Hollywood Kids (2 page)

Teddy Costa had taken her virginity and never called. Who said life was fair?

Jordanna was five feet six inches tall. Not conventionally pretty, she had a beauty, strength and wildness that most men found quite addictive. Her eyes were dark and penetrating, the curve of her finely arched eyebrows a challenge. Her nose was just a fraction too long for perfection, but her high cheekbones balanced her oval face, and her lips were naturally full and luscious. She had a sharply etched jawline and deeply suntanned skin. Her long raven hair hung below her shoulders casually tangled. Her body was athletic, slim and sensuous. She looked more European than American, her looks inherited from her mother's side of the family. Her mother, the beautiful Lillianne, had been half French, half Brazilian. A lethal combination.

'You got a great ass,' her stud for the night said.

Mister Romance. She hoped he knew what to do in bed, so many of them couldn't get it up any more - show 'em a condom and they lost the urge.

It wasn't easy being a single girl in LA in the nineties. In fact, it wasn't easy being a single girl anywhere.

Men. They were either gay, into kinky sex, cheating on their wives, momma's boys, jerks, drug users, cheats, pimps, or actors - the worst kind.

Mention the name Jordan Levitt and she could have any actor she wanted. Except an actor was the last person she wanted. Egocentric jerks. Me, me, me.
My
life.
My
look.
My
career.

She flung open the door to her apartment and the stud followed her into chaos. So she wasn't the tidiest person in the world. Big deal, she was hardly planning a two-page spread in
House Beautiful
.

The stud was primed and ready to go, he didn't care about her housekeeping skills. Grabbing her, he pressed himself up against her, kissed her twice and his rough hands began exploring under her T-shirt.

The phone rang. Her machine picked up, and the sound of her recorded voice filled the air. 'Yo, don't waste my time - if you got something to say go for it now.'

The machine bleeped. Her father's voice - 'Hello, skinny bird. You missed my movie. They liked it. Where were you?'

I was out trying to get laid, Daddy. And don't call me skinny bird, you know I hate it, almost as much as I hate your latest wife. Christ! Is age making you senile? She's the worst one yet. A phoney, sweet-talking perfect little bitch on wheels.

'Hey -' the stud began, going for the zipper on her jeans.

She'd lost interest. 'It's over,' she said, slapping his hands away.

He didn't believe what he was hearing. 'What's over?' he asked belligerently.

'Our incredible time,' she said, anxious to get rid of him.

'Now wait a minute -' he began.

She flung open the door. 'Out,' she said firmly.

He blinked twice. 'Ya gotta be shittin' me?'

'I have a black belt in karate,' she lied, flexing her muscles. 'Wanna put it to the test?'

He wasn't taking any risks. 'How'm I supposed to get home?' he whined.

'You'll find a way,' she said, hustling him through the door.

God, how she hated whiners! Why couldn't anybody stand up to her? There was only one man who'd managed that feat and he was dead.

Jamie, her darling brother. The only person who'd really understood her because they'd shared so much. Being the offspring of celebrity parents was no joke, but at least they'd had each other, and that had meant everything - until Jamie had checked out without so much as a goodbye. He'd jumped from a skyscraper window in New York when he was twenty and she was just sixteen.

To this day she still couldn't bring herself to think about his suicide.

Jamie wasn't the only one who'd met an early death, there was also her best friend, Fran, whose father was a major-league comedy star. Fran and she had grown up together as close as sisters. They'd loved each other dearly, in spite of the fact that they'd argued over everything, especially men. Fran used to hang out with three dumb Italian guys whose favourite pastime was screwing her in turn. Two of them were bit part actors and the third was a would-be singer. Fran - who was usually too stoned to know any better - thought it was cool to service them one by one. The guys viewed her as a major slut, which infuriated Jordanna, because she saw Fran as losing it big time.

'What are you getting out of this?' she'd demand angrily.

'Love. Attention. Sensational sex.'

'Give me a break.'

'What's the matter, Jordanna, jealous?'

Yeah, sure, jealous of three dumb creeps jumping your bones every chance they get.

Fran took an overdose on her seventeenth birthday.

At first Jordanna couldn't believe it. She'd felt numb, as if nothing mattered any more. And then reality had set in and she'd wanted revenge, so she'd 'borrowed' her father's gun, tracked the three Italian guys to their favourite club and come on to them, leading them to believe they'd found another dumb little rich girl to admire their over-inflated egos. Back at their apartment she'd pulled the gun, informed them of Fran's suicide, and messed with their minds, threatening to blow them away. By the time she'd finished intimidating them they weren't so cool any more - just three nervous jerks with limp dicks.

The trouble with men was that most of them had no balls. Except her father. Jordan Levitt had balls enough for an army.

Sometimes she thought about Jamie and Fran. Just as she sometimes thought about her mother, the exquisitely beautiful Lillianne who'd been dragged off to a mental institution when Jordanna was six. A few weeks later the fragile and famous Lillianne had slit her wrists and died a lonely, messy death.

Daddy had mourned for a good three months before marrying the first of four other wives. Kim was number five. Why did he have to keep on getting married? What was wrong with staying single for a while?

Jordanna sighed. The truth was, if he could do what he wanted, so could she. There was nothing and nobody to stop her.

She considered phoning him back, then decided against it. She knew exactly what he'd say.
Are you all right, skinny bird? Do you need money? When are we going to see you
?

Her answers were always the same.
Yes, Daddy. No, Daddy. Soon
.

He loved her. In his own way.

She clung on to the knowledge that he did. Without it she had nothing.

Sharleen climaxed with a piercing shriek. Mac was surprised the occupants of the house they were parked outside of didn't come running out to see what was going on. Would they get a surprise if they did. A half-naked movie star and a world-renowned director. What
The Enquirer
wouldn't give for this picture!

Sharleen began wriggling into her clothes while Mac resumed his position behind the steering-wheel. Soon they were on their way home to Pacific Palisades, where they shared a large house with Sharleen's sixteen-year-old daughter and Mac's seventeen-year-old twin sons from a previous marriage.

As soon as they hit Sunset, Mac drove fast, constantly checking the rear-view mirror, making sure they weren't being followed. Crime was on his mind a lot. Two months ago some tall skinny cokehead had sprung out at him in an underground parking structure, shoved a gun in his stomach and demanded his solid gold Rolex. He'd slipped it off his wrist and handed it over without a word. Once the robber had fled, he'd regretted the fact that he hadn't put up a fight.

He would never admit it to Sharleen, but after the incident he'd felt less of a man. Whenever he related the tale to his friends he made light of it, but deep down he was sick that he hadn't fought back. Now he carried an unregistered gun and screw anybody who tried to take him.

Back in his Brooklyn days he'd had real balls. Was it possible that twenty years in Hollywood had softened him up?

Sometimes he thought his entire life was a dream - from amateur boxer in Brooklyn to Oscar-winning director in Hollywood. Quite a leap. With a little help from his friends.

He tried not to think about the old days - his past was buried, and he didn't want anyone digging it up. The one time he'd done someone from his past a favour, it had ended in disaster. After that no more favours. Mac was an expert at keeping a low profile as far as his early beginnings were concerned. The truth would blow everyone's mind.

Lately he'd had a strong urge to get rid of the yellow Rolls and buy a less conspicuous car. Unfortunately Sharleen wouldn't allow it, she was into image in a big way, as far as she was concerned the Rolls said it all.

As they approached their house he noticed two police cars with blinking lights up ahead. 'Goddamn it!' he muttered, cops always made him uncomfortable - a hangover from his Brooklyn days.

'What?' Sharleen said.

'There's two police cars parked outside our house.'

'Why?' Sharleen asked, reaching for her powder compact.

'If I knew I'd tell you,' he replied shortly.

She studied her perfectly made up face in the small compact mirror and began applying more lipstick. 'I suggest you find out.'

Beautiful and sexy as she was, sometimes Sharleen got on his nerves. 'Sweetheart,' he said, trying hard not to let his aggravation show, 'that's
exactly
what I intend to do.'

Michael Scorsini arrived in LA on a Friday night worn out, fucked up and ready to make a fresh start. He'd had it with New York.

The airline had lost his one suitcase and didn't seem to care. Eventually he flashed his detective's badge, informing them they'd better damn well care or he'd arrest every one of them.

That put a rocket up their collective asses. They tracked his missing luggage to Chicago and assured him it would be delivered to his door the next day.

Fine. So he couldn't change his underwear for twenty-four hours. What did they care?

Michael Scorsini was over six feet tall with dark olive skin inherited from his Sicilian ancestors, an athletic body, thick jet hair, penetrating black eyes and a straight nose. He was handsome with a dangerous edge - an irresistible combination.

Women loved his looks, which made him forever suspicious. Did they chase after him because he was good-looking? Or did they genuinely like him as a person?

He'd never figured out the answer to that one. Probably never would. As it was he'd yet to come across a woman who really understood him.

He glanced around the airport. His friend and ex-partner, Quincy Robbins, was supposed to be meeting him, but there was no Quincy in sight, and Quincy was not easy to miss - big and black, he looked like a retired ball player who'd put on a pound or two. Michael found a pay phone and spoke to Amber, Quincy's wife, who informed him her husband's car had broken down on the freeway and there was no way he'd make the airport.

'Don't worry, I'll take a cab,' Michael said.

'Hurry up,' Amber said.

Oh yeah, like he was dying to hang around the airport.

Outside he hailed a taxi, gave the Iranian driver the Robbins' address, settled back, lit a cigarette and tried to relax.

Who'd have thought Michael Scorsini would ever move to LA? Certainly not him. Certainly not his ex-wife, Rita - boy, was she in for a shock.

Over the last six months circumstances had changed his life considerably. One moment he was living in New York, doing his job, missing his kid, but getting along OK. The next he got himself shot
-fucking shot
- in a drug bust gone wrong. And for several days his life hovered on the brink because the bullet had lodged dangerously close to his heart.

Not close enough. They'd managed to remove it and he'd lived to tell the story. Rita hadn't even called.

As soon as he'd recovered he'd taken stock. He had a daughter he never got to spend time with because his ex had moved her to LA; a series of interchangeable girlfriends; and a family in Brooklyn he rarely saw, which was fortunate because when they did get together all they managed to do was yell at each other.

Michael Scorsini was thirty-eight years old and just about ready for a new life, so he'd requested a year's leave of absence from the police department, figuring that would give him enough time to get his head together and decide whether he wanted to continue being a detective. Because of the shooting they'd allowed him the time.

Quincy had been in LA almost three years. He'd starred his own private investigation business, and was always bugging Michael to join him.

He'd resisted, sure that New York was the only place to live. But after the shooting he couldn't wait to make a move, and the good thing about LA was that he'd be near his four-year-old daughter, Bella, whom he hadn't seen since Rita had shifted them both to the Coast with barely a goodbye almost a year ago.

Rita was in for one big surprise, because Bella's daddy was coming back into the picture with a vengeance whether she liked it or not.

Amber Robbins opened the door of her modest house with a baby under one arm, a toddler clinging to her skirt and a big welcoming smile. She was a pretty black woman with dazzling teeth and a touch too much flesh distributed over her five feet four inches. Quincy had met her through a dating service which he'd joined because of a bet. He swore it was the best seventy-five bucks he'd ever spent, even though his family were not thrilled on account of the fact that Amber was a former exotic dancer. Quincy had solved that minor problem by moving to California.

'I'm forty-seven years old,' he'd told Michael at the time. 'And my mama still treats me like I'm a kid!'

'Michael!' Amber's delight was almost as big as her smile, she had a warmth about her that was very appealing.

Well, well, lookit little momma.' He grinned, hugging her tight.

'I put on a pound or two,' she admitted ruefully, enjoying the hug, then ushering him inside.

'It suits you,' he said, handing her an FAO Schwartz shopping bag.

'Hmm... you always were a damn fine liar,' she said, opening the bag and pulling out a giant panda and a cuddly teddy bear. 'For me?' she said, smiling widely.

'Aw, just somethin' for the kids.'