Free Poor Little Bitch Girl by Jackie Collins Page A

of time. They were merely jealous that he’d made a success of such a sweet business. And who could blame them? After all, he couldn’t stay a deejay for ever, he had to move on. And if moving on meant raking in the big bucks, then more power to him. Bobby and M.J. came from wealthy families, what did they know about having to make it on your own with no help from anyone?
    Frankie regarded himself as a true survivor. He’d come up the hard way and made it right up to the top.
    There were a few things he regretted along the way. Some dark and ominous memories he did not care to re-visit. Some very dark memories he pushed to the back of his mind whenever they came up.
    The coke helped him to forget the bad things. The coke always put him in a mellow mood, made it easy for him to achieve anything he set his mind to, made him feel like a winner.
    Who would have thought that snorting a flurry of white powder could have such a life-affirming effect?
    His habit was expensive, but he considered it worth every dime. It wasn’t as if he was into crack or heroin or any of the hard stuff.
    He liked cocaine.
    Big fucking deal.
    The stripper was becoming restless. She was executing her best moves and he wasn’t responding. She was dangling her pastie-covered nipples dangerously close to his mouth, while thrusting her pelvis against his crotch. Her tongue was still working hard on his neck – heading toward his left ear – although actually touching the customer was strictly not allowed. She didn’t care. This was one stripper who was working all the way toward a hefty tip.
    Frankie suddenly got up, sending her flying.
    Sprawled on the floor, she was about to spew a tirade of insults, when he groped in his pocket, took out several twenty-dollar bills and threw them at her.
    “Another time,” he muttered. “Not in the mood.”
    * * *
    Since Frankie was not answering his cell, an upset Annabelle texted him and then called up Bethany – one of the girls who sometimes worked for her. “Can you come over?” she asked, feeling in need of company. “Frankie’s in Atlantic City and I’m by myself.”
    Bethany, a lounge singer who’d been around a couple of years too long, was happy to oblige. She arrived half an hour later carrying a bottle of champagne – Cristal, of course – and a carton of orange juice.
    “I thought I’d make us Mimosas,” Bethany announced, heading for the kitchen.
    “Fantastic idea,” Annabelle said, putting on a brave face although she still felt used and abused and furious.
    “Is everything all right, Belle?” Bethany asked curiously.
    “No, it’s not,” Annabelle said, following Bethany into the pristine kitchen which never got used because Annabelle didn’t cook. She’d been raised in a household where they had people to do the cooking – and anything else that needed doing.
    “Is it Frankie?” Bethany asked, full of sympathy, but ready for some juicy gossip all the same. “Have you two had a fight? I mean he’s a hot guy, but I’m sure he’s not the easiest—”
    “Why would it be Frankie?” Annabelle interrupted, immediately switching to defensive mode.
    Bethany opened the fridge and scooped out some ice. “’Cause it’s usually a man,” she said, selecting two tall glasses from the kitchen cabinet and popping out a couple of ice cubes. “Men are all such bastards. I can never understand why we put up with their shit. They eat, fart, sleep and snore. And let me assure you, my vibrator gives me better sex.”
    Obviously she’s never slept with Frankie , Annabelle thought.
    “Actually, I’ve sworn off men,” Bethany continued. “Unless they’re paying. Now I’m all about my career – that’s what’s important to me.”
    “Well,” Annabelle said, heading back to the living room, “talking of paying, have you ever experienced . . . uh . . . a client who . . . uh . . . treated you badly?”
    “Don’t call them clients,” Bethany said sharply, sitting down on the