Rizzo knew beaches. She was from the Venice part of Los Angeles' Westside, and it wasn't called Venice Beach for nothing. Still, the island was somethin' else when it came to stretching out in a swimsuit and surveying the sights, as it were.
And, honestly, she'd lucked out
in the swimsuit department.... the sexy cut, the jungle theme, and she could have sworn it was a dead ringer for one of Bettie Page's more knock-out pin-ups. And there wasn't a thing about her far more famous namesake she didn't wanna emulate. Hell, she'd be in one of those grainy flicks with the riding crops and garters up to there if it meant she got to meet her idol.
Still, reclining on a pink beach towel with a big black pair of sunglasses, she couldn't help but feel she loved the livin' daylights out of that clothesbox. Except for all the junk she had to dig through in the meanwhile, but hey, a girl always did have to put out to get hers. Now all she needed was a radio to spout some good ol' rock and roll and some sneaky pete to kick things up a notch, and she'd be in business. And maybe some cigarettes. She just hadn't been the same since she'd run out, and that was the biggest cryin' shame of all.