Double Lucky (70 page)

*   *   *

Willow Price and her posse of nubile young women—all various shades of blond and bubbly—decided they would like to go clubbing. And since Billy had nothing better to do after buying them all dinner at an expensive restaurant, he thought he might as well tag along. After all, his image was out of control and he kind of liked it. Leaving BOA with the darling of the tabs, Willow Price, and her blond entourage guaranteed a major media blitz, and since Venus had been seen out and about with her young costar
and
the grizzled director of her current movie, it was only fitting that he do the same.

Also, Venus's lawyer had informed
his
lawyer that she intended to keep their Vegas apartment in The Keys, and since he'd paid for half, that really pissed him off. He'd told his lawyer to fight her on that one. Screw Venus. Screw the big superstar who thought she could get anything she wanted.

Think again, sweetheart.
He might be thirteen years younger than his soon-to-be ex, but he was no pushover.

Willow clung on to his arm for the sake of the paparazzi. The photographers descended like a pack of rabid dogs, screaming both their names, while the unknown blondes hovered and giggled, and flashed their tits and long legs emerging from tight micro miniskirts, thrilled to be a part of such mayhem.

“If you're a very,
very
well-behaved boy,” Willow whispered in his ear, pouting innocently for the cameras, “I'll let you watch me lick pussy later.”

He contemplated the future scenario she had in mind. Watching was not his thing. If he wasn't a participant, he wasn't interested.

“That's all right,” he mumbled. “Whyn't we get in the car an' stop by River?”

“Oh yes,” Willow purred. “I'd like that.”

One last pose for the cameras, and they were on their way.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Three hours into what seemed like an under-the-radar, mellow party, chaos reigned. Max couldn't figure out how it had happened. From the maybe seventy or eighty people they'd expected, others were pouring in at an alarming rate. Carloads of teenagers she didn't know, didn't want to know, and could do nothing about. And not only teenagers, but a bunch of dirty old men—probably agents or producers—in their flashy Porsches and Bentleys, not to mention flocks of random girls in tiny backless, almost frontless, outfits.

Several people brought booze with them. A boy in a Batman outfit dragged in a keg. Two girls came armed with a margarita machine. Some people were smoking weed, others snorting cocaine. A whole bunch of naked men and women were frolicking in the pool, while others were making out on the patio. It was insanity. And neither Cookie nor Harry was any help. Harry had affixed himself to Paco, the deejay, and refused to move, while Cookie was snorting and drinking and having herself a fine old time. They were both stoned. Both feeling no pain.

Max rarely drank, and she didn't do drugs. Apparently she was the only one.

People were finding their way into the house. They'd already taken over the living room, and a drunken group of girls was attempting to break the lock on Lucky and Lennie's bedroom door.

Panicked, Max thought about anonymously calling the cops and complaining about the noise, but that wouldn't help, considering they might file a report of a disturbance, and then Lucky or Lennie would find out. Not a smart move.

What was she supposed to do to stop the invasion?

Lucky would go totally ape shit if she ever found out what was going on. Max knew she'd be grounded for weeks, maybe even months. Life as she knew it would be over.

Although, wait a minute,
she thought.
I'm about to turn eighteen; they can't ground me.

Or can they?

What they
could
do was cut off her allowance and not pay for her ticket to New York and the six months' rent on an apartment Lucky had promised her as a birthday present.

Pulling herself together, she confronted the girls trying to force their way into Lucky's bedroom.

They told her to screw off.

She yelled back at them that it was her house and
they
could screw off or she'd call the cops and accuse them of trespassing.

They retaliated with a few obscene gestures and insults, then staggered off.

Max wished she had invited Ace. He'd know what to do. She didn't. As far as she was concerned, her party had turned into an uncontrollable nightmare, and she was totally helpless to do anything about it.

Lucky would know how to handle it. Lucky knew how to handle anything.

Dammit. Why couldn't she be more like her mom in situations such as this?

*   *   *

The insistent buzz of his doorbell awoke Bobby with a sudden start. Groping for his watch, he noted it was four
A.M.

Goddammit! Who was outside his apartment at four in the morning? And what the fuck was his doorman doing that he allowed someone to come up unannounced?

Muttering to himself, he rolled out of bed and headed for the door in nothing but his Calvins.

Then he stopped. Dead still. There was only one person who would have the balls to come calling at this time. Zeena.

Of course!

The doorbell continued to ring, and he stood silently in his hallway trying to figure out his next move.

It suddenly occurred to him that there was only one answer, and that was to do absolutely nothing and hope the predatory superstar would slink away into the night. It wasn't the first time she'd turned up at his apartment at some unearthly hour. She was one hell of a persistent woman, who when she wanted something, expected to get it. And tonight she obviously wanted him.

They had a history. Once upon a time he'd harbored a slight crush. She'd turned up at his New York apartment and they'd gone at it like a couple of wild things. One time was enough. Crush over. But the unfortunate thing was that she'd continued to pursue him, culminating in the embarrassing shower scene on the night of his first date with Denver. That was some memory.

He'd had no contact with her since, and tonight he'd been pleased to note she was with her latest conquest.

Apparently her latest conquest wasn't enough to satisfy Zeena, for now she was on
his
doorstep.

And what was he supposed to do about
that?

Exactly nothing.

*   *   *

“Who wants to come to a party in Malibu?” Frankie asked Billy, Willow, and their assorted hangers-on.

“Whose party?” Billy wanted to know.

“Does anyone care?” Willow retorted, always up for a fun time. “It'll be
our
party when we get there, no doubt about that.”

They'd all been hanging out in the club for a while, during which time Frankie had presented them with primo weed and made sure all their drinks were comped. Willow's crazy girlfriends were dancing on the tables to Katy Perry, while Willow watched them cavort, a secret smile playing around her glossy lips as she anticipated the scene that would take place later.

Billy sat back, downing a vodka or two. He looked bored. He
was
bored. The session with the girl he'd picked up on Melrose had not satisfied him. Momentarily, yes. But somehow he craved more than a fast blow job beside his pool. Lately he'd been thinking that it might be refreshing to find someone he could conduct an actual conversation with.

Willow was certainly not that person, nor were her nubile groupies. But that's what he seemed to be stuck with—for now.

Meanwhile, Frankie was buzzing. Having celebrities in his club was a plus, especially as he got off on spending time with anyone famous. Celebrities validated his existence.

Cookie had phoned several times asking when he was getting to the Malibu party. The last time she'd called he'd assured her he was on his way, and since Cookie was his pathway to bigger and better, he wasn't about to let her down. Arriving with Willow and Billy—two of the hottest stars around—would definitely impress her.

After a while he rounded up Billy, Willow, and the girls. “Got a couple of limos downstairs. Time to bounce,” he informed them. “Refreshments in the limos,” he added with a knowing wink, wondering if he stood half a chance with Willow—although rumor had it that she was a tried-and-true carpet muncher.

But hey, he was Frankie Romano. Who knew
what
could happen?

*   *   *

Feeling out of her depth, Max grabbed a bottle of beer and fled down to the beach. She didn't know what else to do. Maybe if she stayed away from the chaos, everyone would go home.

Wishful thinking.

Whose dumb idea was it to have a party in the first place?

Mine! Mine! Mine!

As for Cookie and Harry, the two of them were useless. She'd thought they were at least loyal, but they'd turned into party animals, thinking only of themselves. Although she didn't blame Harry so much. He'd finally found a gay dude he could latch onto, and he wasn't about to let the opportunity go to waste.

Why can't I enjoy myself too?
she thought.
Just get stoned and drunk like everyone else?

Because there's no one I can enjoy things with. Besides, I'm a Santangelo—gotta stay alert.

She slumped down on the sand, closed her eyes, and allowed the hypnotic sound of the waves crashing on the sand to wash over her.

*   *   *

After spending an awkward couple of hours with Carolyn and Vanessa, Denver drove home filled with mixed emotions. What was Carolyn thinking? How could she simply decide she was gay and that was it?

They'd been best friends since they were twelve. They'd shared everything—all their thoughts and dreams and problems with the men in their lives. Now Carolyn had taken off down a different road, and Denver couldn't help feeling that somehow she'd been left behind. It wasn't that she didn't like Vanessa; the woman was warm and friendly. Quite lovely, in fact. So what was it?

Am I jealous?
she wondered.
Do I feel as if Carolyn is deserting me?

Or maybe she sensed that their friendship was slipping away, because if Carolyn became a couple with Vanessa, there might not be any room left for her. Sad but true.

She wished Bobby were at home, waiting for her.

But no, Bobby was in New York, so she'd just have to make do without him. And that was one of the problems of having a long-distance relationship: the separations were a bitch.

*   *   *

Once they arrived at the party, Billy soon decided that he wasn't in the mood to mix with a bunch of stoned people he didn't know, who were all busy brownnosing him simply because he had a hit movie. If he weren't a movie star, they wouldn't give a shit. He'd be just another good-looking dude searching for a break. And he knew this because of his experiences when he'd first arrived in Hollywood with no money and no foreseeable future. Countless auditions that had taken him nowhere, sleeping on friends' floors, waitering for a living, until he finally got the big break he'd been praying for—not that he was religious, but a prayer or two in the right direction never hurt. The big break was in an Alex Woods movie,
Seduction,
playing opposite the incredibly famous Venus.

And so it had begun. The crazy career. The road to stardom, marriage to Venus, and all the bullshit that went along with it.

The party and the people were getting on his nerves, so after fifteen minutes of meaningless conversations, he made his way over to the steps that led down to the beach, leaving the party behind.

As he walked along the sand, he noticed a girl curled up against a rock. He edged toward her. “Hey,” he said, gingerly nudging her with the tip of his foot, hoping she wasn't dead or sick or anything overly dramatic. “You okay?”

Max sat up with a start. Wow! She'd downed a beer, closed her eyes, and zoned out. Talk about an escape hatch!

“I'm, uh … fine, thank you,” she said stiffly, somewhat embarrassed.

He proffered his hand.

She took it, and he pulled her up.

“What're you doing down here by yourself?” he asked.

“Same as you, probably,” she said, pushing her clouds of dark hair off her face. “Getting away from all those morons.”

Billy laughed, and took a second look at the sexy young girl with the jet-black curls and the exceptionally pretty face. She was clad in rock 'n' roll torn jeans and a midriff-baring white shirt knotted under her breasts, with multiple silver chains and crosses hanging around her slender neck. He narrowed his eyes. “I
know
you,” he said, thinking she looked vaguely familiar.

“And
I
know
you,
” she responded, staring at the studly tousled-haired movie star with the piercing blue eyes and rippling torso nicely displayed in a tight black T-shirt. Of course she knew him. Everyone did.

“Saw my movie, huh?” Billy said, thinking that his fame was such a useful conversation opener. And this girl was majorly hot—in a very un-bimbo-like way. He'd left the bimbo squad cavorting naked in the pool with Willow, and he couldn't care less about any of them.

“I didn't, actually,” Max lied, thinking that he looked way better offscreen, because she'd seen his latest movie. Twice. But she wasn't about to tell
him
that.

“Then where do we know each other from?” Billy asked, realizing that he'd smoked too much weed and downed too many vodka shots, which was another reason he'd headed to the beach to chill out.

“Um … you were married to my mom's best friend,” Max blurted.

“Who's your mom's best friend?”

“Venus.”

Billy's face registered shock. “You're—”

“Yeah, I'm Max. Lucky's daughter.”