Page 51 of Sway

19

Salomé

“DOBROYE UTRO. WAKE up sleepy head.” Genya’s lips touch mine. For a moment, I forget where I am and imagine that I’m Sleeping Beauty and Genya’s the prince. Except I’m sure Beauty doesn’t get morning breath.

“I’m late to lunch with mama,” he says. “Don’t you have that fitness video shoot today?”

Oh, shit! The alarm clock on the hotel nightstand says ten thirty—I have to be camera ready in forty-five minutes. We’re filming the new fitness video, Dancing under the Stars—Cardio Tango. How incredibly lame is that? What the hell is a Cardio Tango?

I bolt out of bed, tripping on the comforter and landing on my butt. Genya laughs. “You klutz. It amazes me what great dancer you are.” He leans down and kisses me on my cheek. “See you later. I love you. Poka.”

“Yeah, love you, too. Poka.” I launch myself up, and dash to the bathroom. Good God, almighty! My hair’s all matted together like cotton candy. I can’t even get a damn comb through it. I whip through my patented ten-minute beauty routine—shower, put on deodorant, brush teeth, and comb some conditioner through my hair then wrap it in a towel. Thank God we have makeup people on set. I throw on some sweats and grab my purse. Damn, my phone’s vibrating.

I pull it out. Twenty-three new messages? What the hell? Half of them are from Diana—in the past twenty minutes. What’s her problem? I’m not late yet.

From Diana (mobile): Sal—check this out

www.perezhilton.com

I click on the link.

Not So Blind Item

Filed under: Not So Blind Item

Which Dancing under the Stars hoofer recently stole her co-star’s fiancé? This spicy salsa queen seduced her fellow professional dancer on her debut season. Developing . . .

3 Comments:

DUTS addict:it’s that slut Salomé Sanchez 1

Dmitri’s lover: She’s got a big ass and no tits 2

Reina Rumba:Dmitri’s an idiot to leave Izabella. She’s foxy 3

Oh my God! I’m so screwed. How does Perez know everything? I’ve only been hooking up with Genya for two weeks. I didn’t tell anyone but Jenny and she would never say anything. Someone must have seen us. Maybe it was that room service guy—he was looking at us funny yesterday morning when he delivered my Eggs Benedict. Why the hell did I ever go on this show? My life is completely over.

I wonder if. . . I lean toward the window and peer below. Holy shit! They are! There are at least thirty paparazzi on the sidewalk. Video cameras and those long extender things. Who the fuck tipped them off? Wait, is that one guy pointing the lens up at this window?

Flashes go off.

I slam the curtains shut.

I’m trapped! And I have to be at the shoot in twenty minutes—with all the girls. Even Nicole, Diana, and Iza, who already got kicked off.

Iza. God.

My driver’s due to pick me up now.

Think Salomé. I could call Jenny. She’d know what to do. I dial her number but it goes straight to voice mail. I wait a few seconds and try again.

Thinking maybe there’s a secret exit to the hotel like in the movies, I call the front desk.

“Hello, Mr. Pavlov. How can we help you?”

Shit. Why do they answer the phone like that? I take the room service menu and crinkle it over the receiver to disguise my voice. “Can you crinkle crinkle me crinkle hotel? I sorry crinkle bad connect crinkle . . .”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” he says. “Should I send someone up?”