Anna was cooking eggs when Brigette got in. “How’d it go today?” she inquired, adding too much pepper to the runny eggs.
“Okay,” Brigette said, thinking that it had not gone well at all. It never did. Oh, God! Maybe she was doomed to failure.
Anna brushed a lock of fine hair out of her eyes. “Do they want you?”
“Ha!” Brigette replied, not pleased. “They want me to lose ten pounds.”
“You’re not fat.”
Brigette pulled a face. “Don’t I know it,” she said, smoothing down her extra-short skirt. “He said I had baby fat.”
“Baby fat!”
“Yes. What a retard!”
Anna continued to stir the eggs. “So what next?”
Brigette shrugged. “I’ll keep trying.”
Later she ordered pizza and sat out on the fire escape eating it because the apartment was so uncomfortably hot. She could have been living in luxury in an air-conditioned penthouse on Park Avenue. That was not for her—she preferred the struggle.
Munching a slice of pizza, she thought about her life and the twisted turns it had taken.
Sometimes it was difficult to believe.
Sometimes she burst out crying for no reason.
Sometimes the memory of Tim Wealth came back to haunt her and she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
Tim Wealth. Hot young movie star.
He’d taken her virginity at fifteen. And gotten himself murdered for his trouble.
How well she remembered him. How many nights she shuddered at the memories.
Poor Tim had gotten in the way of Santino Bonnatti—a lifelong enemy of the Santangelos—just when Santino was in the middle of a kidnapping attempt on Brigette and her younger half-brother, Bobby.
Santino’s men had brutally murdered Tim and left him dead in his apartment, while she and Bobby were forcibly taken to Santino’s house and sexually abused. She could still recall in sickening detail cowering naked and terrified in the center of Santino’s bed while the perverted freak, clad only in his underwear, stripped off her little brother’s clothes and prepared to commit an obscene act.
It was then she’d spotted the gun placed casually on a bedside table, and as Bobby’s anguished screams filled the room, she’d known she had to do something.
Silently sobbing, she’d crawled across the bed and reached for the weapon.
Santino was too busy with Bobby to notice.
With shaking hands, she’d picked up the gun, pointed it straight at the monster, and squeezed the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Good-bye, Santino.
She shook her head vigorously—trying desperately not to remember.
Shut out the memories, Brigette.
Forget the past.
Concentrate on now…
“She’s a crazy bitch,” Alex said irritably.
“She’s putting up the money for your movie,” Freddie replied mildly.
“What’s her fucking problem?” Alex steamed.
“Didn’t know she had one.”
“Christ! You heard her.”
Freddie sighed patiently. “What?”
“She wants to see actors with their cocks hanging out. What kind of shit is that? Doesn’t she realize there’s a double standard?”
“Don’t let it bother you.”
“It does fucking bother me,” Alex said angrily as they reached their cars.
“Why?” Freddie asked, one hand on the door of his gleaming Bentley Continental. “Whatever you shoot’ll have to be cut. She can’t afford an X rating, it’ll kill the grosses, plus the theater chains won’t book an X. She’ll realize that.”
“She must be some sick broad,” Alex muttered.
Freddie laughed. “Well, she sure got to you, I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Because she’s stupid.”
“No,” Freddie said quickly. “That’s one thing Lucky’s not. She took over Panther two years ago and she’s doing an excellent job. She had no previous experience in the film industry, yet she’s definitely turning things around.”
“Okay, okay, she’s a fucking genius—but I’m not asking any of my actors to march around stark naked.”
“Nicely put, Alex. I’ll call you later.”
Freddie got in his Bentley and took off.
Alex stood beside his black Porsche, still fuming at Lucky’s request. Didn’t she realize women were not turned on by male nudity? It was a well-known fact.
He got in his car and drove to his production offices, located on Pico. He’d called his production company Woodsan Productions—because it sounded peaceful and still incorporated his name. He owned the building—one of his better business investments.
He had two assistants, Lili, a softly pretty Chinese woman in her forties without whom he claimed he could not function. And France, an exquisite Vietnamese twenty-five-year-old who’d once been a bar girl in Saigon before he’d chivalrously rescued her and brought her to America. He’d slept with both of them, but that was in the past and now they were nothing more than loyal assistants.
“How was your meeting?” Lili asked anxiously.
He slumped in a worn leather chair behind his enormous littered desk. “Good,” he said. “Gangsters has a new home.”
Lili clapped her hands together. “I knew it!”
France brought him a mug of hot black tea, stood behind him, and began massaging his shoulders with relaxing, kneading movements. “Very tense,” she scolded. “Not good.”
He could feel the pressure of her small, firm breasts against the back of his neck while her surprisingly strong hands dug deep. It was comforting. Asian women were the best.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said, still uptight about Lucky’s request.
“Yes?” both women chorused.
“Do you get off looking at naked guys?”
Lili’s expression was impassive as she tried to figure out the answer Alex wanted. France burst out in giggles.
“Well?” Alex demanded, none too pleased by their hesitation.
“What naked men?” Lili asked, stalling for time.
“On the screen,” Alex said shortly. “Actors.”
“Mel Gibson? Johnny Romano?” France said hopefully.
“Jesus!” Alex exclaimed, fast losing patience. “It doesn’t matter who they are.”
“Oh, yes it does!” France retorted, abruptly stopping his massage. “Anthony Hopkins—no! Richard Gere, yes!”
“Or Liam Neeson,” Lili added, a faraway look in her eyes.
“I’m not talking about just their upper torso,” Alex said ominously. “I’m talking about everything—the whole caboodle.”
Lili figured out the answer he required, and even though she didn’t mean it, she knew how to keep her boss happy. “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “We don’t want to see that.”
“Exactly,” Alex exclaimed triumphantly. “Women don’t want to see it.”
“I do,” France murmured, low enough for him not to hear.
“Why are you asking?” Lili inquired.
“’Cause Lucky Santangelo is a crazy bitch who’s under the false impression women want to act like men.”
“Crazy bitch,” parroted France, thinking to herself that Lucky Santangelo must be a really interesting woman whom she couldn’t wait to meet.
“I don’t get it,” Alex muttered, deciding that the next time he saw Lucky Santangelo he’d definitely set her straight. She had to learn a thing or two—and who better to teach her than the master himself.
4
VENUS MARIA WAS IN SPECTACULAR SHAPE. SHE worked at it diligently, rising at six every morning to run up and down the Hollywood Hills with Sven, her personal trainer, before returning to her house for a punishing hour of aerobics and light weights.
Jesus! Staying in spectacular shape took some doing. Her routine was a major pain in the ass, but she never slacked off, because slackin
g off meant she would no longer have the best body in Hollywood. And fuck ’em—one thing they couldn’t bitch about was her glorious bod.
Virginia Venus Maria Sierra had first come to Hollywood in her early twenties with her best friend, Ron Machio—a gay would-be choreographer. They’d hitchhiked their way from New York and had survived in L.A. by taking any gig they could get. Venus had worked in a supermarket bagging groceries, as a nude model for an art class, as a movie extra, and various one-nighters singing and dancing.
Ron had attempted waiting tables, running errands for a messenger service, and chauffeuring limousines. Together they’d managed to survive, until one night Venus was discovered by a small-time record producer who’d hung out at the same all-night clubs she and Ron frequented. With some heavy persuasion she’d gotten him to cut a record using her, then she and Ron had put together a sexy on-the-edge video to go with it. Venus had planned the look and the style, while Ron had come up with all the right moves.
Overnight they’d scored, for within six weeks their record was number one and Venus Maria was launched.
Now, five years later, at the age of twenty-seven, she was a major superstar with an enormous cult following. And Ron was a hot director with two hit movies behind him. It helped that Ron’s current boyfriend was Harris Von Stepp, an extraordinarily rich show business mogul who’d financed Ron’s first film. As Venus often pointed out, if Ron hadn’t possessed the talent, it would never have happened for him. She didn’t like Harris, he was twenty-five years older than Ron and icily controlling.
As an actress Venus was creamed by the critics, even though every one of her movies did mega box office. Her latest, Finder, had already made over eight million its first weekend out. She was one of the few female stars able to open a movie.
It obviously pissed off the mostly male critics that a woman could be as daring and outspoken as Venus, and still manage to have a fantastic career. Journalists were always writing about her in derogatory terms—saying she was finished, tapped out, gone with the wind.
Finished! Ha! Her last greatest hits CD had leaped into the charts at number one and stayed there for seven weeks.
Finished, indeed! Who were they kidding? She had legions of loyal fans, and if the critics didn’t like her, too bad; she was around for the long haul and they’d better get used to it or bail out.
Two years ago she’d gotten married to Cooper Turner—a classically handsome movie star with a major stud reputation. Even though he was hitting forty-seven—twenty years older than she—she’d recently found out that her dear husband was unable to keep his dick in his pants. He adored women, and although she was sure he loved her, there was nothing she could do about his wandering cock. Cooper was a player who couldn’t help it. Too bad, because they made a dynamite couple.
When they’d first met, she’d been involved in an affair with one of his best friends, the New York property tycoon Martin Swanson. At the time Martin was very hot for her and very married. Their affair had culminated in the suicide of Martin’s wife in front of them.
Cooper had been there for her all the way. Tragedy had brought them together and they’d fallen in love and gotten married.
At one time Cooper had mentioned wanting to start a family. She’d told him she wasn’t ready because she knew exactly what would happen—she would have the babies while he cruised the club scene; she would lose her figure while he stocked up on Armani suits; she would sit home with them while he would be out showing off the famous Cooper cock.
No. Starting a family with Cooper was not for her.
Marriage, she realized, had probably been a mistake, and lately she’d been considering getting a fast divorce.
That would send the tabloids into a frenzy. She was their darling, their favorite. Ever since her dear brother Emilio the slob had sold them the story of her life, there’d been no getting rid of them. Every week they ran a sensational new story about her. According to the tabloids, she’d slept with everyone from John F. Kennedy, Jr. to Madonna!
If they only knew the truth. She’d been the faithful wife, while Cooper put it about like a drunken hooker on a Friday night. Well, damn him, the time had come for a showdown.
After working out, Venus took a shower, then sauntered downstairs to greet her masseur, Rodriguez, a sizzling Latino of twenty-two with the experienced hands of a man twice his age. Rodriguez was all sinewy muscle, with dark wavy hair and smoldering eyes—just the way Venus liked ’em. She had a weakness for extremely handsome men—especially men with tight, curved butts, and arms and legs to cream over.
Lately she’d been considering having an affair with him, but wouldn’t that be baby snatching?
No way, she decided. Twenty-two was hardly a baby, and Rodriguez seemed very worldly. He was from Argentina, and delighted in regaling her with tales of his love trysts with older married women whose rich husbands failed to satisfy them.
That was one problem she didn’t have. Cooper was an extraordinarily accomplished lover. He had a slow hand—the best kind. He truly loved women, and got off by making sure he gave them the ultimate pleasure trip.
Too bad the trip was soon coming to an end.
Venus was late for lunch. This didn’t bother Lucky, who’d taken advantage of the time by using her cellular to return a few calls.
When Venus entered the commissary, all conversation stopped as the platinum blond casually sashayed across the crowded room to the private executive dining area in the back. There was something about Venus that screamed “SEX!” There were actresses in Hollywood taller, thinner, younger, more beautiful—but Venus had it over all of them; she managed to look vulnerable, smart, and incredibly slutty all at the same time. It was an irresistible combination. Women admired her strength and men couldn’t wait to fuck her.
Sliding into her seat, she immediately ordered a white wine spritzer.
“Fifteen minutes; I’d like an excuse,” Lucky said, tapping her watch.
“I was considering screwing my masseur,” Venus murmured provocatively.
Lucky nodded; nothing Venus said surprised her. “Seems like a good excuse to me.”
“I thought so.”
“And what did you decide?”
Venus rolled her eyes and licked her lips. “Mmmm…I’m sure he’s very talented.”
“And you’re very married.”
“So is Cooper,” Venus said sharply, her mood quickly changing. “I don’t see it stopping him.”
Lucky had been waiting for this moment. Everyone knew about Cooper and his out-of-control libido. Venus had chosen never to discuss it, and even though they were close friends, Lucky hadn’t wanted to rock the friendship. She’d simply assumed Venus chose to ignore her famous husband’s indiscretions.
“I’ve about had it,” Venus said with a defiant shake of her platinum curls. “At first I thought flirting was his thing—which was okay with me ’cause I’m not exactly a slouch in that department myself. Now I realize he’s jumping everything that breathes.” She paused, shaking her head again. “I don’t get it,” she continued with a perverse twist of a smile. “He’s got me—every man’s wet-dream fantasy. What more can he possibly want?”
“Have you confronted him?” Lucky asked, knowing Venus was hardly the kind of woman to lie back.
“Fuck, no!” Venus steamed. “According to my hairdresser—who knows everything—my dear, philandering husband is now in bed with Leslie Kane.” A defiant pause. “As far as I’m concerned, he can stay there. I’m not mad at him, I merely want a divorce.”
“Well…” Lucky paused for a moment. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“Yeah,” Venus said fiercely. “Don’t believe a word you’re gonna read, ’cause the rags’ll come down on me big time.” She frowned, before adding indignantly, “He’s the one fucking his way through this town, and I’m the one who’ll get the whore/slut headlines.”
Lucky agreed. It was a well-known fact that men were always the protected one
s, while women got the blame for everything. If Meryl Streep starred in a movie that flopped, she was instantly denigrated. If Jack Nicholson made three duds in a row, they lined up to pay him millions of bucks for the next one. Not at Panther. Lucky made sure women were treated equally in every way—including star salaries.
“Why couldn’t I have gotten to Lennie before you picked him off?” Venus complained. “Lennie’s so great. You won’t find him screwing his costar.”
And if I did, I’d probably kill him, Lucky thought calmly. She had a vengeful streak that was not to be messed with.
“Leslie Kane!” Venus snorted. “Is Cooper the only guy in town who doesn’t know she used to be one of Madame Loretta’s hookers?”
“Have you told him it’s over?”
“Leslie’s having a dinner at her house tonight. I’m considering announcing it over dessert, that way everyone gets to share in the good news. May as well dump him with a bang.”
Lucky shook her head. “You’re really bad—you know that?”
Venus raised an eyebrow. “I’m bad? Try blaming the motherfucker who’s screwing around on me.”
The rest of the lunch they discussed business, including the grosses on Finder, a couple of scripts Venus was interested in developing, and the future plans of her personal production company. Then Venus wanted advice on whether she should switch agents. Freddie Leon had been pursuing her and she felt like a change.
“Freddie’s the best,” Lucky said, sipping Perrier. “In fact, I had a meeting with him and Alex Woods this morning.” A casual pause. “Do you know Alex?”
Venus didn’t miss a beat. “Big talent. Big dick. Only fucks Orientals. Doesn’t give head, but loves getting it.”
“How come you know everything?”
“Spent a stoned evening at a party with one of his ex’s—a spicy Chinese piece. She gave great detail.”
“We’re doing his next project. A movie called Gangsters.”
Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge Page 4