Chances

by Jackie Collins

  Dina had taken it as a personal affront. She and Zoona and Steven had been a team—working together, sweating, crying, forcing change. Now they were merely friends who saw each other for dinner and what Dina called “Dumb-ass conversation.”

  “Nope,” said Steven. “I won’t be coming on the march.”

  Dina’s lip curled, but she said nothing.

  Goodbyes were exchanged, everyone left, and Steven surveyed the wreck of empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. Zizi wouldn’t clear it up. Even though she shared the apartment with him, she never lifted a finger.

  He wondered what he saw in her.

  And a powerful hard-on told him what.

  He forgot about clearing up and went in the bedroom.

  Zizi lay nonchalantly on the bed reading a movie magazine. She was naked, apart from a gold ankle bracelet and six gold bangles on each wrist. She had a spectacular dancer’s body. Although only five foot two inches tall, she was perfectly proportioned. Half black, half Puerto Rican, her skin glowed with a sepia tint. She had dyed her naturally dark hair blond, and the contrast of the light hair and her fiery amber eyes was lethal. At twenty-nine she was three years older than Steven.

  “Why are you so rude to Dina?” he asked patiently.

  She spread her legs sensuously. “Why don’t you cut out the talk and show me what the black movement is really all about.”

  “I want to get married, mom,” Steven said, feeling like a nervous teenager.

  Carrie, busily arranging flowers in a vase, didn’t even turn around.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he mumbled, swatting at a bee that buzzed around the flower- and plant-filled room of his mother’s luxurious apartment.

  “You know,” Carrie said slowly, still attending to the flowers, “for a smart boy you sure can behave like a fool.”

  He was on his feet. His mother was so unfair. She hardly even knew Zizi. “Why don’t you want me to get married?” he demanded.

  Carrie turned and faced him. “You’re twenty-six years old, Steven. I can’t stop you. If she’s the kind of girl you want to spend the rest of your life with—”

  “What do you mean, ‘kind of girl’? What kind of girl?”

  “Do I have to spell something out that I’m sure you already know?”

  “Shit!” he exploded. “You’re so old-fashioned and prudish.”

  Her eyes sparkled dangerously. “Watch your mouth. I’m your mother, you know.”

  “Too fucking right!”

  She smacked him with all her might across the face. “Is that what she’s taught you? To lose respect for me? To use gutter language like some pimp from the ghetto?”

  He backed toward the door. “What do you know about ghettos and pimps? You live in a dream world where everyone’s the good guy. I love Zizi, and I’m going to marry her whether you like it or not!”

  Lucky

  1965

  Dario Santangelo patiently awaited his sister’s return home for the summer vacation. He had so many things he wanted to tell her. Miss Bossy had left and been replaced with an older woman who was more of a general housekeeper. It was a relief. No one to watch and spy on him. He couldn’t wait to get away to school after the summer vacation finished. After all, he was nearly fourteen, and like Lucky he was starved for outside companionship.

  Moodily he picked at a pimple on his chin. Lucky was his best friend. It had been awful without her.

  Lucky glanced around the arrival lounge, saw Marco waiting, and thought, Oh, my God! What’ll he think of the new me!

  She had departed L.A. three months earlier a fourteen-year-old kid. She was returning a fifteen-year-old sophisticated young woman.

  Marco looked right through her. He didn’t even recognize her! She tapped him on the arm and brightly said, “Remember me?”

  He was startled. “Lucky?”

  “You got it in one!”

  “Jesus!” It slipped out before he could help himself. Gino would have a fit when he got a load of his sweet little girl. She had cut off her wild abundance of jet curls, and now her hair was short—very short—and clung to her scalp like a weird hat. Her makeup was not to be believed. White, stark, clownlike, with spiky false lashes top and bottom, purple eyeshadow, and a chalky lipstick. Her outfit defied description: a geometric patterned black-and-white minidress that barely skimmed her ass, worn with shiny white boots.

  “Well?” Lucky questioned, putting her hands on her hips and surveying him boldly. “How do you like the new me?”

  “Uh… it’s certainly different.”

  “I’m certainly different.”

  “Oh?”

  “You can betcha! You could call me a woman of experience.” She winked. “Know what I mean?”

  Holy shit! Gino would crap himself.

  He signaled for a baggage porter. “I’ll take you out to the car.”

  Marco had been in Gino Santangelo’s employ for six and a half years, and he liked the work. Before that he had been a cabdriver, a lifeguard, a lumberjack in Canada—you name it, Marco had tried it. His restlessness had begun after a traumatic six months in the army in Korea. When your two best buddies get shot down beside you, nothing seems the same any more. “Go to Gino,” his mother, Bee, had finally said. “He’s always had a soft spot for you. He’ll give you a job.”

  Her words were true. Gino welcomed him warmly. “You’ll be with me,” he had said. “You’ll watch and learn. I need loyalty—people around me I can depend on one hundred percent.”

  Six and a half years had flown by. In that time he hadn’t been bored once, and he had learned plenty.

  “You look gruesome!” exclaimed Dario.

  “Thanks a lot,” replied Lucky, killing him with a withering stare. “That’s a fine welcome home.”

  Dario belched loudly. “Want to hear my new Beatles album?” he asked eagerly.

  “No, I don’t.” She stalked grandly into the house.

  Dario trailed after her. She did look horrible. And she seemed so sort of… different. He decided to tell her his news immediately, put her in a good mood.

  He followed her upstairs. “You didn’t write,” he accused.

  She yawned and sat down on her bed, “Didn’t have time.”

  He shut the bedroom door. “I know something you won’t believe.”

  “What?” Her tone was disinterested. She was wondering why Marco hadn’t declared his instant and undying love for her.

  “It’s about dad.”

  “Yes?” She was interested. In three months all she had had from Gino was a phone call on her birthday and an expensive stereo set delivered to the school and promptly confiscated.

  “He’s got a new girl friend.”

  “Who?”

  “A movie star.”

  “Who, you little rat?”

  “Don’t call me names.”

  “WHO?”

  “Marabelle Blue.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Holy shit!” She extracted a cigarette from her purse and lit up.

  Dario was impressed. “When did you start to smoke?”

  She inhaled, showing off and allowing the smoke to trickle slowly from her nostrils. “I’ve always smoked.”

  “Liar!”

  “Tell me more about daddy and her. How do you know?”

  “Everyone knows.”

  “I don’t.”

  “It’s in the papers.”

  “When?”

  “All the time.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “He brings her here.” Dario paused, savoring his moment of triumph. “I’ve seen them screwing!”

  Lucky leaped off the bed, excitement outdoing her new sophisticated reserve. “You haven’t!”

  “Oh, yes, I have.”

  For the next hour they talked about nothing else. How Dario, heading for the kitchen and a glass of water in the middle of the night, had heard noises coming from Gin
o’s bedroom. How he had bent down and reviewed the proceedings through the keyhole and seen everything!

  Lucky wanted details. And then she wanted them repeated once, twice, and a third time. Dario was quite hoarse by the time she was satisfied. “O.K.,” she said finally. “I’m going to take a shower now. We’ll get together later.”

  Reluctantly he left her alone, first imparting the news that Gino would be having dinner with them that evening. “He’s in Las Vegas, but he said he’ll be back.”

  She stripped off her clothes and stood under the shower, keeping the water good and cold. Her newly developed breasts reacted nicely, the nipples hardening and sticking out. How right Olympia had been. A little boy massage did wonders for the tits.

  “I don’t get along with kids,” Marabelle quivered, her lower lip trembling.

  Gino stretched his arms in front of him, cracking the joints in his knuckles. “They’re not kids, they’re teenagers.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Different thing.”

  Nervously Marabelle peered at her face in the mirror. They were in her dressing room at the studio, Gino having come directly there from the airport. “What shall I wear?” she quavered.

  “Nothing special. They’re only kids.”

  The dinner table was silent. Gino sat at one end, broodingly angry. He sent his daughter to a very exclusive, expensive private school, and she came back looking like a circus freak.

  Lucky sat on his left-hand side, sulking. Her father hadn’t seen her in three months, and instead of saying how much she had grown up, he just went off on a whole nagging jag about how awful he thought she looked.

  Dario sat opposite Lucky, staring at Marabelle Blue, his eyes fixed firmly on her breasts.

  Marabelle herself faced Gino. Her lower lip trembled, and she didn’t attempt conversation. She had known his kids would hate her.

  After dinner they all got up and went their separate ways.

  Dario tried to tag along with Lucky, but she wasn’t having it. She went to her room, locked the door, and sobbed for an hour. When she recovered she picked up the phone and placed a person-to-person call to Olympia in Greece. “Help!” she begged. “Can you invite me to come stay with you for the summer?”

  “Sure,” replied Olympia. “Why not? We can have a ball, you and I—an absolute ball!”

  They did. Right from day one.

  Dimitri Stanislopoulos, Olympia’s father, lived in great style on a marvelous sun-kissed Greek island. In residence were many houseguests who flitted back and forth between his sumptuous villa and private yacht. They were only too happy to welcome a pretty young girl, even if she was Olympia’s friend and therefore out of bounds to their straying hands.

  “The trouble with daddy’s friends is they’re all so old!” Olympia giggled. “But amazingly rich. What are your father’s friends like?”

  For a moment Lucky was tempted to tell the truth. Daddy’s friends? Some of the most notorious and infamous gangsters in the United States. But she remember her promise. She was never to reveal her true name. Never. She shrugged. “Old, I guess. Boring.”

  Olympia nodded knowingly.

  For two weeks they lay in the sun, water-skied, and scuba-dived. “I’m so healthy I could faint!” Olympia complained. “Let’s take the Riva to the mainland tonight and get us some action!”

  Lucky agreed. It seemed so long since they had done Almost. Everything But was their motto. “Two little virgins are we,” Olympia would giggle, after a particularly randy necking session, “and we aim to stay that way!”

  They found a couple of local fishermen on the mainland, and after a suitable amount of time drinking and chatting they retired to a nearby beach.

  Lucky lay back on the sand reveling in the feel of the boy’s lips on hers. His large hands were rough on her breasts. He didn’t speak much English, but they understood each other perfectly.

  After a time, when his hands ripped at her shorts, she made him stop. Then, before he knew what was happening, she had maneuvered his hardness out of his trousers and was going down on him in a fast businesslike fashion.

  Only after he was satisfied did she allow him to remove her shorts and pants. Then she lay back with her legs open while his fingers brought her to a shuddering climax.

  It was the perfect way to make love. No risk. No hassle.

  Lucky grinned as she pulled on her clothes. “Two little virgins are we….”

  Slowly Gino realized Marabelle was cheating on him. He was outraged. Discreet inquiries revealed that the other man in her life was a very important Senator based in Washington. A well-known, happily married politician. And what is more, Miss Blue was under constant surveillance by the FBI.

  Gino found out all this information bit by bit, and it shook him. But Marabelle was special. He wasn’t ready to dump her.

  One clear September morning he took a plane to Washington, phoned the Senator, and arranged a very private, very discreet meeting.

  Senator Peter Richmond was, at forty-five, boyishly handsome. He lived his life to the full. He had an attractive wife, four healthy clean-cut children, and he screwed anything that winked in his direction. Marabelle Blue had done more than wink. She had appeared at a Washington fund-raising benefit, settled her baby blue eyes on him, and had him there and then in her dressing room. Since that first magical fuck they had been meeting two or three times a month across America.

  Marabelle liked screwing a famous politician.

  Peter liked screwing a famous screen goddess.

  Gino didn’t like any of it.

  He spoke to Peter Richmond softly, mildly, as though they were the best of friends. By the time the meeting finished they were.

  Senator Richmond was shocked when he learned of Marabelle’s affair with Gino Santangelo. He couldn’t thank Gino enough for warning him. The repercussions if it ever came out! Marabelle Blue sharing her favors between a politician and a hood! What an escape!

  Of course he did not voice his thoughts. He nodded and listened and thanked Gino, who pledged his full support should Peter ever see fit to run as a presidential candidate.

  Gino flew back to Los Angeles a happy man, content and smiling. He could be useful to Peter Richmond. Peter Richmond could be useful to him. Everything settled, and he hadn’t even had to show him the pictures or play him the tapes. Gino patted the manila envelope in his pocket. It would go into his safe, along with the yellowing faded bunch of Senator Duke’s letters.

  He had never had to use those…. and Senator Duke had been dead now for seven years. But Gino still kept the letters. A souvenir of times past.

  Back in school Lucky read of Marabelle Blue’s suicide attempt in the newspapers. Gino phoned to tell her of their engagement, which took place six weeks later. He was too late. She had already seen it on the television news. How could he? She cried long into the night. Olympia came to her bed, climbed in, and cuddled her. “What is it, baby?” she crooned. “What’s the matter?”

  Lucky wouldn’t tell her. She just clung to her friend, until mutually they began to caress each other.

  Soft breasts, hard nipples, warm thighs, milky wetness.

  They brought each other to a climax, and slept in each other’s arms.

  Early in the morning, Olympia slipped from her bed. By some reciprocal unspoken word they never mentioned the incident. It had happened. It had been good. It was not something either of them wanted or needed again.

  Steven

  1966

  Steven and Zizi got married on a freezing cold February morning. Zizi wore black thigh-length boots, a bright red miniskirt, and a furry black jacket.

  Jerry Meyerson acted as best man. Zoona and Dina were witnesses. Zizi had invited no one. She claimed she had no family, and friends were not an important part of her life.

  The wedding ceremony at City Hall was short and impersonal. Afterward, they all went to a bar, where Jerry bought champagne and Zizi did an impromptu dance which embarrassed Steve
n. They had their first fight forty-five minutes after the wedding ceremony. Nobody was surprised. Steven and Zizi—who had been living together for nearly a year—fought constantly. The only surprise was that they had finally married. Talk about attraction of opposites.

  Jerry had spent weeks trying to talk his friend out of it. “What have you got to gain?” he questioned. “You’ve got all the advantages now, why tie yourself up?”

  Steven shrugged. “I don’t know, Jerry…. She wants it.”

  “Sure, she wants it. They all want it. Why give in?”

  “Listen, I kind of like the idea myself.”

  “Crap.”

  “No, really.”

  “Crap.”

  Steven didn’t want to tell Jerry the real reason he was getting married. The real reason was that Zizi had threatened to leave if they didn’t. “You want me, you marry me,” she told him. “‘Cause, honey—you don’t, there’s plenty others will.”

  He believed her. Men were always looking her up and down in the street, following her with their eyes, undressing her mentally. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she loved it. If they were married, Steven reasoned, she would have to stop all the flirting and settle down. Maybe have a baby. If Zizi was pregnant, other men would have to stop giving her the eye.

  The thought of her with another man created a jealous fury in Steven that frightened him. He knew that she could inflame passions and angers in him that were potentially dangerous. Theirs was a volatile relationship. He thought that marriage would make it stable and calm.

  He was wrong. He found that out on their honeymoon. Zizi, in a string bikini that left nothing to the imagination, flaunted her body beside the pool at the resort hotel they had chosen to go to in Puerto Rico. She was on home ground and loving every minute.

  Steven could only watch in helpless fury as she undulated her way around, flirting with every one from the lifeguard to a leering group of American tourists whose fat wives were not pleased.

  It was the first time they had been on a vacation together, and back in their room he complained. “You’re showing too much. When you stepped out of the pool I could see everything—nipples and pubic hair—everything.”