Poor Little Bitch Girl (16 page)

“No!” Kerri exclaimed. “I haven’t
gotten
to the shocking bit yet.”

“Go on,” Carolyn said, managing a surreptitious glance at her watch.

“He wanted sex with me
and
his former girlfriend! Apparently she was waiting at his apartment all ready to party.” Kerri rolled her expressive eyes. “Can you imagine? How gross is
that
!”

“I presume you said no.”

“Like . . . duh! Do I look like an idiot?”

Carolyn glanced at her watch again. “I should be getting home,” she said, starting to fidget. “Do you mind if we leave soon?”

“Really?” Kerri said, her face registering disappointment. “We haven’t covered half the stores.”

“I’ve got some work to finish up, and I promised to look in on Nellie,” Carolyn explained. “She’s all alone – it must be hard for her with no friends or family.”

“You’re so good to do that,” Kerri sighed, stuffing a piece of sweet ’n’ sour chicken in her mouth. “I always mean to drop by an’ see how she’s doing, but I never find the time, although I do pick up her meds every month.”

“I expect your dating schedule keeps you on the go,” Carolyn said, slightly tongue-in-cheek. “
How
many dating sites did you say you’re on?”

“A lot,” Kerri answered with a cheery grin. “And you know what – we’ve got to sign you up too. You’ll enjoy it! It’s
sooo
much fun.”

No
, Carolyn thought.
I will not enjoy it at all. I have found the love of my life, and soon he will be all mine.

T
here was a group of guys who met up and played softball in the park on Sunday mornings. They had a set routine, nine or ten guys would assemble, and each week – after the game – one of them would host the rest of the day at their apartment. Hosting meant getting in plenty of deli food, making sure there was an abundance of snacks, a full supply of European beer, and most important of all – every sports package on the latest wide-screen blue-ray high-def TV.

They called themselves “The Sunday in the Park” gang. Bobby and M.J. were the founders.

Bobby treasured his time with the guys – no women allowed – it was strictly a males only day. Frankie was not a member of the club, since bonding with the guys was out of his comfort zone. He preferred hanging out with Annabelle, catching the latest action movie, playing pool, and dropping into a cardgame or two.

Bobby was relieved, because although he and M.J. reluctantly accepted Frankie’s drug use, the others wouldn’t be so happy. In their book, doing coke on a permanent basis was for losers, okay for a party once in a while, but snorting it up your nose numerous times a day was a definite negative. There were times Bobby tried to talk to Frankie about his excessive use of cocaine, but Frankie was never in a listening mood, so every time their conversation ended up going nowhere.

The “Sunday in the Park” gang consisted of two hedge-fund guys, a computer genius, a drummer with a rock band, an investment banker, a well-known chef, a tennis pro, and an actor who starred on a daytime soap. The camaraderie between them was special. The youngest member was twenty-three – that would be the chef. And the oldest was thirty – the investment banker. Everyone left their troubles at home and enjoyed a relaxed no-pressure day. No one was married, and no one was close to doing the big deed, although the subject of women was always up for discussion. One of them always had a dating story to tell – and the other guys felt free to offer advice. “Didja fuck her?” was the most popular question on their agenda.

This Sunday was Bobby’s day to host, but he was concerned about Frankie and Annabelle. He kept on wondering if he should drop out and spend some time with them. Annabelle was a pain, but he’d known her since high school, and he kind of felt sorry for her – especially now.

He called Frankie, who mumbled something about being asleep and would check in later.

“How’s Annabelle doing?” Bobby wanted to know.

“Later, man,” Frankie answered with a big fat yawn.

So much for spending time with them. Frankie obviously had everything under control.

Outside in the park it was crisp and icy, but the freezing weather spurred Bobby to play his hardest, and by the time he got back to his apartment he was feeling invigorated and ready for anything.

For a moment, laying out cold cuts, cartons of potato salad and coleslaw on the kitchen counter, it crossed his mind that it might be nice having a girlfriend around to help out. There’d never been anyone special, never anyone who’d lasted more than a couple of months. He simply wasn’t that interested in the girls he came across – the beautiful models and actresses, the party girls and young society girls – most of them searching for a rich husband. Oh yeah, great for a few weeks or months of fun sex, but that was it.

Not that he was concerned. He was just about to hit twenty-six – too young to even think about getting married, but would a steady girlfriend really be such a bad thing?

Frankie had a steady girlfriend, Annabelle, and all Frankie wanted to do was cheat on her, so come to think of it – what was the point?

Bobby held Lucky and Lennie up as a shining example of what a great relationship should be. They were both extremely independent, but they were also loving and volatile, passionate and crazy, and after years of marriage – still madly in love.
That’s
what he wanted. A relationship filled with fire.

Zeena had fire. She might be years older than him, but he knew that if he was with her, things would never be dull.

What did age matter anyway? Madonna was over fifty and smokin’ hot. Demi Moore had married some dude a good fifteen years younger than her. Not to mention his mom’s best friend – the very sexy and gorgeous Venus – married to Billy Melina, a movie star many years her junior.

Fuck it! He promised himself that the next time he saw Zeena, he was definitely going for it.

* * *

The next time came sooner than he thought. Stacking dishes in the kitchen after all the guys had departed – including M.J. – he was just about to check in with Frankie again, when his doorbell buzzed.

Thinking that one of the guys had left something behind, he flung open the door, and there she stood, Zeena herself.

“Bobby,” she drawled, wandering past him into his apartment as if she’d visited a dozen times before. “Zeena was in the neighborhood. Decided to see for herself how the heir to a shipping fortune lives.”

Shocked and startled, he was also instantly pissed off that she knew about his background. He kept a low profile, stayed out of gossip columns, never discussed his heritage with anyone except M.J. So how exactly had she found out? And what was she doing in his apartment?

Not that he minded.

How could he mind when the object of all his most recent fantasies was standing in his living room clad from head to toe in black leather? She had on a tiny leather mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, thigh-high boots, and a black turtleneck cashmere sweater, paired with a slouchy leather silver-studded motor-cycle jacket. Her coal-black hair fell in a straight curtain way below her waist, and her exotic make-up emphasized her almond-shaped eyes.

There was a slight whiff of dominatrix in the air, but Bobby didn’t care. She was here, in his apartment, and it was up to him to make a move.

What did she expect from him? That was the question. He was so used to being the one in control that this was a whole new experience.

Extracting a pack of Gauloises from her oversized Prada crocodile purse, she shook out a cigarette and proceeded to light up with an Art Deco silver cigarette-lighter.

The way she touched the flame to the tip of the cigarette was extremely sexual. Bobby decided against telling her that there was a no smoking rule in his apartment.

She inhaled deeply, then watching him closely with her catlike eyes, she slowly exhaled.

“Here we are,” she finally said, a plume of strong-smelling smoke drifting in the air between them. “Alone together. Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for, Bobby?”

“No young studs today?” he asked, trying to keep it light. “No entourage hanging on your every word? What’s up with that?”

“Disappointed?” she murmured, her tone mocking him. “Were you hoping for a threesome? Or perhaps you’re gay.” A long-drawn-out sigh. “Ah . . . such beauty.” Another long beat. “
Are
you gay, Bobby?”

God! She reminded him of Serenity – all sarcasm and bitchery spewing forth from a mouth he was desperate to kiss.

Was that what turned him on?

Apparently so, because he could feel himself growing hard, and he had the strongest desire to grab her and simply go for it.

He should do it. Because that’s why she was here, no other reason.

Miz Superstar had come visiting to see exactly what he had to offer. And he had every intention of showing her.

S
omehow or other, Frankie and Annabelle had become involved in a huge fight before they’d both finally fallen asleep somewhere in the early hours of Sunday morning.

In the midst of their fight, Annabelle had picked up a bottle of vodka and begun purposefully swigging straight from the bottle. Since she had a low tolerance level it didn’t take long before she was totally drunk.

Frankie laid out several lines of coke and snorted it right in front of her. He didn’t usually indulge with her watching, because Annabelle didn’t do any kind of drugs – she preferred the lure of alcohol. But he’d felt like getting totally high.

Their fight had escalated. She’d called him a useless druggie with no balls.

He’d called her a fucking princess with no conscience.

She’d yelled that he was nothing more than a pimp and had no idea how to handle anything.

He’d yelled back that she was a selfish cold-hearted bitch with no emotions, and all she cared about was herself.

Those were just a few of the insults exchanged.

Eventually Annabelle had staggered into the bedroom, still clutching the now half-empty bottle of vodka. Slamming the door in Frankie’s face, she’d fallen on the bed and immediately started sobbing, the news of her mother’s brutal murder finally sinking in.

Frankie had felt a strong urge to walk out, but since he had nowhere to walk, he’d ended up sleeping on the couch.

They’d both slept their way into Sunday afternoon, and it wasn’t until four o’clock that Annabelle surfaced with a killer hangover.

She lay in her bed quite still for a moment, mulling over the events of the previous day, whereupon the enormity and horror of what had taken place in Los Angeles suddenly overcame her, and once again she began to sob, deep body-racking sobs that enveloped her whole being.

Her cries awoke Frankie, and forgetting about their ferocious fight, he hurried into the bedroom, because if there was one thing that really got to him, it was the sight and sound of a crying female. The very thought evoked bad memories. His brute of a father used to beat the crap out of his mom on a weekly basis, and it was up to him from as far back as he could remember, to comfort her.