The Socialite Gets The Dirt

"These diva-tinis are beyond the beyond, darling," I croon as I stretch out on the lounge chair. It's unseasonably warm, and I feel like I've melted. I hope to hell that I don't have unsightly chair marks when I get up. As much as I adore these boys, their housemates' style in interior design is lacking and they don't seem to have control over it.

Surprising to hear from me, I'm sure.

Chatting up the internet isn't exactly my thing. I don't even use social media sites. It's tacky, and I don't need the approval of the trembling masses to validate myself. I catch a lot of grief from those bottle-headed boobs and their equally sex-crazed mates, but if you want the real brains of the operation, you're looking at her. I might be drunk ninety percent of the time, but I'm a fucking android, people. It's in my programming, not my bloodstream. My mental capacity isn't even the teensiest bit affected, regardless of what I consume.

Idiots—poorly dressed idiots—but I digress.

The lazy painter is somewhere in the house with the hipster blogger. I'm in the same city, but we're not in the same zip code because I haven't seen him since we got here. I hitched a ride with him because he was heading to the same place. The conversation was about as scintillating as listening to C-SPAN, but he mentioned keeping my ears open for issues. I don't know what the hell that's supposed to mean. They're all screaming, sexed-up dimwits.

How am I supposed to know what's worrisome and what's part of the game?

He seems to think I will, though. The request doesn't surprise me; I've known something bad was going on since Victor disappeared with the cat. Our prickly maker won't talk about it, and since he usually can't keep his trap shut even to eat, I assume it's at the kitty's request.

"Duchess P, you're thinking way too hard. Did you mix downers with uppers again? You know, that just makes us normal."

My boys—Janus and Roman—are similarly toasty. They're comfortable on their own chairs, sipping the pink drinks and sunning in front of the pool. I'm not sure what decides the weather in the Rift, but I'll take sunny and warm in late March any day of the week.

Believe me when I tell you this because the other morons that live here don't. There is nothing going on between me and the dancing duo. They're screwing each other, but not me. All those bleach heads giggle and gossip, but my boys and I are strictly sane fashionistas floating in a pool of nymphomaniacs with bad closets. Who has time for all the mess involved in anything else? I'd spill my drink, have to share my Xanax…

You can see the reasons for my distaste, yes?

"I did not. I'm contemplating the time it will take me to completely replace the clothes in your family's closets to make them remotely presentable. Also, my drink is now empty."

Roman chuckles and moves to refill my glass. Meanwhile, Janus launches into a lengthy speech on respecting other people's boundaries—something I truly could not care less about. People see me in public with these fashion challenged twits. Does he not realize that?

I'm not actually doing that, by the way. His family's wardrobe tragedy is his problem. I am, however, mentally cataloguing—which goes quickly for an android—the anomalies in my family dynamic in the past six to eight months. Once I finish, I can extrapolate a likely scenario to explain the recent changes to everyone's behavior, including the addition of the Designer Assassin.

Frowning, I realize something. There seem to be more controversies and contusions that I wrote off without the context the lounger's request now gives me.

Troublesome. I will discuss this with Siren and Sandrine when I return home. The three of us will decide what to do. You can't trust the men—they're too easily swayed by their libidos. The kitty will lie like a Wall Street banker in a congressional hearing if she thinks we've figured out her dirty little secret.

The question is: how bad is it?

It's obvious that the bimbo and her subbie mate have been sidelined. The whispers say it was because of betrayal. It would have to be really fucking bad for the cat to close the doors.

The bigger question is: what have the dog and the fluffy writer been up to?

Janus finally stops rambling about personal space and people's privacy, so I let it fly. "That's all fascinating, darling, but what I'm interested in is the dirt. We can make kissy faces at not nosing into other's peoples' business, but as beautiful as our faces are, it's not what we do. Something stinks in the garden, my flouncy friends, and we are more than fashionably late to the party. What in the Dolce and Gabbana is going on around here?"

They look at one another—a sly, knowing look—and what passes for my blood boils. They have been holding out on me.

Unacceptable.

I stand, my posture regal. My Versace sunglasses are positioned low enough for my Streep in Prada glare to pin them. "Emotions cause wrinkles, boys. Stop pussyfooting around the smoking hole in the ground and make with the information."

As if by magic, their chairs scoot closer, drinks get poured, and I return to my chaise to listen. There is much to be done and I hope I am not too late to salvage the wreckage.