Free The Santangelos by Jackie Collins Page B

still there. “Let’s go, my beauty,” the stylist murmured. “We will remove your top in privacy.”
    “Don’t forget to come back,” Carlo sneered sarcastically as the stylist escorted her to the dressing room. “We have all the time in the world.”
    Max threw him a stony look. “Oh, I’ll be back,” she said, recovering her composure. “And these photos better rock!”
    And rock they did, for shedding her top forced Max to shed her inhibitions—helped by the few puffs of a joint the stylist happened to have handy.
    She returned to the set full of attitude, determined to make it work.
    “Can we have some sounds?” she demanded, feeling herself morphing into Athena, who always expected music to be played at her photo sessions.
    Drake flooded the studio—pounding out “Best I Ever Had,” followed by CeeLo Green’s “Fuck You,” and then the incomparable Amy W. refusing to go to rehab.
    Max settled into working with the camera lens, channeling an old photo of Janet Jackson on the cover of Rolling Stone , her hands covering her boobs. Then she started channeling Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry. They’d all posed seminude. If she wanted to make it as a model, she knew that she had to be bold.
    Good-bye, inhibitions.
    Hello, freedom .
    Carlo was suddenly silent. So was everyone else. Between them they were creating magic, and they both realized it.
    *   *   *
    Later there were drinks with the glam squad at a nearby pub. All the talk was about how great the photos had turned out, even though Carlo was a major prick.
    “Girl, you look wicked amazing,” the stylist assured her.
    “As did your tits,” added the makeup man—also gay.
    Max had to admit that the digital images she’d seen were pretty incredible—just racy enough. And even though she’d ended up topless, the images were highly stylized, and the only thing on show above her waist was a glimpse of side boob. Nothing for Lucky or Lennie to go ape-shit about, although Lennie probably would, he was so overprotective.
    She couldn’t wait for Athena’s opinion; Athena’s approval meant more than anyone’s.
    Finally, it was time to go home.
    Being in the apartment by herself made for a pleasant change. She took a shower, jumped into bed, and snuggled under the covers, resisting the impulse to google Billy. Soon she fell into a deep sleep.
    Hours later she was awakened by the persistent ringing of her doorbell. Groping for her phone, she noted that it was almost three in the morning.
    “What the hell…,” she muttered, picking up the intercom. “Who’s there?”
    A male voice mumbled something unintelligible. It was Tim, she was sure of it. He sometimes sought refuge with them when, drunk and stoned, he couldn’t make it back to the house he rented in Chelsea. Athena had given him a key to their flat, but of course he’d immediately lost it. Typical Tim behavior.
    Max pressed the buzzer to let him in, then dove back under the covers, ready to go back to sleep.
    The next thing she knew, Tim was crawling into bed next to her. Only to her horror it wasn’t Tim, it was the annoying Italian photographer, Carlo.
    Max let out a startled yell and scrambled from her bed, almost tripping over her own feet.
    “What’s the matter?” Carlo purred, seemingly unperturbed.
    “What’s the matter ?” she shrieked, waving her arms in the air. “You’re here, in my bed! Get out , you pervert!”
    Carlo was way drunk. “Ah, bellissima ,” he crooned. “You know you want me. Do not fight it. Calma , calma .”
    “ You stay fucking calm!” she shouted, thinking, What would Athena do? Probably screw him, then throw him out.
    What would Lucky do? Well, her mom had a signature move she’d taught Max when she was seven, and that was to kick a man in the balls. It stopped them every time. However, since Carlo was now ensconced in her bed, Lucky’s move didn’t seem possible.
    “Get out,” she said through clenched teeth. “I mean it, or