Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (25 page)

“
Wheeew!
” Johnny whistled admiringly as he watched her approach. “Lookin’ good, girl. Lookin’ creamy
hot
!”

“Hi, Johnny,” she said casually, knowing full well he wanted to get her into bed.

“You know what, baby?” he said, enveloping her in a crushing hug. “I gotta notion it’s finally gonna be
you
an’
me
. It’s time, girl.”

“Let’s rehearse,” Alex said, anxious to get started before they got on each other’s case.

“I’m ready,” Venus said, moving out from Johnny’s crushing hug.

She wasn’t in the best of moods on account of the fact that Emilio had called this morning saying he wanted more money. And on her way out of the house, the same stupid guard who’d let Emilio in had handed her a letter that had been left in the guardhouse when the jerk was away from his post taking a leak—and it turned out to be another porno love outpouring from her number-one fan. What a weirdo! The letters made her very uneasy.

On the good side, Rodriguez had made love to her with a great deal of finesse the previous evening. She had to admit he improved every time they did it. She decided she’d definitely put him in her video, give him a thrill, he was young and eager—he deserved a reward.

Alex was a dynamo on the set. Moving fast, like a prowling black panther, he knew everything that was going on and was into everybody’s business. Nobody lagged behind on an Alex Woods set, they didn’t dare.

The test went smoothly. Johnny was on his best behavior, and Venus was really into it.

When they were finished, Alex said, “You both did a fine job, thanks.” He was impressed with Venus’s performance. If it translated onto the screen, the role was hers.

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed. “My Venus here is one hot little tamale, ain’t’cha, baby?” He patted her intimately on the ass.

She patted him right back, pinching his butt so he felt
it. “Don’t call me names, Johnny,” she said pleasantly. “’Cause I got a few I can call you. Okay?”

Johnny roared with laughter. “She’s something!”

It occurred to Venus that working with him would be a nightmare, his ego was probably as big as the Empire State Building.

Johnny turned to Alex, his expression turning serious. “Hey, man,” he said, “when we gonna meet on the script? I need my changes.”

“Tell you what, Johnny, have your notes typed up and I’ll take a look. Right now I’m in the middle of preproduction—no time.”

Venus knew Alex was giving Johnny the runaround. She wasn’t surprised, Johnny was too stupid to get it. He was so busy being Mister Big Movie Star he didn’t get anything except himself. It’s a shame he wasn’t more self-deprecating like Charlie Dollar—he took the whole star trip far too seriously.

She walked away from them both, proud of her performance, sure she’d done well.

Anthony was glowing with the excitement of being on a film set in such close proximity to Johnny Romano.

“You were
wonderful
!” he assured Venus on the way out. “I’m
completely
impressed.”

She decided Anthony would also get a reward. She’d lure Ron over again, all they needed was a touch of encouragement.

Smiling, she headed for her limousine. As far as she was concerned, she’d snagged the part.

BRIGETTE AWOKE IN HER OWN BED IN THE BEDROOM
of the apartment she shared with Nona and Zandino. She lay very still for a moment, gazing blankly at the ceiling. Her tears were long gone. Everything about last night was a hazy blur. She remembered Michel bundling her into a cab with the words, “Whatever you do, Brigette—this is
our
secret. It will only harm you if you tell stories. I know you wouldn’t want our very private photo shoot becoming public property, would you now?”

For several endless hours Michel and Robertson had made her their plaything. True to his word, Michel hadn’t touched her, but he’d watched
everything
. And Robertson had done everything, in spite of her protests.

She still felt vulnerable and exposed, even though her ordeal was over.

Why hadn’t she listened to Nona? Although Nona had no idea Michel was such a pervert, she’d thought he was nothing more than just another sleazy playboy.

The sad truth was that Michel got off on watching women together—especially when one of them was an unwilling victim, bound and helpless.

When Santino Bonnatti had abused her, there’d been
a weapon at hand and she’d used it, never experiencing a moment of remorse.

There’d been nothing to fight Michel with; she’d had no choice but to lie there and take it.

When she’d gotten home, Zan and Nona were asleep. She’d crept into the bathroom, standing under a long, cleansing shower before crawling miserably into bed—where she’d lain awake for hours before falling into a troubled sleep.

Now it was morning and she could hear Nona and Zan in the kitchen. She realized she’d better get up.
Be cool
, she warned herself.
Don’t tell them what happened. It could spoil everything
.

She climbed out of bed and reached for her robe, noticing purple bruises on her wrists. Looking down, she was dismayed to discover more bruises on her ankles and the insides of her thighs. She wrapped the robe around herself, pulling it tight.

“Hmm…” Nona said, glancing up when Brigette entered the kitchen. “What happened to
you
last night?”

Did Nona suspect? No. It was just her way of eliciting information.

“Nothing much,” she said vaguely, opening the fridge and taking out a carton of milk.

Nona was determined to find out everything. “Don’t give me that nothing much bit. Did he jump you? Did the great lover get it on?”

“No…” Brigette said evasively. “He was a gentleman.”

“Michel—a
gentleman
?” Nona snorted. “
Now
I’ve heard everything.”

Brigette poured herself a cup of coffee. Although she appeared outwardly calm, inside she was shaking.

She sat down at the table and picked up a newspaper. Zan beamed at her. Nothing ever bothered him.

“Okay, so you don’t want to talk,” Nona said, a little
bit put out. “C’mon, Zan, we’ve got to go over to my parents’ this morning.” She turned to Brigette. “Don’t forget to drop by Antonio’s studio today to meet the stylist, makeup, and hair people. It’s all been arranged.”

Brigette nodded. “Okay.”

“Here’s the address,” Nona said, handing her a slip of paper. “Shall I meet you there?”

“I can handle it.”

“We’re catching the new Al Pacino movie tonight. Wanna come?”

“I…I don’t think so.”

“Hmm…” Nona said disapprovingly. “Seeing Michel again?”

“No, thought I’d get an early night, y’know—what with the shoot tomorrow…” She trailed off, wishing Nona would leave already.

“Good thinking,” Nona said briskly, grabbing Zan’s hand. “By the way, my parents are planning another one of their little bashes next Friday. Keep it free.”

As soon as Nona and Zan left, she picked up the phone and called Isaac, the model from the Rock ’n’ Roll Jeans shoot.

He sounded as if he were asleep. Too bad. “Remember me?” she said brightly. “Brigette Brown, your partner in jeans.”

“Hey—baby,” he said, rousing himself. “Gotta say I had a blast that day.”

“I need a favor,” she said, getting right to it.

“Like what?”

“Like I can’t discuss it over the phone. Can we meet for lunch?”

“Sure,” Isaac said, suggesting a small Italian restaurant on Second Avenue.

Brigette arrived first and waited outside, impatiently walking up and down the sidewalk.

Isaac pulled up five minutes later on a secondhand
Harley. He parked it on the street and gave her a big embrace, as if they’d been friends for years. He looked like a rap star with his ratted hair and baggy clothes. “I was gonna call you,” he said. “You got there first, girl.”

“I’m good at that,” she said, summoning a small smile.

A pretty young black woman greeted Isaac at the entrance with a familiar “How’s it goin’, man?”

“Everything’s cool, Sadie,” he replied.

Ignoring Brigette, Sadie led them to a window table and handed Isaac menus.

“She’s got a thing for me,” Isaac confided as Sadie walked away. “It’s kinda dumb shit, her bein’ married to the owner an’ all. No use dissin’ him—this bein’ the best pasta in the city. I get off on their spaghetti an’ clam sauce. Wanna try some?”

The thought of food made her stomach turn. She studied the menu anyway. “Maybe I’ll just have a salad.”

He settled back. “Did’ja see the pictures?”

“I did. You look good.”

“Only good?” he said ruefully. “How ’bout
fine
, baby? Real fly an’
fine
.”

She smiled again. Had to keep smiling, otherwise she’d break down and cry. “Okay—fine.”

“Hey—” he said. “I heard they’re takin’ the big billboard in Times Square.”

“Yes, I heard that, too.”

Sadie returned, pencil poised. “The usual, Isaac?”

He winked at her. “Ya got it, babe. An’ my friend’ll have a Caesar.” As soon as she walked away he said, “So what’s the favor?”

Brigette leaned toward him, big blue eyes wide and appealing. “Can you get me a gun?”

“Hey
—whoa!
” he said, throwing his hands up in a defensive gesture. “What gave
you
the idea
I
can get you a gun?”

“You told me the other day if I needed anything in the city,
you
were the person to ask.”

“
Sheeit!
An’ I thought you were into me for my
baaad
personality.”

“
Can
you get one?” she repeated.

He pulled at his ratted hair, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “What’re you gonna do with a gun?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“It’s for protection.”

“You carry a piece, baby, you gotta know how to use it.”

“Maybe you’ll teach me.”

His eyes darted to a nearby table where a man and a woman sat. Satisfied they weren’t listening, he mumbled, “Lemme see what I can deliver.”

Sadie returned with their order, slamming Brigette’s salad in front of her with a surly glare.

Isaac shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “’S’good,” he said. “How’s your salad?”

She forced herself to choke down a lettuce leaf. “Fine.”

“No, baby,” he joked. “
I’m
fine.” Adding a cavalier, “’So…you wanna go dancin’ tonight? Hit the bars? Chow down on some soul food?”

“Sorry, I’m booked,” she said, hoping her refusal to go out with him wouldn’t come between her and a gun. “Another time would be great.”

After lunch, she took a cab over to the famous Italian photographer, Antonio’s, studio.

A businesslike young man ushered her into a side dressing room and in reverential tones said, “Shh…we mustn’t disturb Antonio, he’s shooting. I’ll let everyone know you’re here.”

She sat down in front of a large makeup mirror studded with tiny theatrical lights and stared at her reflection. She didn’t look any different. She certainly didn’t
look as degraded and debauched as she felt. In fact, she looked exactly the same.

Only she
wasn’t
the same. She was used goods. Debased by that French pig and his vile girlfriend.

After a few minutes, Antonio’s favorite makeup artist, Raoul, came in to check her out. Raoul was Puerto Rican with a thick, greased pompadour and arched eyebrows. “Antonio likes the idea of a retro look,” Raoul said, studying her reflection in the mirror. “I’m into thin eyebrows. We will pluck yours out and pencil them in high and sharp. Then I shall give you beautiful cheekbones and full, ruby lips.”

Norris, the hairdresser, entered next. Norris was tall, with a pale complexion and long fair hair worn in a braid down his back. “Maybe we cut your hair and dye it black,” he said, standing next to Raoul, both of them thoroughly inspecting her in the mirror.

She felt like an object. “Maybe not,” she said quickly.

“Excuse me?” Norris said, hands on hips, not used to an unknown girl answering back.

“I refuse to cut my hair,” she said stubbornly.

“And may I ask why?” Norris asked in a
Who do you think you are?
voice.

“I have a contract with Rock ’n’ Roll Jeans. They don’t want me to.”

“Oh,” he said huffily. “In that case,
sweetie
, I’ll have to put you in a black wig.”

“This is my first cover and it’s important I present my own image, not your idea of how I should look,” Brigette said, surprising herself.

Both men glared at her. How dare she have an opinion? She was a model. Models were supposed to look good, shut up, and listen to the experts.

“Does Michel know you have this feeling?” Raoul said with a bitchy edge.

“Michel’s my agent, not my keeper,” she snapped.

Raoul and Norris exchanged raised-eyebrow looks and stalked from the room—obviously to report to the great Antonio that she was a difficult little bitch.

Parker, the stylist, came in next. She was a tall woman with close-cropped gray hair and a bored smile. “I hear you’re giving Tic and Tac a hard time,” she said in a gravelly voice.

“I’m speaking my mind,” Brigette said wearily, deciding she’d had about all she could take.

“Ignore them,” Parker said breezily. “The important thing is what you’re going to wear. Hmm…” She narrowed her eyes and stood back. “I see a very contemporary look. How about this?” She plucked a short white Ungaro dress off a rail packed with clothes. “And with it—these faux tiger-skin shoes,” she added, sweeping down and choosing them from a box full of footwear. “
Very
now. No jewelry. Pure and simple.”

“I like it,” Brigette said.

“Good, I thought you’d throw me out, too.”

“I’m not trying to be awkward,” Brigette explained. “I simply feel I must have some say in the image I present.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Parker replied briskly. “Although I should warn you, Antonio has
very
strong ideas, so don’t be nervous tomorrow when he starts telling you
exactly
how
he
sees you. He’s shooting Robertson now—do you want to take a peek?”

Brigette felt a shudder of revulsion. She never wanted to set eyes on Robertson again. “No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I have another appointment.”

“I’ll tell Antonio. As soon as he takes a break he’ll be in to see you.”

“Do I
have
to wait?”

“If you want Antonio to shoot your cover tomorrow. He’s
very
temperamental.”

“So am I,” Brigette muttered.

“What?” said Parker, not quite sure she’d heard correctly.

“Nothing.”

Antonio entered five minutes later, Raoul and Norris hovering behind him. He was a short, flamboyant Italian whose big specialty was photographing major superstars. Brigette remembered coming to his studio with her mother when she was ten. He’d photographed them both for a mother/daughter photo spread in
Harper’s Bazaar
. He’d fawned all over Olympia and ignored her. She was
not
about to remind him.

“You have the problem?” he asked, glaring at her with beady eyes.

She glared right back. “Only if you think it’s a problem that I want to look like myself on my first cover.”

Antonio shrugged; what did he care? It wasn’t worth a fight for one measly cover. And this girl was naturally pretty, she’d do.

“Is okay,” he said, sending Raoul and Norris into a major snit. “Ten tomorrow. You don’t be late.”

“He liked you,” Parker said gleefully when he’d left.

“I couldn’t care less,” Brigette replied. And it was true—one night and all her dreams were smashed, broken into a thousand pieces. She was tired of being the helpless victim. From now on she realized she had to force herself to be as hard and unfeeling as everyone around her. No more Miss Sweetness—she was on the road to recovering her self-esteem—and if she had to be tough to do it, then so be it.