“Steak,” Bobby decided. “I need my strength if I’m spending the rest of the night with this asshole.”
Frankie rolled his eyes. “It takes one to know one.”
“You think?” Bobby said, checking out a sleek blonde walking past with a much older man.
“I know,” Frankie responded, his eyes swiveling to take in the blonde’s ass.
They finally ended up in Morton’s Steak House where the waitress was no slouch when it came to spotting three sexy, obviously single young guys. She zeroed in on Frankie, who threw off that bad boy vibe she’d always found irresistible.
Frankie flirted back. Waitresses weren’t his usual style, but this one had an amazing rack, and he wasn’t about to waste a night away from Annabelle. Besides, Annabelle was enjoying a little something on the side, so why shouldn’t he?
“What’s your name, beautiful?” he asked, after ordering a steak, fries, and his favorite onion rings.
Running her tongue along her lower lip in a most provocative way, she leaned into the table. “Patricia,” she said. “But my friends call me Tree.”
“An unusual name for an unusual girl,” Frankie said, turning on the bullshit charm that always worked so well for him. “You’re too fine to be slaving away at a job like this. How come?”
“I’m actually an actress,” she explained, her expression serious. “Doing this to make the rent until I can afford a move to New York.”
Bobby and M.J. exchanged looks. They knew exactly what Frankie would say next.
He didn’t disappoint. “Maybe I can help,” he offered in his best sincere voice.
Bobby raised a cynical eyebrow. M.J. stifled a laugh.
“Really?” Tree said, wondering if this guy was as full of crap as most of them were.
“Yeah, really,” Frankie continued. “I know people. I got connections.”
M.J. rolled his eyes.
“What time you get off tonight?” Frankie persisted.
Tree paused for a moment. This guy was cute enough with his long hair and bedroom eyes, and maybe – just maybe – he could help her.
“Eleven,” she said, licking her lips again.
“Then eleven it is.”
“Y’know,” Bobby said, after the waitress had moved onto another table, “you should get yourself some new lines.”
“Yeah,” M.J. snickered. “It’s way beyond time, man. ‘I got connections’ simply don’t cut it.”
“It’s not a line,” Frankie protested, feeling boastful. “I can make that girl a lot of money.”
“Doing what?” Bobby inquired.
“Something that comes naturally,” Frankie replied. “I’ll give her a test run an’ let you know.”
“Let us know what?” M.J. persisted, exchanging another knowing glance with Bobby.
Frankie paused for a moment. Should he tell them about his and Annabelle’s money-making venture or should he not? He’d been dying to show off about pulling in the big bucks, but he knew that somewhere within Bobby there lurked a strong moral streak, and he had a feeling that his friend might not approve of his new business.
On the other hand – fuck it. Bobby ran a club where booze, drugs and getting laid took center stage, so who was he to object?
Frankie decided to go for it and reveal the truth. “I’ve been meaning to tell you guys something,” he began.
“If it’s about the hookers, we know,” Bobby said matter-of-factly.
Frankie was thrown; he wrinkled his forehead. “Huh?”
“What?” M.J. guffawed. “You thought it was a secret?”
“Are you shitting me?” Frankie said, left eye twitching, a sure sign he was disturbed.
“Now who would shit the king of the bullshitters?” Bobby said, laughing.
“You bet your ass we know,” M.J. added.
“We were kind of waiting to see how long it took before you summoned up the balls to tell us,” Bobby said, winking at M.J.
“Jeez!” Frankie grumbled. “I didn’t expect it to be public knowledge.”
“It’s not,” Bobby said. “But girls got big mouths, and now that word is around you’d better be way careful.”
“Careful?” Frankie said, his left eye still twitching. “Like why?”
“Like you could get your ass arrested for pandering,” M.J. offered.
“What the fuck is pandering?” Frankie snapped.
“Selling pussy,” M.J. said.
“We’re not selling anything,” Frankie insisted. “We’re arranging meetings between two consenting adults.”
“And pocketing a commission, right?” Bobby said.
“That’s pandering,” M.J. pointed out.
“Well, shit, nobody can prove anything,” Frankie said, getting defensive. “It’s a cash-only business, no credit cards, no paper trails. We’re not dumb.”
“That sounds very organized, only don’t ask me to come bail you out when you make it all the way to the front page of the New York Post,” Bobby warned. “You’ve made enough bucks to buy yourself a Ferrari, so my advice would be to get out while you can.”
“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” Frankie said, eyebrows shooting up. “This is the sweetest deal ever. It’s a no-hassle, no break-your-balls walk in the park.”
“Yeah, an’ you’re gonna walk your way right into a jail cell,” M.J. interjected. “C’mon, man, you’re a freakin’ pimp. That kinda shit’s against the law.”
“Since when did you turn into Mister D.A.?” Frankie snarled, not pleased with the way this was going. He’d expected compliments, not criticism.
“Hey,” M.J. muttered. “It’s your deal, it’s sure as shit not mine.”
“I’m taking a walk,” Frankie said, abruptly rising from the table. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“That went well,” Bobby said dryly, as soon as Frankie was out of sight.
“Frankie’s an asshole,” M.J. remarked. “We both know it, so how come we hang with him?”
“’Cause he’s our asshole,” Bobby said, forever loyal. “And that means we gotta look out for him.”
“Gettin’ him off coke would be a start,” M.J. said. “Then maybe he’d start takin’ things more seriously. This sellin’ pussy deal is a big mistake.”
“You know Frankie – there’s no way he’d listen,” Bobby stated.
“Then how about Annabelle?” M.J. suggested. “Maybe we should talk to her.”
“Oh, c’mon. Annabelle? Are you kidding me? She’s worse than Frankie,” Bobby said. “And when it comes to our boy, in her eyes he can do no wrong. You know that.”
Tree headed back to their table, balancing various dishes. She glanced around for Frankie, and was disappointed to see he was gone.
“Where’s your friend?” she asked boldly, placing the plates of food on the table.
“I wouldn’t sweat it,” M.J. said. “He’ll be back.”
Tree hesitated for a moment. “Can I ask you guys something?” she said, lowering her voice.
“Go ahead,” Bobby said, digging into his steak.
“Well . . . it’s just that working here I get a lot of horny guys coming on to me. Y’know how it is. They’re in town without their wives or girlfriends, and it’s like open season on waitresses.”
“What do you wanna know?” M.J. asked, hungrily picking up French fries with his fingers.
“Well . . . uh . . . can your friend really help me, or is he handing me a line?”
“You’re a smart girl,” Bobby said. “Figure it out.”
Tree managed a disappointed look. “So he’s full of it?” she said.
“Depends on what you expect from him.”
“Okay, thanks,” Tree said hesitantly. “Then I guess I can trust him.”
Trust him to do what? Bobby thought. Get you in the sack and bang the crap outta you. Yeah, sure, you can certainly trust him to do that.
Later, Tree returned with the check. Bobby threw down his credit card, and a few minutes later,
Tree came back with the receipt for him to sign.
“Isn’t it awful about Gemma Summer,” she remarked, deciding they were now friends, and it was perfectly okay to make conversation with these guys. As a matter of fact she was beginning to think that she might have picked the wrong one to flirt with. The black dude with the big brown eyes and sexy shaved head was certainly cute. And the other one was a total babe.
“They’re saying that Ralph Maestro might’ve done it,” she continued. “What do you think?”
“Might’ve done what?” Bobby asked, just about to sign the check after adding a more than generous tip.
“Shot his wife in the face,” Tree said, keeping an eye out for the manager, a man who didn’t approve of his waitresses lingering at tables.
“Whaat!” M.J. exclaimed.
“Are you saying Gemma Summer got shot?” Bobby asked, shocked to hear the news. “How do you know this?”
“’Cause it’s everywhere,” Tree said, surprised that they hadn’t heard about a newsworthy event like a famous movie star getting shot in her own bed. “It’s on TV, the internet – it’s every place.”
“Holy shit!” Bobby said. “We’d better go find Frankie right now. He needs to get back to Annabelle pronto.”
“Who’s Annabelle?” Tree asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bobby said, hurriedly scribbling his signature on the bill and jumping to his feet. “We gotta go.”
“So you think it’s okay if I hook up with your friend?” Tree inquired hopefully.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” M.J. said, sliding out of the booth. “Gotta strong hunch he’s not gonna show.”
And with that, the two of them took off, leaving a somewhat bemused waitress full of hopes and dreams that were certainly not reaching fruition any time soon.
Chapter Nine
Annabelle
Clutching her coat around her to conceal her ripped dress, Annabelle finally managed to leave the hotel suite where Omar Rani – if that was indeed his name – had kept her captive for the last two hours. What had happened to her was unthinkable. She’d been more or less raped and brutalized, treated like an object to be used for one man’s pleasure. Omar had been more than rough with her, exhibiting no respect at all. As far as he was concerned, she was bought and paid for, which in his eyes allowed him to do anything he wanted. Her pleas of, “Stop! No! This isn’t going to happen!” affected him not one bit. She’d struggled, but to no avail. He was relentless. The bastard had treated her like a cheap street whore.
With shaking hands she retrieved from her purse the cell phone she only used when going on an “appointment”, and speed-dialed Chip.
“I’m coming out now,” she said, stepping into the elevator. “Are you outside?”
“The friggin’ doorman moved me on,” Chip complained in his usual whiney voice. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
“Never mind what I said,” she hissed as the elevator made a fast descent. “Get here now!”
The elevator doors opened and she stepped out into the grand lobby, hoping and praying that she would not run into anyone she knew.
She stood still for a moment, shuddering at the memory of Omar’s sweaty hands all over her body, invading her most private places, fondling and handling her as if she was a piece of meat.
Well, screw the fat bastard. There was no way she was allowing him to get away with it. Wait until Sharif Rani heard what had taken place, then the shit would really fly.
Outside the hotel there was no Chip to be seen. Swearing under her breath she had the doorman hail her a cab.
Chip pulled up in the Mercedes just as she was about to enter the cab. For a moment she hesitated, trying to decide whether to stick with the cab or go with Chip.
Chip honked the horn.
Moron. The last thing she needed was attention. Thrusting money at the cab driver, she turned around and headed for the Mercedes.
“Where exactly were you?” she demanded imperiously, sliding onto the back seat.
“Traffic,” Chip whined. “It’s a miracle I got here as fast as I did.”
“You’re fired,” she snapped, taking out her frustration on her erstwhile driver.
“No way,” Chip said, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. “’S’not my fault this city has more traffic than a nest fulla ants.”
She was silent.
“You don’t look so good,” Chip ventured, narrowly avoiding a meandering jaywalker. “You feelin’ okay?”
“Just be quiet,” she muttered, seething with anger. “I pay you to drive, not talk.”
Chip swallowed a smart reply. She’d fired him once; if she did it a second time, she might actually mean it. And he didn’t want to lose his job. It was some cushy set-up.
* * *
Sharif Rani was in the middle of an important business meeting when one of his many cell phones began to vibrate in his jacket pocket. Excusing himself from the conference table, he took out the vibrating phone, and realized it was his sex phone – the one he used to arrange all his liaisons. Sharif Rani had a very jealous, very young, fourth wife, not to mention a slew of business acquaintances who would love to get something on him. Hence the sex phone, which was listed under one of his minions’ names, and used only to set up his ‘special’ appointments. The caller ID identified Belle Svetlana.
Goddamn it, why was she calling him? Belle was only supposed to use this line to confirm his “appointments.” And the rest of the week was all taken care of – a different woman every other day – women hand-picked for him by Belle. She knew what he liked.
He contemplated not answering the phone, then decided it was probably wiser to do so in case Belle had to change one of his appointments.
“Yes?” he said, lowering his voice as he moved toward the door of the conference room.
“Sharif?” Annabelle questioned, her voice quivering with the fury she would soon unleash on him.
“What do you want?” he said irritably.
Annabelle was in no mood for a sharp retort. Surely Sharif Rani knew exactly what she wanted? He’d set her up with a sex-mad teenage monster – certainly not a virgin. Now he had to suffer the consequences.
“I . . . can’t believe what you did to me,” she said, almost tripping over her words, she was so angry.
“What do you want?” he repeated, his tone getting icier by the second.
“I want . . . I want . . .” Trailing off, Annabelle realized that she didn’t know what she wanted. An apology, yes, that was it – an apology for setting her up with such an uncouth piece of crap, Sharif’s so-called son. And another thing – she wanted the boy to apologize too! Boy! Ha!
“Your son is a pig!” she blurted. “He treated me badly. He was rough and rude and disrespectful. You told me he was a fifteen-year-old virgin, and you know that’s not true. I want—”
Annabelle was so busy complaining that she didn’t hear the click on the other end of the line.
When she discovered he was no longer there, she was enraged. Rani Sharif had hung up on her! The man’s manners were appalling. Just who exactly did he imagine he was dealing with?
A little voice in her head whispered, “Hooker. Whore. Prostitute.”
These were words she did not wish to contemplate. She was none of those things. She was a stylish, rich New Yorker, who’d succeeded on her own without any help from her movie-star parents.
Tears of frustration filled her eyes. Where was Frankie when she needed him?
* * *
Frankie was in a strip club getting a lap dance from a sulky redhead with huge fake breasts and a very active tongue. The stripper was busy licking his neck when it suddenly occurred to him that getting pissed at Bobby and M.J. was a waste of time. They were merely jealous that he’d made a success of such a sweet business. And who could blame them? After all, he couldn’t stay a deejay for ever, he had to move on. And if moving on meant raking in the big bucks, then more power to
him. Bobby and M.J. came from wealthy families, what did they know about having to make it on your own with no help from anyone?
Frankie regarded himself as a true survivor. He’d come up the hard way and made it right up to the top.
There were a few things he regretted along the way. Some dark and ominous memories he did not care to re-visit. Some very dark memories he pushed to the back of his mind whenever they came up.
The coke helped him to forget the bad things. The coke always put him in a mellow mood, made it easy for him to achieve anything he set his mind to, made him feel like a winner.
Who would have thought that snorting a flurry of white powder could have such a life-affirming effect?
His habit was expensive, but he considered it worth every dime. It wasn’t as if he was into crack or heroin or any of the hard stuff.
He liked cocaine.
Big fucking deal.
The stripper was becoming restless. She was executing her best moves and he wasn’t responding. She was dangling her pastie-covered nipples dangerously close to his mouth, while thrusting her pelvis against his crotch. Her tongue was still working hard on his neck – heading toward his left ear – although actually touching the customer was strictly not allowed. She didn’t care. This was one stripper who was working all the way toward a hefty tip.
Frankie suddenly got up, sending her flying.
Sprawled on the floor, she was about to spew a tirade of insults, when he groped in his pocket, took out several twenty-dollar bills and threw them at her.
“Another time,” he muttered. “Not in the mood.”
* * *
Since Frankie was not answering his cell, an upset Annabelle texted him and then called up Bethany – one of the girls who sometimes worked for her. “Can you come over?” she asked, feeling in need of company. “Frankie’s in Atlantic City and I’m by myself.”
Bethany, a lounge singer who’d been around a couple of years too long, was happy to oblige. She arrived half an hour later carrying a bottle of champagne – Cristal, of course – and a carton of orange juice.
“I thought I’d make us Mimosas,” Bethany announced, heading for the kitchen.
Poor Little Bitch Girl Page 6