Married Lovers

by Jackie Collins

  “You wish!” Cameron said, grinning.

  “Bitch!”

  “Slut!”

  “Ah, she knows me so well,” Dorian said with a proud smile.

  “Me and half of West Hollywood,” Cameron drawled. Dorian was a major slut, but she loved him all the same; he had a big heart, and could always be relied on in a crisis.

  Smiling to herself, she made her way out to the lot at the back where her 1969 fastback silver Mustang was parked. It was a fantastic car that got her where she needed to go and was major fun to drive. She especially enjoyed firing up her iPod, and on one of her rare days off, driving to the beach with the dogs in the back, and L.L. Cool J and The Black-Eyed Peas serenading her. That was her relaxation, simply doing nothing much, certainly not going on useless blind dates with one of Carlos’s “hot to get laid” friends. Besides, unbeknownst to Lynda or anyone else–she had sex whenever she wanted it with Marlon–a nineteen-year-old college student she’d met running the UCLA track. They’d struck up a “friends with benefits” relationship. Nothing serious, simply uncomplicated sex whenever either of them felt like it. It suited both of them just fine. Although sometimes she did feel a bit guilty because technically Marlon was still a teenager, although his twentieth birthday was just around the corner, so it wasn’t as if she was sleeping with a boy. Besides, she was only five years older than him.

  Nobody knew about Marlon, and that’s the way she intended to keep it. Lynda would criticize, and Dorian would be after Marlon for himself.

  Cameron’s three best friends were Lynda, Dorian, and Cole de Barge, another gay trainer who was black and totally hot. Three close friends, but she kept her secrets to herself.

  She made it in record time to the gated community where Charlene lived with her rich husband. Their luxurious mansion was perched atop a hill with a magnificent view from every room. To reach the house, visitors had to drive through security gates and inform the guards–who kept a detailed log of everyone who entered–exactly which house they were visiting.

  As she drove down the neatly kept streets past a series of enormous gated mansions, she decided the set-up was like some kind of surreal billionaires’ ghetto. The thought made her smile.

  Charlene Lewis had been around Hollywood for twenty years. First married to a Vegas singing star, then a famous composer, she was now on her third husband, Aarron Otterly, an eccentric billionaire who was twice widowed and fast approaching eighty. Charlene knew a thing or two about promising prospects, so the moment she’d realized Aarron was available, she’d moved in on him like a hooker intent on getting paid for sucking cock. Her sell-by date was fast approaching, and she was well aware that most billionaires liked their women to be twenty-something, or if any older, at least Asian.

  She’d hooked Aarron by allowing him to try on all her clothes and parade around in full drag–it turned out that he was especially fond of her vintage Valentinos and Dolce & Gabanna ultra-sexy evening gowns.

  The good news was she didn’t have to indulge in sex with him, he preferred to pleasure himself while admiring his dolled-up image in a full-length mirror. As long as she was there to watch along with him, he was happy.

  The bad news was he had grown offspring who couldn’t stand the sight of her; they were convinced she was after his money.

  Cameron realized that Lynda was probably right, Charlene was merely biding time until her dear hubby dropped so she could get on with her life and not be bothered by pesky financial problems. She’d never worked and she never intended to.

  A Filipino butler greeted Cameron at the door and informed her that the lady of the house was waiting for her. She made her way through luxury until she reached the gym out by the pool.

  “You’re late,” Charlene admonished, sitting astride a stationary bike clad in a shocking-pink leotard that clung like a second skin.

  Charlene was an ode to Botox, Juvena, silicone, collagen, and any other facial fillers on the market. Lipo-suction was her best friend. She didn’t believe in the plastic surgeon’s knife unless it was for her overly large breasts, but she did believe in everything else. At forty-six she was immaculately preserved with disturbingly enhanced lips, and not a line on her smooth face.

  “I’d hardly call five minutes late,” Cameron retaliated.

  “You know I’m a stickler for punctuality,” Charlene said petulantly. “Every five minutes count. I could’ve been doing something else.”

  Like what? Cameron wanted to ask. Lending your husband your mascara? Shopping for more designer outfits? Screwing the pool boy?

  “Take your ring off,” Cameron said cheerfully, indicating the twelve-carat diamond monstrosity Charlene wore on her middle finger. “It’s time to get limber.”

  Reluctantly Charlene removed her enormous ring. It was her security blanket and never left her sight. Cameron mused that if Charlene sold the ring, the money could feed a family of five for at least ten years.

  “C’mon, let’s hit it,” Cameron said, beginning a series of deep stretches. “Gotta suffer for that amazing bod.”

  “Why?” Charlene snapped.

  “’Cause if you want to keep on looking great, that’s what you have to do.”

  “One of these days,” Charlene muttered, “I’m gonna sit on the couch an’ do nothing but scarf down Krispy Kremes.”

  “No, you’re not,” Cameron said briskly, switching on the sound system. “You’ll be buff forever. It’s your destiny.”

  “Really?” Charlene said, preening.

  “Absolutely,” Cameron responded.

  Positive energy always got her through the day. And motivating her clients was one of the keys to her success.

  It was past nine by the time she made it home to her modest one-bedroom house situated in a quiet street behind Von’s supermarket on Santa Monica. She rented the house from a flamboyant interior designer who was one of her favorite clients. The house was tiny, but it did have a small garden in back where Yoko and Lennon–her two golden Labradors–loved to stretch out and bake in the sun. Yoko and Lennon were great company; with them around she never felt lonely.

  After fixing herself a cup of Miso soup, she listened to her answering machine. It was mostly calls from clients booking or changing appointments. The final message was from Jill Khoner, a TV producer client, who wanted to know if she was available to pay a house call to Don Verona–the talk-show host. She was aware of his name, but she’d never got around to watching his show. However, new clients were always welcome, so after finishing her soup, she called Jill back and took down Don Verona’s details. Then she led Yoko and Lennon outside, ran them around the block, and finally made it to bed.

  It had been a very long day.

  Chapter Four

  Once he was sitting in his car, Ryan called his best buddy, Don Verona, who immediately told him to come on over. Their friendship went way back to their college days when they’d shared a tiny apartment near USC and harbored big ambitions and a never-ending stream of nubile girlfriends. They’d both made it in their chosen careers, and they’d always remained close in spite of numerous girlfriends and wives who’d tried to split them up. Some women were extremely threatened by their man’s long-time buddies, but Ryan and Don weathered all attempts to break up their friendship.

  Don lived in an ultra-modern house he’d personally designed and had built after the demise of his second marriage to a French movie star. Perched at the top of Sunset Plaza Drive, his house was a true bachelor’s paradise with all the accoutrements. A professional-size pool table; three flat-screen high-def TVs with full sports packages on every one of them; a fully equipped gym; a state-of-the-art sound system; and a virtual reality games room–which included an immaculate poker table. Outdoors there was a scaled-down golf course, a full stainless-steel barbecue pit, and a six-car garage to house his impressive collection of automobiles.

  “Hey,” Ryan said, walking into the living room and flopping straight onto the couch.

  “What�
��s up?” Don asked. He was movie-star handsome, with jet-black hair, dark eyes, rugged features, and a trademark two-day stubble. He was also an extremely successful and popular late-night talk-show host. Don Verona was Letterman without the Mid-Western hang-ups; Leno without the insults; Craig Ferguson without the Scottish accent; and Conan without the red hair. Don had his own particular style and it worked.

  Don’s big problem was women. They loved him, and he loved them back. But with two divorces behind him he was having difficulty getting it up for the parade of gorgeous women who threw themselves at him. Since his last divorce from the French movie star, the only time he felt he could really relax in bed was with a paid professional. His shrink informed him it had something to do with alimony anxiety. Yeah, he was paying out plenty to both ex-wives, so he could understand that.

  “Dunno,” Ryan said, shrugging. “Had to get out of the house. Mandy’s driving me nuts.”

  “Yeah,” Don answered knowingly. “I remember the feeling well. Women can do that to you; they’ve got this misguided idea that it’s their right.”

  Picking up a copy of Sports Illustrated, Ryan began studying the bikini-clad supermodel on the cover.

  “Mandy’s in one of her clinging moods,” he remarked.

  “Big surprise.”

  “Huh?” Ryan said, throwing the magazine back on the coffee table.

  “C’mon,” Don said, trying to talk some sense into his friend. “You know your wife’s a world-class manipulator; she gets off on fucking with you, that’s her deal.”

  “Maybe…” Ryan said, trying to convince himself Don was wrong, but knowing that he was right. Mandy did get off on fucking with him, sad but true. And he let her get away with it because…well, because it was easier that way.

  “I speak the truth, bro’,” Don continued. “The way I see it, you haven’t been happy in a long time.”

  “Not true,” Ryan said, still hovering in a state of denial.

  “You’ve got to start thinking of an exit strategy,” Don said, opening up the enormous glass doors that led out to an infinity lap pool.

  “Hey,” Ryan objected, getting up and joining Don by the open doors. “Just because you had two failed marriages doesn’t mean that I should give up. Mandy has her good points.”

  “Like what?” Don said, as Butch, his black Labrador, wandered into the house from outside and rushed over to nuzzle Ryan. “Every time I see the two of you, she’s on a major nagging binge.”

  “Mandy’s been through a lot,” Ryan said, absentmindedly bending down to stroke the dog.

  “And how long are you supposed to pay for it?” Don asked bluntly. “Shit happens. You need to move on. Either that or get something going on the side.”

  “That’s not my thing.”

  “Maybe it should be, ’cause I’d bet money you’re not getting laid.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You’re so fucking tense lately it’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m not like you,” Ryan said defensively. “I don’t believe in giving up easily. And I certainly don’t believe in cheating.”

  “Who’s cheating?” Don said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m single, remember? It’s you we’re talking about.”

  “Do me a favor and get off the subject of my marriage,” Ryan said. “I came up here to relax.”

  “Relax away,” Don said, stifling a yawn. “I got a new trainer coming over. One of my producers recommended her, she’s supposed to work it like a drill sergeant. I need some discipline.” He patted his flat stomach. “Getting flabby.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Ryan said disbelievingly.

  “You should work out with us,” Don suggested. “It’ll shake you out of the dumps. Then we can take in some college football. I’m in an insane betting mood.”

  “’Fraid I gotta pass,” Ryan said. “I’m going over to my sister’s, then stopping by the editing rooms.”

  “I thought you were done with your latest masterpiece,” Don said, strolling into his hi-tech steel and concrete kitchen, Butch at his heels.

  Ryan followed. “A movie is never done until it hits the theaters, and even then…” he trailed off.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Don said, tossing Butch a dog biscuit. “When it comes to work, you’re a perfectionist.”

  “And you’re not exactly a slacker,” Ryan responded. “Five shows a week, and every one a ratings winner.”

  Don shook his head as he filled a ceramic mug with coffee. “The difference is that you’re doing what you always wanted, while I’m swimming in crap.”

  “Crap? Are you kidding me? Having one of the three top-rated talk shows in the country is hardly crap. And let’s not forget that you make a helluva lot more money than me.”

  “Ah yes,” Don said immediately. “But we both know it’s not about the money, it’s about the passion. And when it comes to work–you got it. I don’t.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yeah,” Don said ruefully. “Unfortunately it is.”

  “Anyway,” Ryan said, “I should go. Whyn’t you join us for dinner tonight?”

  “Where?”

  “Geoffrey’s. Seven-thirty. It’s my check, and Phil and Lucy are coming. Bring a date, and not someone you’re paying–Mandy’ll suss that out in two seconds flat.”

  Don laughed. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

  The moment Ryan was out of the house, Mandy called her father in New York. To her fury his pissy housekeeper refused to put him on the phone, claiming he was otherwise engaged. Mandy clicked off her phone and threw it on the couch. She hated her father’s “protectors” as she called them. He employed a whole coterie of housekeepers, assistants, drivers and bodyguards who made sure nobody could get to him unless he wanted them to.

  “I should be the exception,” she was constantly reminding him.

  “Why’s that?” he would reply.

  “Because I’m your daughter, and that should give me privileges nobody else has.”

  Hamilton usually chuckled when she tried to elicit privileges.

  That was another thing she hated about her father–his chuckle. It had no warmth, it was a mean-spirited sound. She preferred him in serious mode. Unfortunately he spent most of their time together giving her “the chuckle.”

  “I want to marry Ryan Richards,” she’d informed him seven years ago.

  Chuckle. Chuckle.

  “I’d like to produce one of your movies with you.”

  Chuckle. Chuckle.

  “Can I get my Trust Fund early?”

  Chuckle. Chuckle.

  He never took her seriously.

  The rumor on the street was that Daddy Dearest had a new girlfriend. Mandy wasn’t too pleased about that. He’d gone through five wives, wasn’t that enough for any man?

  She’d heard about the latest girlfriend from her secret confidante, Lolly Summer, who worked for one of the major gossip sites on the Internet. In exchange for juicy tidbits about the stars, Lolly made sure to tell Mandy absolutely everything.

  After not getting through to her father, Mandy called Lolly. “Any more news?” she asked.

  “He’s throwing a dinner party tonight,” Lolly responded. “A big deal dinner party–everyone from Rudy to Trump. It promises to be quite an affair.”

  “And the purpose of this dinner party is…?”

  “I’ll let you know. I have two contacts on the guest list.”

  “If you find out anything at all, text me. I’ll be out tonight, but I need to know what’s going on.”

  “Of course,” Lolly said. “Now, about that Owen Wilson item you promised me…”

  Ryan’s sister, Evie, lived in a small house in Silverlake. She had three children, all boys, and all under the age of eight. Marty, her husband, worked as a stuntman. He was also a raging alcoholic.

  Alcohol and stunts. A dangerous combination. Ryan had used him on one of his movies, and that was enough for him. His brother-in-law w
as an unpleasant bully with few friends; Ryan couldn’t wait for the day when Evie finally decided she’d had enough.

  At the present time Marty was languishing in jail on account of a third D.U.I. arrest.

  Financially, Ryan knew things were tight for his sister–because any film company with any sense refused to hire Marty–but Evie flatly refused any help.

  Evie greeted her brother with a warm hug. Seven years younger than Ryan, she was pretty in an exhausted kind of way. Her three boys were transfixed, sitting on a worn couch watching cartoons on TV.

  “Thank God for Saturday mornings,” she sighed. “It’s the only time they’re quiet, bless their murderous little hearts.”

  “Hey guys,” Ryan said, bending down to greet his nephews. “What’s goin’ on? Anything I should know about?”

  The boys didn’t budge.

  “They want a dog,” Evie said, tucking a strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. “It’ll mean more work for me, but they really want one. And with Marty away so much…” she trailed off, as if the very mention of her jailed husband was too painful.

  “Maybe I can get them a dog,” Ryan suggested.

  “Well,” Evie said, hesitating for a moment. “Only if you promise no fancy breeds. They’ve made me swear I’ll get them a rescue dog from the Pound.”

  “Proper little citizens and so young,” Ryan said, ruffling the youngest’s hair.

  “I know,” Evie said ruefully. “Petey refuses to eat chicken anymore, which makes planning family meals so much fun.”

  “I could take them for burgers at In ’n’ Out,” Ryan said, aware that Evie looked like she could use a break. “Then I’ll run ’em through the park and we’ll kick a ball around. What do you think?”

  “I think I love you,” she said gratefully.

  “That’s nice to know,” he said. Of course the perfect day would’ve been taking them to his house and letting them splash in the swimming pool, but Mandy would throw a fit. Since they couldn’t have children of their own, she didn’t want someone else’s around, especially Evie’s three rambunctious little boys. They argued about it often.