Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  “Who’s that from?” Bobby wanted to know.

  “I keep on getting these cards dropped off at the house,” Lucky said, tapping the card on her knees. “All they say is ‘Drop Dead Beautiful.’”

  “That’s weird,” Brigette said.

  Bobby grabbed the card from her and inspected it. “You shown this to anyone?” he asked.

  “Why would I? It’s probably an invitation to an event, and eventually I’ll find out what it’s for.”

  “How many of these have you gotten?”

  “Um … maybe this is the third one.”

  “Where are the other two?”

  “Guess I must’ve thrown them away.”

  “And they were all put in the mailbox?”

  “What are you, a district attorney?” Lucky joked.

  “Seriously, Mom,” Bobby said, “we should have someone check out the security cameras, get a look at who’s delivering them.”

  “Why are you so concerned?”

  “’Cause you never know.”

  “Never know what?” Lucky asked, amused that Bobby was taking some frivolous invite so seriously.

  “You must have enemies, y’know, people from your past.”

  Lucky wondered exactly how much Bobby knew about her past. Too much from the sound of him.

  “What are you talking about?” she said lightly. “I do not have any enemies.”

  “Your son Googled you,” Brigette said, joining in. “He knows plenty about both of us.”

  “I grew up knowing about our family,” Bobby said. “I didn’t have to Google anyone. And hey, Mom, you think I don’t remember what happened to me and Brigette when we were kids? That whole kidnapping thing which you refuse to talk about.”

  “I never talk about it, Bobby, because bringing it up is bad karma. It all happened a long time ago, so leave it alone.”

  “I was molested, Mom, in case you’ve forgotten. I was five years old and molested by some crazy old mobster. You think I can forget that?”

  “I don’t expect you to forget it,” Lucky said carefully. “But we’ve all moved on.”

  “Yes, Bobby,” Brigette said. “If I can move on after what happened, so can you.”

  “Hey,” Bobby said. “Without you, Brig, I probably wouldn’t even be here. You were the one who shot the old pervert. I’ll never forget you picking up that gun and—”

  “Enough,” Brigette interrupted, her blue eyes clouding over. “Now I’m the one who doesn’t want to start taking a trip down memory lane.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Bobby said. “Sorry I brought it up.”

  * * *

  Mooney Sharp met them at the airport. A big man in his late fifties, Mooney was over six feet, with a halo of bushy red hair, matching eyebrows, and a huge gut. His favored outfit was cowboy boots, pressed jeans, and a low-slung belt with an enormous silver buckle—all the better to exhibit his massive stomach. At seventeen all his front teeth had gotten knocked out in a bar fight, and now his party trick was to remove his row of yellowing false teeth and horrify everyone with a manic toothless grin.

  “Hey, Mooney,” Lucky said. “As you can see, I’m here. Happy?”

  “Morning, boss,” Mooney answered, tipping his well-worn Stetson. “Lookin’ great as usual.”

  “Compliments are going to get you nowhere,” Lucky said. “I had to leave all my houseguests and jump on a plane, not my favorite way to spend Saturday morning.”

  “Sorry, Lucky, like I told you, I couldn’t reach anyone else with signing privileges, an’ this is an emergency.”

  “It better be.”

  “Oh, it is. We’re in the final stages, wouldn’t want anything holding us up.”

  “You remember my son, Bobby, don’t you?”

  “Sure do,” Mooney said, giving Bobby a hearty handshake. “You was just a little tyke last time I saw you.”

  “And this is Brigette, my godchild.”

  “See you made it a family party,” Mooney remarked, escorting them to his mud-splattered SUV. “I’m big on family. Trouble is I never get to see ’em.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause I’m busy workin’ for you twenty-four-seven,” he said with a hearty guffaw.

  “Wanna quit?” Lucky asked jokingly, sitting up front.

  “If I quit, I die,” Mooney said, getting behind the wheel.

  In the backseat Bobby leaned across to Brigette who was sitting beside him. “Sorry about earlier,” he said. “Y’know, bringing up the whole kidnapping deal. I didn’t mean to—it kinda slipped out.”

  “That’s okay, Bobby,” she said quietly. “It’s just bad memories.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It was my fault for getting us into it in the first place,” she continued. “I was so young and naive, and you were just a helpless little kid. I knew I had to do something to protect you, and the gun was right there.”

  “You did the right thing, Brig. You saved us both.”

  “Y’know, Bobby,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe we should talk about it. I saw a shrink. You never did.”

  “No, shrinks aren’t my style. I’ve moved on—it’s the way to go.”

  “Okay,” Brigette said, her pretty face serious. “But any time you feel the need…”

  “Thanks. If I ever do, I’ll call you.”

  The moment they hit the Strip, Lucky turned her head, feeling the old familiar surge of adrenaline. “Well,” she said, “we’re back in Vegas.”

  “I think I love it,” Bobby said enthusiastically. “Gambling and girls—my two favorite things. Maybe I should build my own hotel—blow you out of the water!”

  “You’re a Santangelo, all right,” Lucky said, smiling.

  “Yeah,” he agreed with a sly grin. “A Santangelo loaded with Stanislopolous money. Pretty cool combination, huh, Mom?”

  For a moment she thought she was talking to Gino, which made her smile even more.

  “Yes, Bobby,” she said. “Pretty damn cool.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lying is never a good thing. Lying always has a way of coming back and kicking you in the ass, or so Billy discovered. He’d lied to Venus, told her he had an early call. The truth was that he didn’t have to work again until Monday, so when Venus called him on his cell Saturday morning, he was still happily asleep.

  “Mmm … yeah?” he mumbled.

  “Billy?” she said, sounding surprised. “Are you asleep?”

  Without thinking, he said, “Uh, yeah, somethin’ wrong with that?”

  “You told me you had an early call,” she said accusingly.

  “Shit … yeah, um … that got canceled.”

  “It did?” she said coldly. “What time was it canceled?”

  “Uh, sometime last night. Late. Kev took the call. I was, uh, trying to get to sleep early, like I told you.”

  “You never called me last night,” she sighed. “You promised you’d call before you went to bed.” Oh God! Was that a needy whine she detected in her voice?

  “Sorry, V,” he said. “I was watching the game, must’ve passed out in front of the TV ’cause I don’t remember anything till I woke up at three an’ hauled myself into bed.”

  “I see,” she said, hating the way she sounded, like an uptight schoolmarm questioning a badly behaved student. Lucky was right—this was so unlike her, she had to get it together.

  “How’re you doing?” he ventured, well aware that she was way pissed at him.

  “I’m doing great, Billy, if you care.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I don’t know what’s going on between us, and I think it’s time we sat down and talked.”

  Oh shit, he thought. She wants to have the “We need to talk” conversation. When women wanted that conversation, it was always a no-win situation.

  “Whatever,” he said vaguely.

  “Don’t you think we should?” she persisted. “Surely you sense that something’s going on betw
een us?”

  “Like what?” he said, following the “I’m just a dumb guy, what do I know?” tactic.

  “We shouldn’t discuss it over the phone.”

  “You wanna come by?” he suggested, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

  “If you’d like me to,” she said cautiously.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’m not working today. I got a free pass.”

  “Okay, I’ll be over soon.”

  Billy put down the phone and groaned. His crotch was still itching like crazy, even though last night he’d sent Kev out to the drugstore to buy some special cream to kill the little fuckers. Kev had questioned him into the ground about where he’d gotten them from. But he’d stayed firm, and come out with the old toilet-seat story.

  Of course, he knew where he’d gotten them. It must’ve been from the girl he’d picked up at Tower Records. She’d infected him, dirty little groupie.

  More important—what if he’d passed on the disgusting bugs to Venus? How the hell could he explain that?

  Hey, Miss Superstar Girlfriend. I might have given you a dose of the crabs. How about we discuss it?

  Running his hand through his hair, he got out of bed. “Kev!” he yelled. “Where the frig are you?”

  Then he remembered that Kev had gone home last night after bringing him the medication from the drugstore. Rubbing it into his crotch was a laugh a minute, and even worse, it didn’t seem to be working.

  Devoid of clothes, he made his way into the kitchen. Ramona did not come in on Saturday or Sunday. He’d decided privacy was on the top of his hit list for the weekends; he didn’t want his housekeeper hanging around. Besides, she needed time off too.

  Removing a carton of orange juice from the fridge, he drank straight from the carton and burped. Ah, yes—not being polite was one of the advantages of living alone. Discovering a California Pizza box in the fridge, he opened it and devoured half a cold barbecue chicken pizza. It tasted great, better than cereal any day, and he had to build up his strength: Venus was in the “We’ve got to talk” mode, so he’d better be prepared.

  It suddenly occurred to him: Was breaking up on her mind? Is that where they were heading?

  Yeah, probably. It was time. He was so over being referred to as Venus’s boy toy. Goddammit, he was a big star in his own right, he didn’t have to put up with that crap any longer.

  If they did decide to break up, he had to make sure that Venus knew it wasn’t anything she’d done. She was an amazing woman, and yeah, he loved her in his own way. But he needed to be free of all the garbage that went along with being Miz Superstar’s boyfriend.

  Problem was he didn’t have the balls to come right out and tell her, so he was hoping she’d be the one who’d break up with him.

  Yes, that would be very convenient.

  Or would it?

  * * *

  Venus was mad as she listened to herself turning into the kind of woman she couldn’t stand. The kind of woman who hung around waiting for the phone to ring, holding her breath for some guy to validate her very existence.

  Billy Melina had her hooked, and she hated it. She, who was usually so in control, was now out of control because of a man. Billy was calling all the shots, and fuck him!

  Lucky was right. If Billy wanted out, she should be the one to move on, get out first. Why allow him the pleasure of doing it?

  Oh God, I’ll miss him, she thought. Those abs, that face, that beautiful dick. My Billy. My gorgeous guy. I can’t help it. I love him.

  What would people say? Would they think he’d dumped her because she was an older woman? Or would she be able to spin it and announce that she’d dumped him?

  Yeah, that was it. She’d tell her friends that she’d let him go because he was too young and immature, and he wanted to move in. The press would go to town on that one.

  Statement from her publicist to the hungry media:

  Billy Melina is a wonderful and spiritual man and we’ll always be close friends. Unfortunately, the timing is not right for either of us.

  She thought about who she might start seeing next. There were always opportunities, always men panting to go out with her. There was the black TV entertainment reporter with the dazzling smile and flirtatious manner. There was the successful movie producer who was constantly inviting her out. There was the Bad Boy movie star—one of Billy’s main rivals—who kept on phoning to inquire whether she’d gotten rid of Billy yet. And then there were the fans—legions of them. Only she’d never date a fan; too risky.

  What was she going to do? She wasn’t ready to break up with Billy. She didn’t want to, she was perfectly happy, he was the one causing waves.

  Oh God! The thought of dating again. No! No! No! It was too horrific to even contemplate.

  The first date, the first kiss, the first fuck. A nightmare. Not to mention the dumb conversations that had to take place.

  Where do you live?

  What’s your star sign?

  You like dogs or cats?

  Sushi or steak?

  Missionary or tantric?

  No. She was not allowing Billy to break up with her. No way.

  * * *

  The paparazzi were lying in wait outside Billy’s house.

  Don’t they have anything better to do? Venus thought, ducking her head and driving past. She didn’t want them to see her in the Phaeton, it was her secret getaway car, and if they saw her in it, her clever ruse would be over.

  She called Billy on her cell. “What shall I do?” she wailed.

  Oh, great! She’d gone from needy girlfriend to helpless one. Dammit! If she didn’t get it together soon, she’d be forced to slit her wrists.

  “Uh … drive home, I’ll come pick you up,” Billy suggested. “Or maybe we should hang out at your place.”

  She didn’t want him at her house. If he was there, he could leave whenever he felt like it, and that gave him the power position. Today that position was going to be strictly hers.

  “Not to worry,” she said. “I know exactly what to do. See you soon.”

  Hitting the gas pedal, she raced down the hill and along Sunset until she reached the Beverly Hills Hotel, where she gave her car to the parking valet and asked him to call her a cab. The parking valet, a would-be actor, was in awe. Especially when she slipped him a fifty-dollar tip.

  Ten minutes later she was paying off the cabdriver outside Billy’s house, while the assembled paparazzi launched into a photo-taking frenzy. They were not shy about yelling out questions:

  “How come you’re in a cab?”

  “When are you and Billy getting married?”

  “Any babies in your future?”

  “Over here, Venus, gimme that dazzling smile.”

  Ignoring them, and a gaggle of girl fans hovering near the bushes, she rang the doorbell. Billy had never offered to give her a key, and since she hardly ever came to his house, she’d never asked for one.

  On the other hand, he had the code to get into her house, so maybe she should have a key.

  Billy came to the door himself, causing the girl fans to dissolve into moans and shrieks of ecstatic joy, and the paparazzi to blind everyone with their continuous flashbulbs.

  Billy grabbed her by the arm, yanking her inside, slamming the door behind them.

  “Jesus, Billy, isn’t it time you put up gates?” she said, trying to catch her breath. “It’s a circus out there.”

  “You think I should?” Billy asked, managing to sound as if he’d just ambled into Hollywood straight off the farm.

  “Of course you should. And not for my sake. You’re famous. You need protection. What if one of those crazy fans had a gun?”

  “Oh, c’mon, don’t go gettin’ all dramatic on me.”

  “I suppose you’ve never heard of Rebecca Schaeffer or John Lennon?”

  “Who’s Rebecca Schaeffer?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Billy,” she sighed. “What does matter is that it’s essential you get security gates put up
around your house. Why don’t you have what’s-his-name arrange it?”

  He knew exactly who she meant by “what’s-his-name.” Kev. She had a thing about Kev. Early on in their relationship she’d pronounced that Kev was a hanger-on and incompetent. She was always trying to persuade him to hire a “real assistant.”

  Well, too bad. Apart from being his gofer, Kev was his best friend from way back. Besides, the underlying reason she wanted Kev gone was that she considered him a bad influence.

  “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled, trailing her into his living room, hoping he’d remembered to hide Kev’s latest stash of porno tapes that he insisted on bringing over.

  She zeroed in on his coffee table, picking up photos of girls in various stages of undress. “Who are these?” she asked.

  “Fans,” he said sheepishly. “They send me this crap all the time.”

  “To your house?”

  “Some. Or the studio forwards them over.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t have anyone organizing your fan club?”

  Man, she was in a pissy mood, bossy too. “Uh … when I’m on a movie the production office hires someone to take care of it,” he said.

  “Billy, we’ve got to get you organized. This is ridiculous.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said lamely.

  “So,” she said, moving a pile of newspapers and magazines out of the way before sitting down on the couch. “Where’s your housekeeper today?”

  “Jeez, Venus, relax, we’re here by ourselves. We don’t need a bunch of people looking after us, do we?”

  Realizing she was being picky, she shut up. If he wanted to live in a state of disarray, it was his problem.

  “Actually you’re right,” she said, performing a catlike stretch. “It’s kind of nice not having anyone around except us.”

  “You see?” he said triumphantly. “No one to spy on us, check out what we’re doing. We can walk around naked if we feel like it.”

  “Or swim naked in the pool,” she said, glancing out the full-length glass doors to the inviting pool. “I haven’t done that since I bought my first house.”

  He immediately flashed onto the girl who’d given him crabs. She’d been naked in his pool. Oh shit! Did the little buggers swim?

  His crotch itched at the memory. He scratched himself vigorously, silently cursing.