baby blue scoop-neck dress that hugs my hips and caresses my swaying black girl booty. My matching pumps add four inches on my 5’9” frame, while my wrists, neck, and ears are blinged out by that patron holy saint Harry Winston.

To look at me, one would make the mistake that I was born into the lifestyle of the rich and famous instead of the hard streets in the south side of Detroit, but what people don’t know won’t hurt them. All that matters now is that Beverly Hills is my new playground and I have no intention of jumping out of the sandbox.

“Sinclair!”

Who in the hell is screeching my name out here? Turning, I remove my shades and flutter my mink lashes at Brijetta Hamilton’s loud ass as she races down the sidewalk to catch up with me. Now, don’t get it twisted. I love my girl. Ever since I first met her at a Vanity Fair Oscar party, I knew that she was, to coin the phrase, good people. Sure it’s easier to detect that things aren’t exactly what they seem to be between her and her action superstar, and recently ranked People’s Most Beautiful list, hubby Trey Hamilton, but I let her go on with her pretense because I live in a glass house my damn self.

“Oh, hey, Brijetta. I didn’t even see you.” I lean in for a quick hug and air kiss. When I feel my girl’s tits brush against me, I jerk back, stunned. “Damn, girl. When did you get those?” I reach out and give her new silicone babies a soft squeeze right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Trust me, that’s a compliment in this town.

Brijetta strikes a pose that thrusts her new DDs up high in the air. “You like? Trey bought them for my thirtieth birthday.”

I sweep a critical gaze over my girl, who looks like she went two sizes too big and is in danger of tipping over. I don’t have it in me to tell her that she looks like a stick with tits, so I take a dive. “Girl, if you like it, I love it.”

“In that case, the jury is still out,” she says. “I didn’t know getting these babies would hurt so damn much. I’m popping Percocets like candy. But shit. Trey loves them. The bandages came off yesterday, and last night he wore me and these babies out.”

I fight like the devil not to roll my eyes. As far as I can tell, her beloved Trey is never satisfied. He clearly views his wife as his blank canvas, because every time I turn around he’s trying to get Brijetta to do one crazy, drastic surgery after another. Case in point, when I first met Brijetta at that Oscar party two years ago, she was a three-hundred-pound, fashion-challenged, lonely virgin who was still working as an RN at Cedars-Sinai. Now she weighs a petite hundred pounds, is a complete label whore, married, with her days of working nine-to-five firmly in her rear view.

The tabloids had a field day with her and her steady transformation. Trey Hamilton had broken a lot of hearts when he upped and married Brijetta sixty days after meeting her. Most headlines labeled him a chubby chaser and then speculated that Brijetta was just the rebound chick from his highly publicized and doomed relationship with supermodel Camilla. So it stands to reason that every week the rags report or make up stories about marital spats and pending divorce—they’re like the darker versions of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

It’s no wonder Brijetta is always fighting to prove her marriage is on solid ground. Nobody is buying it—including me. But in Beverly Hills, creating the perfect lie is important.

“You look like you were lost in your own world. Where are you headed?” Brijetta asks.

“Armani. I’m picking up a suit for Omar and then I have to head out to The Ivy to meet Jaleesa for lunch. You want to come?”

“Sure. Let me just text Trey where I’m going to be,” she says, pulling out her cell. “I thought Jaleesa was still filming that Denzel thingy out in New York?” Brijetta starts walking and texting beside me. “She didn’t get fired again, did she?”

“Don’t know. She called me last night and said that she wanted to meet for lunch.” Now, in truth, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that heifer did get fired. That girl put the D in diva. Once upon a time she might have been considered a good actress; now all the tabloids talk about are her drunken antics in the clubs and on movie sets. That old adage “there’s no such thing as bad press” isn’t true anymore. Bad press has killed many careers out here in the city of bright lights, and I’m afraid that all signs point to my girl being next on the chopping block.

“Honestly, I don’t know how she keeps getting acting gigs,” I say.

“According to her, it’s because she has a mean head game on the casting couch,” Brijetta snickers.

“Do you actually believe that?”

“What—that Jaleesa is a ho? Girl, I know it. I’ve known Jaleesa since we were in junior high. The day she got breasts she was pushing them up on every guy that walked past her. And the night she realized the power she held in between her legs, forgetaboutit.”

“Humph. Some women go a whole lifetime and never realize their power.”

“Some misuse it,” Brijetta volleys.

“And some try to conquer the world.” I smile. “That would be me.”

We crack up as we enter Giorgio Armani and, of course, buy more things than what we came in there for. Two hours later, Brijetta and I are escorted to our seats by The Ivy’s white picket fence. Without a doubt, the restaurant is a celebrity magnet, drawing a list of who’s who of the Hollywood elite. A lot of people hail the place as the best restaurant in Los Angeles—for its food and for the paparazzi accessibility that tend to camp out across the street.

We already know that Jaleesa’s ass is going to be late, so we go ahead and order our usual Cajun shrimp salads and golden margaritas.

“So how are things with you and Omar?” Brijetta asks, taking her glass before the waitress has the chance to set it down. “I read in the trades that he’ll be producing the Hughes brothers’ film.”

I instantly perk up as my husband’s latest achievements inflate my own ego. “Yes, Lion’s Gate green-lighted the deal. Omar is thrilled to have a strong contender for a summer blockbuster.”

“Well, let’s drink to that,” she says cheerily, holding up her glass.

“Damn straight.” I tap my margarita glass against hers and then moan aloud when the chilled alcohol slides down my throat. The first sip of alcohol is a euphoria like no other. “Ahh. Now this is how to spend an afternoon.”

“Hello, ladies!” Jaleesa singsongs while strutting her stuff toward us. She’s dressed in a strange combination of street casual and haute couture. Add in gaudy Mardi Gras beads and a pair of bumble-bee-styled Chanel glasses and you have the hot mess that is Jaleesa. The amazing thing is that despite the loud argument her clothes were having, Jaleesa is still a knockout. “I didn’t know you were coming, Brijetta.” She leans down and gives both of us air kisses while pressing our cheeks together. “How are ... ahhh. What are these?” She gropes Brijetta’s silicone twins. “Nice. Nice. Who did your work?”

“Dr. Oxford on Rodeo Drive. Brilliant surgeon,” Brijetta gushes. “I’ll definitely be using him again.”

“Again?” I hike up a brow. “Don’t tell me that Trey already has you signed up for something else.”

Brijetta shrugged her thin shoulders. “Just a little nip and tuck. Nothing major.”

Bullshit. I can tell just by the sudden way she’s avoiding making eye contact. But I gotta hand it to Trey, I’m curious what his final masterpiece will look like when he’s finally finished with her.

“I hope you don’t mind me playing tag with Sinclair. My afternoon was free.”

“Don’t be silly.” Jaleesa waves her off and finally sits down. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Well, at least since ... did you get a new nose, too?”

Brijetta gushes as she strikes a couple of profile poses. “Well, you know I suffered from a deviated septum.”

I have to speak up. “Child, please. That’s what Jewish and Greek girls say around town to explain their nose jobs. Just admit you pulled a Lil’ Kim and leave it at that.”

Jaleesa laughs. “Ain’t that the truth? No need to fake the funk with us. Keep it real and we’ll keep it real with you.”

More bullshit. The last thing any of us do is keep anything real. These little get-togethers only serve two purposes: to gossip and to brag. Let’s face it, I like these girls, but I wouldn’t call either one of these heifers if I was in a real jam. They aren’t like the ride-or-die chicks I grew up with in Detroit. Telling either one of these chicks the real 4 1 1 meant that it will be all over Los Angeles before the eleven o’clock news came on. No, what we have here in this sunny paradise is the Liars’ Club. In this town, there is no lie too big to fail; and in order to survive, it’s a prerequisite to be able to tell them with a straight face and a sincere voice. As for me, Sinclair Fines, I’m probably the biggest liar of them all.

I love having lunch at The Ivy. It’s absolutely the best way to guarantee my name in the hot gossip rags and blogs—well, at least a casual mention. A lot of celebrities like to pretend there’s some made-up war between them and the paparazzi; but let me tell you, it’s all bullshit. We love the paparazzi, we adore them. We lie awake at night dreaming up all these fantastic ways to get their attention. They are the life blood that feeds our vampiric thirst to be in the spotlight, which is why I’m sitting here wondering if this table is giving those snapping photographers my best angle.

“So what are you doing in town?” Brijetta asks, leaning back in her chair and sipping on a margarita.

I immediately wonder how many drinks the secret alcoholic has downed already before I arrived. I’ve known this vapid heifer since her Nell Carter look-alike days, and I think it’s just some weird comic joke that she landed her big ass on the arm of Trey Hamilton instead of me. Really, what the hell does she know about this industry? How can she boost his image? I mean, really. Creating the perfect power couple is essential in any industry. Think Will and Jada, Jay-Z and Beyoncé, or heck, Barack and Michelle. Trey Hamilton needs to upgrade to someone like me.

“Jaleesa?” Brijetta presses, snapping me out of my wild musings about her man.

“Oh, girl, those assholes can kiss my ass. The script is bullshit and is getting stupider with each daily rewrite. How the hell do they expect me to memorize my lines if they’re changing them all the damn time?”

Brijetta and Sinclair exchange looks.

“Well, fuck both of you, too, then,” I snap, then glance around. “Where the hell did our waitress go?”

“All right. Calm down,” Sinclair says. “Why don’t you just tell us what happened?”

“Puh-lease. The same bullshit that always happens. The lead actor and director on some dynamic duo bullshit trip that leaves the rest of the crew feeling like we’re just squirrels in their world trying to get a nut.” I finally see the waitress who led me to my table. “Hey, honey, I need an orgasm over here!”

Every head turns.

“What?” I ask, laughing.

Brijetta and Sinclair crack up. I wink at them. “I love ordering that drink in public,” I admit, then laugh myself.

“So what really happened?” Sinclair asks. “Were you out partying every night again?”

“Ha-ha. A bitch can walk and chew gum at the same time, you know.”

“I’m going to take that as ayes.”

“Believe what you want to believe.” I reach for my purse and remove my lipstick and compact mirror. “I told those bastards what they could do with their stupid movie and I stormed off the set. The director is a major asshole, anyway.”

“You stormed off a Denzel Washington movie? Have you lost your mind?” Brijetta asks. “Do you know how many actresses would kill to be in a film with Denzel?”

“Don’t you start in on me. My agent has been blowing up my phone for the last twenty-four hours. Fuck them. I have principles, you know. Those bastards snuck a nude scene in the script, and that shit ain’t in my contract.”

“Since when have you objected to showing your tits to anybody who wants to see them?” Brijetta asks, smirking.

“It’ll cost an extra cool million to put my shit on the big screen. Believe that.”

“A million? Girl, you’re smoking something fierce. They don’t pay that kind of money to see black titties. Are you crazy?

“Especially since they are running around wild and free in Africa,” Sinclair adds.

“They will if they want to see these titties. My shit is real. I’m not double bagging like you, sweetheart.” That shuts the bitch up. She finally gets some titties and she’s suddenly a fucking expert on the shit? Give me a fucking break. “Anyway, the whole thing is bullshit.”

“Here’s your drink, ma’am,” my waitress says, smiling. It’s a damn shame that you have to look like a model in this town just to get a waitressing job. “Would you like to place an order?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m on a liquid diet this week. Just keep the drinks flowing.”

“I’ll have another margarita,” Brijetta says, then goes back to fluffing her lace front to make sure that her curls are holding steady. “So what are you going to do? You know that they’re going to sue you for everything you got.”

“Shit. Line up. Hell, if my own damn daddy is suing me, I don’t know why I should give two cents in hell why some studio with its head up its ass should faze me.” I down my drink in one long gulp, savoring the rich, creaming coffee flavor, and then smile at my two girlfriends. “This is how a bitch starts an afternoon.”

Sinclair shakes her head. “I don’t get you. You begged for this job and now you’re just blowing it off. Pretty soon the only work you’re going to be able to get is on Celebrity Rehab or... porno.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to any damn rehab. No. No. No. So you can forget that shit.” I lay my best Hollywood smile on her. “But I did happen to thumb through the trades and read about Omar’s latest project: Defiance. It’s already generating quite a buzz around town about it being a possible summer blockbuster.”

“Crossing our fingers and toes,” Sinclair says.

“So ... I was thinking that you have to know which dick I gotta suck to get my hands on a copy of that script. My agent, Maury, ain’t worth shit.” Sinclair gives Brijetta another one of her sneaky sideway looks before she bursts out laughing in my face.

“Please say your flaky ass is joking.”

My heart and hopes drop. “I’m not flaky—just a little misunderstood.” I shrug. “C’mon. Surely you can hook me up.” Here I am giving my best sister-girl pitch and this heifer is looking at me like she doesn’t know me from Adam. “Oh, you’re just gonna play me to the left like that?”

Sinclair rolls her eyes. “I’m not trying to play you, but I don’t get involved with Omar’s business. You know that.”

“But you can put in a good word with him.” I smile. “You know, a little pillow talk here and there.”

“I don’t understand,” Brijetta cuts in. “You and Spencer Reid had a thing a while back. Why don’t you ask him for a part?”

“Please, that brother’s casting couch is a dead end. He takes the pussy and just promises a callback that never happens. Slick bastard.” I turn to Sinclair and pull on all my acting skills to keep my desperation out of my voice. No way am I about to let these two bitches know my real situation. So what if I didn’t walk off my last movie but was instead fired. The most important thing is to get ahead of the story and to lock down my next gig before the studio’s vow that I’ll never work in this town again has a chance to take root. Damn it. I’m an actress—a damn good actress. I was nominated for a Screen Actors Guild Award for my first film, Blue Skies, ten years ago. I was hot. The black It girl who was going to be the next Halle Berry. All these directors and producers gassed me up good with that shit. I have the looks and the talent. Every party I walked into, they were tripping over themselves trying to get at me. Now they play crazy and try to act like I have to audition or screen-test for D-list films. What the fuck?

Next thing I know I have to pull bullshit drunk stunts outside clubs and conveniently forget to wear panties in order to get any kind of love in the tabloids. But let’s face it, that shit doesn’t work as well as it does for blond, blue-eyed white girls. The truth, though this isn’t the type of town that wants to talk about the truth, is that there’s only a handful of African American women who even work steadily in this town. The other handful of working black actresses packed up long ago and moved to Atlanta so they can remain on heavy rotation with Tyler Perry.

Sinclair huffs, “I’m not going to make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

I jump out of my seat and throw my arms around my new BFF. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I said no promises.”

“Understo. . .