Poor Little Bitch Girl

by Jackie Collins

  The “Sunday in the Park” gang consisted of two hedge-fund guys, a computer genius, a drummer with a rock band, an investment banker, a well-known chef, a tennis pro, and an actor who starred on a daytime soap. The camaraderie between them was special. The youngest member was twenty-three – that would be the chef. And the oldest was thirty – the investment banker. Everyone left their troubles at home and enjoyed a relaxed no-pressure day. No one was married, and no one was close to doing the big deed, although the subject of women was always up for discussion. One of them always had a dating story to tell – and the other guys felt free to offer advice. “Didja fuck her?” was the most popular question on their agenda.

  This Sunday was Bobby’s day to host, but he was concerned about Frankie and Annabelle. He kept on wondering if he should drop out and spend some time with them. Annabelle was a pain, but he’d known her since high school, and he kind of felt sorry for her – especially now.

  He called Frankie, who mumbled something about being asleep and would check in later.

  “How’s Annabelle doing?” Bobby wanted to know.

  “Later, man,” Frankie answered with a big fat yawn.

  So much for spending time with them. Frankie obviously had everything under control.

  Outside in the park it was crisp and icy, but the freezing weather spurred Bobby to play his hardest, and by the time he got back to his apartment he was feeling invigorated and ready for anything.

  For a moment, laying out cold cuts, cartons of potato salad and coleslaw on the kitchen counter, it crossed his mind that it might be nice having a girlfriend around to help out. There’d never been anyone special, never anyone who’d lasted more than a couple of months. He simply wasn’t that interested in the girls he came across – the beautiful models and actresses, the party girls and young society girls – most of them searching for a rich husband. Oh yeah, great for a few weeks or months of fun sex, but that was it.

  Not that he was concerned. He was just about to hit twenty-six – too young to even think about getting married, but would a steady girlfriend really be such a bad thing?

  Frankie had a steady girlfriend, Annabelle, and all Frankie wanted to do was cheat on her, so come to think of it – what was the point?

  Bobby held Lucky and Lennie up as a shining example of what a great relationship should be. They were both extremely independent, but they were also loving and volatile, passionate and crazy, and after years of marriage – still madly in love. That’s what he wanted. A relationship filled with fire.

  Zeena had fire. She might be years older than him, but he knew that if he was with her, things would never be dull.

  What did age matter anyway? Madonna was over fifty and smokin’ hot. Demi Moore had married some dude a good fifteen years younger than her. Not to mention his mom’s best friend – the very sexy and gorgeous Venus – married to Billy Melina, a movie star many years her junior.

  Fuck it! He promised himself that the next time he saw Zeena, he was definitely going for it.

  * * *

  The next time came sooner than he thought. Stacking dishes in the kitchen after all the guys had departed – including M.J. – he was just about to check in with Frankie again, when his doorbell buzzed.

  Thinking that one of the guys had left something behind, he flung open the door, and there she stood, Zeena herself.

  “Bobby,” she drawled, wandering past him into his apartment as if she’d visited a dozen times before. “Zeena was in the neighborhood. Decided to see for herself how the heir to a shipping fortune lives.”

  Shocked and startled, he was also instantly pissed off that she knew about his background. He kept a low profile, stayed out of gossip columns, never discussed his heritage with anyone except M.J. So how exactly had she found out? And what was she doing in his apartment?

  Not that he minded.

  How could he mind when the object of all his most recent fantasies was standing in his living room clad from head to toe in black leather? She had on a tiny leather mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, thigh-high boots, and a black turtleneck cashmere sweater, paired with a slouchy leather silver-studded motor-cycle jacket. Her coal-black hair fell in a straight curtain way below her waist, and her exotic make-up emphasized her almond-shaped eyes.

  There was a slight whiff of dominatrix in the air, but Bobby didn’t care. She was here, in his apartment, and it was up to him to make a move.

  What did she expect from him? That was the question. He was so used to being the one in control that this was a whole new experience.

  Extracting a pack of Gauloises from her oversized Prada crocodile purse, she shook out a cigarette and proceeded to light up with an Art Deco silver cigarette-lighter.

  The way she touched the flame to the tip of the cigarette was extremely sexual. Bobby decided against telling her that there was a no smoking rule in his apartment.

  She inhaled deeply, then watching him closely with her catlike eyes, she slowly exhaled.

  “Here we are,” she finally said, a plume of strong-smelling smoke drifting in the air between them. “Alone together. Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for, Bobby?”

  “No young studs today?” he asked, trying to keep it light. “No entourage hanging on your every word? What’s up with that?”

  “Disappointed?” she murmured, her tone mocking him. “Were you hoping for a threesome? Or perhaps you’re gay.” A long-drawn-out sigh. “Ah . . . such beauty.” Another long beat. “Are you gay, Bobby?”

  God! She reminded him of Serenity – all sarcasm and bitchery spewing forth from a mouth he was desperate to kiss.

  Was that what turned him on?

  Apparently so, because he could feel himself growing hard, and he had the strongest desire to grab her and simply go for it.

  He should do it. Because that’s why she was here, no other reason.

  Miz Superstar had come visiting to see exactly what he had to offer. And he had every intention of showing her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Annabelle

  Somehow or other, Frankie and Annabelle had become involved in a huge fight before they’d both finally fallen asleep somewhere in the early hours of Sunday morning.

  In the midst of their fight, Annabelle had picked up a bottle of vodka and begun purposefully swigging straight from the bottle. Since she had a low tolerance level it didn’t take long before she was totally drunk.

  Frankie laid out several lines of coke and snorted it right in front of her. He didn’t usually indulge with her watching, because Annabelle didn’t do any kind of drugs – she preferred the lure of alcohol. But he’d felt like getting totally high.

  Their fight had escalated. She’d called him a useless druggie with no balls.

  He’d called her a fucking princess with no conscience.

  She’d yelled that he was nothing more than a pimp and had no idea how to handle anything.

  He’d yelled back that she was a selfish cold-hearted bitch with no emotions, and all she cared about was herself.

  Those were just a few of the insults exchanged.

  Eventually Annabelle had staggered into the bedroom, still clutching the now half-empty bottle of vodka. Slamming the door in Frankie’s face, she’d fallen on the bed and immediately started sobbing, the news of her mother’s brutal murder finally sinking in.

  Frankie had felt a strong urge to walk out, but since he had nowhere to walk, he’d ended up sleeping on the couch.

  They’d both slept their way into Sunday afternoon, and it wasn’t until four o’clock that Annabelle surfaced with a killer hangover.

  She lay in her bed quite still for a moment, mulling over the events of the previous day, whereupon the enormity and horror of what had taken place in Los Angeles suddenly overcame her, and once again she began to sob, deep body-racking sobs that enveloped her whole being.

  Her cries awoke Frankie, and forgetting about their ferocious fight, he hurried into the bedroom, because if there was one
thing that really got to him, it was the sight and sound of a crying female. The very thought evoked bad memories. His brute of a father used to beat the crap out of his mom on a weekly basis, and it was up to him from as far back as he could remember, to comfort her.

  He’d always felt guilty about taking off, because who was left behind to console her when he was gone?

  No one, that’s who.

  Frankie had moved on, and was busy chasing a new life.

  “Hey, babe,” he soothed, holding her close. “It’s okay, everything’s gonna be cool.”

  “No, it’s not,” she sniffled. “My mother’s dead – and you know something, Frankie? I barely knew her.”

  “Not your fault,” he said, handing her a tissue.

  “Maybe it is,” she said, sitting up and dabbing her eyes. “Maybe I should’ve stayed and forced her to take notice of me.”

  “There’s no way you could’ve done that,” he assured her. “According to you, she was always on a movie set or posing for pictures in magazines. She was a busy woman.”

  “I should’ve tried harder,” Annabelle lamented, filled with a cold, empty feeling of loss and sorrow.

  “No, babe,” Frankie said, playing good boyfriend to the hilt. “You did the best you could.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked tremulously.

  “No doubt, babe, none at all.”

  Annabelle spent the rest of the afternoon watching all the coverage and stories on TV about her mother’s demise. It was as if she’d finally realized what had actually taken place, and now she couldn’t get enough details.

  A couple of times Frankie tried to suggest that she call Ralph, but she waved him away and remained sitting in front of the TV.

  At least she seemed to have forgotten about her bad experience with Sharif Rani’s son, which was a relief because Sharif was their star customer, and to lose him as a client would be a disaster.

  As soon as he’d calmed Annabelle down, made her a cup of green tea, fed her a couple of Advil, and persuaded her to stay in bed until she felt better, he called their assistant, Janey Bonafacio, to check on everything.

  Janey did not come in on weekends, she worked from home on the computer he’d bought her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Janey wailed over the phone. “How is Annabelle holding up? Even more important – how are you?”

  Janey was one of the few people in their lives who actually knew who Annabelle’s parents were. Frankie had sworn her to secrecy, warning her that if she revealed anything to anyone about Annabelle or the business they ran, she would be out of a job. Since Janey would allow nothing to come between her and her beloved cousin, she’d agreed. Her son Chip, however, had not.

  Frankie had never considered Chip a threat. As far as he was concerned, Janey’s son was simply around to do everyone’s bidding. At least he could drive a car and was family – that had to count for something. Besides, Chip would never dare defy his mother.

  Frankie instructed Janey to doublecheck on everyone’s “appointments,” and make sure that things were on the right track. “Annabelle’s gonna need a few days off,” he informed her. “We might have to fly to L.A. so it’s up to you to make sure you got it all under control. No fuck-ups. There’ll be a hefty bonus in it, Janey, so make Frankie proud.”

  “Should I come in today?” Janey asked, anxious to get as close to Frankie as possible. “I could be there in an hour.”

  “Not necessary,” he said, equally anxious to get her off the phone. “I’ll get back to you later. Gotta go now – my other line’s buzzing.”

  * * *

  Chip Bonafacio aspired to far greater things than driving a car for a bunch of whores, picking up Second Cousin Frankie’s dry-cleaning, and generally doing whatever that snooty bitch, Annabelle Maestro, requested.

  Oh yes, he knew who she was all right. He’d made it his job to find out as soon as he’d started working for them, even though his mom had attempted to tell him as little as possible about the business Annabelle and Frankie were running.

  What did she think? That he was a total moron?

  Yeah. Apparently so.

  Janey thinking he was dumb worked for him. He still lived at home – too lazy to move out – and his mom did everything for him. She cooked and cleaned and did his laundry, handed him money whenever he needed it, and kept her nagging under control, although sometimes she begged him to show an interest in something – anything. Yeah. Right.

  When he wasn’t running his ass off for Frankie – a man he envied and hated at the same time – he preferred to slack off, watch TV, download porn, bet on football, screw whatever girl he could get his hands on, and drink as much beer as humanly possible.

  It never occurred to his mom that he knew everything that was going on, including the identities of some of the better-known women he ferried to their dirty little assignations. Everyone acted like he was invisible, but he was smarter than they thought, and he was keeping his own black book filled with all the info he’d gleaned.

  Gemma Summer Maestro’s murder struck him as the break he’d been waiting for. The gruesome story was splashed across the front page of every newspaper and every internet site in the country.

  Chip was sure that he was dangerously close to scoring some major bucks.

  Chip Bonafacio had big plans for his future. And they did not include his fat, addicted-to-Frankie, dumb-ass, annoying mom.

  No fucking way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Denver

  “H,” I said, relieved because I was finally getting an answer from Annabelle’s boyfriend’s phone. “Is this Frankie Romano?”

  “Who wants to know?” said a suspicious-sounding male.

  “My name’s Denver Jones,” I said quickly, pressing on regardless. “I’m a lawyer working for Ralph Maestro, and I’m here in New York trying to contact his daughter, Annabelle.”

  “Why?” he asked guardedly.

  “Well . . . I’m sure you heard about the tragedy –”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “So you can understand that I do need to speak with Annabelle. It’s quite urgent. Can you give me a number where I can reach her?”

  “Where’d you get my number?”

  “You’re listed,” I answered shortly. “Frankie Romano, deejay – right? Annabelle’s boyfriend.”

  “What makes you think I’m her boyfriend?”

  For God’s sake! He was more cagey than the CIA! I was cold and tired and I’d been trying to reach her for hours. Thank goodness for Sam, because he’d taken pity on me and let me come back to his apartment and hang out while I tried to reach Annabelle’s boyfriend, who was now behaving in a most irritating fashion. Why had I ever left Mario’s bed, ’cause that’s exactly where I wanted to be right now, cuddly and warm and having great sex. Instead of which I’m in a strange man’s apartment – well, not so strange actually, kind of very attractive in an Owen Wilson kind of way – freezing my ass off and wondering how late the planes continue to take off for L.A.

  “Can you help me find her or not?” I said, fast losing patience.

  “Is Ralph sending a private jet?”

  “Excuse me?” I said, realizing that not only was this guy an asshole, he was a pushy asshole.

  “The man’s gotta have his own plane,” Frankie insisted.

  “He doesn’t,” I said firmly, although I had no idea whether Ralph did or not. And if he did have a plane, he certainly hadn’t volunteered it.

  “Is it possible to speak to Annabelle?” I asked, getting impatient. “I’ve left several messages, none of which she’s responded to.”

  “Annabelle’s unavailable.”

  I played what I hoped was my trump card. “I do know her,” I explained. “We went to school together in L.A. Tell her it’s Denver Jones, I’m sure she’ll remember me.”

  “Y’know what,” Frankie said, unimpressed. “I’m gonna havta call you back.”

  Damn! I need to get home. This trip
is not working for me. And how come Felix hasn’t called me?

  I gave Frankie the number of my cell and said, “Please make it soon.” Then I clicked off.

  “Problems?” Sam asked, strolling into the room carrying a mug of something hot.

  “Annabelle’s boyfriend sounds like a total jerk,” I muttered.

  By this time I’d revealed exactly why I was in New York to Sam. After my first attempt to reach Frankie when we were still in the coffee shop, I’d slumped back at my corner table, wondering exactly what I was supposed to do next. Completely at a loss, I’d finally told Sam the truth about why I was there and how I couldn’t return to L.A. without Annabelle in tow.

  Sam had turned out to be an extremely sympathetic listener. After an hour he’d suggested that I might like to sit it out at his place while I continued to try to reach either Annabelle or Frankie – whoever answered their phone first.

  Gratefully I’d accepted his offer, and now here I was, seething with frustration, sitting on the couch in his very nice roomy apartment – waiting for Annabelle’s asshole boyfriend to call me back.

  “Drink this,” Sam said, handing me the mug he was carrying.

  “What is it?” I asked, wondering if he was planning on slipping me a roofie and ravishing my poor cold body. Not that anyone would want to ravish me, the way I look. I bet my nose is redder than Rudolph’s!

  “It’s hot chocolate with a side of the rape drug,” he said straight-faced.

  Wow! It’s as if he can read my mind.

  “I am a lawyer,” I reminded him, quite sternly.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m giving you all the info upfront.” He paused, and smiled slightly. “You know that’s what you were thinking.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” I replied, stifling an embarrassed grin.