Chuckling, Gino pushes me gently away. “Thought you’d like ’em, kiddo.”
I feel so damn happy. Here I am in Vegas on my birthday with my father, and he’s just given me diamond earrings because he cares. He actually does love me. Things couldn’t get any better.
“Those are some earrings,” Marco remarks as I hold them up to my ears.
“I know,” I gush. “So beautiful.”
“Whyn’t you go to the little girls’ room an’ put ’em on?” Gino suggests. “I wanna see what they look like on you.”
I don’t need asking twice. I jump up and practically run to the ladies’ room, where I encounter Betty Richmond.
“Look what Daddy gave me,” I blurt, flashing my earrings.
“That’s nice,” Betty says, although I can tell she doesn’t mean it. For some unknown reason she obviously hates me.
Back at the table Gino is gone, so is Marco. The table is filling up with people I don’t know. My burst of euphoria is on its way out, especially when Craven Richmond sits down next to me.
“How are you?” he asks.
A wave of bad breath envelops me. Ugh!
“Great,” I mutter, and that’s it for our conversational interaction.
* * *
A longer and more yawn-inducing event cannot possibly exist. Maybe I’m difficult to please, or maybe I don’t have much patience, but the people at my table suck big-time. Nobody has anything to say, especially Craven, who I can’t wait to escape from. He’s the kind of guy Olympia and I would label jerk—creep—boring!
I wonder how Olympia’s doing. I kind of miss her. She can be mean and selfish, but she’s also the one responsible for encouraging me to be my own person.
“There’s another party after this,” Craven informs me. “Your father asked me to escort you to it.”
Oh, he did, did he? What’s wrong with you, Daddy? Why have you stuck me with this total idiot?
I agree to go because I find out it’s Gino’s party, which makes me sure that Marco will be there. And indeed he is, only my Marco is deep in conversation with some blonde bimbo in a too tight neon-orange dress.
I am outraged! What is he thinking? She’s not his style at all. Too flashy and too trashy.
I throw Marco a steely glare before stalking around the room trying to locate Gino. When I do, I find he’s too busy talking to the Richmonds to pay me any attention. So much for fatherly love.
Once more I hate him.
“I’m tired,” I inform Craven, whom I can’t seem to shake since he’s obviously decided to follow me everywhere like an annoying shadow.
“Me, too,” he agrees.
“Think I’ll go to bed, then.”
“I’ll escort you to the elevator.”
No escaping Craven and his bad breath. What did I do to deserve such a prince trailing me around?
We leave the party and mingle with the masses in the main lobby. I am dying to scoot into the casino to check it out—but Craven heads straight for the private elevator that’ll whisk me up to Gino’s penthouse.
We reach the elevator and stand there waiting for it to arrive.
“How about a game of tennis in the morning?” Craven asks, tapping the side of his long thin nose.
I feign a yawn and mumble, “Dunno what time I’ll be up.”
“I’ll call you at ten,” Craven says, not to be put off. Then before I can back away he leans over and kisses me chastely on the cheek, adding a cryptic “Don’t worry, everything will turn out fine.”
What?
I shake my head and quickly jump into the elevator.
Please God, make sure I never have to spend another evening with him again.
Craven Richmond brings dull to a whole new level.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Home at last, or rather at Gino’s luxurious Vegas penthouse, which is kind of creepy when there is nobody in it but me. My first move is to run into my bathroom, strip off my disgusting pink dress, crumple it in a ball, and kick it in a corner. Ha! I’m never wearing that again. Then I throw myself under a shower and wash the crimpy curls out of my hair.
The relief of becoming myself again works, and now I’m feeling as if I could manage some real fun. Gino thinks I’m safe somewhere with boring Craven. Flora is no longer around. So hey—I’m on my own. I can do what I like. And what I don’t like is being cooped up. Freedom beckons, and believe me I’m on it!
Vegas calls.
Hello. I’m responding!
My next move is to fill up my bed with pillows so it looks like I’m buried beneath them. Then I hide my diamond earrings somewhere safe, wriggle into my fave jeans, throw on a T-shirt, add smoky eyes and lip gloss to my face, pocket the key to the suite, and take off.
The private elevator whisks me to ground level and within seconds I’m mingling with the crowds.
The main lobby is packed with everyone from Hawaiian shirt–clad tourists to giggling groups of girls experiencing a bachelorette fun fest. It seems everyone is out to have a crazy time in Vegas. Tall, short, fat, and thin—they are all giggling and on the move.
I melt right in, getting lost in the crowds, although I soon decide it’ll be safer for me to head for another hotel where I won’t risk the chance of running into anyone who knows me.
I hurriedly make my way to the front of the hotel and follow the people spilling out onto the sidewalk, then I start walking.
This is so cool and I’m loving it! Little Lucky Saint no more. I am Lucky Santangelo, and one day I’m going to own this town. I’m going to build amazing hotels and casinos, just like Gino. Aunt Jen has told me the stories of how Gino came to Vegas right at the beginning when it first started. How he built his first hotel and casino, and got in on the ground floor along with notorious characters, including his partner Enzio Bonnatti, my godfather, a man we never seem to see anymore.
The next hotel I get to is even more jammed, with tons of people milling around in the enormous lobby decorated with lurid murals, huge statues, and splashing fountains.
I slink into the casino and hover near a bank of slot machines. Nobody stops me—guess I look as if I belong.
After throwing a few coins into one of the machines I hit a treble. Multiple coins pour out. I’m a winner! I don’t win much, but I immediately realize that I’m on a roll and should follow up. Heading for the cashier, I change my coins into dollars, twenty dollars in all. Then I make it over to the roulette table and place my twenty on black.
Black comes up! I let it ride. Black comes up again!
So now I’m ahead eighty dollars in less than five minutes. Wow! So this is how gambling can become an addiction.
The croupier gives me a glassy stare. Is the old dude wondering how old I am? Is he about to question me?
Just in case, I scoop up my chips and move on. This is exciting stuff and I don’t want to get busted for being underage.
After cashing in my chips, I wander from the casino into the huge gaudy lobby. Gino’s hotel is much more tasteful—this one is way lower class, full of overweight people wearing flip-flops and shorts, with red faces and loud voices.
A couple of drunks clutching bottles of beer bump into me. “Whacha up to, pretty girl?” one snorts with a sloppy leer on his florid face.
I ignore them and keep walking.
“Stuck-up little bitch!” the second guy yells after me.
I turn around and give him the finger.
He shouts something obscene. I ignore him and carry on my merry way.
It’s past midnight and I am free! I am in Vegas enjoying an adventure. My adventure, nobody else’s. Talk about a feeling of lightness—I am positively floating!
Ah, if only Marco could see me now he’d realize I’m my own person, not some kid who has to do what Daddy tells her.
I decide to move on to the next hotel—nothing like exploring the city, getting the feel of it.
Once again—even though it’s long past midnight—the sidewalk is crowd
ed, everybody on their way somewhere. I guess in Vegas walking is the way to go if you want to stop by all the best hotels.
I marvel at the army of hotels lined up on the Strip, big flashy neon-lit palaces offering the chance to win a million bucks. The great American dream, and Gino has tapped into it big-time.
I am proud of my dad. I am proud to be his daughter. And I will be proud to carry on the Santangelo tradition, building even bigger and better hotels.
The yelp of an animal in pain catches my attention, and I notice some drunken vagrant squatting on the sidewalk beating on a cute little puppy with the back of a dirty sneaker.
Hell no! Not on my watch.
“Stop that!” I yell, determined to rescue the poor dog.
“Fuck off,” the drunk mumbles, barely coherent. “Filthy bugger peed on me, gonna beat the crap outta the li’l shit.”
“No way,” I threaten, and before he can stop me I bend down and scoop up the puppy.
“Quit stealin’ my property, thief!” the vagrant yells, grabbing my ankle with a bony hand, getting a firm grip.
The puppy scrambles in my arms, desperate to escape and go pee on someone else, while the vagrant tries his best to make me lose my balance, which I almost do until a man appears, gives the drunk a hefty kick, and pulls me away—puppy still in my possession.
Is it Marco to the rescue? For one insane moment I think it is. The man is tall and dark—but as he steers me down the street away from the drunk, I realize he’s no Marco, although he is not bad-looking, in a shady kind of way.
“Thanks!” I gasp.
“Bit of advice,” he offers. “Never mess with those assholes. They’re covered in lice—not worth arguing with.”
Hmm … like I need his advice.
The puppy barks. “Is this his dog?” I ask, as if he would know.
“Doubt it,” the man says. “If I took a guess I’d say he probably stole it.”
“Well,” I venture, “what do you think I should do with it?”
“Put it down. If it’s his it’ll run back to him.”
“I can’t do that, he was beating it.”
The man stares at me and I get a better look. He has brown eyes and a slightly crooked nose. Unshaven with a soul patch on his chin, he is obviously no boy, more like in his thirties. I reckon he’s old, same as Marco, but not nearly as good-looking, although a whole lot better than Craven.
“What’s a girl like you doing out on her own?” he asks.
“Rescuing dogs in peril,” I reply tartly.
He laughs. “I suppose you wanna take the mutt to a shelter?”
“I wouldn’t know where to go.”
“Visiting?”
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“Kind of.”
“I can take you if you want.”
Now I’m no dummy. A strange man on the Vegas Strip, not exactly a safe prospect. However, I consider myself a good enough judge of character, so what the hell, any funny stuff and I can handle myself.
“My car’s parked round the corner,” he says.
The puppy is wriggling big-time. “Okay,” I agree.
He raises an eyebrow. “Trusting?”
I give it right back to him, show him that I’m not some dumb girl about to be taken advantage of. “My dad’s a cop back in L.A.,” I lie. “I think I can look after myself.”
“Right on,” the man says with a wolfish grin. “I’m Jeff, and you are?”
I decide not to give him my real name, so I come up with Maria, my mom’s name.
“Maria.” He repeats my name and scratches his chin. “Italian?”
“Sort of,” I mutter, trying to control the rambunctious puppy, who is now determined to escape.
We walk down a side street to a parking lot where his car—a not-so-new Pontiac—is stashed. Vegas numberplates, I note.
“You from here?” I ask, boldly getting in the car.
“Born an’ bred,” he says. “Not many people can lay claim to that.”
“What do you do?” I ask curiously.
“Blackjack dealer,” he replies, lighting up a cigarette. “An’ what do you do?”
I’m sixteen, asshole. I kind of go to school when they can keep me.
“Oh,” I say, “a bit of this, a bit of that. My dad kinda wants me to train to be a cop.”
“Sounds exciting,” he says, inhaling deeply before blowing smoke in my general direction.
“Yeah, only I’m not sure,” I say, waving the smoke out of my face.
He starts the engine. Miss Drew’s warning words ring in my ears. “Never ever get into a car with a stranger. That’s how young girls end up getting raped or even dead.”
Thanks, Miss Drew, I’ll bear that in mind.
“Do you know where to go?” I ask as he drives toward the Strip.
“There’s an animal shelter downtown,” he replies. “It’s not too far. An’ if you feel like it we can grab a beer an’ play the slots at my favorite hotel.”
“You have a favorite?”
“Yeah, it’s a dump, only it’s a helluva lot more welcoming than the big fancy places.”
“Sounds good to me,” I respond, feeling major cool and sophisticated. I have escaped Craven, and now I’m all set to have an interesting time with my new best friend. What could be better?
I’m free and I’m sixteen. And one day I will own this city.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jeff turns out to be an okay guy. He’s talkative and not bad-looking, although on closer inspection, he’s definitely no Marco. After we deposit the puppy at the shelter, he drives us to a downtown honky-tonk joint, jammed with grungy offbeat characters and girls who could be hookers in their tight leopard-print shorter-than-short skirts, fishnet tights, and sky-high heels. A cocktail waitress wearing very little gives Jeff a warm greeting, which I suppose is a good sign. There’re several pool tables and a bank of slot machines, both of which we play. I cream him at pool, which doesn’t thrill him. Neither of us hit any jackpots. Too bad. As I guzzle down my third glass of cheap wine followed by a beer, I’m glad I trusted him—he seems like fun, and I am in dire need of some fun.
After a while he asks if I’m hungry—which I am—and we move on to a fast-food place where he scores me a big fat juicy burger and french fries. I wolf everything down as if I haven’t eaten in a month. Not very ladylike, but then I’m not a very ladylike sort of girl.
“What’s it like being a dealer?” I ask, chewing on my burger as if it’s my last meal.
He shrugs. “Not bad when the tipping goes my way.”
“And does it?”
“What?”
“Go your way.”
A sly grin and a wink. “The women customers can be very generous, if you get my drift.”
“Do you, like, manipulate the cards?” I ask curiously.
He throws me a quizzical look. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just asking,” I say, drowning a french fry in ketchup and stuffing it in my mouth.
“You’re full of surprises.”
“I am?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a spy for one of the casino managers, or maybe a pool hustler.”
I stifle a giggle. If he only knew my real identity, he’d crap himself!
“You got beautiful eyes,” he says.
Ah, the come-on is about to begin, and not a moment too soon. It’s been way too long since “almost” with Jon, and I am hot to get some good healthy necking in.
He reaches forward and touches my hair.
I feel a tingle of anticipation.
“We should get outta here,” he smirks, confident he’s onto a sure thing. “My apartment’s nearby. Wanna see my collection of Indian relics?”
Indian relics? Is he kidding me?
“Can’t,” I say, trying to sound genuinely regretful, ’cause getting in his car is one thing, but there’s no way I’m about to get trapped in his apartment. �
��Gotta get back to my hotel. It’s late, and I have to be up early. My dad’s driving in to meet me from L.A. He gets livid if I keep him waiting.”
This doesn’t sit too well with Jeff. Obviously he was expecting a burger and fries would buy him a long lustful night of sex.
Sorry again, dude. But finding myself a prisoner in your apartment is not for me. No way.
“Too bad,” he says at last.
“Yeah,” I agree, putting on a sorry face.
“Well, anyway,” he adds, “at least I can drive you to your hotel.”
Hmm … decision time … Do I get in the car again with him or not?
I decide yes. Nothing wrong with a little making out in a car.
And that is exactly what happens. He drives me to Gino’s hotel, parks in the back lot, and then we start to go at it. Kissing, groping, fumbling, touching.
He is so not a skillful kisser. His lips are plummy and soft like a girl’s, and his mouth tastes of stale beer. As for his hands, they are big and rough and all over me.
I realize I have made a big mistake. “Almost” with this dude is not for me.
“Gotta go,” I gasp, reaching for the door handle.
“Huh?” he mumbles.
I jump out of the car. He jumps out after me.
“You can’t go,” he says, circling around me.
“I think I can,” I respond, edging away from him.
He pins me up against a brick wall and attempts to kiss me again.
I shove him away. “I said I’ve gotta go,” I repeat.
“An’ leave me like this?” he groans, pressing himself hard against me. “Y’know, there’s a name for girls like you.”
Before I realize it, he’s unzipping his fly, and his hands start groping under my T-shirt.
Oh wow! I attempt to get away. It is not possible because he still has me pinned against the wall. I’m not scared, but I am starting to get mad, especially when he starts ripping at the fastening of my jeans, almost pulling them down.
Time for the famous Santangelo knee to the groin, a move I excel at. I give it to him hard and fast.
He is surprised, then furious, letting out a sharp cry of pain. But by that time I am on the run, pulling up my jeans and leaving him way in the distance.
Confessions of a Wild Child Page 13