Poor Little Bitch Girl Read online

  “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.

  Chapter Ten

  Denver

  Mario 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-a
ir 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?

  “I need you to come over right now,” he said, before clicking off.

  “Who was that?” Mario asked, slipping into nosy reporter mode.

  “A jealous lover,” I answered vaguely, grabbing my jeans while scanning the floor for my thong which was obviously nowhere to be found.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I responded, deciding I had no choice but to go commando. “And nor should you.”

  Mario threw me a long, quizzical look. “You’re different from most of the girls I come across,” he said.

  “We live in L.A. so thank God for that,” I replied crisply.

  “You’re direct,” he said. “An’ I kinda think I like it.”

  “In that case,” I answered succinctly, “thank you for the memorable sex, but I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

  He burst out laughing. I joined him.

  Then he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips, a long juicy kiss – sooo nice.

  “I’ll call you,” he promised.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I replied, slipping on my shoes. “Don’t wait too long.”

  And then I was out of there, in my car, and on my way to the Maestro estate.

  * * *

  Ralph Maestro was smoking a very large cigar, puffing on it and blowing thick smoke throughout the living room.

  He was wearing a heavy silk maroon bathrobe, trimmed with black piping. On his feet were matching slippers. Once again I did not think that he looked like a man in mourning.

  This must be my night for men in bathrobes, only I prefer the simple white version on Mario. And I certainly prefer what’s underneath.

  “Hi,” I said, holding back an I-hate-cigar-smoke cough.

  “You look as if you just got fucked,” Ralph remarked. Not a man who thinks before he speaks.

  I decided to take the high road and ignore his sexist comment.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Maestro?” I asked, attempting to maintain a professional client/lawyer relationship, while wondering if I looked as glowing as I felt. Apparently so.

  “You can get on a plane and fly to New York,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  “And why would I be doing that?” I responded. I’ve learned never to be surprised by the things clients request, although flying to New York at two a.m. is a new one.

  “Because,” Ralph said, speaking slowly, “you know my daughter, and I can’t reach her. So it’s up to you to go get her and bring her back here.”

  “It’s up to me to do what?” I asked, frowning, because it was a ridiculous request.

  “You’re not deaf, are you?”

  “Excuse me?” I said, thinking he was a rude pig, and that maybe he had shot his beautiful wife.

  “For crissakes, girl, I’m not asking you to fly to the moon,” he said irritably. “Annabelle should be here with me, and you’re the only person I can think of to bring her back.”

  “Mr Maestro – Ralph,” I said hesitantly, “I haven’t seen or spoken to Annabelle in years, so I hardly think she’ll—”

  “I’ve already discussed this with Felix,” he said, interrupting me as if anything I had to say didn’t matter. “And he agrees that Annabelle should be here. He also agrees that you’re the one person who can persuade her to come.”

  “But—” I started to say.

  Ralph was not in a listening mood. “There’s an e-ticket on your laptop,” he said, all business. “United. Seven a.m.” He handed me a computer printout. “This is her address and phone number. I’ve left a message on her answering machine that you’re on your way.”

  And with those words he blew a plume of vile cigar smoke in my face and waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Goodnight,” he said, putting an end to any further discussion.

  Beyond furious, I left the Maestro estate. Who the hell does Ralph think I am – an errand girl?

  This is total bullshit and I cannot believe that Felix agreed I should do this.

  Screw Ralph Mister Movie Star Maestro. And screw Mister Shark Teeth. I’m a lawyer, not a freaking escort service.

  Why should I fly to New York to bring Annabelle Maestro home for her mother’s funeral?

  Why does it have to be me?

  Chapter Eleven

  Carolyn

  After calling Denver and connecting with her voicemail, Carolyn wished that she’d asked Kerri where she was going and maybe tagged along. Her adrenalin was surging, and she didn’t feel like spending Saturday night alone in her small apartment.

  What was Gregory doing? Was he thinking of her? Was he thinking about their baby and their future together? Was he as happy as she was?

  She simply couldn’t wait for them to be together out in the open for everyone to see. She imagined his wife’s face when he told her. Evelyn was a cold fish and quite obviously didn’t love him, so why would she care.

  Gregory had told her many times that he and Evelyn never made love, that they had no shared interests, and that he would have divorced her long ago if it wasn’t for the children.

  Carolyn knew it was a clichéd situation – married man with a wife who didn’t understand him – but she believed him all the same. Gregory was different, he had integrity, and she loved him with all her heart.

  Thinking about it, she wished it hadn’t been necessary for her to yell and threaten in the office earlier. But being pregnant was not something to be taken lightly, and she’d been forced to jolt him into understanding that now their situation had to dramatically change.

  He got it. He finally got it.

  Now all she had to do was wait a little bit longer.

  * * *

  “Jesus, Evelyn, who are these people?” Gregory hissed in his wife’s ear.

  Evelyn adjusted a ruby and diamond Cartier earring and responded sotto voce, “These people are reformed criminals who are making our city a much safer place.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” he growled, none too pleased that she’d dragged him to yet another of her boring do-good events.

  “You see that man over there,” she said, pointing out a bearded Latino man in an ill-fitting suit, with a fierce tattoo on his neck and a single gold stud earring.

  “Yes, I see him. So what?”

  “He’s a former gang member who has come over to our side. He currently counsels young boys about how not to get trapped into gang-life.”

  Listening to Evelyn speak, Gregory was struck by how in
congruous she sounded. What the hell did she know about gang-life? His wife, the do-gooder. She always had a cause. She always regarded herself as holier-than-thou.

  “Come,” Evelyn said, gripping his arm. “I’ll introduce you to him.”

  Gregory had no desire to be introduced to a former gang member. He had other things on his mind – like what was he supposed to do about Carolyn? Whiney, pregnant, cock-sucking Carolyn.

  Evelyn steered him across the room, and in her best Lady of the Manor voice said, “Ramirez, I’d like you to meet my husband, Senator Gregory Stoneman.”

  Ramirez threw him a hardfaced look.

  Gregory recognized the look. It was a fuck you, white asshole look. This guy was no reformed gang-banger. He was a smart criminal forging connections.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gregory said, placing a politician’s fake smile on his face. “My wife tells me you’re doing very worthwhile work for our city.”

  “I’m tryin’,” Ramirez responded, his eyes darting around the room. “It ain’t easy, but I’m tryin’.”

  “Excellent,” Gregory said, waving over a waiter. He needed another drink.

  “Yes,” Evelyn said, twisting a thin diamond bracelet on her delicate wrist. “We need more funding for the centers Ramirez plans to open across the city. Right now we only have one, and it’s such important work, keeping young boys off the street. I’m hoping to put together a special concert to raise money. Ramirez seems to think we can get some of those rapper people involved.”

  Rapper people! Evelyn existed in another world. Even he knew the correct term was rap artists.

  “Anythin’ you can do to help,” Ramirez said. “Maybe you can drop by tomorrow, see for yourself the work we’re doin’.”

  Yes, Gregory thought, that’s exactly how I plan on spending my Sunday.

  “I might do that,” he said. And then again I might not.

  Ramirez had his eye on Evelyn’s bracelet.

  Damn! Gregory thought. I hope he doesn’t know where we live.

  * * *

  Nellie Fortuna resided in the apartment next to Carolyn’s. Nellie was old – in her late eighties – and apparently she had no one left; they’d all died on her. No relatives. No friends. No one.