Double Lucky (77 page)

“No, man,” Billy said. “Say hello to Max.”

“Hello, pretty girl with the boy's name,” Kev said.

Max rolled her eyes. “Like I haven't heard
that
before.”

Billy laughed. “This is my buddy Kev, an' I can see you two are gonna get along just fine.”

Max hurriedly checked Kev out. From the two duffel bags by the front door, it seemed Kev had arrived to stay. He reminded her of E from
Entourage,
one of her favorite TV shows.

“We just ordered pizza,” Billy announced. “Max is starving and in a hurry.”

Max felt her cheeks burn red. Was Billy now dismissing her because his friend had arrived? What a bummer!

“Pizza an' a beer sounds like it's gonna hit the spot,” Kev said, flopping down on the couch as if he lived there. And if his luggage was anything to go by—he was about to move in any second.

“So, Max,” Kev said as Billy handed him a can of beer, “how come a boy's name?”

What an asshole question, but she answered it anyway, because if he was Billy's friend, she supposed she'd better get him to like her.

“My given name is Maria,” she answered lightly. “You go figure why I changed it.”

Kev looked at Billy as if to say
What the fuck? Maria seems like an okay name to me.

“Too
Sound of Music
,” she explained, thinking they would get it. But from their blank expressions it appeared that neither of them was a movie buff. Lucky and Lennie had organized movie nights since she was a little kid. From
Grease
to
Saturday Night Fever
and
Flashdance
, she'd been exposed to all the popular classics on DVD.

“How long you here for?” Billy asked, turning his attention back to Kev.

“'S long as you'll have me,” Kev replied with a jaunty wink.

Max felt her stomach dip. This was not a good turn of events. Not good at all.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Las Vegas. City of lights. City of sin. A magical mystery town where anything could happen, and usually did.

Take call girls—they were obliging creatures, ready for action at all times. So when Armand called Yvonne Le Crane, a woman he'd dealt with several times before, she immediately sent two of her best girls. Tia, a petite Asian, and Fantasy, a slightly more robust black beauty who'd been told she resembled a young Naomi Campbell.

They arrived at Armand's hotel suite prepared to do whatever it took to make the client happy, armed with a selection of sex toys, handcuffs, whips, rubber bikinis, rolled joints, lotions, Viagra and Cialis, and a bunch of condoms. Between them they had everything that might be needed crammed into their oversized Gucci purses. The expensive purses were a gift from a Malaysian prince who'd been more than satisfied with their performances. So satisfied that on top of their normal fee, the purses had come stuffed with hundred dollar bills.

Little did they know they were about to service another prince. Not such a generous one, though.

Fantasy had been a working girl for almost two years, while Tia was newer to the game. They'd both come to Vegas hoping to score a gig as a dancer in one of the big shows, only it hadn't happened for either of them. Then along came Yvonne Le Crane, a middle-aged madam always on the search for new girls, and they'd both decided that making plenty of money doing something they usually did for free was a far better prospect than hoofing in a show six nights a week.

So far they'd had no complaints. However, so far they had not encountered Armand.

“Strip,” he ordered the moment they entered his suite.

“Where's the bedroom, honey?” Fantasy inquired, in the special sexy voice she reserved for clients. Obviously this was a man who wanted to get straight to business, and that was no problem. The sooner he came, the sooner they'd be out of there.

“Refrain from speaking, and do not call me ‘honey,'” Armand said, his voice a sharp command. “Remove your clothes, leave your shoes on, and climb on top of the pool table.”

Fantasy and Tia exchanged glances. Apparently this was not about to be the sexy little scene they'd choreographed so many times. They'd got themselves a freaky one, the worst kind.

“Sure, hon—” Fantasy began to say. Then she caught a glimpse of his hard, cold stare, and hurriedly shut up.

Tia was already divesting herself of her clothes. A simple silk dress and a red thong—that was it. She kept her strappy high-heeled sandals on, as requested. Armand's eyes flicked over her nakedness. Too thin for his liking, and her jutting breasts were obviously fake and oversized for her body. He reminded himself to request women with real breasts in the future.

Fantasy, on the other hand, was the kind of nasty bitch he enjoyed humiliating. She would fight back when he instructed her to do certain things. She would entertain him.

As Fantasy stripped off her clothes, a short skirt and a low-cut top, no underwear, he couldn't help admiring her body. Gleaming ebony skin, long legs, a pierced navel, and one pierced nipple. Normally he would watch and instruct—touching hookers was not always for him; he was far too fastidious. But for this one he might make an exception.

“On the pool table,” he commanded.

The girls obliged.

“Now get on all fours and play doggie.”

“'Scuse me?” Fantasy said.

“Do you have a problem with your hearing?” Armand said. “Lick each other's asses and try to look as if you're enjoying it.”

“Fucking perv,” Fantasy whispered under her breath. But she did as he asked, like all professionals. The money was waiting at the end of the gig, so did it really matter how she got there?

*   *   *

Two hours later, Armand was picking up his mother. Meanwhile, Fantasy was waiting for her car, and bitching to her friend, a valet parker at The Keys, about the kinky customer in the Presidential Suite, a man who'd demanded all kinds of lewd acts
and
anal sex from her and Tia, then refused to pay extra.

“Cheap mothafucker,” Fantasy muttered as she got in her car. “Who the fuck he think he is?”

Soon word started filtering up via the staff grapevine about the perverted cheapo in the Presidential Suite. It didn't take long before the gossip reached the ears of Jerrod.

Call girls were not encouraged at The Keys, but since high-end call girls were a fact of life in Vegas, their existence was tolerated. However, Jerrod had certain standards, and if they came to do a job at the hotel where
he
was the head of security, then they should be paid for their services.

Jerrod decided to do some discreet investigating.

*   *   *

Armand chose to take Peggy, along with Fouad, to François, a select and expensive restaurant he knew she'd approve of. He needed to make Peggy happy, and preferably drunk. His dear mother was very fond of a bottle of wine. Give her enough, drop her off at her hotel, and she'd sleep it off.

How many times had he watched her do that when he was a kid? Too many to count. His mother, the drunk. Thank God for Sidney Dunn, who'd come along, married her, and taken the pressure off.

Now that Sidney was gone, did she honestly expect to latch onto him again?

Earlier, he'd enjoyed himself with the whores, especially the black one. Women would do anything for money—he'd established that time and time again, and he had the videos to prove it. Two little whores at play. Another shining example to add to his extensive collection.

He stored his videos under certain categories:

Married Women

Whores

Single Women

Famous Women

Yes, he'd had a few famous women sniffing around, all set to land their own personal billionaire—something they imagined would up their pathetic profiles in the tawdry entertainment magazines.

The blonde with the penchant for jocks.

The anorexic brunette who swore she wasn't anorexic.

The girl who'd written about her life as a Hollywood princess.

The stupid blonde with the big boobs.

The drugged-out singing star with a major crack problem.

All one-nighters—his choice, not theirs. There wasn't one of them that he'd care to conduct a repeat performance with.

The restaurant was full. His casino host had arranged the reservation.

Later he would gamble before being entertained by the three Texan blondes he'd ordered up for his midnight entertainment, for when it came to sex, Armand was a true voyeur, a connoisseur of the raw and raunchy.

“I do not like this table,” Peggy complained in a high voice. “Why are we not seated at a window table? I would prefer to sit somewhere with a view.”

Armand dispatched Fouad to deal with the situation. The restaurant was full, but a five-hundred-dollar tip to the maître d' should certainly make the right table available.

After a few minutes, a group at a well-situated window table got up to leave.

The maître d' had probably told them to get the hell out, Armand thought, satisfied that money could get him anything he required.

“You see,” he informed his mother, with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Your wish, and it is done.”

But Peggy wasn't listening, her attention was fixed on the group making its way out.

“What are you staring at?” Armand demanded.

“That old man,” Peggy said, agitated. “I think I know him. Find out his name.”

Armand couldn't help himself. “For God's sake,” he snapped, curling his lip. “You're ridiculous.”

Peggy honored him with an icy stare. “Too much trouble?”

Frowning, Armand turned to Fouad. “Do as she asks.”

It was at that exact moment that Fouad decided the time had come to move on and extract himself from the toxic environment Armand had created. He had money, plenty of it. He had copies of most of Armand's explicit sex tapes. And he'd had it being treated like some kind of gofer expected to jump at his master's bidding.

This was not Akramshar, this was America, and as soon as they returned to New York, he was out.

“Certainly, Armand,” he said, getting up from the table. “I will deal with it immediately.”

*   *   *

The three blondes suited Armand just fine. Lithe and lovely with real breasts and mounds of pale pubic hair, they were exactly what he needed after a stupefyingly boring dinner with his mother. Peggy always put him on edge. She was the gift that kept on giving. Lately she'd started lecturing him about getting married and having children. Little did she know …

Exhibiting a rare flash of generosity, he'd invited Fouad to join him and the women. It infuriated him when Fouad declined. How stupid that Fouad remained faithful to his dreary American wife. What a fool.

The blondes did everything he asked. They fucked and sucked, did not object when he ordered them to stick old-fashioned Coke bottles up their asses, licked each other, and complied with his every request.

Fully sated from the two skanks he'd entertained earlier, he mainly watched, snorted a mountain of coke, and issued instructions.

When he was finally ready, he had all three of them take turns going down on him. Then he dismissed them, sending them on their way, never realizing that one of them was a transsexual. If he'd known that, it would have sent him into a royal fury.

After the women were gone, he slept the night through, once again content in the knowledge that tomorrow The Keys would be all his.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Friday morning, Denver awoke early. She turned her head and there was Bobby sprawled out next to her, lying on his stomach, his lean back exposed. She ran her fingers lightly down his spine, but he didn't stir. For a few seconds she reverted to her teenage years, remembering how she'd crushed on Bobby from afar. Now he was in
her
apartment, in
her
bed, and he was all hers.

Their late-night sex session had been something else. So passionate and emotional in its intensity. The connection they had was unbelievably strong, and it wasn't just the sex. It was more than that. It was love and like with a healthy dose of respect. She only hoped he felt the same way about her.

She jumped out of bed, grabbed a loose T-shirt, went into the kitchen, and put on the coffee. Personally she preferred green tea, but Bobby was a coffee freak—he had to have it strong and black before he was ready to face the day.

Today they were flying to Vegas, apparently on the Stanislopoulos plane.

Denver sighed as she filled the coffeepot. Sometimes she found it odd that Bobby never spoke of his deceased father, or of the huge fortune he'd inherited. She knew he didn't want to touch the money, that it was important for him to make it on his own. She also knew he'd set certain goals for himself, and that he was intent on achieving them.

So why use the plane? It didn't seem to fit into his overall plan.

One day she'd ask him, but not today.

A few moments later Bobby strolled into the kitchen wearing the white terry-cloth robe she'd bought him when he'd first started staying over. He looked so sexy and macho in it with his black curly hair and deep olive skin. Man, he was so damn handsome, he gave her goose bumps.

“Morning, beautiful,” he said, grabbing her around the waist.

“Morning, handsome,” she responded. “I was just about to bring you coffee in bed.”

“Forget about the coffee, how about bringing me
you
in bed,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her back toward the bedroom.

“You're insatiable,” she said with a dreamy smile, allowing herself to go with him.

“And
you're
irresistible,” he replied, tumbling her onto the bed and starting to make love to her again.