Double Lucky (58 page)

“I cannot believe Billy turned out to be such a loser,” Venus said, determined to verbally trash her soon-to-be ex.

“Hardly a loser,” Lucky couldn't help pointing out. “His current movie has grossed over a hundred million. Not too shabby.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Venus snapped irritably. “Billy's career is on fire, but I can assure you that as a man he turned out to be a big waste of space.” She narrowed her eyes. “And what's up with
you
today? Shouldn't you be agreeing with me, not regaling me with his box office?”

“Hey—don't say I didn't warn you about marrying a much younger man,” Lucky responded.

“Billy isn't
that
much younger,” Venus insisted. “Anyway, it's sure working for Demi and Ashton. Besides, I thought you liked him.”

“I did,” Lucky said carefully. “I mean I still do. Only, marrying a younger guy … it's kind of a given that they're bound to cheat.”

“Oh thanks!” Venus said, frowning. “When did
you
turn into Ms. Cynical and a Half?”

“Not cynical, merely practical.”

“Says you,” Venus snorted.

“You know I tell it like it is,” Lucky said, picking up her wineglass and taking a sip.

“Oh yes, we all know that about you. Nothing's off-limits.”

“I believe in the truth.”

“And I guess it works for you.”

Lucky regarded her brilliant friend, and wondered why any man who was fortunate enough to be with Venus would ever
want
to stray. Venus had it all—beauty, brains, and talent.

“Exactly why
are
you divorcing Billy?” she asked.

“'Cause he—”

“Cheated!” They finished the sentence together, then broke up laughing.

“Well,” Venus said sagely, “it was fun while it lasted. Eighteen months together and six months married. Now I'm almost free again, and believe me, it's not such a bad thing. I enjoy being on my own. Living with Billy was like doing time in a frat house. It's such a pleasure that I don't have to pick up dirty socks and underwear from the floor, there are no endless midnight snacks everywhere,
and
I get full control of the remote.”

“Surely you always had that.”

“Actually, I didn't. You know me—when I wasn't working, I was busy playing wifey to the hilt, and you can see where it got me.”

“Free to fuck your costar,
and
your director,” Lucky pointed out. “Not so bad.”

Venus gave a wicked smile. “I know. Shame we just finished shooting.”

“You should fly to Vegas this weekend,” Lucky suggested. “It'll take your mind off all things Billy.”

“What's going on in Vegas—apart from your fantastic hotel?”

“A board meeting of all my investors. And since you were one of the first, it would be great if you showed your face. Everyone would really love it. And—even better—I've decided to throw an eighteenth birthday party for Max, although the brat is driving me crazy. She's still carrying on about moving to New York.”

“I cannot believe that Max is about to be eighteen. Little Maria, all grown up.”

“Tell me about it.” Lucky sighed. “Time goes too fast.”

“You do realize that now there's no way you can stop her from doing anything she wants?”

“Unfortunately, I understand that,” Lucky said, nodding. “And if I know my Max, she'll take full advantage.”

“Hey—
you
were married at sixteen,” Venus said brightly. “So maybe she'll turn out to be street-smart like you.”

“Married
off
you mean, by dear daddy Gino,” Lucky said, shaking her head as if she still couldn't quite believe that Gino had forced her into a marriage she didn't want. “Can you imagine that Gino thought he was protecting me from my wild ways? What a joke
that
turned out to be!”

“How come you didn't fight it?”

“I was sixteen,” Lucky said, remembering the overwhelming rush of helplessness and dread she'd felt on her wedding day. “I guess I considered myself powerless to say no.”

“C'mon, Lucky, it didn't do you any harm,” Venus said. “Just look at everything you've accomplished. You've built hotels, run a movie studio, had three kids,
and
you're married to Mister Amazing. Admit it, you're a goddamn superwoman!”

“No,” Lucky answered after a thoughtful pause. “I'm a woman who took chances every inch of the way. I had to fight for my independence. Believe me, it wasn't easy.”

“Right,” Venus said. “And that's exactly why you and I understand each other so well. We both know that being a strong, successful woman in this town can be a lonely and difficult path.”

“Agreed,” Lucky said. “You gotta kick ass like a guy,
and
get called a bitch for your trouble.”

“Ain't
that
the truth,” Venus said, nodding vigorously.

“But you know something?” Lucky added. “I know who I am—and I wouldn't have it any other way.”

“Me too!”

“I think we should drink to invincible women,” Lucky said, raising her glass.

“You got it, sister,” Venus murmured.

They clinked glasses and smiled at each other.

“I've been meaning to ask you,” Lucky said. “Who's getting the apartment at The Keys, you or Billy?”

“Me, of course,” Venus answered firmly. “I've already told my lawyer there's no way I'm giving it up. It's mine. Billy can go piss in the wind to get his hands on
that
piece of real estate.”

“Glad to hear it. In this world you gotta claim what's yours.”

“Hell, yes. The apartment is in
your
hotel, and you're
my
friend, so screw Billy.”

“Right on!” Lucky said, nodding her agreement.

After coffee and more conversation—mostly about what an asshole Billy was—Lucky signaled for the check.

A young waiter who'd been watching them all night edged toward their table and presented it to her. Lucky threw down her black American Express card.

“I guess that means it's your turn,” Venus said, removing a small gold compact from her oversized Chanel tote and inspecting her flawless image. She knew there'd be a pack of paparazzi waiting for her exit, and there was nothing they liked better than catching a celebrity looking like crap. She wasn't about to give them that pleasure.

The waiter hovered and cleared his throat. Although he was nervous, he saw an opportunity and he was seizing it—even if it meant getting fired should the manager catch him bothering a guest.

“Excuse me, Miz uh … Venus?” he ventured, stammering slightly. “I've, uh, written a script that is
so
right for you. I was, uh, hoping you might find time to read it.”

Venus threw him a look—the famous cool-as-an-iced-martini look—her blue eyes raking him over.

Oh no,
Lucky thought.
Here we go. The diva is on the loose.

Venus didn't disappoint. “Do I
look
like an agent?” she purred. “
Really?
”

The waiter blanched, quickly picked up Lucky's credit card and the check, and slunk off.

“Poor guy,” Lucky said sympathetically. “He was merely taking a shot.”

“Well, let him take a shot elsewhere,” Venus said grandly. “I can't stand being harassed when I'm trying to relax.”

“Oh my God—you can be such a queen bitch!” Lucky admonished. “Wouldn't want to get on
your
wrong side.”

“So be it,” Venus said with a wry smile. “Shall we go?”

*   *   *

Seventeen-year-old Max Santangelo Golden could somehow or other wrangle her way into any club she wanted. Fake ID? No problem. Lavish tips to the doormen? No problem. Cultivating a friendship with one of the promoters? No problem.

“When it comes to getting in anywhere, I rule!” Max often boasted.

Her two closest friends, Cookie, the chocolate-skinned daughter of soul icon Gerald M., and Harry, the gay son of a TV network honcho, agreed with her. Ace, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, was not so pleased. The L.A. club scene failed to enthrall him. He wasn't into drinking, drugging, and spotting out-of-control celebrities. But Max loved every minute. Not that she drank much or did drugs, but she did get off on people-watching and dancing on tables. Music was her special thrill—especially rap and unknown British groups with wasted-looking lead singers. Oh yes, she was totally into lean and mean. Ace was way hot and sexy, but sometimes Max considered him too nice a dude, and she often craved a more edgy relationship. Besides, Ace didn't live in L.A., so he wasn't always around when she wanted to do something with him.

“Where're we goin' tonight?” Cookie asked as she sat cross-legged on her messy bed, picking at her green nail polish.

“There's a rave for some old rock group at the House of Blues,” Harry said, speaking up. “S'pose we could crash if you're up for it.”

Harry was the palest boy known to man, pallid-faced and skinny, with gelled and spiked hair dyed a ruthless black. It was only recently that he'd emerged from the closet, although Max and Cookie had always known and totally accepted that he was gay. He had yet to come out to his controlling father, who would probably disown him.

“No can stand the House of Blues,” Max opined, her brilliant green eyes flashing disapproval. “It's always full of major wannabes. Besides, we'll never make it into the Foundation Room.”

“Why not?” Cookie inquired, leaning over and reaching for a can of 7-UP balanced precariously on the edge of a table.

“Yeah, why not?” Harry repeated. “Thought you could get in anywhere.”

“Anywhere I
want
to,” Max answered pointedly, tossing back clouds of wavy black hair. “Who needs the freaking Foundation Room? It's always full of ancient rockers gulping down handfuls of Viagra.
So
not cool.”

Cookie let forth a manic giggle. “I bet my dad takes Viagra,” she said, swigging 7-UP from the can. “Bet he pops those little blue pills by the dozen.”

“All old guys do,” Harry said with a knowing smirk. “They can't get it up without 'em.”

“Gross-out!” Cookie squealed. “Don't wanna think of my dad with a boner!”

Max decided that sometimes Cookie and Harry could be too much of a good thing. The three of them had grown up together, attended the same school, and shared some interesting, sometimes frightening, experiences, but in a way she felt she'd outgrown them. As soon as she was eighteen, she planned on making a break for New York and freedom. Not that her parents weren't great, but the two of them were a lot to live up to. Lucky, who'd achieved absolutely everything she'd ever wanted. And Lennie, a multitalented writer/director who helmed all his own independent movies. Max was tired of being referred to as their daughter. Fed up with the pressure it put on her to do something spectacular with her life.

Her big brother, Bobby, was her role model. Bobby had escaped and made his own way. He was definitely her inspiration—she adored him. Although now he had a permanent girlfriend, Denver Jones, and as much as she reluctantly admired Denver, a Deputy DA, she missed having Bobby all to herself when he was in L.A.

“Got it,” Max said at last. “Whyn't we hit the Chateau for dinner? There's always something going on there.”

“'S long as I don't bump into my old man,” Cookie said, wrinkling her nose. “He's got himself another dumbass girlfriend, an' I think she stays at the Chateau when she's in town.”

“What's the deal with this one?” Max asked.

“English, complete with uptight accent and a bug up her ever-so-tight British ass,” Cookie said, making a disgusted face. “She thinks she's like the second coming of Keira Knightley. As
if
.”

“Your old man sure covers the waterfront,” Harry remarked, pulling up the collar of his long, Goth-like coat.

“Tell me about it,” Cookie said with a weary sigh. “I've had more almost-stepmoms than you've had filthy thoughts about Chace Crawford!”

“Okay, okay,” Max said, interrupting them. She was into making fast decisions, not screwing around and vacillating about what to do. “We could check out a new club that opened a couple of weeks ago. River. I'm sure we can get in.”

“Let's do it,” Cookie said, fiddling with the chocolate-brown dreadlocks that framed her exceptionally pretty face.

“D'you think Chace Crawford'll be there?” Harry asked hopefully.

Max threw him a look. “Calm down,” she said. “Surely you know Chace Crawford is
so
into girls.”

“That's what they all say,” Harry muttered. “But I know better.”

*   *   *

“Lucky has invited us to Vegas next weekend,” Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos said, stretching his six-foot-three frame on Denver Jones's shabby-chic couch. “She's planning a party for my sister Max's eighteenth birthday, one of her big family events.”

Denver regarded her boyfriend of several months with slight trepidation. Oh, man, the longish black hair, dark eyes, Greek nose, and strong jawline got her every time. If only he weren't so damn handsome. If only she hadn't harbored a crush on him since high school. If only he weren't such a fantastic lover, with all the right moves.

“Your mom intimidates me,” she said at last, stroking the belly of her dog, Amy Winehouse, who lay on her back making happy sounds. Amy was a mixed breed that Denver and her ex, Josh, had found wandering on Venice Beach. They'd named the dog Amy Winehouse because of her low, throaty growl. Plus, the fabulous Miz Winehouse was one of Denver's favorite singers.