Stella perked up as CoCo knew she would. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“I’m thinking, hire a DJ, get a mixologist, a little security to watch the gate...”
“God, yes, we don’t need any crashers. Remember that last party when that loser production assistant made his way in? Kept pestering everyone to look at his script. As if anyone comes to a CoCo Abelli party to read.” Stella rolled her eyes and climbed from the bed to walk into Azalea’s huge walk-in closet. “Your mother has impeccable taste,” she said with envy, grabbing a pair of heels. “Giuseppe Zanotti, Limited Edition, I could die. It’s not fair that your mother gets first dibs on designer shoes just because your dad is a famous shoemaker. Honestly, they’re not even married anymore. That’s quite a perk.”
CoCo shrugged. “Azalea knows how to negotiate.” She snapped her fingers to get Stella’s attention. “Back to the important stuff—the party. Should we go with a theme? Something fun?”
“I don’t know, themes are so overrated unless it’s Halloween or Christmas, you know?” Stella said, already bored as she replaced the shoes and exited the closet. “Did your mom leave her jewelry behind?”
“Not the good stuff.”
“Figures. Although that rock she’s sporting now...does it give her finger a cramp from wearing it all day? It’s almost ridiculous.”
CoCo didn’t want to talk about her mother. Their relationship was strained on most days and now that she was married to a man CoCo found tedious and overbearing at the same time, they really had nothing productive to say to one another.
Although born in Milan, CoCo split her time between Europe and California—specifically, Los Angeles. And she really did love LA. Everything was wild and unbridled here, wealth was celebrated and she always found a good time running around the clubs, hanging out with movie stars.
It wasn’t that Italy didn’t have wealth—some of the wealthiest people in the world called Milan home—but it wasn’t flaunted with opulent awareness as it was in the City of Angels. The obscenity of riches fascinated CoCo, as did the knowledge that in Los Angeles, bad girls got noticed and sometimes rewarded for their bad behavior, rather than chastised and hidden away for a month until they promised to behave themselves. European countries were far more reserved, it seemed, when it came to breaking rules, and CoCo found that boring.
Thankfully, when her mother divorced Enzo, Azalea had been crafty enough to wrangle a monstrous settlement out of her older ex-husband and thus CoCo had always split her time between continents without any discernible change in lifestyle.
And since her mother was often out of the country—such as right now—that meant CoCo had the run of her mother’s Malibu mansion.
And there was no better place to have a raging party than a huge house with private beach access.
“Let’s invite Guillermo to DJ,” Stella suggested until CoCo made a face. “Oh, c’mon, just because you two hooked up and he blabbed about it doesn’t mean he can’t spin a mean set and you know it. Besides, he’s the best and he always comes with Molly.”
Molly, the street nickname for ecstasy, was always invited to a raging Hollywood-style party. The twentysomething crowd just didn’t party without it. And it would be convenient if she knew exactly who was giving it out. Sort of like crowd control.
“I suppose that is a point in his favor,” CoCo agreed, slowly warming to the suggestion. “But do not let me sleep with him. He may be good in the sack but he’s as bad as a girl name-dropping to get into a club. He’s got the loosest lips I’ve ever seen. And frankly, hooking up with him had been out of circumstance, not an extreme attraction, you know?”
“I get it. Slim pickings that night. Do you remember who I went home with that night?” Stella shuddered. “Rafe Dirk—otherwise known as The Dick—and not because he’s well-endowed. Much to my extreme displeasure. He didn’t even pay for my cab afterward!”
“What a dick.” CoCo laughed. “Okay, pinkie promise that we go home with only those who have been previously approved. Do you have a target?”