Carolyn couldn’t help going for the comment she knew would get to Muriel. “Well,” she said, “I guess I’m some people. See you later, Muriel.”
Escaping from the office without further interrogation, she made her way down to the underground parking lot. Things were about to change, it was exciting and she couldn’t wait.
She got into her 2006 Pontiac and sat quietly for a few moments contemplating her future. She was filled with all kinds of anticipation. Gregory had been mysterious, but extremely firm. He’d said he had a surprise for her. What could it possibly be?
When they’d spoken on the phone the previous day he’d given her strict instructions and told her to follow them without question. “Do not tell anyone anything,” he’d warned. “If you do, it will ruin everything.”
As if she would. She was hardly likely to confide in disapproving Muriel or the new male intern who wore patent leather shoes a size too large and an ill-fitting button-down Oxford shirt.
Gregory’s words echoed in her head. Take the main highway over the bridge and follow Route 105. Turn off at exit 10, and drive approximately fifteen minutes until you reach the abandoned Shell station. Wait there until I contact you.
She had a hunch she knew exactly what he had planned. He was arranging to meet her somewhere quiet, out of sight of prying eyes, and then he was taking her to view a house.
Yes! What else could the surprise be?
It was a no-brainer. Gregory was planting the seeds of their new life together.
She was sure of it.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bobby
M.J.’s new girlfriend, Cassie, was a miniature version of a younger Janet Jackson. Heartbreakingly pretty with a pocket Venus figure, she was only eighteen and trying hard to crash the music business.
Bobby took M.J. to one side while they waited for Brigette to arrive at the private airport. “Holy shit! She’s a baby!” he exclaimed. “Jeez, M.J., she’s almost the same age as Max. What’re you thinkin’?”
“I’m thinking that I’ve finally found The One,” M.J. responded. “Nothin’ wrong with that – you should try it sometime.”
“We’re taking her across state lines,” Bobby pointed out. “Is it even legal?”
“Hey, bro, she’s eighteen not twelve,” M.J. snapped. “An’ I’d kinda appreciate it if you’d quit with the comments an’ get with the program.”
“Fine,” Bobby grumbled. “Baby snatch, what do I care?”
He and M.J. had been friends since eighth grade. M.J. had always been a player, girls loved him, but as far as Bobby was concerned his friend was way too young to start settling down; it wasn’t cool. Bobby had to admit that M.J. and Cassie made a great-looking couple, and Cassie seemed sweet – although sweet wasn’t usually M.J.’s type. He liked them sassy and sexy.
Brigette arrived late as usual – a trait she’d inherited from Olympia, her deceased mother. Olympia had been Bobby’s half-sister, and even though Brigette was ten years older than him, he was indeed her uncle – a fact they laughed about a lot.
“You’re late,” he said, announcing the obvious.
“I know,” she said with a big unapologetic grin.
Bobby was pleased to note that Brigette seemed happy – it must be the new boyfriend’s influence.
A tall, athletic blonde emerged from Brigette’s limo. A female blonde with short cropped hair, broad shoulders, a healthy tan and a wide smile.
Brigette grabbed the woman’s hand. “Bobby,” she announced, beaming, “I want you to meet Kris. She’s the woman who put a smile back on my face. Isn’t she amazing?”
* * *
All the way on the flight to Vegas Bobby kept thinking about what Lucky would have to say about this unexpected turn of events. Brigette changing tracks was quite a surprise, although when he thought about it he wasn’t that shocked. After all, Brigette had experienced quite a parade of losers and psychos – all of them men – so maybe with a woman she’d have more luck. She was certainly happy enough and she looked fantastic. She and Kris were joking around like a couple of teenagers.
Kris was a pro tennis player and quite successful. “We met in the Hamptons at the P. Diddy All-White Party,” Brigette revealed. “I was with an out-of-work actor who’d decided I was just the ticket to pay all his bills – including his ex-wife’s alimony – and Kris had recently broken up with her long-time girlfriend.”
“We’d been together eight years,” Kris chimed in. “She wanted a marriage license and a baby. All I wanted was out.”
“Neither of us were looking—”
“Until we looked in each other’s direction,” Kris interrupted.
“And then,” Brigette added with a shy giggle, “it was a lightning strike. I knew immediately that Kris would change my life – and although we’ve only been together since the summer, she has.”
Kris squeezed Brigette’s hand and then concentrated on Bobby for a moment. “I’m so happy to finally meet you,” she said. “I know her family means a lot to Brigette, so when the opportunity came up to make this trip together – we both said a resounding yes! I can’t wait to meet the rest of the family.”
“You will,” Bobby said, glancing at M.J. and Cassie, who were all over each other.
It seemed he was the odd one out. By himself. No significant other.
All he had was the hots for a famous superstar who’d used him for stud service. Nice.
* * *
The last thing Bobby expected to see as the eight-passenger extra-long silver limo took them from the airport to The Keys complex, was a huge billboard of Zeena on the strip heralding a one night only appearance at the Cavendish Hotel. She was due to appear the following night.
Jeez! Was there no escape?
The Cavendish – a successful boutique hotel – was located right next to The Keys, and the owners – a lesbian couple – were good friends of Lucky and Lennie.
It occurred to Bobby that tomorrow night he and his group would be sitting ringside at the Cavendish watching Zeena perform. It was a hunch, but if he knew Lucky she’d already set it up as a fun thing to do. When guests visited Vegas, Lucky always made sure they were treated to the best entertainment going.
So . . . if that was the case, what was he planning on doing?
He’d go, of course. Watch Zeena perform. No big deal, she wouldn’t even know he was there. He’d be sitting in the audience like any other fan.
“Oh, look!” Cassie exclaimed, leaning out the window and checking the billboard. “Zeena’s appearing here tomorrow night. I love her! M.J., can we go?”
She could have asked him to strip naked and run down the street, for M.J. was in the land of the besotted.
“Sure, sweetie, I’ll try to get tickets,” M.J. promised.
“Lucky’s probably already got ’em,” Bobby remarked.
“Or if she hasn’t, why don’t you call Zeena?” M.J. suggested. “She’s always eyeballin’ you like you’re her next steak dinner.”
It threw Bobby that M.J. had noticed and not mentioned a word until now.
“You think?” he said, playing it major cool.
“C’mon, bro,” M.J. said, riding him. “You know as well as I do that Zeena’s got a thing for you. She wants your body, man. She wanna ravish your fine ass.”
“Didn’t notice.”
“Yeah, sure,” M.J. said, winking at Cassie. “You didn’t notice, but everyone else in the club did.”
“Wow!” Cassie exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Zeena is awesome!”
“And bi-sexual,” Kris added, joining in the conversation. “I must say – I do like a woman who can’t quite make up her mind.”
If they only knew, Bobby thought.
Before he could think about it further, their limo began pulling into The Keys complex.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Annabelle
Breakfast in the Polo Lounge with a hungover Frankie took care of Annabelle’s morning. She pushed
Eggs Benedict around her plate while tapping her foot impatiently on the floor.
“Can’t wait to get back to New York,” she muttered.
Frankie raised his retro Ray-Bans revealing bloodshot eyes. “’C’mon, this place rocks, babe,” he said, full of enthusiasm. “You shoulda come with, last night. I’m tellin’ you – it was a major scene. You really missed out.”
“I’m sure I did,” Annabelle answered primly, clearly forgetting about her own crazed teenage years, “I’m well aware of the L.A. scene. Decrepit old dudes on the make with Viagra fever, and moronic underage girls flashing their lack of underwear. Lovely!”
“Sounds like our kinda town t’me,” Frankie quipped, gulping down a glass of fresh orange juice. “Y’know babe, we could clean up here. Far as I can tell, it’s ours for the taking.”
“Why would we want L.A. when we’ve got New York?” Annabelle said, frowning.
“Expansion, babe. That’s what business is all about.”
“But Frankie,” she argued, determined to change his mind, “surely you understand that we need to be hands-on? We can’t run our business from another city.”
“Then we should consider spending more time in L.A.,” he said, getting off on the thought. “We’ll bring in someone like Janey to run things when we’re not here.”
“Sure,” Annabelle murmured sarcastically. “There’s a Janey lurking around every corner.”
“I’ll find someone,” Frankie insisted. “You know me, I can sniff ’em out.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t be satisfied with what we’ve got going,” Annabelle said, wishing he wasn’t so damn stubborn.
“’Cause I want more, babe,” he explained. “Nothin’ wrong with that.”
Annabelle pushed her plate away. Frankie was starting to bug her again. Why was he so set on L.A. when he knew she hated it?
She glanced at her watch. Where was Denver? Thank God she had someone she could depend on to get her through this mess.
Annabelle’s memories of Denver at school were fuzzy. She vaguely remembered that they’d hung out for a while, but Denver hadn’t been up for clubbing and shopping – she’d always put schoolwork and her family first, plus she’d never had money to burn. Come to think of it, Denver had been a total drudge.
It didn’t matter because she was here now, and Annabelle needed her for support since it was becoming painfully obvious that Frankie could not be depended on.
“Isn’t that Mel Gibson?” Frankie asked, lowering his voice as the famous actor strode past their table. “Jeez! The dude looks great.”
“Who cares?” Annabelle said, tossing her hair back. “And what was all that fan crap going on with you and Ralph last night? Have you any idea how dumb you sounded?”
The word “dumb” did not sit well with Frankie. “What’s crawled up your ass this morning?” he demanded.
“Apparently not you,” Annabelle responded, refusing to look at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we seem to be growing apart,” she said, gazing off into space.
Frankie was silent for a moment while his mind computed what was going on. His girlfriend was getting all snarky on him, and he didn’t appreciate it. He realized she was upset about her mother – even though she didn’t seem to know it – but that was no reason to take it out on him. They were finally in L.A. and they should be enjoying every minute, instead of which they were at each other’s throats.
He decided to save the day, turn on the Frankie Romano charm, lure her back into the best relationship she was ever likely to experience.
“Y’know what?” he said. “We’re both tense, it’s been a helluva few days. But you do know how much I love you – right, babe?” Leaning over, he nuzzled her neck exactly the way he knew turned her on. “Tonight I’m takin’ you for dinner, just the two of us. An’ then . . .”
“Frankie . . .” she began to say, making a half-hearted attempt to push him away.
“Don’t even bother arguing,” he said firmly. “You’re right, we need some alone time. Leave it to me, babe, I’m gonna arrange everything.”
* * *
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Annabelle asked as the limo whisked them toward the Maestro mansion.
“Uh, not exactly a live-in,” Denver replied, unwilling to reveal any details of her love-life to Annabelle.
“Very wise,” Annabelle nodded as she lit up a cigarette. “But then you always were the smart one. Who needs a man cluttering up your apartment, or do you have a house?”
“No house.”
“Apartments are better.”
“I suppose so,” Denver said, hating this conversation that was going nowhere.
“I have a fantastic apartment in New York,” Annabelle boasted.
“I know, I saw it.”
Annabelle quickly shut up. She was talking about her stunning Park Avenue spread, not the SoHo dump. Denver probably wouldn’t even understand the difference.
They rode the rest of the way in silence until they reached the Maestro estate. As they waited for the gate to open at the end of the driveway, a couple of stray paparazzi fell out of the shrubbery and began snapping away.
Annabelle immediately covered her face with her hands. “Oh God!” she worried. “I can’t be photographed. People in New York have no idea who I am. This is impossible.”
Denver decided not to point out that at the funeral they’d be inundated with TV crews, photographers and press. It would be media frenzy.
Once they reached the house, Lupe, the Maestros’ housekeeper, answered the door. She escorted them up the main staircase to Gemma’s sumptuous dressing room – a room almost as big as Denver’s entire apartment.
Annabelle plopped herself down on a fancy pink love-seat and with an exhausted sigh said, “I simply can’t do this – you’ll have to do it for me.”
Suddenly Denver was overwhelmed with a rush of bad memories. Annabelle whining to her in high school, “I can’t do this history test, you’ll have to do it for me.” “I can’t make it to the cafeteria today, you’ll have to get lunch for me.” “I can’t go to Carolyn’s party, you’ll have to tell her for me.”
Denver found herself in bad memory hell and she didn’t like it. Once upon a time she’d been desperate to be one of the cool girls – so desperate that she’d done everything Annabelle had asked. But things were different now, and all she wanted to do was to get back to her office and catch up on her work.
“Guess what!” she exclaimed, tapping her watch. “I forgot a very important meeting I’m supposed to be at this morning. I’m so sorry, I have to go.”
“But I need you!” Annabelle wailed. “You can’t leave!” “Don’t worry, I’ll send my assistant Megan over. Megan is super-competent, she’ll handle everything. You’ll love her.” And before Annabelle could object further, she was heading for the door.
Annabelle was livid. She could not believe she’d been deserted in her time of need. Denver Jones should be kissing her ass, not running out on her. Fine friend she’d turned out to be.
* * *
Sitting in a private cabana at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Frankie surveyed the action. There was not much going on; however, it was still early. There was plenty of time for a parade of movie stars to appear and hang out. Preferably Jessica Alba and Megan Fox in the smallest Brazilian bikinis.
A lounger had been laid out for him by the pool, so after slathering on some sun protection, he took himself outside the cabana, first ordering a Bloody Mary.
Last night he’d gotten caught up in quite a scene. Talk about pussy heaven – L.A. was it. Girls galore. Girls in backless, almost topless, short skimpy outfits. Girls with long blonde hair and obvious fake tits. Girls with long dark hair and obvious fake lips – desperately trying to emulate their Goddess Angelina. Too bad none of them succeeded.
Frankie had hit a couple of happening clubs. At the second club he’d taken a seat at the bar and surveyed the act
ion. After slipping the barman his card, he’d inquired if there were any owners around.
Eventually Rick Greco – the guy who ran the club and was also a part-owner – had appeared and introduced himself.
Frankie thought there was something vaguely familiar about Rick, but he couldn’t quite place him.
“Sorry, dude, we’re not lookin’ for any deejays,” Rick said, giving him a friendly pat on the back.
“Don’t sweat it, ’cause I’m not lookin’ for a job,” Frankie responded. “I’m in town for my girlfriend’s mother’s funeral. Gemma Summer. You probably read about it. Big case.”
“Shit,” Rick said, duly impressed. “That’s some bummer.” A short pause, and then – “Her daughter really your girlfriend?”
What did the jerk think – that he’d made it up?
“’S’right,” he said, casually surveying the room. “Annabelle Maestro. We live together in New York.”
Rick snapped his fingers for the barman. “Can I buy you another drink?”
“Sure,” Frankie said amiably. “Why not?”
And so they’d got to talking, and Frankie had decided that Rick might be an excellent connection – especially when Rick revealed he was a former teen idol who’d been big on TV in the nineties.
“Y’know, I thought I recognized you,” Frankie said, flashing back to his early teen years. “Weren’t you on that show with the smokin’ hot mom an’ the two obnoxious asswipe kids?”
“That was me,” Rick said, basking in the memory of his former glory. “We had a three-year run. It’s something I’ll never forget.”
Frankie took a second look at the man perched on the bar-stool next to him: Rick was in his late thirties now, but there were still traces of the former teen idol. Cow-like brown eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. Sandy brown hair groomed into a semblance of style. And clothes that certainly favored the nineties – a buttoned-down pink shirt, skintight Levis, and pointy-toed cowboy boots.
What a douche, Frankie thought. This town is ripe for a takeover, and I am just the man to do it. But I need help, and this schmuck could be it.
Poor Little Bitch Girl Page 18