Ross. She was going to have him again after twenty-six years. She felt the excitement between her legs and leaned her forehead against the coolness of the mirror.
What if she couldn’t carry through her plan? What if she got caught up in the heat of the man? And Ross had so much heat.
She turned the music louder, checked the champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket, and waited for him to arrive.
• • •
Koko had never invited Angel to his house before. Sometimes after work he dropped her home, and occasionally he came in and chatted for a while, but she really didn’t know that much about him.
She was surprised to discover that he did not live alone in the small stylish house he took her to in the Hollywood Hills. He introduced her to his friend, Adrian—a handsome man in his early thirties. Adrian did not rise to greet her, and for a moment she thought that he might be mad at Koko for bringing her there. But he seemed quite friendly and made polite conversation while Koko busied himself in the kitchen fixing linguine al pesto. It was not until dinner was ready, and Koko matter-of-factly transferred Adrian into a wheelchair, that she realized he was a paraplegic.
Adrian felt her stare and said, “Vietnam,” without elaborating.
The linguine was delicious. So was the lemon mousse which followed.
“Koko’s a whiz in the kitchen,” Adrian said, looking at his friend warmly.
“You’re hardly in a position to object,” Koko retorted.
The two men’s eyes met for a moment, and Angel felt the love that flowed between them. She immediately thought of Buddy and how it had once been. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Now, now, dreamheart,” Koko soothed. “Don’t go getting maudlin on us. I’ll clear away the dishes and then we’ll talk.”
Adrian discreetly vanished into the bedroom after dinner.
“He gets tired,” Koko explained.
“It’s so awful . . .” she whispered.
“It’s not awful at all,” Koko replied sharply. “It’s life. And if Adrian can accept it then I don’t know why the rest of us can’t. Being paralyzed is not a disease, you know.” He shook his head angrily.
“I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “Don’t be. It’s just that it is . . . awful. But I can’t allow myself to think that way.” He took a deep breath. “Now, let’s talk about you. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
She felt such a need to confide in Koko. He was warm, and kind, and somehow she knew her secrets would be safe with him. For a moment she hesitated.
“Come along, sweet girl, begin at the beginning,” he encouraged.
She started off tentatively, telling him about Louisville, her foster home, the way her surrogate family had treated her. Then winning the contest in the magazine, coming to Hollywood, and all her hopes and dreams.
He listened without interruption as she told him about Daphne, Hawaii, and finally Buddy. Her face came alive and her eyes sparkled as she spoke of him. “He’s so marvelous, Koko.” Quickly she corrected herself. “I mean he was so marvelous. . . .”
She told him about the borrowed apartment, getting pregnant, shortage of money, then of Jason Swankle and the beach house.
He raised a cynical eyebrow when he heard of Buddy’s shopping spree with Jason.
“When we left the beach nothing was right anymore,” she continued sadly. “Randy and Shelly and the drugs. Buddy seemed like a different person. So one morning I just left. That was the day I came into the salon and met you.”
“And you haven’t been in touch with him since?”
“Only sort of.” She mentioned the phone call with Shelly and the awful things Shelly had said. Then she finished off with the Contis’ party and shrugged helplessly. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. Should I forget about Buddy? I mean, it’s silly to think about him all the time if he doesn’t even care.” She began to cry.
Koko reached for her and rocked her back and forth in his arms. “My poor baby,” he soothed. “A regular modern-day Cinders—and for God’s sake don’t say who!”
She loved the warmth of his arms, the softness of his sweater. Just the feeling of being held was so comforting. He touched her eyes with a Kleenex. “When you saw Buddy at the party, did he mention the baby? Ask how you were or anything?”
Miserably she shook her head.
“Legally he has to support you and the child. What we need in the picture is a sharp lawyer.”
“Buddy doesn’t have any money.”
“Then he will just have to go out and get himself a job like us ordinary folk,” Koko said matter-of-factly. “It won’t kill him, you know.”
Stubbornly she shook her head. “I don’t want anything from him.”
“Now don’t be so foolish.”
“I mean it.”
He looked perplexed. “Shall we sleep on it? Tomorrow you might look on things differently.”
“I would never take his money.”
“Hmmm. . . . In that case we’ll just have to find you a rich husband, won’t we?”
• • •
Ross made the drive in record time, flying down the freeway in his golden Corniche like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur. The news that George Lancaster might drop out spurred him on. Sadie was George’s agent, she had her finger on the pulse. If George walked she would be the first to know, and Ross Conti would be right there—ready and waiting.
He hummed to himself as he searched the parched streets for her address. Palm Springs was hot, and when he stopped at a gas station to ask directions the heat seeped in through the open window of the car like sticky molasses.
“You’re Ross Conti,” said the old crone in the gas station as though she was telling him something he didn’t already know.
“Yes,” he agreed amiably. “I am.”
“Didn’t like you in that film.”
“What film?”
“Some Like It Hot.”
“I wasn’t in Some Like It Hot.”
She wagged an accusing finger at him. “Oh yes you were.” She leaned closer to the window, all rotten teeth and knowing eyes. “What was Marilyn Monroe really like?”
He drove off without replying. Being mistaken for Jack Lemmon or Tony Curtis was a first.
By the time he located Sadie’s house, it was five-thirty. He pulled into the curved driveway, parked outside the front door, and honked the horn a couple of times just to let her know the star had arrived. Then he jumped out, opened up the trunk, and took out his suitcase.
By this time Sadie was at the door.
“Welcome,” she said, holding out a chilled glass of champagne.
He double-taked. She was wearing a nightdress. Talk about pushing the season.
He walked toward her, dumped the suitcase, took the proffered glass, and went to kiss her on the cheek.
She grabbed him in a viselike embrace and stuck her tongue firmly down his throat, nearly choking him.
He came up for air quite shocked. He was the one that was supposed to be making the moves.
“Let’s go to bed,” she said throatily. “I’ve waited long enough.” She clutched his hand and pulled him into the house, kicking the door shut behind him.
This wasn’t the Sadie he remembered. She of the huge tits and reticent bed manners. Never once had she come on to him in all the time they were living together. But years had passed—and everyone had to grow up.
She dragged him into a cool bedroom. The drapes were closed and the hum from the air conditioner was drowned out by Stan Getz on the stereo. He had a quick gulp of champagne—which was fortunate, because she took the glass away from him and set it down on a nightstand.
“I want you now,” she said urgently, ripping at his clothes.
“Hang on a minute. Wait. Let me shower at least,” he protested.
“Now,” she said insistently, unbuttoning his shirt, dragging it from his shoulders, and going for his fly.
He knew he was not hard. In fact he kn
ew that his schlong was probably curled up like a frightened rabbit. “Just a minute,” he complained. “I can’t perform on command.”
She stopped immediately and said coldly, “I thought it was what we both wanted.”
“It is, but I just got here. It was a long drive. I feel dirty and tired. I don’t want it to be like this.”
Christ! He sounded like a woman!
She managed to look disdainful and hurt at the same time. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”
He was sorely confused. At the party she had been reasonably cool. In her office efficient and businesslike. Now this. He just hadn’t been expecting her to come on so strong. It had thrown him completely. He felt like a fool.
“Nice house,” he said lamely.
“The bathroom’s through there.” She indicated a doorway. “There’s soap and towels, everything you need. Be my guest.”
He slunk into the bathroom feeling he had done something wrong, but not sure what. He stayed under the shower for a safe ten minutes, hoping that by the time he emerged she would have cooled down.
No such luck. She waited for him on the bed, leaning against the padded headboard smoking a thin black cigarillo and sipping champagne.
He had dressed in his pants and shirt, but that did not faze her.
“Come.” She patted the space beside her. “It’s been a long time. I can’t help my impatience.”
He approached the bed warily. What did she want from him? He was prepared to give her his body, but couldn’t she wait?
“Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?” she inquired. Amused man talking to shy virgin.
Again he felt like a fool. He removed his shirt, stepped out of his pants, but kept his jockeys firmly in place covering the Conti jewels.
“That’s better,” she said, holding out her arms in welcome.
He thought of her fantastic tits—they should get him going.
Close your eyes and think of Karen.
Why Karen? The thrill has gone.
Close your eyes anyway, schmuck.
Again she attacked him with her tongue, exploring his teeth, his gums, licking the roof of his mouth with sharp little stabs.
“Remember what you said at your party,” she whispered. “About how great it was with us? And how it’s never been that good for you with anyone else? Remember, Ross?”
Had he really said that?
Her tongue slid into his ear, and for the first time he felt a stirring. The smell of her was bringing back warm sticky memories. Musky, womanly—Sadie’s smell. He breathed deeply. Every woman gave off her own special aroma, and that’s what was making him hot.
He reached for her breasts, and disappointment flooded through him. They were gone! The best pair in Hollywood were now two hard little mounds, barely a handful. “What happened to your tits?” he gasped.
“I had them fixed.”
“There was nothing wrong with them!”
“Yes there was.”
“I loved your tits.”
“I’m sorry. If I’d known you were coming back twenty-six years later I’d have hung onto them.”
He pressed her nipples. They felt like rubber. “You made a big mistake,” he groaned.
“For God’s sake!” she snapped angrily. “Are we going to fuck, or are we going to hold a funeral service for my tits?” She paused for a moment, then added, “And I think you should know, Ross, that any man who doesn’t wish to be labeled a dumb male chauvinist does not call them tits anymore.”
“Sadie, you’ve changed,” he said sadly.
“Goddammit! I should hope so.”
• • •
Buddy met with the business manager Sadie recommended. The man treated him like a somebody—and why not? If he was going to be making fifteen thousand a week he was hardly a nothing anymore. It never occurred to him that this man looked after people who made millions and that he was merely doing Sadie a favor by agreeing to handle his affairs.
“Sadie tells me you need a car,” he said. “I can get you an excellent deal on a brand-new Mustang GT. Are you interested?”
“I don’t have the money . . . yet.”
“That’s all right. It’s taken care of. When your checks start coming through it’ll be deducted. What do you need in the way of cash for now?”
Sometimes Buddy felt that if he pinched himself he would wake up. It just didn’t seem possible that everything was going right for a change. Everything except Angel . . .
He picked up the car Saturday afternoon. It was black with leather upholstery, and best of all four speakers and a tape deck. He drove straight to Tower Records, where he purchased two hundred dollars’ worth of tapes. The Stones mostly. A lot of their early stuff. Then he drove around listening to “Satisfaction,” “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” and all the other golden oldies.
He thought about how he was going to find Angel. Obviously she had not run on home as he had hoped.
He frowned. Maybe he should take out an ad in the trades and hope that someone would show it to her. Only trouble was that Sadie would see it.
On Sunday morning he set off for Palm Springs earlier than necessary. The little car drove like a pistol, and he arrived in the Springs at nine, an hour too early.
He stopped for breakfast and found that he had lost his appetite. Morosely he stared out the window. He just wanted the whole scene over and done with.
Sunday morning Sadie awoke before Ross and hurried to the bathroom to repair the damage of the previous night’s activity. She looked a mess. Black hair unruly and kinked. Every trace of clever makeup ground into her skin. Circles under her eyes, and the sharp cruel lines of age etched deep.
Her hand shook slightly as she applied fresh eyeshadow. The evening had gone as she had planned—up to a point. She had confused the hell out of Ross with her get-your-pants-off approach. He had been disconcerted, and she had enjoyed every minute of his discomfort.
But then, eventually, he had her. In every way. And things were different. For a while.
She hated herself for being weak. She loathed the fact that he had been able to get to her with his unbeatable sexual prowess.
She shivered and wondered if she should still go ahead with her plan. It would be so easy to accept him back into her life. But then she knew what would happen. He would use her for as long as it suited him. And then he would leave her for some vacuous nothing with big boobs and a pretty face.
Ross Conti was not to be trusted. He had to be taught a lesson.
She dressed and returned to the bedroom. He was sprawled across the bed sleeping.
Staring at his slumbering form, she realized with a furious pang that she still loved him—whatever love was. There had certainly never been anyone else in her life who made her feel the way he did. Damn the power of sex.
Angrily she marched into the kitchen. He was a selfish egotistical bastard. Nothing about him had changed except that he had gotten older.
• • •
A final snore. A quick start. And he was awake.
For a moment he was disoriented. Where was he? At home? Karen’s? The Beverly Hills Hotel? Then it all came back to him. Sadie. Not so tough after all. A hard exterior. A sharp tongue. But once he gave her a little of his secret recipe . . .
He yawned, and grinned. She might have lost the tits, but she certainly had not lost the enthusiasm. He’d had her moaning and screaming—begging for it just as in the old days.
He had always enjoyed getting Sadie into a frenzy. Once, he had taught her the words to use, made her say things which caused her to flush beet-red all those years ago. She knew the words now—probably better than he did—but last night he had made her repeat every one of them ten times, and the game had made her gasp with long-lost pleasure.
He was back in her life. And now they could both concentrate on his career.
A luxurious stretch, and he looked forward to the day ahead.
• • •
&nbs
p; Buddy paid his check and set off.
Maybe he wouldn’t do it. Maybe he’d tell her the truth. Maybe she’d cancel his contract, take back his car, whistle in the advance.
What’s a fuck between friends?
Plenty.
Shit!
• • •
Ross grabbed her from behind, full of early-morning confidence. “Good morning, baby,” he crooned, grinding against her while reaching a hand inside her silk shirt.
She spun around fast, throwing him off. “For God’s sake get dressed. There’s nothing that puts me off my breakfast more than a man with no pants on. You look ridiculous.”
He was stunned. Where was the moaning, gasping, pleading lady of the night?
“Remember me? This is Ross baby.” He went to grab a tit. She slapped his hand away.
“May I suggest that Ross baby get dressed.”
He was semi-hard, ready to spring into action if necessary.
“I thought an early-morning trip down memory lane . . .”
“You thought wrong.”
He hadn’t quite figured her out yet. She was certainly doing a Jekyll and Hyde. But he could play games too, and tonight he’d really make her beg. He threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Okay, okay. I never forced a lady yet.” He aimed a kiss at her cheek, but she turned quickly away and he found himself kissing air. Puzzled, he returned to the bedroom and put on his swimming shorts.
Today he would straighten out a few things. One—Street People. Two—their relationship.
A little breakfast, a few hours’ sun. Perhaps she would be in a better mood later. Right now she was probably feeling guilty because she had enjoyed the sex so much. Some women were like that, especially the older ones.
• • •
At exactly ten o’clock Buddy rang the bell of Sadie La Salle’s Palm Springs house. He cracked his knuckles impatiently as he waited.
Sadie was in the kitchen. She called out to Ross, who was still in the bedroom, “Can you get the door for me?”
He emerged in a pair of striped madras shorts. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Can you get it or not?” she snapped impatiently.
He walked to the front door, threw it open, and came face to face with Buddy.
The two men stared at each other. Buddy recognized Ross Conti immediately and wondered if he had the wrong house.
Hollywood Wives Page 43