Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [68]
‘Don’t tell me you flew in by yourself?’ Lucky questioned, as they sat down. ‘No entourage to attend to your every need?’
‘Do I need one?’ Venus questioned, lowering her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses.
‘Apparently yes. You can’t go wandering around on your own. Where’s your stylist? Your hair person? Your usual glam squad?’
‘I thought this weekend was all about family, so I came alone.’
‘How adult of you.’
‘Actually,’ Venus admitted, ‘got me a surprise package who’s even now on his way here.’
‘Ah!’ Lucky exclaimed. ‘I knew it!’
‘Of course you did.’
‘And who might it be?’
‘Well . . .’ Venus said, an evil smile hovering on her luscious lips. ‘Yesterday at the shoot for my new clothing line, they hired a very buff stud to be in the shot.’ A pause for effect. ‘Well . . .’ she continued, ‘I couldn’t let the poor guy go to waste, now could I?’
‘You’re incorrigible,’ Lucky said, laughing.
‘Oh, like you weren’t when you were single?’ Venus shot back. ‘I seem to recall you would fuck ’em an’ leave ’em quicker than any guy.’
‘Single,’ Lucky protested. ‘I was single. And please – don’t ever mention that to Max.’
‘Well, now I’m single,’ Venus said, ‘which means I will not be wasting a minute of my time.’
‘As if you ever do,’ Lucky said dryly.
‘By the way,’ Venus added, ‘he’s twenty, Brazilian, and hardly speaks a word of English.’ Once again she paused for effect. ‘I think I’m in love!’
‘Does that mean I’ll hear no more moaning and groaning about Billy?’ Lucky said hopefully.
Venus gave another deliciously evil smile. ‘Billy who?’
* * *
Frankie drove his Grand Sport convertible Corvette like a maniac, all the while speaking on his BlackBerry, reaching over to change a CD, texting, manoeuvring in and out of traffic lanes like he was playing dodgem cars.
Cookie didn’t care, she was down with a touch of danger, and Frankie offered her all that and then some. When he’d picked her up they’d done a couple of lines of coke to prep themselves for the four-hour drive, then she’d gone down on him, and promised that when they hit the desert she’d do it again.
‘While I’m driving,’ he’d said, salivating at the thought.
‘What do I get in return?’ she’d demanded.
‘Depends on how you do it.’
‘Ha!’ Cookie exclaimed. ‘Who’d you think won the blow-job competition at school when I was fourteen?’
Frankie was intrigued. Teenagers indulging in blow-job competitions, he’d thought it was an urban legend. Satisfying to know it was true, and that his girl was the champ. How about that?
His girl. His first steady since Annabelle Maestro, who in the end had treated him like a piece of shit. He would never forgive her for that. Annabelle had even written about him in her dumb book, and not in a flattering way. He’d thought about suing, but everyone had warned him against it. Not worth the time, the money for lawyers, and the pure frustration that it would entail, so eventually he’d decided against it.
If only he’d had the foresight to make a sex tape while he and Annabelle were together. What a financial bonanza that would’ve been.
But no, he hadn’t done that; he’d blown a major opportunity to score. Vivid Entertainment would’ve paid big. They’d forked out millions for Paris Hilton and the Kardashian broad with the big ass – he could have made a killing. Colin Farrell, here I come!
Too late now.
Then the thought occurred to him – how about a sex tape with Cookie? She was certainly adventurous enough. And if he assured her they were making it just for their own private viewing pleasure . . .
Yeah. Like Annabelle, whose dad was action movie star Ralph Maestro, Cookie had a famous father too – Gerald M., soul singer supreme. Although since rap and hip-hop had taken over the airwaves, Gerald M. was not exactly at the top of his game. However, he was still a huge star in Europe, where they loved all that Lionel Richie, Barry White style of sexual healing.
First order of business when they hit Vegas. Buy himself a Flip video and get to work.
Yeah, it was a plan.
* * *
‘Let’s