Poor Little Bitch Girl (43 page)

“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.

F
rankie 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 she 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?”

“Meet Frankie Romano,” Rick said. “You might’ve seen him on the cover of
Truth & Fact
this week.”

“Seen him! I’ve fucked him!” Fanny cackled, breaking up at her attempt at humor. “No kiddies, I haven’t,” she continued. “That must’ve been the water delivery guy. You’ve seen one little prick, you’ve seen ’em all!”

Frankie shot Rick a dirty look.
This
was the woman he was about to trust with his and Annabelle’s future? No way.

He started to get up.

“Sit your ass down,” Fanny commanded, taking off her diamanté glasses and twirling them in a circle. “Learn to take a joke, an’ you an’ I will be as tight as an ant’s crack.”

For once in his life, Frankie was speechless.

“I’ve read the story,” Fanny continued. “So tell me, Mister Pimp Man, whaddaya want outta this? Fame? Money? Glory? ’Cause I can get you all of it.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Oh dollface, I’m sure as a shitload of sailors on shore-leave headin’ for a whorehouse.”

And Frankie didn’t know why, but suddenly he was convinced.

* * *

The Leonardo DiCaprio movie finished, and Annabelle was bored. Frankie had told her not to go anywhere, but being holed up in a hotel was not to her liking. She sat in the middle of the kingsize bed, propped herself up with multiple pillows, and clicked TV channels, coming across
E.T.
, a program she sometimes watched – probably because Mark Steines was so damn cute.