the heap.
When Birdy was sixteen, Chris had guided her through the process of becoming emancipated from her parents. Young as she was, Birdy could be a sharp number: she’d been singing and dancing since she was eight, and felt–quite rightly–that her parents were frittering away her millions on themselves.
Chris had won her the freedom she desired, and along the way he’d negotiated ten per cent of her future earnings.
Birdy had helped make him rich, and he’d helped her career soar.
Problem was, rich didn’t last when he blew most of his money at the gaming tables in Vegas.
Birdy had her own problems. She was a little coke freak who loved to party and get down and dirty. She coupled those dangerous habits with a knack for always picking the wrong men. Birdy had an eye for bad boys who treated her like crap. Her current companion was Rocky, a biker she’d picked up on the beach in Santa Monica. Recently she’d given him the title of tour executive, and insisted that he was paid a generous salary.
Coke supplier might have been a better title.
Rocky went everywhere she did. With his shaved head, black leather outfits, chains, and muscled arms, tattooed from his fingers to his massive shoulders, he was quite a menacing figure. The tabloids were having a blast with this one: there were new outrageous headlines every week. Birdy didn’t seem to mind the headlines calling her everything from a white-trash princess to a teenage tramp. ‘Any publicity is good publicity,’ she warbled, quoting her brain-dead PR, who also happened to be her second cousin.
Birdy greeted Chris at the party in a stoned state. For an eighteen-year-old she sure looked rough, in spite of a dressed-to-thrill outfit of micro-mini, red leather bustier that concealed little, major midriff action with a diamond navel piercing, and short white go-go boots. Her hair was in its usual tousled state, lips sticky with pink gloss, eyes rimmed with jet black kohl, and she was chewing gum–another of her addictions. He noticed that she’d added a couple of new tattoos. A small dove on her left shoulder, and a skull and crossbones on her exposed hip-bone.
Chris always had to remind himself that she was only eighteen, and would grow out of this rebellious stage. He tried to protect her as best he could, but as her lawyer he could only do so much.
‘Chris!’ she yelled, running over and hugging him. ‘I’m totally psyched you made it! Wasn’t the show, like, amazing ?’
‘Amazing,’ he agreed.
‘Like, what a wild audience, huh? Totally out there.’
‘Dynamite.’
‘I’m so happy you’re here,’ she cooed, grabbing his hand and squeezing it hard. ‘There’s something we gotta talk about.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, but it’s personal stuff,’ she said, edging closer. ‘Which means we gotta hang somewhere private.’
No chance of that since, as usual, Birdy Marvel was the centre of attention. Several photographers were busy catching her every move, while Rocky hovered nearby, eyeing Chris suspiciously. He didn’t like Chris. The feeling was mutual.
‘Where are you staying?’ Chris asked his young client.
‘Trump International. Oh, yeah, an’ I’m thinking of buying a condo in the Time Warner building. Wouldn’t that be like the coolest ? The views are to die for!’
Yeah , Chris thought. I’m sure Rocky would love it . ‘I’ll try to come by sometime tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. ‘That way you can tell me what’s going on without an audience.’
‘That’d be totally awesome.’ Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘Not a word to Rocky. Like, call me on my cell an’ we’ll fix a time.’
‘Trouble in Bikerland?’ he asked, hoping she was about to dump the overgrown biker.
‘No, silly!’ She giggled, rubbing the tip of her snub nose with a stubby finger. ‘Rocky is like totally the most awesome dude on the planet.’
‘ I believe you,’ Chris said drily. ‘Thousands wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t be so
When Birdy was sixteen, Chris had guided her through the process of becoming emancipated from her parents. Young as she was, Birdy could be a sharp number: she’d been singing and dancing since she was eight, and felt–quite rightly–that her parents were frittering away her millions on themselves.
Chris had won her the freedom she desired, and along the way he’d negotiated ten per cent of her future earnings.
Birdy had helped make him rich, and he’d helped her career soar.
Problem was, rich didn’t last when he blew most of his money at the gaming tables in Vegas.
Birdy had her own problems. She was a little coke freak who loved to party and get down and dirty. She coupled those dangerous habits with a knack for always picking the wrong men. Birdy had an eye for bad boys who treated her like crap. Her current companion was Rocky, a biker she’d picked up on the beach in Santa Monica. Recently she’d given him the title of tour executive, and insisted that he was paid a generous salary.
Coke supplier might have been a better title.
Rocky went everywhere she did. With his shaved head, black leather outfits, chains, and muscled arms, tattooed from his fingers to his massive shoulders, he was quite a menacing figure. The tabloids were having a blast with this one: there were new outrageous headlines every week. Birdy didn’t seem to mind the headlines calling her everything from a white-trash princess to a teenage tramp. ‘Any publicity is good publicity,’ she warbled, quoting her brain-dead PR, who also happened to be her second cousin.
Birdy greeted Chris at the party in a stoned state. For an eighteen-year-old she sure looked rough, in spite of a dressed-to-thrill outfit of micro-mini, red leather bustier that concealed little, major midriff action with a diamond navel piercing, and short white go-go boots. Her hair was in its usual tousled state, lips sticky with pink gloss, eyes rimmed with jet black kohl, and she was chewing gum–another of her addictions. He noticed that she’d added a couple of new tattoos. A small dove on her left shoulder, and a skull and crossbones on her exposed hip-bone.
Chris always had to remind himself that she was only eighteen, and would grow out of this rebellious stage. He tried to protect her as best he could, but as her lawyer he could only do so much.
‘Chris!’ she yelled, running over and hugging him. ‘I’m totally psyched you made it! Wasn’t the show, like, amazing ?’
‘Amazing,’ he agreed.
‘Like, what a wild audience, huh? Totally out there.’
‘Dynamite.’
‘I’m so happy you’re here,’ she cooed, grabbing his hand and squeezing it hard. ‘There’s something we gotta talk about.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, but it’s personal stuff,’ she said, edging closer. ‘Which means we gotta hang somewhere private.’
No chance of that since, as usual, Birdy Marvel was the centre of attention. Several photographers were busy catching her every move, while Rocky hovered nearby, eyeing Chris suspiciously. He didn’t like Chris. The feeling was mutual.
‘Where are you staying?’ Chris asked his young client.
‘Trump International. Oh, yeah, an’ I’m thinking of buying a condo in the Time Warner building. Wouldn’t that be like the coolest ? The views are to die for!’
Yeah , Chris thought. I’m sure Rocky would love it . ‘I’ll try to come by sometime tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. ‘That way you can tell me what’s going on without an audience.’
‘That’d be totally awesome.’ Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘Not a word to Rocky. Like, call me on my cell an’ we’ll fix a time.’
‘Trouble in Bikerland?’ he asked, hoping she was about to dump the overgrown biker.
‘No, silly!’ She giggled, rubbing the tip of her snub nose with a stubby finger. ‘Rocky is like totally the most awesome dude on the planet.’
‘ I believe you,’ Chris said drily. ‘Thousands wouldn’t.’
‘Don’t be so
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