Hollywood Kids

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Overview

Wherever there's money and glamour, trouble can't be too far behind. In Hollywood Kids Jackie Collins takes her readers back to the Hollywood Hills for another absorbing page-turner of sex, ambition, and deadly revenge.
At the novel's core is the Hollywood Five, a clique of jaded twenty-somethings whose parents (all major players) thought that child-rearing ended with naming their offspring after themselves. Jordanna Levitt is the wildly beautiful daughter of a powerful producer...

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Overview

Wherever there's money and glamour, trouble can't be too far behind. In Hollywood Kids Jackie Collins takes her readers back to the Hollywood Hills for another absorbing page-turner of sex, ambition, and deadly revenge.
At the novel's core is the Hollywood Five, a clique of jaded twenty-somethings whose parents (all major players) thought that child-rearing ended with naming their offspring after themselves. Jordanna Levitt is the wildly beautiful daughter of a powerful producer and legendary movie star mother. Even though she flaunts a coltish bad-girl image, Jordanna yearns for more than lounging behind the velvet ropes in chi-chi clubs and existing on a diet of Midnight Cowboys. Jordanna's best friend, Cheryl Landers, is a sassy, leggy redhead, who is equally idle. Cheryl fills her days doing lunch and buying up Rodeo Drive until a Hollywood Madam asks her to mind shop while she's out of town. Pandering to the rich and famous goes so smoothly that she can't resist turning a trick herself. Grant Lennon, Jr., the son of the last generation's wildly handsome icon, is a junior agent at International Artists Agents. Not satisfied with the number of starlets he can get on his own, he agrees to "test-run" women for Cheryl's fledgling entrepreneurial venture for a fee. Marjory Sanderson is a dreamy-eyed head case. Barely recovered from anorexia, she invents one phobia fast on the heels of the last one in order to keep her television magnate father's attention. Shep Worth, the effeminately beautiful son of a sex-symbol mother, who won't publicly acknowledge her age, is a man who won't publicly acknowledge his alternative sexual preference.
"The group had grown up together, sharing the experience of too much too soon," Collins writes. When you've got your family's great looks, and you're always driving next year's hottest sportscar, and work isn't necessary because you've got a wallet filled with the sky's-the-limit credit cards — why fight it?
These Hollywood kids have been given everything money can buy except a raison d'être. Though their attitudes are large enough to fill any room, these offspring of privilege are all desperately trying to figure out what to do with themselves. However, life among the rich means life among the damned. A recently released psycho-killer, erotically propelled by blood-lust, is determined to wreak havoc and revenge on the kids' lives.
Interwoven into this central drama are the strong stories of a supporting cast of characters: Michael Scorsinni, the street-smart ex-NYPD detective who is doomed to traverse the country until he finds his kidnapped daughter; Bobby Rush, the ambitious and talented actor/producer, who only has his Hollywood Royalty lineage working against him; Kennedy Chase, the blonde and brilliant young widow and journalist who puts the pieces together before the cops and felicitously learns in the process that she's still capable of falling in love; Luca Carlotti, the dandy mob kingpin with the cobra's smile and a weakness for classy call-girls; and finally there's Charlie Dollar, the stoned movie-star savant, perpetually on the prowl for women to fulfill his fantasy of a polygamous idyll.
Not since best-selling superstar Jackie Collins created Hollywood Wives, the book which established a whole new standard for novels of the American dream in the extreme, has she dealt so incisively and so revealingly with tinseltown, and with the people who live and die there. Jackie Collins is back doing what she does best, chronicling the lives of the rich, famous and infamous with devastating accuracy. Hollywood Kids is Jackie Collins at her suspenseful roller coaster ride best.

She's a California princess living on the wild side. He's the son of a star, about to set the screen on fire. They're ravishing and rich--the children of Hollywood royalty living out the American dream. And a serial killer stalks their every step. National ads/media.

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Editorial Reviews

Joe Queenan
Readers impervious to nuance will be tempted to dismiss "Hollywood Kids" as just another trashy novel about a serial killer bent on murdering the six young women who testified against him in court after he strangled his co-star on the set of a movie being directed by a man who was forced to hire him by a godfather who likes hookers dressed as nurses. But if we can look beyond Ms. Collins's glitzy, gory, grubby scaffolding, we can see that the real subject of "Hollywood Kids" is the death of the American family...."Hollywood Kids" is not without its faults. Jackie Collins cannot actually write, and the only way the reader can tell any of the female characters apart is by keeping track of who has the nurse's outfit. Yet, in its own perverse way, "Hollywood Kids" is an admirable, ambitious dissection of the horrible times we live in. Ms. Collins's most ingenious conceit is the repetitive use of oral sex as a mirror held up to American society. How, one is left to wonder, did any of these youngsters even manage to get born, inhabiting as they do a world where their fathers seem interested only in non procreative sexual liaisons? -- New York Times
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Collins (Hollywood Wives; Hollywood Husbands) grabs fans with a no-holds-barred (and no subtlety shown) surefire bestseller spun around the disaffected children of Hollywood moguls. Tired of club-hopping and sexual flings, 24-year-old Jordanna Levitt is immobilized by ennui when a massive fight with her father-a famed producer married to a woman younger than his daughter-forces her out of her cushy nest. She lands a gofer job with Bobby Rush, the hot-ticket son of an ungracefully aging movie star, then quickly makes her mark as an actress. Her best friend Cheryl Landers deigns to try working, too, and becomes a successful Hollywood madam. On the periphery are Grant Lemon Jr., the dissolute son of a celluloid icon; anorectic Marjory Sanderson, the whiny, daughter of a TV magnate; and Zane Ricca, a movie-star wannabe and Mafia boss's nephew jailed for seven years for murdering a young actress and now stalking the women who testified against him. Collins festoons her pulp sundae with dollops of hot sex in cars, beds and driveways; Fatal Attraction-like trysts between stars and a cascade of trademark names. Overlapping plot lines are propelled by rude energy and blazing tabloid-style tales of suicide, substance abuse, towering egos, dubious parentage and truly star-crossed lovers. 500,000 first printing; major ad/promo; audio rights to Simon & Schuster; Literary Guild main selection. Author tour. (Sept.)
Library Journal
Originally scheduled for April (see Prepub Alert, LJ 12/93), this novel will now be published in September.
Ilene Cooper
You have to hand it to Collins. Her writing is banal, and her characters are cartoons, but her books are always page-turners. Using her familiar Tinseltown setting, Collins, who has already covered "Hollywood Wives" and "Hollywood Husbands", now takes a look at the sons and daughters of the stars and starmakers, young people who like their drugs mellow and their sex hot (though dutifully strapping on condoms on every other page). You can only go so far with Hollywood kids, though, forcing Collins to throw in a few other characters: the alcoholic cop with the heart of gold (10K, anyway); the serious journalist who nevertheless has long blond hair and legs that won't quit; the Jack Nicholson-like, laid-back legend; and the serial killer whose story line knits the rest of the cast together. So how can something so bad be so good? Like another Jackie, Jackie Susanne, Collins knows how to write a trash story that's larger than life and keep it moving at a breakneck clip, never giving us time to feel guilty for enjoying the ride. Still, Collins has pretty much squeezed the California orange and probably should try moving the action to another coast. Even she couldn't do much with "Hollywood Pets".
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780671898496
  • Publisher: Pocket Books
  • Publication date: 7/1/1995
  • Series: Hollywood Series
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 624
  • Product dimensions: 4.25 (w) x 6.75 (h) x 1.00 (d)

Meet the Author

Jackie Collins

There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of power brokers—Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.

Jackie Collins has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the late director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair magazine. With more than 500 million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with some twenty-seven New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insider’s knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous. “I write about real people in disguise,” she says. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre.”

Visit Jackie’s website www.jackiecollins.com, and follow her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/JackieJCollins, Facebook at www.facebook.com/jackiecollins and Pinterest at www.pinterest.com/jackiejcollins.

Biography

Louis Malle may have branded Jackie Collins a "raunchy moralist," but it wasn't her sense of ethical propriety that had her in a snit when Kenneth Starr dutifully reported to the nation the details of the pseudo-coupling between Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. It was her literary pride. "Everybody said that the Monica Lewinsky stuff in the Starr report was like a Jackie Collins book," she told the Chicago Tribune in 2001, "but if I'd written it, the sex would have been better."

Unquestionably. Jacqueline Susann may be the Emily Bronte of the naughty bits, but Collins is surely Charlotte, having filled her books to the rim with skin since her first novel The World Is Full of Married Men appeared in 1968. Since then, there has been a string of sexy Hollywood moguls, sexy models, sexy wives of Hollywood moguls, sexy divorcées and sexy children of Hollywood moguls in such titles as Chances, Lucky and Throb as well as The Bitch and The Stud (both made into movies starring big sister Joan).

The critics, when they take notice at all, tend to sniff. ("While no one expects Lady Boss to be a literary banquet, certainly a yummy little snack is in order" is about the best to expect from The New York Times.) But those who can look past the satin sheets and champagne flutes see more going on in the Collins canon. Hers is a dissection of the vacuous, viperish entertainment class hiding behind designer sunglasses in Los Angeles. Vanity Fair called her "Hollywood's own Marcel Proust.” The Advocate hinted that she might be the Charles Dickens of Beverly Hills. And Joe Queenan, a Hollywood player himself, said Collins's 1993 novel American Star was nothing less than a lament of the American family's demise.

"It would be easy to self-righteously label this book trashy and worthless -- but it's not entirely either," the Detroit News wrote in a review of Collins's 1983 novel Hollywood Wives. "Jackie Collins has a talent for titillation and a knack for wooing the most reluctant of readers into a plot that spends 15 percent of the time peeking at people in the sack and the other 85 percent daydreaming about it. Deliberately or not, she speaks eloquently of emptiness through the lives of people who would seem to have everything: French poodles, Mexican maids, American Express."

And Judy Bass wrote in the Los Angeles Times that Collins's gimlet eye for detail is what makes her novels such a gas: "Collins caricatures the life styles of the rich and famous with devastating accuracy. She spoofs every nuance of their attire, speech and relationships, never allowing tedium or predictability to dilute the reader's fun."

There are a number of recurring characters in Collins's books, though none better known than Lucky Santangelo, the sexy (natch) film studio owner who has appeared in Lucky, Lady Boss, Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge and Dangerous Kiss. The Lucky series bring together all the required ingredients of a Collins cocktail: the rich and famous, the shifty Hollywood shenanigans, scheming opportunists and a bug-on-the-wall vantage point of every -- or every other -- bedroom in the 90210 zip code.

Time once wrote of a Collins novel that it allowed the reader the rare opportunity to watch adverbs mate. Of course. There's a high art to the lowbrow. The Village Voice, writing in 2000, understood that: "The beauty of the trashy novel is twofold: It's a lightning-quick read, and you can howl in smug superiority as you turn the pages. Lethal Seduction, the latest from well-appointed and leopard-print-swathed Queen of Trash Jackie Collins, is a prime example of page-turning, literary-hauteur-stoking fun."

But it might have been People, reviewing Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge, that most succinctly summed up the contradictory seductiveness of the Jackie Collins novel: "embarrassing to pick up, impossible to put down."

Good To Know

Collins makes a mean meatloaf. "It's the herbs and spices," she told Biography magazine, "and my essence."

Collins spends about a year writing each novel, and does so entirely in longhand.

She eschews the stodgy demands of grammar. "I don't basically understand grammar," she is quoted as saying in Contemporary Popular Writers. "I call myself a street writer. I write purely by instinct. I've decided people don't speak in grammatical conversations.... The important thing is I get people into the bookstores who probably wouldn't be there otherwise."

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    1. Also Known As:
      Jacqueline Jill Collins (full name)
    2. Hometown:
      Los Angeles, California
    1. Date of Birth:
      October 4, 1941
    2. Place of Birth:
      London, England

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One:

What a movie!"

"Quite unusual."

"Jordan, my pal, you've got another smash."

The praise came fast and furious. Jordan Levitt and his wife of six months,
Kim, reveled in it as they stood at the massive front door of their Bel Air
estate, saying goodbye to their guests.

Dinner and a private screening at the Levitts' was a weekly event. Only tonight
was more of an event than usual, because Jordan, a veteran producer, had just
screened his latest production.

Kim squeezed her husband's arm and gazed up at him adoringly. She was softly
pretty, with flowing light brown hair and winsome features. At twenty-two, she
was younger than his only daughter. "They loved it," she whispered excitedly.
"And so did I. Oh, Jordan, you're so clever."

Jordan smiled down at his new bride. He was a powerful-looking man — over six
feet tall, with a shock of unruly gray hair, craggy features, and a deeply
lined tanned face. Soon he would be sixty-two — like Clint Eastwood, age suited
him. "You never know," he said modestly.

"I do," Kim replied, her eyes never leaving his. "It's a surefire
hit."

He put his arm around Kim, walking her back into the house. "It doesn't matter
what this group thinks," he said. "The public make their own decisions."

"Not only clever, but oh sooo wise," Kim murmured, tilting her head to gaze up
at him. "I wish I had time to write down everything you said. You always make
such perfect sense."

Jordan kept smiling. With a woman like Kim to feed his ego, he never
stopped.

"Piece of crap."

"Boring!"

"I fell asleep.

"Jordan's really lost it on this one."

So went the conversation as the guests got into their respective cars, parked
in the Levitts' driveway.

Sharleen Wynn Brooks was particularly vocal. A voluptuous redheaded movie star
of thirty-five, she seemed to take great pleasure in pulling her ex-lover
Jordan's movie to shreds frame by frame.

Her Oscar-winning director husband, Mac Brooks, laughed as he got behind the
wheel of their yellow Rolls Corniche. At forty-three, Mac was handsome in a
rumpled, been-around-the-block way. He had curly brown hair and a once broken
nose that told tales of his past-way back when, he was an amateur boxer in
Brooklyn. "Come on, baby-tell me what you really think," he urged,
patting her knee affectionately. "Don't hold back."

Sharleen couldn't help giggling. "He needs you again, darling."

"Not me," Mac replied. "Jordan's a control freak; everything has to be his way
or no way at all. After making The Contract with him, I decided never
again."

"You won an Oscar for The Contract," Sharleen pointed out. "And met me
for the first time."

"I vaguely remember. . . .

She giggled again. "You're so rude."

"If I recall, you didn't give me a second glance-you were too busy with that
muscle-bound jerk who trailed you to the set every day."

"My trainer," she said demurely.

"My ass!" he retorted.

"And three years later we worked together again and fell in love." She sighed
happily. "Isn't it romantic?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

As their car left the Levitts' driveway, she snuggled closer to her husband,
taking his hand and moving it under her expensive Valentino skirt.

Going down the winding driveway, the Rolls nearly collided head-on with a
speeding white Porsche driven by Jordanna, Jordan Levitt's twenty-four-year-old
daughter.

Jordanna honked her horn as she screeched her car to a halt alongside the
Rolls. Lowering her window, she leaned out. "Did I miss the movie?" she asked,
tossing back her long dark hair.

"What do you think?" Mac responded, surreptitiously removing his hand
from under his wife's skirt.

Jordanna pulled a face. "Is my old man pissed?"

"He'll live."

Jordanna grinned at Mac. He'd been her lover when she was a teenager and he was
thirty-six; now they were nothing more than good friends. "Glad to hear it,"
she said, adding a low-voiced "or maybe not."

Sharleen waved. She wasn't fond of Jordanna, and it showed. "Hello, dear," she
said frostily.

The feeling was mutual. "Hiya, Shar," Jordanna responded, wondering what a cool
guy like Mac saw in the overstuffed movie queen.

"Your father's really mad at you."

"I'm shaking, Shar."

Sharleen peered into the Porsche. "Who's your friend, dear?" Trust Sharleen to
notice the stud in the passenger seat. Jordanna had no idea what his name
was-and quite frankly she didn't care. They were all the same in the dark.
Midnight Cowboys. Her life.

"See ya!" She gunned the Porsche into action and disappeared up the
driveway.

"That girl's trouble," Sharleen said, pursing newly plumped lips. "Jordan
should do himself a favor and throw her out."

"Don't be bitchy," Mac said mildly. "She'll grow up."

"She's twenty-four, for God's sake. I had my own child when I was her age."
Sharleen moved closer and ran her fingers lightly up his thigh.

Mac prepared himself — he knew what was coming, and it was the high point of his
evening. Sharleen was into car sex, and who was he to argue? It kept the heat
in a four-year-old marriage.

As soon as she touched him he was hard. Oh yeah, Sharleen did it for him every
time. She was one talented female — and he didn't mean her acting.

He'd met her on the job, so to speak. Directing Sharleen had been an
experience. Sleeping with her had soon led to marriage.

Monogamy was something new for Mac Brooks. Before Sharleen he'd bedded all his
leading ladies, now his exceedingly sexy wife kept him too busy for affairs.

"I see Little Big Man is ready for immediate attention," Sharleen whispered,
deftly unzipping his fly.

This was Mac's favorite part. Driving down the dark, narrow hills with a
mammoth hard-on. Trying to concentrate. Hoping they didn't get stopped by the
cops — or, even worse, a couple of would-be carjackers in ski masks. It all
added to the excitement.

Sharleen bent her head, tantalizingly licking the tip of his penis, her
lightning-fork tongue flicking this way and that. After he was suitably turned
on, she sat back and began unbuttoning her silk shirt, revealing a lacy black
bra.

One eye on the road. One eye on her. "Take it off, baby," he muttered, hard as
the proverbial rock.

"Should I?" she teased.

"Do it," he said tensely, the pressure building.

"Well."

"Do it!"

She slipped off her silk shirt and unclipped her lacy bra. Sharleen had the
best breasts in Hollywood — untouched by plastic surgeon, they were full and
firm, topped with juicy hard nipples.

"Oh, Jesus!" Mac groaned, swerving the car to the side of the road.

Sharleen enjoyed enslaving him. "Jesus has nothing to do with it," she murmured
sweetly.

"Wasn't that Sharleen Wynn?" the stud asked, barely able to keep the awe out of
his voice.

"Huh?" Jordanna said vaguely, screeching to an abrupt stop at the head of the
driveway.

"Sharleen Wynn," he repeated, looking like a reject drummer from a grungy rock
band, with his long greasy hair, scruffy clothes, and dime-store shades.

"I'm surprised you know who Sharleen Wynn is," Jordanna remarked, getting out
of the car.

"Sure I know who she is," the stud said somewhat indignantly. "My dad had a
copy of Playboy with her on the cover. Kept it by his bed for
months."

"Lucky him."

"Nice tits."

"Never mind about hers, how about mine?" Jordanna said boldly, pressing up
against him.

He took the hint and started to kiss her. Long, hard kisses with plenty of
tongue action.

She decided this one had possibilities. "Come along," she said, pulling him
onto the path leading to the guesthouse.

"Aren't we goin' inside?" he asked, sounding disappointed.

"My apartment's in back." She laughed, a brittle laugh. "It's more fun back
there. Trust me."

"If you say so," he said, grabbing her ass.

"Then be a good little boy and follow me all the way to an incredible time."

"I'm right behind you."

I bet you are, she thought. Pretty girl. Great wheels. Magnificent
mansion. What's to lose?

She'd picked him up at a music-industry party, attracted by his black jeans.
There was something about skinny guys in tight jeans that really got her
attention. It reminded her of visiting one of her father's sets when she was
ten and meeting Teddy Costa, a hot young actor with the best butt in the
business. The very thought of Teddy had taken her through puberty, until at the
age of fifteen she'd casually dropped by his trailer during the making of
another of Jordan's films and seduced him.

Teddy Costa had taken her virginity and never called. Who said life was
fair?

Jordanna was five feet six inches tall. Not conventionally pretty, she had a
beauty, strength, and wildness that most men found quite addictive. Her eyes
were dark and penetrating, the curve of her finely arched eyebrows a challenge.
Her nose was just a fraction too long for perfection, but her high cheekbones
balanced her oval face, and her lips were naturally full and luscious. She had
a sharply etched jawline and deeply suntanned skin. Her long raven hair hung
casually tangled below her shoulders. Her body was athletic, slim, and
sensuous. She looked more European than American, her looks inherited from her
mother's side of the family. Her mother, the beautiful Lillianne, had been half
French, half Brazilian. A lethal combination.

"You got a great ass," her stud for the night said.

Mister Romance. She hoped he knew what to do in bed. So many of them couldn't
get it up anymore — show 'em a condom and they lost the urge.

It wasn't easy being a single girl in L.A. in the nineties. In fact, it wasn't
easy being a single girl anywhere.

Men. They were either gay, into kinky sex, cheating on their wives, mamas'
boys, jerks, drug users, cheats, pimps, or — the worst kind — actors.

Mention the name Jordan Levitt, and she could have any actor she wanted. Except
that an actor was the last person she wanted. Egocentric jerks. Me-me-me. My
life. My look. My career.

She flung open the door to her apartment, and the stud followed her into chaos.
So she wasn't the tidiest person in the world. Big deal, she was hardly
planning a two-page spread in House Beautiful.

The stud was primed and ready to go — he didn't care about her housekeeping
skills. Grabbing her, he pressed himself up against her, kissed her twice, then
his rough hands began exploring under her T-shirt.

The phone rang. Her machine picked up, and the sound of her recorded voice
filled the air. "Yo — don't waste my time — if you got something to say, go for
it now."

The machine bleeped. Her father's voice, "Hello, skinny bird. You missed my
movie. They liked it. Where were you?"

I was out trying to get laid, Daddy. And don't call me skinny bird-you know
I hate it, almost as much as I hate your latest wife. Christ! Is age making you
senile? She's the worst one yet. A phony, sweet-talking, perfect little bitch
on wheels.

"Hey —" The stud began, going for the zipper on her jeans.

She'd lost interest. "It's over," she said, slapping his hands away.
r
He didn't believe what he was hearing. "What's over?" he asked
belligerently.

"Our incredible time," she said, anxious to get rid of him.

"Now wait a minute-" he began.

She flung open the door. "Out," she said firmly.

He blinked twice. "Ya gotta be shittin' me."

"I have a black belt in karate," she lied, flexing her muscles. "Wanna put it
to the test?"

He wasn't taking any risks. "How'm I supposed to get home?" he whined.

"You'll find a way," she said, hustling him through the door.

God, how she hated whiners! Why couldn't anybody stand up to her? There was
only one man who'd managed that feat, and he was dead.

Jamie, her darling brother. The only person who'd really understood her,
because they'd shared so much. Being the offspring of celebrity parents was no
joke, but at least they'd had each other, and that had meant everything — until
Jamie had checked out without so much as a goodbye. He'd jumped from a
skyscraper window in New York when he was twenty and she was just sixteen.

To this day she couldn't bring herself to think about his suicide.

Jamie wasn't the only one who'd met an early death. There was also her best
friend, Fran, whose father was a major-league comedy star. Fran and she had
grown up together, close as sisters. They'd loved each other dearly, in spite
of the fact that they'd argued over everything — especially men. Fran used to
hang out with three dumb Italian guys, whose favorite pastime was screwing her
in turn. Two of them were bit-part actors, and the third was a would-be singer.
Fran — who was usually too stoned to know any better — thought it was cool to
service them one by one. The guys viewed her as a major slut, which infuriated
Jordanna, because she saw Fran as losing it big time.

"What are you getting out of this?" she'd demand angrily.

"Love. Attention. Sensational sex."

"Give me a break."

"What's the matter, Jordanna — jealous?"

Yeah, sure, jealous of three dumb creeps jumping your bones every chance
they get.

Fran took an overdose on her seventeenth birthday.

At first Jordanna couldn't believe it. She'd felt numb — as if nothing mattered
anymore. And then reality had set in and she'd wanted revenge, so she'd
"borrowed" her father's gun, tracked the three Italian guys to their favorite
club, and come on to them — leading them to believe they'd found another dumb
little rich girl to admire their overinflated egos. Back at their apartment,
she'd pulled the gun, informed them of Fran's suicide, and messed with their
minds, threatening to blow them away. By the time she'd finished intimidating
them, they weren't so cool anymore — just three nervous jerks with limp
dicks.

The trouble with men was that most of them had no balls. Except her father.
Jordan Levitt had balls enough for an army.

Sometimes she thought about Jamie and Fran. Just as she sometimes thought about
her mother, the exquisitely beautiful Lillianne, who'd been dragged off to a
mental institution when Jordanna was six. A few weeks later the fragile and
famous Lillianne had slit her wrists and died a lonely, messy death.

Daddy had mourned for a good three months before marrying the first of four
other wives. Kim was number five. Why did he have to keep getting married? What
was wrong with staying single for a while?

Jordanna sighed. The truth was, if he could do what he wanted, so could she.
There was nothing and nobody to stop her.

She considered phoning him back, then decided against it. She knew exactly what
he'd say. Are you all right, skinny bird? Do you need money? When are we
going to see you?

Her answers were always the same. Yes, Daddy. No, Daddy. Soon.

He loved her. In his own way.

She clung to the knowledge that he did. Without it she had nothing.

Sharleen climaxed with a piercing shriek. Mac was surprised the occupants of
the house they were parked outside didn't come running out to see what was
going on. Would they get a surprise if they did! A half-naked movie star and a
world-renowned director. What the Enquirer wouldn't give for that
picture!

Sharleen began wriggling into her clothes, while Mac resumed his position
behind the steering wheel. Soon they were on their way home to Pacific
Palisades, where they shared a large house with Sharleen's sixteen-year-old
daughter and Mac's seventeen-year-old twin sons from a previous marriage.

As soon as they hit Sunset, Mac drove fast, constantly checking the rearview
mirror, making sure they weren't being followed. Crime was on his mind a lot.
Two months ago some tall, skinny cokehead had sprung out at him in an
underground parking structure, shoved a gun in his stomach, and demanded
his solid-gold Rolex. He'd slipped it off his wrist and handed it over without a
word. Once the robber had fled, Mac regretted the fact that he hadn't put up a
fight.

He would never admit it to Sharleen, but after the incident he'd felt less of a
man. Whenever he related the tale to his friends he made light of it, but deep
down he was sick that he hadn't fought back. Now he carried an unregistered
gun, and screw anybody who tried to take him.

Back in his Brooklyn days he'd had real balls. Was it possible that twenty
years in Hollywood had softened him up?

Sometimes he thought his entire life was a dream-from amateur boxer in Brooklyn
to Oscar-winning director in Hollywood. Quite a leap. With a little help from
his friends.

He tried not to think about the old days-his past was buried, and he didn't
want anyone digging it up. The one time he'd done someone from his past a
favor, it had ended in disaster. After that no more favors. Mac was an expert
at keeping a low profile as far as his early beginnings were concerned. The
truth would blow everyone's mind.

Lately he'd had a strong urge to get rid of the yellow Rolls and buy a less
conspicuous car. Unfortunately Sharleen wouldn't allow it; she was into image
in a big way, and as far as she was concerned the Rolls said it all.

As they approached their house he noticed two police cars with blinking lights
up ahead. "Goddamn it!" he muttered. Cops always made him uncomfortable-a
hangover from his Brooklyn days.

"What?" Sharleen said.

"There's two police cars parked outside our house."

"Why?" Sharleen asked, reaching for her powder compact.

"If I knew, I'd tell you," he replied shortly.

She studied her perfectly made up face in the small compact mirror and began
applying more lipstick. "I suggest you find out."

Beautiful and sexy as she was, sometimes Sharleen got on his nerves.
"Sweetheart," he said, trying hard not to let his aggravation show, "that's
exactly what I intend to do."

Copyright © 1994 by Jackie Collins

Read More Show Less

First Chapter

What a movie!"

"Quite unusual."

"Jordan, my pal, you've got another smash."

The praise came fast and furious. Jordan Levitt and his wife of six months, Kim, reveled in it as they stood at the massive front door of their Bel Air estate, saying goodbye to their guests.

Dinner and a private screening at the Levitts' was a weekly event. Only tonight was more of an event than usual, because Jordan, a veteran producer, had just screened his latest production.

Kim squeezed her husband's arm and gazed up at him adoringly. She was softly pretty, with flowing light brown hair and winsome features. At twenty-two, she was younger than his only daughter. "They loved it," she whispered excitedly. "And so did I. Oh, Jordan, you're so clever."

Jordan smiled down at his new bride. He was a powerful-looking man -- over six feet tall, with a shock of unruly gray hair, craggy features, and a deeply lined tanned face. Soon he would be sixty-two -- like Clint Eastwood, age suited him. "You never know," he said modestly.

"I do," Kim replied, her eyes never leaving his. "It's a surefire hit."

He put his arm around Kim, walking her back into the house. "It doesn't matter what this group thinks," he said. "The public make their own decisions."

"Not only clever, but oh sooo wise," Kim murmured, tilting her head to gaze up at him. "I wish I had time to write down everything you said. You always make such perfect sense."

Jordan kept smiling. With a woman like Kim to feed his ego, he never stopped.

"Piece of crap."

"Boring!"

"I fell asleep.

"Jordan's really lost it on this one."

So went the conversation as the guests got into their respective cars, parked in the Levitts' driveway.

Sharleen Wynn Brooks was particularly vocal. A voluptuous redheaded movie star of thirty-five, she seemed to take great pleasure in pulling her ex-lover Jordan's movie to shreds frame by frame.

Her Oscar-winning director husband, Mac Brooks, laughed as he got behind the wheel of their yellow Rolls Corniche. At forty-three, Mac was handsome in a rumpled, been-around-the-block way. He had curly brown hair and a once broken nose that told tales of his past-way back when, he was an amateur boxer in Brooklyn. "Come on, baby-tell me what you really think," he urged, patting her knee affectionately. "Don't hold back."

Sharleen couldn't help giggling. "He needs you again, darling."

"Not me," Mac replied. "Jordan's a control freak; everything has to be his way or no way at all. After making The Contract with him, I decided never again."

"You won an Oscar for The Contract," Sharleen pointed out. "And met me for the first time."

"I vaguely remember. . . .

She giggled again. "You're so rude."

"If I recall, you didn't give me a second glance-you were too busy with that muscle-bound jerk who trailed you to the set every day."

"My trainer," she said demurely.

"My ass!" he retorted.

"And three years later we worked together again and fell in love." She sighed happily. "Isn't it romantic?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

As their car left the Levitts' driveway, she snuggled closer to her husband, taking his hand and moving it under her expensive Valentino skirt.

Going down the winding driveway, the Rolls nearly collided head-on with a speeding white Porsche driven by Jordanna, Jordan Levitt's twenty-four-year-old daughter.

Jordanna honked her horn as she screeched her car to a halt alongside the Rolls. Lowering her window, she leaned out. "Did I miss the movie?" she asked, tossing back her long dark hair.

"What do you think?" Mac responded, surreptitiously removing his hand from under his wife's skirt.

Jordanna pulled a face. "Is my old man pissed?"

"He'll live."

Jordanna grinned at Mac. He'd been her lover when she was a teenager and he was thirty-six; now they were nothing more than good friends. "Glad to hear it," she said, adding a low-voiced "or maybe not."

Sharleen waved. She wasn't fond of Jordanna, and it showed. "Hello, dear," she said frostily.

The feeling was mutual. "Hiya, Shar," Jordanna responded, wondering what a cool guy like Mac saw in the overstuffed movie queen.

"Your father's really mad at you."

"I'm shaking, Shar."

Sharleen peered into the Porsche. "Who's your friend, dear?" Trust Sharleen to notice the stud in the passenger seat. Jordanna had no idea what his name was-and quite frankly she didn't care. They were all the same in the dark. Midnight Cowboys. Her life.

"See ya!" She gunned the Porsche into action and disappeared up the driveway.

"That girl's trouble," Sharleen said, pursing newly plumped lips. "Jordan should do himself a favor and throw her out."

"Don't be bitchy," Mac said mildly. "She'll grow up."

"She's twenty-four, for God's sake. I had my own child when I was her age." Sharleen moved closer and ran her fingers lightly up his thigh.

Mac prepared himself -- he knew what was coming, and it was the high point of his evening. Sharleen was into car sex, and who was he to argue? It kept the heat in a four-year-old marriage.

As soon as she touched him he was hard. Oh yeah, Sharleen did it for him every time. She was one talented female -- and he didn't mean her acting.

He'd met her on the job, so to speak. Directing Sharleen had been an experience. Sleeping with her had soon led to marriage.

Monogamy was something new for Mac Brooks. Before Sharleen he'd bedded all his leading ladies, now his exceedingly sexy wife kept him too busy for affairs.

"I see Little Big Man is ready for immediate attention," Sharleen whispered, deftly unzipping his fly.

This was Mac's favorite part. Driving down the dark, narrow hills with a mammoth hard-on. Trying to concentrate. Hoping they didn't get stopped by the cops -- or, even worse, a couple of would-be carjackers in ski masks. It all added to the excitement.

Sharleen bent her head, tantalizingly licking the tip of his penis, her lightning-fork tongue flicking this way and that. After he was suitably turned on, she sat back and began unbuttoning her silk shirt, revealing a lacy black bra.

One eye on the road. One eye on her. "Take it off, baby," he muttered, hard as the proverbial rock.

"Should I?" she teased.

"Do it," he said tensely, the pressure building.

"Well."

"Do it!"

She slipped off her silk shirt and unclipped her lacy bra. Sharleen had the best breasts in Hollywood -- untouched by plastic surgeon, they were full and firm, topped with juicy hard nipples.

"Oh, Jesus!" Mac groaned, swerving the car to the side of the road.

Sharleen enjoyed enslaving him. "Jesus has nothing to do with it," she murmured sweetly.

"Wasn't that Sharleen Wynn?" the stud asked, barely able to keep the awe out of his voice.

"Huh?" Jordanna said vaguely, screeching to an abrupt stop at the head of the driveway.

"Sharleen Wynn," he repeated, looking like a reject drummer from a grungy rock band, with his long greasy hair, scruffy clothes, and dime-store shades.

"I'm surprised you know who Sharleen Wynn is," Jordanna remarked, getting out of the car.

"Sure I know who she is," the stud said somewhat indignantly. "My dad had a copy of Playboy with her on the cover. Kept it by his bed for months."

"Lucky him."

"Nice tits."

"Never mind about hers, how about mine?" Jordanna said boldly, pressing up against him.

He took the hint and started to kiss her. Long, hard kisses with plenty of tongue action.

She decided this one had possibilities. "Come along," she said, pulling him onto the path leading to the guesthouse.

"Aren't we goin' inside?" he asked, sounding disappointed.

"My apartment's in back." She laughed, a brittle laugh. "It's more fun back there. Trust me."

"If you say so," he said, grabbing her ass.

"Then be a good little boy and follow me all the way to an incredible time."

"I'm right behind you."

I bet you are, she thought. Pretty girl. Great wheels. Magnificent mansion. What's to lose?

She'd picked him up at a music-industry party, attracted by his black jeans. There was something about skinny guys in tight jeans that really got her attention. It reminded her of visiting one of her father's sets when she was ten and meeting Teddy Costa, a hot young actor with the best butt in the business. The very thought of Teddy had taken her through puberty, until at the age of fifteen she'd casually dropped by his trailer during the making of another of Jordan's films and seduced him.

Teddy Costa had taken her virginity and never called. Who said life was fair?

Jordanna was five feet six inches tall. Not conventionally pretty, she had a beauty, strength, and wildness that most men found quite addictive. Her eyes were dark and penetrating, the curve of her finely arched eyebrows a challenge. Her nose was just a fraction too long for perfection, but her high cheekbones balanced her oval face, and her lips were naturally full and luscious. She had a sharply etched jawline and deeply suntanned skin. Her long raven hair hung casually tangled below her shoulders. Her body was athletic, slim, and sensuous. She looked more European than American, her looks inherited from her mother's side of the family. Her mother, the beautiful Lillianne, had been half French, half Brazilian. A lethal combination.

"You got a great ass," her stud for the night said.

Mister Romance. She hoped he knew what to do in bed. So many of them couldn't get it up anymore -- show 'em a condom and they lost the urge.

It wasn't easy being a single girl in L.A. in the nineties. In fact, it wasn't easy being a single girl anywhere.

Men. They were either gay, into kinky sex, cheating on their wives, mamas' boys, jerks, drug users, cheats, pimps, or -- the worst kind -- actors.

Mention the name Jordan Levitt, and she could have any actor she wanted. Except that an actor was the last person she wanted. Egocentric jerks. Me-me-me. My life. My look. My career.

She flung open the door to her apartment, and the stud followed her into chaos. So she wasn't the tidiest person in the world. Big deal, she was hardly planning a two-page spread in House Beautiful.

The stud was primed and ready to go -- he didn't care about her housekeeping skills. Grabbing her, he pressed himself up against her, kissed her twice, then his rough hands began exploring under her T-shirt.

The phone rang. Her machine picked up, and the sound of her recorded voice filled the air. "Yo -- don't waste my time -- if you got something to say, go for it now."

The machine bleeped. Her father's voice, "Hello, skinny bird. You missed my movie. They liked it. Where were you?"

I was out trying to get laid, Daddy. And don't call me skinny bird-you know I hate it, almost as much as I hate your latest wife. Christ! Is age making you senile? She's the worst one yet. A phony, sweet-talking, perfect little bitch on wheels.

"Hey --" The stud began, going for the zipper on her jeans.

She'd lost interest. "It's over," she said, slapping his hands away.

He didn't believe what he was hearing. "What's over?" he asked belligerently.

"Our incredible time," she said, anxious to get rid of him.

"Now wait a minute-" he began.

She flung open the door. "Out," she said firmly.

He blinked twice. "Ya gotta be shittin' me."

"I have a black belt in karate," she lied, flexing her muscles. "Wanna put it to the test?"

He wasn't taking any risks. "How'm I supposed to get home?" he whined.

"You'll find a way," she said, hustling him through the door.

God, how she hated whiners! Why couldn't anybody stand up to her? There was only one man who'd managed that feat, and he was dead.

Jamie, her darling brother. The only person who'd really understood her, because they'd shared so much. Being the offspring of celebrity parents was no joke, but at least they'd had each other, and that had meant everything -- until Jamie had checked out without so much as a goodbye. He'd jumped from a skyscraper window in New York when he was twenty and she was just sixteen.

To this day she couldn't bring herself to think about his suicide.

Jamie wasn't the only one who'd met an early death. There was also her best friend, Fran, whose father was a major-league comedy star. Fran and she had grown up together, close as sisters. They'd loved each other dearly, in spite of the fact that they'd argued over everything -- especially men. Fran used to hang out with three dumb Italian guys, whose favorite pastime was screwing her in turn. Two of them were bit-part actors, and the third was a would-be singer. Fran -- who was usually too stoned to know any better -- thought it was cool to service them one by one. The guys viewed her as a major slut, which infuriated Jordanna, because she saw Fran as losing it big time.

"What are you getting out of this?" she'd demand angrily.

"Love. Attention. Sensational sex."

"Give me a break."

"What's the matter, Jordanna -- jealous?"

Yeah, sure, jealous of three dumb creeps jumping your bones every chance they get.

Fran took an overdose on her seventeenth birthday.

At first Jordanna couldn't believe it. She'd felt numb -- as if nothing mattered anymore. And then reality had set in and she'd wanted revenge, so she'd "borrowed" her father's gun, tracked the three Italian guys to their favorite club, and come on to them -- leading them to believe they'd found another dumb little rich girl to admire their overinflated egos. Back at their apartment, she'd pulled the gun, informed them of Fran's suicide, and messed with their minds, threatening to blow them away. By the time she'd finished intimidating them, they weren't so cool anymore -- just three nervous jerks with limp dicks.

The trouble with men was that most of them had no balls. Except her father. Jordan Levitt had balls enough for an army.

Sometimes she thought about Jamie and Fran. Just as she sometimes thought about her mother, the exquisitely beautiful Lillianne, who'd been dragged off to a mental institution when Jordanna was six. A few weeks later the fragile and famous Lillianne had slit her wrists and died a lonely, messy death.

Daddy had mourned for a good three months before marrying the first of four other wives. Kim was number five. Why did he have to keep getting married? What was wrong with staying single for a while?

Jordanna sighed. The truth was, if he could do what he wanted, so could she. There was nothing and nobody to stop her.

She considered phoning him back, then decided against it. She knew exactly what he'd say. Are you all right, skinny bird? Do you need money? When are we going to see you?

Her answers were always the same. Yes, Daddy. No, Daddy. Soon.

He loved her. In his own way.

She clung to the knowledge that he did. Without it she had nothing.

Sharleen climaxed with a piercing shriek. Mac was surprised the occupants of the house they were parked outside didn't come running out to see what was going on. Would they get a surprise if they did! A half-naked movie star and a world-renowned director. What the Enquirer wouldn't give for that picture!

Sharleen began wriggling into her clothes, while Mac resumed his position behind the steering wheel. Soon they were on their way home to Pacific Palisades, where they shared a large house with Sharleen's sixteen-year-old daughter and Mac's seventeen-year-old twin sons from a previous marriage.

As soon as they hit Sunset, Mac drove fast, constantly checking the rearview mirror, making sure they weren't being followed. Crime was on his mind a lot. Two months ago some tall, skinny cokehead had sprung out at him in an underground parking structure, shoved a gun in his stomach, and demanded his solid-gold Rolex. He'd slipped it off his wrist and handed it over without a word. Once the robber had fled, Mac regretted the fact that he hadn't put up a fight.

He would never admit it to Sharleen, but after the incident he'd felt less of a man. Whenever he related the tale to his friends he made light of it, but deep down he was sick that he hadn't fought back. Now he carried an unregistered gun, and screw anybody who tried to take him.

Back in his Brooklyn days he'd had real balls. Was it possible that twenty years in Hollywood had softened him up?

Sometimes he thought his entire life was a dream-from amateur boxer in Brooklyn to Oscar-winning director in Hollywood. Quite a leap. With a little help from his friends.

He tried not to think about the old days-his past was buried, and he didn't want anyone digging it up. The one time he'd done someone from his past a favor, it had ended in disaster. After that no more favors. Mac was an expert at keeping a low profile as far as his early beginnings were concerned. The truth would blow everyone's mind.

Lately he'd had a strong urge to get rid of the yellow Rolls and buy a less conspicuous car. Unfortunately Sharleen wouldn't allow it; she was into image in a big way, and as far as she was concerned the Rolls said it all.

As they approached their house he noticed two police cars with blinking lights up ahead. "Goddamn it!" he muttered. Cops always made him uncomfortable-a hangover from his Brooklyn days.

"What?" Sharleen said.

"There's two police cars parked outside our house."

"Why?" Sharleen asked, reaching for her powder compact.

"If I knew, I'd tell you," he replied shortly.

She studied her perfectly made up face in the small compact mirror and began applying more lipstick. "I suggest you find out."

Beautiful and sexy as she was, sometimes Sharleen got on his nerves. "Sweetheart," he said, trying hard not to let his aggravation show, "that's exactly what I intend to do."

Copyright © 1994 by Jackie Collins

Read More Show Less

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Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 30, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    raunchy

    Really raunchy!! I am not a Jackie Collis fan and now I remember why....

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted July 28, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Good Read, But Long

    This was a good read, but very long. Plus she always has so many characters that it takes awhile for you to remember who is who. I would read this book again.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 8, 2005

    Never disappoints

    Jackie Collins never disappoints. It has been awhile since I have read one of her books and when I started this one, I questioned why. She is a wonderful writer.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 19, 2004

    An Energetic Storyline....

    Jackie Collins' work is a constant reminder that very few writers are born with the craft in tow. I read Hollywood kids during one weekend! Her work is never outdated! You'll love to hate these characters!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 16, 2002

    An expected Masterpiece

    I am a fan of Jackie Collins, so when i started to read Hollywood Kids...I knew I was in for wild sex, lies, murder and romance. This book was sensational....a definite page turner....I'm on my way to the bookstore to buy yet another Jackie Collins book. :)

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 31, 2000

    DEFINITE PAGE TURNER

    I am very impressed. I couldn't put it down from page one. I wish I would have read it sooner. I have so much to catch up on. A must read....

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 23, 1999

    okay

    i am reading this book right now. it is pretty wild.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 26, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 27, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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