Poor Little Bitch Girl

by Jackie Collins

  This would lead to an appearance on Oprah, and after that, a multi-million-dollar book deal. If it all fell into place, they’d be sitting on top of everything they’d ever dreamed of.

  Frankie’s adrenalin was fast moving into overdrive. This was an opportunity not to be missed.

  Now all he had to do was convince Annabelle.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Carolyn

  One or two more swigs of cheap Scotch from the bottle, and glancing outside, Benito was satisfied that it would soon be dark enough to smuggle the Senator’s bitch out of the house and dump her somewhere – anywhere far away from him.

  He’d been sitting around drinking all day, brooding about Rosa running out on him, leaving him with nothing to eat except a few stale crackers and half a jar of rancid peanut butter.

  He couldn’t believe Rosa had the stones to treat him this way. Little whore. They were all dirty little whores – including the one taking up space in his bedroom and stinking it out. He could smell her – the stench was creeping out from under the closed bedroom door. The sooner he got rid of her, the better off he’d be.

  He was sick of being trapped in the house, unable to take care of business, stuck in front of the TV watching all kinds of dumb shit. The boredom was getting to him. What he needed was some porno to change things up.

  He moved over to a rickety table standing next to the TV and rifled through his cousin’s collection of DVDs stacked on the floor.

  Sure enough, between Rambo I and II and a pile of wrestling DVDs, he came up with a promising title. Fat Black Pussies.

  Not that he was into black bitches, he wasn’t. But this was no time to be particular.

  After slotting the disc into the player, he took another swig of Scotch, and sat back ready to enjoy himself.

  * * *

  “Any identification on her at all?” Detective Lennox asked the female doctor, a petite brunette.

  They were both standing next to Rosa’s bed in the hospital. The detective was a tall man, with sparse grey hair and sharp features. In a strange way he reminded the doctor of Clint Eastwood; he had that reassuring, take-charge quality about him.

  Dr Glass shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, wishing she had more information to give him. “Whoever beat this poor girl even took her shoes. All she had on was her top and skirt.”

  “Gotta tell ya, the street violence in that particular neighborhood is out of control,” Detective Lennox remarked, jotting something in his notebook. “Gangs, addicts, thieves, hookers – the real low-lifes – they’re out there in force, an’ they prey on anyone they can. Nobody’s safe.”

  Dr Glass nodded, and found herself wondering if he was married.

  “Y’know something?” Detective Lennox continued. “Even I wouldn’t walk around there after dark. It’s that bad of a cesspit.”

  “This didn’t happen when it was dark,” Dr Glass pointed out. “It was daylight when they brought her in.”

  “Poor kid,” Detective Lennox said, handing the doctor his card, while thinking she was an extremely attractive woman. “Do me a favor an’ have someone call me when she starts talking.”

  “You mean if she starts talking,” Dr Glass said.

  “Yeah,” Detective Lennox said with a weary shake of his head. “Can’t hurt to hope for the best.”

  * * *

  Keeping a sharp eye on the fading light behind the tacked-up curtain covering the window, Carolyn had almost freed herself from the ties binding her wrist. The fear was building. Her heart was pounding out of control, and so many new questions were running through her head.

  Did she have an escape plan?

  What was she going to do when she finally broke free?

  Where was she running to?

  Her plan was to escape through the window, since the door was no doubt locked. Besides, on the other side of the door were her captors.

  More thoughts – what if the window had bars outside, or if there was a window lock? And what if the space was too tight for her to climb through?

  There were so many unknowns to contend with, and even if she did manage to get out, what was she supposed to do then? Especially as she had no idea what part of the city she was in.

  It didn’t help that she had no money, no phone, and her clothes were soiled, filthy and covered in sticky grease – the result of being locked in the trunk of a car. On top of everything else she was starving hungry, thirsty, exhausted and worried for her baby.

  But most of all, she was determined.

  Determined to somehow or other get out of this degrading and disgusting trap and confront Gregory, for now she was almost sure that he had to be responsible.

  If he was, she would make him pay for his betrayal of what she had imagined was their mutual love.

  She would make him pay with his career, because she’d finally reached the conclusion that his damn career was the only thing he really cared about.

  Senator Gregory Stoneman, she resolved, you are in for a nasty shock.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Bobby & Denver

  Bobby was hardly surprised that everyone warmed toward Denver. She was smart and engaging – and damn, she looked hot! A little too hot, because not only was M.J. ogling her cleavage, but Kris had eyes for her too. Brigette didn’t seem to notice, nor did Cassie, they were both so psyched to be on their way to Zeena’s show.

  Bobby was not psyched. The last thing he had any desire to do was sit and watch Zeena perform for two hours. But how to get out of it?

  No suitable excuse came to mind.

  Renee and Susie, the owners of the Cavendish, met them in the lobby of their hotel when they arrived.

  “Zeena’s looking forward to seeing all of you after the show,” Renee said. “I’m sad Lucky won’t be joining us.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “Lucky sends everyone her love.”

  “Oh my God! I can’t wait to see Zeena on stage,” Cassie exclaimed, full of girlish enthusiasm. “She’s such an icon. I’ve been listening to her music and watching her on TV and in the movies since I was five!”

  “Don’t tell her that,” Renee warned. “No artist needs to be reminded of how old they are, especially coming from a pretty little thing like you.”

  “Hands off my wife,” M.J. said, sotto voce to Bobby.

  “You’re safe,” Bobby replied, then remembering something Lucky had told him, he added, “Susie might look mild, but if Renee even thinks about straying – watch out!”

  “Good to know,” M.J. said.

  * * *

  Bobby’s friends seemed nice. I remembered M.J. from high school – he was always the cool dresser with the hot car. His girlfriend was very young but sweet, and she was in a high state of excitement about seeing Zeena’s show.

  I have to admit that I’m not that into Zeena’s kind of music. It’s a little too dance-techno for me. I’m more of a John Mayer, Jason Mraz kind of girl. Also I’m very into old eighties soul.

  I wondered what kind of music Bobby liked. Rock? Rap? Soul? A combo? There was so much about him I didn’t know.

  “Hey,” he said, holding onto my arm as we headed for our seats, which happened to be front and center. “If you don’t like the show we can always duck out and catch up with everybody later.”

  “No, we can’t,” I replied, enjoying the feel of his hand on my bare arm. “We’re right in Zeena’s eyeline.”

  “She’ll never notice,” he said, as Brigette settled into the seat next to him.

  “Of course she will.”

  “So . . . uh . . . tell me,” he said with a half-smile. “Did you pull that sexy dress out of your purse?”

  “Excuse me?” I said, curbing a strong desire to reach up and touch the slight stubble on his chin.

  “You flew here for the day, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Were you expecting to stay?”

  “Actually,” I confessed, “if you must know, I went and bought this dress after
we had drinks together. I got it especially to wear tonight. For you,” I added boldly.

  “For me?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Most popular boy in high school who never even knew I existed,” I said lightly. “So I figured tonight I’d make sure you noticed.”

  “Oh, I’m noticing all right,” he responded, his half-smile turning into a full-on grin.

  “Excellent,” I said crisply. “That means I haven’t wasted two weeks’ salary.”

  “Ah Denver,” he sighed. “Don’t you know, the dress doesn’t make the woman, the woman makes the dress.”

  I blushed. I swear I did. And I do not blush.

  Oh crap, why hadn’t I flown back to L.A. with Felix?

  This might be the start of something that could quite possibly rock my world.

  Did I want that?

  Yes, right now I really did.

  * * *

  Before Zeena appeared, a female Asian announcer in an electric blue tie and tails outfit, with whip in hand, took to the stage and sternly warned the audience there could be no taking of pictures and to please turn off all cell phones.

  Denver wasn’t very happy about that. “I’m expecting an important call,” she whispered to Bobby.

  “Put it on vibrate,” he advised. “And if it’s a horny boyfriend you can tell him he’s too late.”

  “I’m not expecting any calls from horny boyfriends. And trust me, if they were my boyfriend, they wouldn’t be horny, they’d be perfectly content and satisfied.”

  “Whoa!” Bobby said, and burst out laughing. “High opinion of your skills.”

  They exchanged a smile as the lights dimmed to complete darkness and then a center spot highlighted a golden cage descending from the ceiling containing Zeena and two live white tigers. The audience gasped as the music rose to a crescendo, playing the superstar’s current number one hit single “Power.”

  Clad in a smokey, see-through catsuit, which emphasized every curve of her sinewy body, the tigers lounging on either side of her, Zeena milked the adoring audience like the true professional she was.

  Stepping out from the cage, she left the tigers behind and launched into an elaborate song and dance routine with six African-American male back-up dancers clad in leopardprint leotards, which culminated with them picking her up and holding her aloft like a pharaoh queen.

  The audience went nuts. Zeena was their pharaoh queen in the flesh. And they were worshipping at the altar.

  Two elaborate production numbers later, and Zeena sauntered to the microphone to indulge in some light repartee with her adoring audience. Every word she said was met with sighs and applause and an edgy expectation about what would come out of her mouth next. Zeena was known for saying the most outrageous things.

  As usual she had the audience exactly where she wanted them, and that always encouraged her to stretch the boundaries.

  Watching her, Bobby was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He wished he could blank-out the earlier sex romp in the shower. Hardly a romp – more like Zeena getting exactly what she wanted – as usual. He promised himself he would never allow it to happen again.

  Sneaking a sideways glance at Denver, he saw that she was checking a text message on her phone. Obviously she was as unimpressed with Zeena and her gaudy theatrics as he was.

  “If I sound particularly smooth tonight, I’d like to give a shout-out to my special lover, Bobby Stanislopoulos,” Zeena crooned into the microphone. “Bobby is a man who knows exactly what Zeena needs to make all the sweet sounds you appreciate.”

  The audience roared its approval.

  Bobby could not believe what she’d just said. Lover? Was she freaking kidding?!!

  M.J. leaned across Brigette with a big grin and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Denver stopped checking her phone and concentrated on the woman standing on the stage.

  “You see,” Zeena drawled, savoring every moment of her bizarre announcement, “when Zeena wants her voice to soar, then Zeena has need for a certain male nectar . . .” A long suggestive pause. “So Bobby . . . may I take this moment to thank you for the late-afternoon shower and the delicious nectar of love that works sooo good.”

  The audience screamed their approval.

  Only the incredible Zeena would dare go there.

  * * *

  I was attempting to read an urgent text from George Henderson, when out of nowhere Zeena mentioned Bobby’s name. And she didn’t just mention his name – she called him her lover. Lover? Wow! She sure as hell had my attention.

  Miz Superstar then went on to spew forth a slew of euphemisms.

  I am not slow, but believe me – I got the picture. So did everyone else in the damn place.

  What a full-on drama queen! The thought of her with Bobby made me feel quite nauseous. Oh crap, I sure could pick ’em!

  Bobby started pulling on my arm, a distraught expression on his face. “It’s not what you think,” he half-whispered, losing his cool and almost stuttering. “She’s crazy.”

  When caught, why do men always say, It’s not what you think. Isn’t that even lamer than, It’s not you, it’s me.

  I made a swift recovery. Never let them see you care. My mom had taught me that. Thanks, Mom!

  “Listen,” I said, managing to sound quite collected, “I promise it has nothing to do with what Zeena announced to the world, but I have to get out of here. I received a text telling me there’s an emergency situation going on in Washington concerning my best friend. I should head straight for the airport right now.”

  Of course he didn’t believe me, why would he?

  Zeena had launched into another production number. I had no intention of staying around, so as quietly as I could, I stood up, squeezed past his friends, and made a fast exit.

  Bobby jumped to his feet and followed me. I had a feeling he would, but it wasn’t going to do him any good. No damn good at all.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Annabelle

  Frankie was never happier than when he was in action, and seizing control of a no-win situation invited major action. He refused to allow Truth & Fact to besmirch his reputation and walk away the victors. Oh no, he would turn it around as only he could.

  When their plane landed at LAX, he informed Annabelle that they were not checking back into the Beverly Hills Hotel. “Not a smart move,” he told her. “Ralph will track us down, an’ that’s exactly what we don’t want to happen, so here’s my plan . . .”

  Annabelle listened as he laid out what he had in mind. In theory it sounded brilliant, but who knew if Frankie was capable of pulling it off?

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” he assured her, as he checked them into a suite under an assumed name at the Sunset Marquis – a hotel he did not think Ralph would find them at.

  “What about my things?” she demanded, still playing the Hollywood Princess. “All my stuff is at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I need my clothes, my make-up.”

  “I’m taking care of it,” he said. “You sit tight an’ let me handle everything.”

  “Oh God, Frankie,” she wailed, suddenly seeming quite vulnerable. “We are so fucked.”

  “No way, babe. We’re coming out on top. I’m never gonna let you down.”

  Annabelle decided he wasn’t so bad after all. At least he was there for her all the way, and that was something.

  Frankie ran around trying to make his girlfriend comfortable, then as soon as he’d settled her in front of the TV with a bottle of Cristal and a Leonardo DiCaprio movie on pay per view, he made his first call.

  One call was all he needed to get connected.

  * * *

  Fanny Bernstein had a reputation. Fanny Bernstein was not a woman many people dared to argue with. Fifty-ish, she was big and brash with a mass of frizzed dyed-orange hair, enormous boobs which she had no objection to flashing when the occasion arose, diamanté-rimmed eyeglasses and a cavern of a mouth. She called everyone honey or dollface, and if you were on her shit-list s
he called you cuntface.

  Nobody ever wanted to be on Fanny’s shit-list – especially Rick Greco, who had remained close to his former manager, even though she had never landed him another job after the demise of his successful nineties sitcom.

  When Frankie called Rick – who knew all about the story in Truth & Fact, as did everyone else in Hollywood – and asked him who he should meet with, Rick didn’t hesitate. “My one-time manager, Fanny Bernstein. Fanny’s kicked more ass than you’ve had hot pussy. There’s nobody she doesn’t know.”

  “Can you set up a meeting for me right away?” Frankie said. “And by right away, I mean today.”

  “Sure,” Rick said agreeably. “And if the two of you do business, I’ll expect a finder’s fee for putting you together. Are we down with that?”

  “Put us together in the next couple of hours and you got it.”

  Exactly an hour later, Frankie was sitting in Fanny’s garishly decorated office, taking in the framed photos of Fanny with everyone from President Clinton to John Travolta hanging on her walls. Rick Greco was also present, stinking of a particularly strong aftershave and once again dressed all in white. The two of them were waiting for Fanny to put in an appearance.

  Frankie kept on glancing at his watch. Rick had said an hour, so where was this woman who, according to Rick, was about to turn everything around?

  “Fanny gets off on making a grand entrance,” Rick remarked. “She’s eccentric, but I swear to you she’s the one person you want in your corner. She’s got all the power and clout you’ll ever need. Like I told you – Fanny’s a dynamo.”

  The dynamo made her grand entrance twenty minutes later. She swanned into her office clad in a purple caftan which clashed with her orange hair, spangly flip-flops, large cartwheel earrings, and dozens of jangling gold bracelets. Under her arm she clutched a miniature poodle, its fur dyed the same color as her hair.

  “Boys,” she announced, plopping her considerable ass down in the leopardprint chair behind her mirrored desk. “I’m here, I’m not queer, so what’s your fuckin’ problem that I had to forego a session with my acupuncturist?”