Poor Little Bitch Girl (13 page)

Or was that exactly what he
did
like?

“W
ake up, babe,” Frankie crooned. “C’mon, sweetie, open up those sexy eyes.”

Annabelle rolled over in bed. Someone was shaking her shoulder, someone was pulling her away from
the
most delightful dream she’d ever experienced. In her dream she was lying on a bed in a luxurious hotel room overlooking the ocean. With her were Chace Crawford and Brad Pitt. Chace was busily kissing her neck, while Brad was patiently awaiting his turn – but Brad was beginning to get antsy . . . he started roughly shaking her shoulder, and . . .

“Oh my God!” Annabelle exclaimed, awaking with a start and seeing Frankie standing over her. “What are
you
doing here? You’re supposed to be in Atlantic City.”

“I came back as soon as I heard,” he lied, sitting down on the side of the bed. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you go through this alone, did you?”

Annabelle rubbed her eyes, reluctant to leave her dream, but happy that Frankie was concerned enough about her degrading experience with Sharif Rani’s son to forgo his weekend with the boys and race to her side. “Frankie,” she murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek with her fingers. “It was so awful . . .”

“I know, baby,” he said soothingly. “It’s a terrible thing, but let’s be honest about this – it wasn’t as if you were close.”

“Close!” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “Close! I was in the same room, goddamn it. How much closer could I get?”

“Calm down,” Frankie said, realizing that she was in shock and had no idea what she was saying.

“What time is it?” Annabelle demanded, glaring at him. “’Cause whatever time it is, I want you to get on the phone to that sonofabitch and ream him a new asshole. Did I tell you he hung up on me? He actually clicked off his phone. Can you believe it?”

So . . . Ralph Maestro had hung up on his own daughter. Maybe Ralph
had
shot his wife, and was now filled with guilt. After all, they were Hollywood people – who knew what kind of brutal acts they were capable of.

Frankie’s mind went into overdrive. If Ralph Maestro
had
murdered his wife, was convicted and eventually sent to jail – who would inherit everything?

As their only child, Annabelle – of course. This whole murder thing could end up having a silver lining.

Frankie immediately imagined himself living in L.A., residing in a mansion, throwing wild parties by the pool and mixing with big-time superstars. Movies, sports, the music biz – he’d get to know them all.

It bugged him that whenever he’d suggested taking a trip to L.A., Annabelle had always shut him down. “I don’t ever want to go there again,” she’d informed him many times. “Living in L.A. were the unhappiest days of my life.”

Now everything had changed.

“Well?” Annabelle asked, a determined look in her eyes. “Are you going to phone him or not?”

“Hey,” Frankie said, shrugging. “The thing is – I don’t even
know
the dude, so what would I say?”

“For God’s sake!” Annabelle snapped, green eyes blazing. “Of course you know him. Just tell him that we’re
never
doing business with him again.”

“Huh?” Frankie said, quite confused. Annabelle was taking this harder than he’d expected.

“I . . . hate . . . him,” Annabelle said through clenched teeth. “And for your information, I don’t care how much money we’ll lose. It’s no big deal, we’ll make it up elsewhere. There are plenty of other billionaires in the sea – we’ll put out a fishing net and haul in a few.”

She was delirious, that much was obvious.

“Listen, babe,” he began. “I know this is hard—”

“Hard!” she exploded. “How about taking a look at my bruises? I’m covered in them.”

“Huh?” he mumbled, getting more confused by the minute. Annabelle had totally lost it.

“Bruises, Frankie,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Bruises from a big fat moron who was
no way
fifteen. And bites – he bit me on my thigh! Sharif Rani should be ashamed of himself, setting me up with his so-called son. Illegitimate, I’m sure, ’cause he sure as hell wasn’t the innocent young Arab boy Sharif led us to believe. He was a big fat hairy American rapist!”

Oh shit! Annabelle wasn’t even talking about her mother’s murder. She was carrying on about her afternoon meeting with Sharif Rani’s son. Jesus Christ! Did she even
know
her mother was dead? Hadn’t anyone told her?

“Have you heard the news?” he ventured.

“Didn’t you read the text message I left on your phone?” she said shortly. “’Cause you don’t seem to care that I got beat up and
raped
! What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, regretting that he hadn’t checked his messages. He’d been too busy losing at blackjack, picking up a pretty waitress, and almost enjoying a lap dance.

“Babe,” he said, finally realizing that
he
was the one who had to tell her. “There’s something you should know.”

“What?” she said, furious that he wasn’t reacting in a stronger fashion.

“It’s your . . . uh . . . mother.”

“What about her?”

“Jesus, I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell you this,” he muttered. “So I guess there’s no other way but to give it to you straight.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Your mother was murdered earlier today. Shot in the face.”

There was an eerie silence.

“I . . . uh . . . thought you knew,” he added lamely, watching her closely to see how she reacted.

Annabelle stared at him in disbelief. What was he saying? What was he talking about? Was she still dreaming? Had her dream turned into some ridiculous nightmare?

“I’m so sorry, babe,” he said. “It’s a total bummer, I know.”

“When?” she said at last, catching her breath. “When did this happen?”

“Sometime this morning in L.A. I dunno much, only what I saw on TV. Soon as I heard the news I got in the car an’ came racing home.”

“This morning,” she repeated dully, her expression blank. “How come nobody contacted me?”

“I’m sure somebody must’ve. You checked your messages?”

She shook her head. Suddenly everything seemed surreal. Her mother had been murdered. Her mother, the world-class beauty. The woman everyone loved. The heroine of countless movies. The Oscar-winning actress with the undeniable talent.

Her mother. The untouchable Gemma Summer. A woman she’d never been close to. A woman who’d allowed her only child to be raised by a series of disinterested nannies. A woman who’d spent most of her daughter’s childhood away on location shoots – unless there was the need for a
People
or
Vanity Fair
cover story – in which case a cute little five year old added to the appeal of the picture. Then, after the age of eight, there were no more photo sessions. Eight was too old to be considered cute any more, although sometimes her father took her to the Lakers games and they were photographed sitting courtside. But even he stopped doing that when she hit puberty.

Ah yes, puberty. Her South African nanny had taught her the facts of life. Her mother had decided she needed a nose job at fourteen. And a young Mexican gardener who worked on their estate had taught her how to give head.

At school she’d perfected the art of the blow-job, becoming the most popular girl in her class. Sex was her way of getting plenty of attention. She excelled at it.

There was also shopping, for her parents didn’t stint when it came to giving her money. They handed her a bunch of credit cards and gifted her with a Porsche on her sixteenth birthday. Anything to keep her out of their way.

So there she was, a popular girl, a rich girl, a spoiled girl, with nobody around to stop her from doing anything she wanted.

And what she wanted was to get away from her self-absorbed movie-star parents. Fly the coop, and lose the tag –
“This is Annabelle. Her mother is Gemma Summer and her father’s Ralph Maestro.”

Moving to New York was the best thing she’d ever done. Very few people knew who her parents were, and who she really was. That’s the way she liked it.

Gemma Summer. Mother. Dead. And she’d never even got to know her.

“Check the messages on the phone at the SoHo apartment,” she said, her throat constricted. “That’s the only number Ralph’s got.”

Frankie did so, and sure enough there were a slew of messages, including a terse one from Ralph himself, saying that he was sending one of his lawyers to New York to bring her home.

Frankie informed Annabelle, who stubbornly shook her head. “I refuse to go back to L.A.,” she said flatly. “Why should I?”

“’Cause it’s about your mom,” Frankie said, reasoning with her. “You gotta do it, babe. There’ll be a funeral, an’ you have to be there. I’ll come with you. Don’t you worry about it, I’ll be beside you all the way.”

M
y flight to New York was uneventful, apart from the fact that I spotted Denis Leary pacing up and down, waiting to board the plane. Since I’m such a huge
Rescue Me
fan, I contemplated going up to him and telling him what a clever and entertaining show it was – but then I realized he already knew that, and I would probably come across like some half-baked starry-eyed fan – or even worse – a stalker. So I controlled myself, and instead studied the L.A. edition of the
New York Post
and
USA Today
, both of which featured screaming headlines about Gemma Summer Maestro’s brutal demise.

It made me realize that by the time I reached Annabelle, she would already know the shocking news – in fact, she might even be on a plane heading for L.A. We could be crossing in the air, which meant that my trip to New York was pointless.

I wondered how Annabelle would take the news of her mother’s murder. It was such a shattering and terrible event. To be shot in the face in your own bed . . .

For a second I tried to put myself in Annabelle’s place. What if it was my mom? Thank God that was impossible. Or was it? Who knew what lurked just around the corner. We all understand that fate has a way of playing unexpected tricks.

My thoughts moved on to Mario. Should I have called or texted to tell him I was heading out of town? Or would he perceive that as coming on too strong too soon?

Crap. I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. It’s not as if it’s a relationship. Mario is not my boyfriend, nor do I want him to be. I am happy on my own. Quite content, thankyouverymuch.

Although . . . sometimes I do miss that spooning thing in bed, the kind of deal you only get when you’re with a proper boyfriend.

Once off the plane I checked my BlackBerry. There were several messages and texts. My dad, saying he’d read my name in the papers and what was happening with the case? I’d not had a moment to call him. Felix, reiterating that I should bring Annabelle back A.S.A.P. per Ralph’s instructions. And yippee – a call from Carolyn informing me that she had something major to tell me.

Carolyn has been my best friend for ever. I hope that her news is good – like she’s gotten back together with Matt and they’re planning on getting married. Carolyn should be married, she’s that kind of girl. Smart and sensible and nurturing, any man would be lucky to have her.