Double Lucky (66 page)

“They're making my movie,” Sam said, his wacky smile going full force. “Remember I told you I sold my screenplay?”

“You mean it's actually in production?” she asked, surprised, because she honestly hadn't imagined he was a successful screenwriter.

“Can you believe it?” he said modestly. “And they've made me a creative consultant. Which means I stand around the set making incredibly smart comments, and nobody listens to me, including the actors.”

“You're the writer,” she said succinctly. “Why would they?”

“You got that right,” he said, bending down to pet Amy. “Hey, buddy.”

“He's a she,” Denver pointed out as Amy basked in the attention.

“That's me,” Sam said wryly. “Always confusing the sexes.”

Denver smiled. She had fond memories of Sam; he was a really interesting and funny guy.

“What are you doing right now?” Sam asked. “Can I buy you a burger?”

“No,” Denver replied. “But I'll buy
you
one. Kindly take into account that L.A. is
my
city. You're merely a visitor.”

Sam held up his hand, “My mom taught me that when a beautiful woman wants to buy you
anything,
go for it.”

“Your mom's a smart woman,” Denver said, liking the “beautiful” comment.

“She is,” Sam agreed, ushering her to a seat at a plastic table on the outdoor patio. “She taught me a lot of things.”

A waitress, balancing her out-of-work actress body on roller skates, appeared and handed them menus.

Denver hid behind hers for a moment, studying the list of various hamburgers. Mexican, Puerto Rican, Southwestern. She wondered if Bobby would mind her sharing a meal with an old friend.

Hmm … an old friend she'd slept with. But only once, and it wasn't as if she was planning on sleeping with him again.

Sam was just a friend. Period.

*   *   *

Now that he was getting a divorce from the Queen of the Divas, Billy was determined to enjoy his newfound freedom. It was about time. He felt like he'd escaped from a gilded cage and was finally able to do whatever he wanted.

And what
did
he want?

To ride his Harley.

Get blow jobs beside his pool.

Wake up late when he wasn't working.

Flirt with anyone and everyone without Venus checking out his every move.

Never wear a tuxedo again.

Fart in bed.

Drink milk from the carton.

Play video games all night long.

Watch wrestling at midnight.

And porn whenever he felt like it.

Yeah, being free was a good thing. He liked it a lot.

His lawyer had recently informed him that Venus was going for the jugular. She was under the misguided impression that he was sleeping with his costar, and nothing could be farther from the truth.

The breakup of their marriage had come about because Venus never trusted anything he said anymore. She'd taken to checking his e-mails, poring over his Tweets, going through his pockets, reading his texts.

He
was
faithful. She simply hadn't believed him.

One divorce, coming up.

He was relieved.

Freedom meant he had his life back.

*   *   *

Max, Cookie, and Harry were working on texting big-time.

“This is gonna be one flat way-out cool rave!” Cookie decided. “We should have In-N-Out burgers come by. I'll organize the truck. I can use my dad's credit card, he'll never notice.”

“And we should get pizza,” Harry said. “Everyone's always up for pizza. My dad has a charge at Cecconi's. I'll order from there.”

“No deadbeats or losers,” Max instructed. “It has to be kids we know an' trust. An' I don't want anyone hangin' around in the house—they can only use the patio, the pool, or the beach.”

“Whatever,” Cookie said, waving her beringed hand in the air. “I'm telling Frankie he can only bring way hot guys.”

Max frowned. “You're inviting Frankie?” she said, not happy at the news. “Why are you doing
that?
”

“'Cause why shouldn't I?” Cookie responded, immediately combative. “He's cool. He'll fit right in. Besides,” she added succinctly, “he could be my future boyfriend.”

“Gimme a fuckin' break,” Harry muttered, snorting with disgust.

“What if I wanted to invite Bobby?” Max argued. “You know they kind of fell out.”

“Bobby? Here? At our party?” Cookie said, pulling on her dreadlocks. “No way. Bobby's a killjoy. He'd stop the booze an' all kinds of crap. He's like your
way
too protective big brother. Forget 'bout inviting
him
.”

“Cookie's right,” Harry said, fingering his spiked hair so it stood up even higher. “Bobby's always checking out what you're drinking an' watchin' out for you. It's sick.”

“That's 'cause he
cares
about me,” Max said, getting all defensive.

“Well, you don't want him
caring
when we're tryin' to have ourselves a time,” Cookie remarked. “What fun is
that?
”

“Yeah,” Max admitted. “I suppose you're right.”

“You askin' Ace?” Harry wanted to know.

Max thought about it for a moment. Should she ask Ace? Or would he do the Bobby thing and prevent her from having fun? And she
really
wanted to have fun, maybe even get a little crazy. Why not? It was about time. “Dunno,” she answered vaguely. “Maybe.”

“Or maybe not,” Cookie said with a knowing smile. “I'd keep it loose if I was you. Who knows what tomorrow night will bring. Let's go for it all the way. Let's PARTEE!”

*   *   *

M.J. and Bobby's Russian investors consisted of two burly men and an exceptionally tall woman in her fifties with yellow vampirelike teeth, thick legs, and an overbearing, critical attitude. Not to mention a hideous fuchsia masculine-style business suit. She spoke in her native tongue to her two companions and practically ignored Bobby and M.J., who were showing them around the premises.

Bobby was getting aggravated. The woman was a rude piece of work, and he couldn't stand her. However, these investors represented major money, so he attempted to stay cool.

M.J. calmed him down. “They've already agreed to put up all the money for the L.A. and Miami clubs,” he said in a low voice. “This is just a courtesy visit. I got the contracts all ready for them to sign.”

Fuck 'em,
Bobby thought.
I don't need their money. I could finance both clubs with my own money.

If he wanted to.

Which he didn't.

Long ago he'd made up his mind that his success could not depend on his inheritance. For some insane reason he had it in his head that he had to make it on his own. It was something he felt strongly about.

The Russians finally finished their tour, whereupon M.J. suggested they sit in a booth so they could sign the contracts that both sets of lawyers had already approved.

“We sign, we sign,” Vampire-Teeth said, scarlet lipstick caking on her thin lips. “Later. We come back later, see club full.”

“Sure,” M.J. said, all easy charm as he guided them toward the glass elevator.

“Sure my ass,” Bobby grumbled when they'd left. “I'm supposed to be on a plane to New York tonight. I've got meetings.”

“Don't sweat it,” M.J. said. “I can look after them.”

“No,” Bobby said. “You've got too much on your mind. I'll take an
A.M.
flight an' stay here with you. This is too important to screw up.”

“Are you sayin' I'd screw it up?”

“No way, man, but we both need to be here. We have to make sure they sign the contracts tonight.”

“You're right,” M.J. said. “I'll have the office change your flight.”

Bobby nodded. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in Vegas without Denver. But some things had to be done, and this was one of them.

*   *   *

In between texting and making calls about their upcoming rave, Cookie expected to get a call from Frankie, and when it didn't come, she was pissed.

“I'm callin'
him,
” she announced.

“Don't do that,” Max warned.

“Why not?”

“'Cause it'll make you look desperate.”

“Screw it. I'm doin' it.”

The three of them, Cookie, Max, and Harry, were holed up in Harry's room at the top of his father's Bel Air mansion, a sad place since his mom, a born-again Christian, ran off with her pastor. They now resided in Arizona.

Harry's room was all dark and creepy, with heavy purple drapes to keep out the sunlight, and walls painted black. He'd actually painted the room himself, and he was so pleased with it that he'd painted his bathroom black too.

“Your living quarters suck,” Max complained, staring around at the gloomy surroundings. “It's so, like,
depressing
. I dunno why we're here.”

“To load up on booze,” Harry reminded her. “My old man won't be home till midnight, an' I can't move a dozen bottles of tequila an' twelve cases of imported beer by myself.”

“Right,” Cookie said, distracted, as she was still hoping Frankie would call.

“How come a dozen bottles of tequila?” Max asked.

“Some actor sent them to him to try to score a part on one of his shows. He's always getting suck-up gifts. He won't even notice they're missing.”

“Cool,” Max said.

“Bribery,” Harry responded. “And the douche actor didn't even get the job.”

“If Cookie can separate from her phone, we should load up,” Max suggested, ready to get going.

“Whose car we gonna put it in?” Harry wanted to know.

“Mine,” Max decided. “That way we can unload it all when Lucky's left.”

“What time's she going?” Harry asked.

“Early in the
A.M.
, I hope. The sooner she shifts outta L.A., the quicker we can get goin' on the party.”

“An' you're certain your old man's not gonna spring a surprise an' come home unexpectedly?” Cookie questioned.

“Who, Lennie?” Max replied. “No way. Once I give the housekeepers the day off, we're free—totally free! And I for one cannot freakin' wait!”

 

CHAPTER TEN

Armand did not own a plane—too much trouble. He preferred hiring a private plane to fly him wherever he wished to go. On his yearly visit to Akramshar, he enjoyed stopping off for twenty-four hours in London, where he spent all his time at the Dorchester Hotel, ordering in a series of call girls. He insisted that his madam of choice—a titled woman who resided in a mansion in Belgravia and was forever recruiting new girls—send him only the best. Well-bred English girls with clipped upper-class accents, slim bodies, and excellent pedigrees.

Humiliating English women appealed to him. He plied them with drugs and watched them prostitute themselves while doing anything he commanded. It made a pleasant change from dealing with American whores, who sometimes acted as if they were faking it.

Recently, Armand's cocaine habit
had
escalated, just as Fouad suspected. At first Armand had simply enjoyed watching the women lose all their inhibitions on drugs. But after a while he'd found he enjoyed the enhanced sensation of sexual power he felt when high on coke. And why not? He was invincible. He could do anything he wanted.

He especially enjoyed snorting cocaine off the women's bodies—using them, toying with them, debasing them in any new way he could think of.

With his sexual appetite well sated, he was finally ready to spend forty-eight hours in Akramshar, avoiding Soraya and his four offspring, whom he barely knew. He only made the yearly trek because of his father and their shared business interests.

When King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan passed on, there would be a huge fortune to be divided between the king's sons (the women of the family would inherit nothing), and Armand had to make certain he received his rightful share. Not that he needed it, but he was damn well going to see that he received it. Plus, the companies he'd formed with the king would be all his.

He was fully aware that his father considered him the favorite among all of his sons, who now totaled eleven. He was the one who got away and made a huge success in America. He was the only one worth shit. And he was the one the king trusted to funnel his money into America in case he ever needed it.

Returning to Akramshar was always a jarring experience. Leaving the Western world and entering a city where men ruled supreme was quite primitive and yet strangely satisfying. Subservient women behaved the way all females should. But try telling the Americans that.

A black Mercedes met him at the airport and ferried him to his palace. Yes, he had a palace, on loan from the king. Sometimes he wondered how the stringy, social-climbing New York hostesses would feel if they knew he was a prince and lived in a palace. They would slit their skinny throats to get a piece of him.

Servants abounded, but Soraya was not there to greet him. As if he cared. The children were confined to their quarters—another plus.

Upon his arrival, he shed his clothes and enjoyed the comfort of the traditional male robe that all men wore. Most of the women in Akramshar were expected to be covered at all times, and rightly so. His mother had told him that under their burqas the women in the harem wore expensive clothes purchased in Rome and Milan, where King Emir sometimes took a select group of his wives for a long weekend. The king especially favored lacy lingerie, and on these trips he encouraged his wives to spend, spend, spend.

Peggy had needed no encouragement to do exactly that. She'd amassed an impressive collection of jewelry during the years she'd spent in Akramshar, and several trunks full of designer clothes.