Poor Little Bitch Girl (10 page)

* * *

Frankie was in a strip club getting a lap dance from a sulky redhead with huge fake breasts and a very active tongue. The stripper was busy licking his neck when it suddenly occurred to him that getting pissed at Bobby and M.J. was a waste of time. They were merely jealous that he’d made a success of such a sweet business. And who could blame them? After all, he couldn’t stay a deejay for ever, he had to move on. And if moving on meant raking in the big bucks, then more power to him. Bobby and M.J. came from wealthy families, what did they know about having to make it on your own with no help from anyone?

Frankie regarded himself as a true survivor. He’d come up the hard way and made it right up to the top.

There were a few things he regretted along the way. Some dark and ominous memories he did not care to re-visit. Some very dark memories he pushed to the back of his mind whenever they came up.

The coke helped him to forget the bad things. The coke always put him in a mellow mood, made it easy for him to achieve anything he set his mind to, made him feel like a winner.

Who would have thought that snorting a flurry of white powder could have such a life-affirming effect?

His habit was expensive, but he considered it worth every dime. It wasn’t as if he was into crack or heroin or any of the hard stuff.

He liked cocaine.

Big fucking deal.

The stripper was becoming restless. She was executing her best moves and he wasn’t responding. She was dangling her pastie-covered nipples dangerously close to his mouth, while thrusting her pelvis against his crotch. Her tongue was still working hard on his neck – heading toward his left ear – although actually touching the customer was strictly not allowed. She didn’t care. This was one stripper who was working all the way toward a hefty tip.

Frankie suddenly got up, sending her flying.

Sprawled on the floor, she was about to spew a tirade of insults, when he groped in his pocket, took out several twenty-dollar bills and threw them at her.

“Another time,” he muttered. “Not in the mood.”

* * *

Since Frankie was not answering his cell, an upset Annabelle texted him and then called up Bethany – one of the girls who sometimes worked for her. “Can you come over?” she asked, feeling in need of company. “Frankie’s in Atlantic City and I’m by myself.”

Bethany, a lounge singer who’d been around a couple of years too long, was happy to oblige. She arrived half an hour later carrying a bottle of champagne – Cristal, of course – and a carton of orange juice.

“I thought I’d make us Mimosas,” Bethany announced, heading for the kitchen.

“Fantastic idea,” Annabelle said, putting on a brave face although she still felt used and abused and furious.

“Is everything all right, Belle?” Bethany asked curiously.

“No, it’s not,” Annabelle said, following Bethany into the pristine kitchen which never got used because Annabelle didn’t cook. She’d been raised in a household where they had people to do the cooking – and anything else that needed doing.

“Is it Frankie?” Bethany asked, full of sympathy, but ready for some juicy gossip all the same. “Have you two had a fight? I mean he’s a hot guy, but I’m sure he’s not the easiest—”

“Why would it be Frankie?” Annabelle interrupted, immediately switching to defensive mode.

Bethany opened the fridge and scooped out some ice. “’Cause it’s usually a man,” she said, selecting two tall glasses from the kitchen cabinet and popping out a couple of ice cubes. “Men are all such bastards. I can never understand why we put up with their shit. They eat, fart, sleep and snore. And let me assure you, my vibrator gives me better sex.”

Obviously she’s never slept with Frankie
, Annabelle thought.

“Actually, I’ve sworn off men,” Bethany continued. “Unless they’re paying. Now I’m all about my career –
that’s
what’s important to me.”

“Well,” Annabelle said, heading back to the living room, “talking of paying, have you ever experienced . . . uh . . . a client who . . . uh . . . treated you badly?”

“Don’t call them clients,” Bethany said sharply, sitting down on the couch. “The word makes us sound like whores, and we’re not. We’re professional career women making a lot of money doing something other women do for free.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Annabelle said, not interested in Bethany’s analysis of the call-girl business.

“Your question, hmm . . .” Bethany said, giving her a piercing look. “I didn’t think you went out on jobs, Belle.”

“I don’t,” Annabelle answered quickly. “I’m asking for one of the other girls. She got . . . abused.”

“Abused, how?” Bethany asked, raising a penciled eyebrow.

“The uh . . . guy was very rough with her. He practically raped her.”

“Had he paid?” Bethany inquired, all business.

“Yes.”

“Then it’s not rape, is it?” Bethany said, sipping her Mimosa. “It’s a done deal.”

Annabelle was getting more aggravated by the minute. Why couldn’t Bethany understand? “But let’s say she didn’t want it,” she said, pressing on. “How about she changed her mind – wasn’t happy with the look of him.”

“The real question is,” Bethany said wisely, “did she take the money?”

“I told you – yes.”

“Then as I said, it’s a done deal, no rape involved. Closed case. Now,” Bethany continued brightly, “do you have any Peach Schnapps? If we add it to our Mimosas you’ll be one very relaxed cookie. And then you can tell me all about who pissed you off.”

An hour later, still upset and verging on slightly drunk, Annabelle managed to get rid of Bethany. It wasn’t easy because Bethany was on her third Mimosa, and although Annabelle had thought she needed company, she’d realized she was better off alone.

Nursing a pounding headache, she made it into her bedroom and flopped down on the bed.

What if Sharif’s no doubt illegitimate fat slob of a son had given her a disease? Or even worse, gotten her pregnant?

She’d carried condoms in her purse, but the horny little bastard had prevented her from reaching them.

She could sue. Yes, sue Sharif Rani and his whole fucking family. He probably had a whole slew of sons from different women. White, black, Arab, American, Asian.

Yes, but how could she sue without giving the game away? Her game . . .

She could just imagine Mommy and Daddy’s movie-star faces if they ever found out what kind of a business their dear little daughter was running . . .

After a while she fell into a half-sleep.

Frankie would solve everything.

Frankie always did.

M
ario is a total, all that I could ask for – and then some. He’s way hot, from the tip of his beautifully shaped toes to his deep olive skin. And about his abs . . . well, all I can say is gimme more! They are world-class!

I have a thing about abs – I guess I feel about them the way most men feel about boobs. Kind of obsessed.

Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped into bed with him the night of our first drink together – an occasion I can hardly classify as a date. But what the hey – two Cosmos and it’s all bets are gone with the wind!

And yes, we were wild. We headed back to his place pronto. Leaped into bed with a feverish discarding of clothes. Thankfully he made a grab for a handy condom because I certainly wasn’t thinking in a rational fashion. Then we were hitting it all the way and then some. It was
sooo
good.

Now he’s asleep, and I’m checking out his body first, his house next.

You can find out a lot about a person from the way they live, and since Mario wasn’t expecting me to come back to his small house on Fountain, I’m impressed that it’s so clean and tidy. Not much mess at all, just a couple of dirty dishes in the sink, and a crumpled shirt scrunched up on the bathroom floor. Everything else is kind of neat.

Too neat?

I can only observe that he’s a hell of a lot neater than Josh, who was a basic slob when it came to cleaning up after himself.

As for the bed activity . . . double, triple WOW!! Not to mention BINGO!!

Mario made me come on the first try, and that’s not always a given. Sometimes it could take weeks before Josh got me to the point where I scored the big O.

Hmm . . . maybe that was one of the reasons why we both got in such a rut. Boredom ruled. And when boredom enters a relationship . . .

The absolute truth is that Josh might have ended it, but believe me, I was more than ready.

“Hey –” Mario called out from the bedroom. “Where are you?”

“Robbing your apartment,” I called back. “Only I can’t find anything worth taking other than two Santana CDs and a signed photo of Derek Jeter. What are you doing with
that
?”

“It’s a long story,” he chuckled, emerging from his bedroom unabashedly naked.

I was glad that I had prudently commandeered his terrycloth bathrobe – obviously stolen from a
Vanity Fair
event because it had
Vanity Fair The Hollywood Issue
emblazoned on the back. Yes, forcing him to walk around naked was an excellent move.

My eyes checked out his delightful buff bod – it was quite a sight.

“C’mere, you,” he said, lazily reaching out. “Back to bed immediately.”

I liked the way his mind worked. Back to bed and it was only one hour previously we were at it like a couple of randy high-schoolers on prom night. But who am I to argue? Mario Riviera was exactly the distraction I’ve been looking for.

Well, hardly looking – hoping might be a better description.

He’s athletic.

I tried not to disappoint.

He’s adventurous.

So am I.

He’s insatiable.

Unfortunately I’m getting slightly exhausted. It’s been an extremely long day and I’m not used to all this wild and wonderful sexual activity. My thighs ache, my nipples are becoming overly sensitive, and a night’s sleep in my own bed is beginning to seem like an excellent idea.

But oh . . . my . . . God! Before I can even think about it we’re back in bed and he’s making me come again.

I tingle and vibrate all over, it is
that
satisfying.

“You’re easy,” he said, grinning down at me.

I noticed his teeth, perfect and exceptionally white. They reminded me of Mark Consuelo’s teeth. In case you’re wondering, Mark Consuelo is the extremely handsome husband of Kelly Ripa. And in case you’re wondering, Kelly Ripa is the on-air partner of the ageless TV star Regis Philbin.

“Easy?” I replied, grinning back. “Is that an insult?”

“Nope,” he said lightly. “You enjoy sex as much as I do. And here’s what I like about you – you’re not one of those girls who’s into playing games.”

Was this a positive or a negative?

I didn’t bother asking because I was feeling quite comfortable with this man I hardly knew. And it’s ridiculous, because he could be a rapist, a serial killer, a thief, or . . .

Stop that thought
. I’ve always had a very active imagination, and sometimes it gets me into big trouble.

“I think I should be going,” I ventured. “It’s way past my bedtime.”

“We’ve
had
bedtime,” Mario pointed out with a lascivious grin. “Now I’m starving. How about we go grab a burger?”

Yummy! Food! I have to admit that I’m hungry too. Great sex always gives me an appetite.

Before I could say yes, my cell started playing Beyoncé’s “If I Were A Boy” from the confines of my purse.

I reached for it and answered.

Mistake.

It was Ralph Maestro. And it’s two a.m. Crap! Why did I pick up?

Because it’s my job. And Mister Shark Teeth makes himself unavailable after ten p.m.

“Hi,” I said, somewhat gingerly. “Is everything okay?”

“I have to speak with you,” Ralph said, sounding brusque as usual.

“It’s two in the morning,” I pointed out, although surely he must know?