Poor Little Bitch Girl (23 page)

Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos was every pre-pubescent girl’s big crush. Handsome, charismatic, a basketball champ who also excelled at football – he hailed from an exciting and glamorous family. Along with his best friend, the also very handsome M.J., Bobby was a true star who could get any girl he wanted. And he did, oh yes, he did. Over the years he went through girls at an alarming rate, including one drunken prom night where legend had it that he and M.J. had gotten involved in some kind of insane sex romp with Annabelle. It was the talk of the school for weeks. Annabelle had walked around with a knowing smile, although I remember taking note that she was never one of the lucky ones who actually got to date Bobby. I think it must have pissed her off big-time.

Now here I was, on my way into Annabelle’s apartment. And here
he
was – the childhood crush of my dreams – Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos. Crazy that I even remember his full name.

“Do I know you?” he asked, giving me a puzzled smile. It was glaringly obvious that he had no idea who I was.

Recovering my composure, I rallied to the occasion. “Uh . . . actually, not really,” I managed, striving for a cool vibe. “I’m representing Ralph Maestro.”

“Annabelle’s dad?”

“Right. I’m here to escort Annabelle to L.A. And . . . uh . . . well, strangely enough I went to school with Annabelle, and you were at the same high school. So . . . I guess I do know you, but not really.”

His smile widened. Perfect teeth. Of course. Would I have expected anything less? I wondered what his abs were like.

“You’ve got a fantastic memory,” he said pleasantly. “I’m a dud at remembering anything.”

“I guess it’s ’cause I’m a lawyer,” I retorted. “It’s a trick of the trade. I never forget a face.”
Especially yours.

“A lawyer, huh?” he said, dark eyes checking me out. “You look too young to be a lawyer.”

If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it.

“I do?” I said, noting that he looked even better than he did back in high school.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said. “I’d be kinda flattered if I was you.”

We exchanged a long look. Y’know, one of those looks that lasts a few seconds too long – but in a good way.

“Well . . .” I began, and just as we were about to continue our mildly flirtatious conversation, the skinny guy with the longish hair and sharp features interrupted.

“You
are
the lawyer Ralph sent – right?” he questioned. “You’re here to take care of everything?”

“You must be Frankie Romano,” I replied, my ever alert eyes noticing a thin residue of white powder under Frankie’s left nostril.
Wonderful. I got me a druggie to hike back to L.A.

“’S’right,” Frankie said, giving me a second once-over with his ice-chip blue eyes.

Obviously this was a morning for full inspection. I was so glad I’d washed my hair and made an effort to look half-decent. Of course I also had that just-got-laid-two-nights-in-a-row glow, so I felt confident that I looked kind of okay – in spite of the wrong clothes for a New York winter.

M.J. threw me a curious glance. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” I answered with a brief nod.

This was all too surreal. A total jolt from the past.

“Come on in,” Frankie said. “These guys are on their way out.”

“Short but sweet,” Bobby said, throwing me a friendly wink.

“Right,” I answered, adding a hasty, “By the way, if you ever need a lawyer – young but killer – look me up. Denver Jones. I’m with Saunders, Fields, Simmons and Johnson.” And then, before I could stop myself, I slipped him my card.

What am I doing? I am
so
embarrassed! It’s so unlike me to troll for business. Oh God! The cold weather is turning my brain to pure mush!

Bobby and M.J. drifted off, and I followed Frankie into a large, light, but strangely unlived-in-looking space.

Annabelle was sprawled on a lime-green couch sipping Diet Coke from the can. The TV was tuned to
The View
, and Elisabeth Hasselbeck and Joy Behar were picking at each other – arguing about something political.

Annabelle appeared ready for a fast getaway. She was dressed all in black – expensive black –
very
expensive black. Her sleek pale-red hair was smoothed back, and her eyes were covered with oversize black-out shades. Glamour personified. Would I have expected anything else?

She gave me a look, and then did a fast doubletake. A surprised – actually kind of shocked expression crossed her face – or what I could see of her face, considering the enormous shades and all.

“Denver?” she questioned, her voice rising. “Oh . . . my . . . God! It
is
you.”

I had not expected her to recognize me, let alone remember my name. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and I’m sure I look totally different from the rather serious teenager with the drab brown hair, several extra pounds, and braces on her teeth. Or at least I hoped I did.

Suddenly I was fifteen again, the plain, smart girl, as opposed to one of the in-crowd.

“Yes, it’s me,” I said, trying to gather myself. “Long time no see.”

“Damn right,” Annabelle said, jumping to her feet. “How about you – you’re lookin’ great. Some transformation.”

The last thing I expected to come out of Annabelle Maestro’s mouth was a compliment.

For a moment I was totally thrown. Annabelle had
never
said anything nice to me in all the years I’d known her.

“Uh, so do you,” I managed, remembering the last shopping expedition we’d gone on together; that was the time she’d informed me I was way too fat to get into any of the designer jeans sold at Fred Segal – the mecca of one-stop shopping for rich Beverly Hills girls with money to burn.

At the time I was a healthy size eight, while Annabelle was an unhealthy size zero.

“Are you really a lawyer?” Annabelle asked, actually sounding vaguely interested.

I nodded.

“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed, sitting down again and placing her Diet Coke on the coffee-table. “I’m so proud of you.”

Now why would she be proud of me? After our brief year of one-sided friendship she’d barely acknowledged my existence.

“Your father’s very happy you’re coming home,” I said, sounding horribly phony. “And may I take this opportunity to say how sorry I am about your mom.”

Annabelle lowered her shades and threw me a stony stare. “So,” she said flatly. “Did the old bastard do it? Did Mister Movie Star finally crack and blow away all that fucking perfection?”

I was stunned into silence. The venom in her voice was palpable.

Frankie saved the day. Quickly grabbing my arm, he dragged me over to the window. “Take no notice of anythin’ she says,” he muttered. “She’s in deep denial, doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Ignore her.”

Concerned boyfriend had spoken. A piece of work if ever I’ve seen one.

I wished he would wipe his nose; the residue of white powder was such a giveaway.

Glancing out the window, I noticed Sam trudging down the street, laptop under one arm. He was probably on his way to the coffee shop, which he’d revealed was his favorite place to write. I wondered what he would make of this scene.

Annabelle shifted off the couch once more. “Are we leaving or what?” she asked, her tone of voice verging on being quite irritable. “The sooner I get this over with, the better I’ll feel.”

Frankie shot me a look. “Is the limo downstairs?”

“Ready and waiting,” I replied, totally on top of the situation.

“You wanna tell the driver to come get our luggage.”

“Sure,” I answered pleasantly.

From lawyer to assistant in one fell swoop. I couldn’t wait to deliver these two.

Annabelle and Frankie. A match made in heaven.

Or not?

I guess that’s up to me to find out on our long trek west.

* * *

It didn’t take me a great deal of time to realize Annabelle had not changed one bit. She might be older, but she certainly wasn’t any wiser. She had no clue about how to treat people – starting with our limo driver. The moment she got in the limousine she began complaining about his driving skills. According to Annabelle he drove too fast; his stops were jerky; the heating in the car was overpowering; the TV did not function properly.

Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. All the way to the airport.

I was amazed that she had no questions about her mother’s murder, how Ralph was doing, funeral details – nothing.

Frankie seemed used to the constant stream of complaints. He chose to more or less agree and then ignore.

Clever strategy.

At the airport I’d arranged for special services to meet us curbside. Annabelle handed the woman her heavy Louis Vuitton carry-on bag, then proceeded to act as if she didn’t exist.

Fortunately, checking-in was swift, although when we got to security, Annabelle managed to create an annoying drama.

“Do I
have
to take my boots off?” she whined. “The ground is filthy.”

“Everyone has to,” I explained, wishing she’d shut up. Who the hell did she think she was? “And you’ve also got to remove your belt and take off your jacket,” I added, annoying her even further.

“Shit!” snapped Annabelle as a line of pissed-off travelers waited impatiently for her to wriggle out of her thigh-high boots – an act that seemed to take forever.

Frankie had already shot ahead of her, leaving me to manage the situation.

Thanks, Frankie, I love you too. She’s your girlfriend, you should be dealing with her crap.

By the time I got them both to the VIP lounge I’d had enough. I left them in the hands of our escort, and ducked out to make a few quick calls.

First Felix, my boss. I didn’t care that it was early in the morning in L.A. I merely wished to report that we were thankfully on our way.

“Good girl,” Felix said.

I hated it when he called me
girl
– so damn patronizing. Maybe it was time to change law firms, move on. I don’t like to sound immodest, but I have managed to earn myself a stellar reputation, and sometimes I don’t think Felix treats me with the respect I deserve.

Next I called my dad. I knew my family must be wondering what the hell had happened to me – because part of our family tradition is a phone call a day.

“Why did they send
you
to New York?” Dad wanted to know. “They should’ve sent an assistant.”

I heartily agreed, and informed him I’d be there for our usual Thursday-night dinner.

“You’d better be,” he said.

Thursday-night dinner is a family tradition. Everyone gathers at our parents’ house. It’s quite a mob scene, what with my three brothers, their various wives and girlfriends, and several nieces and nephews. Actually it’s great, because in all the craziness of working in L.A., Thursday night represents stability and a safe haven. Josh and I used to love our Thursday nights with the family.

Thinking of Josh, my thoughts immediately switched to Sam and Mario. I really hadn’t taken the time to go over the recent events in my personal life. The last couple of days had been quite something. Sex with two totally different guys. Hmm . . . Adventurous little me!

On impulse I texted Mario.
Getting on a plane. How about dinner tonight?

Then I texted Carolyn.
Keep on missing you. On my way back to L.A. Will call when I arrive.

Done with my phone calls I returned to the lounge where Annabelle had spread herself across a couch, and was downing her third vodka on the rocks.

Lovely. A coke addict and a drunk. What a perfect start to the day.

“W
here are you?” Carolyn asked, relieved that Gregory had finally called. “I’ve been frantic. Is everything all right?”

Since he’d failed to come into the office all day she’d started to become quite concerned. It wasn’t like Gregory to take a day off.