Poor Little Bitch Girl (2 page)

For a price
.

A hefty price, depending on what was required.

Annabelle’s girls were not hookers. They were stylish, good-looking career women who enjoyed the extra income. Models, actresses, singers, designers, all classy, smart and discreet, and some of them quite well-known.

It was Annabelle’s idea that the girls they recruited should wear masks when they went on jobs, to hide their identities. She was sure that the men would get off on the mystery, and the girls were happy too, imagining that wearing masks would conceal their true identities.

Finding the right girls was no problem. Frankie, a major cocks-man before hooking up with Annabelle, knew them all, and he used his considerable way with words to talk them into anything. A shitload of untaxable cash income was the big temptation, and as Frankie pointed out, since most of the girls were fucking for nothing, what was the big deal if they did it and got handsomely paid? Especially if they were able to remain anonymous.

Frankie vetted all their would-be clients, while Annabelle liaised with the girls and arranged the appointments. Between them they pocketed 60 per cent of every assignation, and it didn’t take long before they were rolling in cash. It was always cash, no paper-trails involved.

Now they’d been doing it for almost a year, and what a sweet money-making business it had turned out to be. Neither Annabelle nor Frankie had any complaints – that is, until they both realized they needed help.

After thinking about it for a while, Frankie had recruited Janey Bonafacio, one of his many cousins who lived in Brooklyn and worked as a bookkeeper. He’d asked her if she’d be interested in working for him, and since she’d always harbored a huge crush on Cousin Frankie, she’d immediately quit her job and was hired to take care of the phones and schedule the girls’ appointments.

Janey, a 275-pound unmarried mother with a nineteen-year-old son, Chip, was delighted to get the job. Worshipping her cousin from afar was one thing, but actually working for him was a dream come true, even if the business he ran with his snooty girlfriend was fairly dubious.

Annabelle trusted Janey, but she wasn’t so sure when it came to Chip – a surly slacker with way too much attitude and a complaining disposition. Annabelle regarded him as a not-so-charming Frankie in training. They used him to run errands and drive the car.

“At least they’re family,” Frankie had assured her. “They’ll never screw us.”

“Don’t be so naïve,” she’d retorted. “When it comes to money, everyone has an agenda.”

“Hey!” Frankie had said. “We’re payin’ Janey plenty to make
sure
they stay discreet. An’ remember this – Janey’s got a thing for me. She’d never do anythin’ to hurt me.”

Annabelle was not so sure.

* * *

After making certain that she looked her most seductive, Annabelle buzzed downstairs to check that her car was waiting. Her main residence was a Park Avenue penthouse where she and Frankie spent most of their time, but she still kept the SoHo loft; it was the place where her parents and old friends could contact her. Not that her parents ever did – she heard from them maybe once every few weeks. As for her old friends, she was not interested in them; she had a new life now, and in her new life very few people knew who her parents were and where she came from. That’s the way she liked it.

Earlier in the day, Frankie had driven to Atlantic City to spend the weekend with a couple of his guy friends, Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos, and Bobby’s business partner, M.J. Annabelle knew both Bobby and M.J. from way back when they’d all attended the same high school in Beverly Hills. Yeah, fun times. Bobby and M.J. were a grade ahead of her, but she’d never forgotten the infamous prom night when the three of them had hung out, gotten totally high, and on a dare she’d ended up making out with the two of them.

Hmm . . . just one of those crazy, out-of-control teenage escapades, although it was quite a memorable experience. Neither Bobby, M.J. nor she had ever mentioned it again. It was a no-go zone.

Then one night, years later, after she’d moved to New York, she’d walked into
Mood
and there they were – Bobby and M.J. At first it was quite a shock seeing them, but they’d soon got to talking and catching up on old times. In fact, it was M.J. who’d introduced her to Frankie.

She’d never told Frankie about her one night of lust with his two best friends, since some things were best left in the past. Besides, she didn’t imagine he’d be too thrilled if he ever found out – and when pushed, Frankie had a vicious temper.

Since gambling seemed to be Frankie’s new passion, she hadn’t objected to him taking off. Her live-in boyfriend was a handful and then some, so she didn’t mind the occasional night on her own. Chilling out without Frankie would allow her a pleasant break.

The desk porter informed her that her driver was indeed parked outside.

Picking up her Chanel purse, she headed for the door.

As she stepped outside, the phone began to ring. She chose to ignore it; she had a thing about phones, hated answering them. Whoever it was could leave a message.

She left the apartment and descended in the elevator, quite psyched about the prospect of inducting an innocent young man into the joys of sex. His father, Sharif Rani, was one of their biggest customers. Sharif required a different girl several times a week, and he always came back for more. Annabelle considered Sharif Rani to be a primo client, along with the Hollywood movie star who was an insatiable pussy-hound, and the Hall of Fame rock ’n’ roller with the nine-inch cock and a penchant for girls who would agree to indulge in bathroom activities all over his craggy face.

“Good afternoon, Miss Svetlana,” the desk porter said, moving out from behind the long marble counter, rubbing his palms together in anticipation of a large tip.

Annabelle discreetly slipped him a twenty. She’d learned early on that it was smart to keep everyone happy.

The desk porter tried not to stare at her. She was a beauty, with her pale red hair and slinky body. She was also quite mysterious. Nobody in the building knew what she or her boyfriend did, just that they were young and rich and that they had plenty of good-looking friends.

Annabelle walked outside, slid onto the back seat of the Mercedes they’d recently purchased, and settled back against the plush leather. She was glad this was an afternoon assignation, because after educating the boy she’d decided to pop into Saks and buy herself the new patent-leather Prada purse she’d seen in the catalogue. And since Frankie was not big on buying her gifts, maybe she’d even treat herself to a David Yurman piece of jewelry.

Yes, that’s what I’ll do
, she thought dreamily.
I’ll reward myself for five minutes of not so hard work. I deserve it.

“Hey there,” Chip said, glancing in the rear-view mirror, his narrow eyes busily checking her out. “How’s it goin’?”

“I’m not in the mood for conversation, Chip,” she said crisply, tuning him out because he bothered her, he always had. There was just something about him . . .

“’Scuse me for existing,” he muttered.

Damn! She decided then and there that Chip had to go. And the sooner the better.

M
y name is Denver Jones and I am a twenty-five-year-old so-called hot-shot attorney, an attorney summoned to be part of the defense team being put together to save Ralph Maestro – a mega-famous action movie star – from a murder rap, should he be arrested.

His beautiful wife – also a movie star, Gemma Summer Maestro – is dead. Shot in the face, her ethereal beauty no more.

It is early December, and in spite of the blazing California sun, the fake snow is already neatly stacked along the Maestro driveway as I make my way up it. It doesn’t surprise me as I have been here before, many years ago when I was a scrawny twelve year old attempting to curry favor with the most popular girl in school, Annabelle Maestro.

“Fake snow!” I remember exclaiming the first time I’d visited the Maestro mansion. “You mean your parents have fake snow brought in and pile it all along your driveway?” I’d stared at my new best friend in disbelief.

Twelve-year-old Annabelle Maestro had stared back at me defiantly. “Denver Jones,” she’d said, wrinkling her freckled nose, the braces on her teeth catching the afternoon sunlight, “you are
sooo
dumb! This is Beverly Hills, stupid. We don’t
have
real snow in Beverly Hills.”

“You don’t?” I’d mumbled, fresh out of Chicago with my not-so-normal parents. Dad, a maverick lawyer, Mom, a political activist and sometime homemaker.

“No way!” Annabella had huffed, as if I was the town idiot. “You’re so dense!”

“Sorry,” I’d muttered, although I’d had no clue what I was supposed to be apologizing for.

Annabelle had picked up a fistful of fake snow and pitched it forcefully into my face. It felt like cotton candy.

“Come on,” she’d said, her long legs racing up the snow-covered driveway. “I’m starving!”

I’d trailed behind her, brushing the fake snow off my face and out of my hair.

That was then, and this is now, and I am no longer that naïve twelve-year-old girl, but I’ll never forget Annabelle and her freckles and the way she used to wrinkle her nose. I haven’t seen her in years. We lost touch right after high school, then later I heard she’d left L.A. to attend college in Boston, and after dropping out she’d apparently moved to New York where she was doing something involving fashion.

I wondered where Annabelle was now and if I’d run into her. We hadn’t stayed friends for long. I was never cool enough for her – too work-oriented and different for her tastes. Her deal was trolling up and down Melrose Avenue and Robertson Boulevard searching for the new hot bag or the latest cool jeans, and that was hardly my scene. Even if I’d wanted to, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford the Maestro Princess lifestyle. In fact, it was a relief when Annabelle had started ignoring me and hanging out with a group of similarly rich girls with equally famous parents.

Losing Annabelle’s friendship was no big deal. My mom was relieved; she’d never much liked Annabelle or all the things her family represented. Fame. Vast wealth. The full Beverly Hills scene. Mom was happier when I teamed up with Carolyn Henderson – a brainy kid whose father was a plastic surgeon, and whose mother worked in real estate. As soon as Carolyn graduated college she scored a job as an intern in Washington. She is currently personal assistant to Senator Gregory Stoneman. We are still close friends, even though we live in different cities. We keep in touch on a regular basis, although it isn’t always easy as we’re both major busy. Thank God for e-mailing and texting.

This year, Carolyn has promised to make it out to L.A. for Christmas, in spite of a workload that makes
me
look like a slacker, and believe me, I am no slouch.

I can’t wait to spend time with her, especially as we both recently broke up with our significant others, which means we’ll have plenty to talk about. Carolyn dumped her boyfriend, Matt, because she caught him cheating – which came as no surprise to anyone. Matt was an up-and-coming political journalist who everyone (except apparently Carolyn) knew had a major zipper problem.

My break-up was a different story. Josh – a successful sports doctor – left
me
. He complained that I put work first and that he’d had it with always coming second.

On reflection I have to admit that he was right, or maybe I simply didn’t love him enough.

Josh and I were together three years, so the break-up came as kind of a jolt, but I’m not heartbroken. I have to admit that I do miss our Sundays devouring the newspapers in our sweats, taking long vigorous hikes up Malibu Canyon, watching
Entourage
and
Dexter
on TV, and gorging on my favorite Chinese food straight from the cartons.

I do
not
miss the sex. Like most relationships it started off incredibly raunchy and hot, but after six months it had turned into kind of boring comfortable sex.

Where did all the passion go? Hey, I’m no expert, but I did experience a couple of sizzling affairs in college – one with a married professor, and one with a major jock. Both times the sex was mind-blowing, so I certainly know the difference. Although sleeping with a married man on the side is not for me. Too many lies and complications.