Power Games

Everyone knew Noah had gone the way they’d expected him to, bailing on school and drifting the streets: a loser, a troublemaker, a failure, a lost cause …

And yeah, maybe they were right. Maybe all he’d end up doing with his life was fucking married women in their pool houses while their husbands went out to work. He’d be hauling crates for Hank the rest of his days, earning six dollars an hour and trying to remember the name of the last girl he’d slept with.

Noah lost his appetite for the hot dog and tossed it in the trash.

A van pulled up outside Hank’s and began unloading a delivery. Noah grabbed a couple of crates and headed through the door, colliding almost instantly with the most incredible-looking girl he had ever seen in his life.

The crates went smashing to the floor.

‘I’m sorry!’ The girl dropped to her knees, attempting to gather the mess.

‘Don’t , ’ he knelt, ‘it’s glass.’

‘Ow!’

A prickle of blood flowered on her index finger. She sucked it.

For the first time in all his sixteen years, Noah Lawson was tongue-tied. The girl looked up at him, her eyes a deeper shade of green than he had known existed. Her skin was pale except for a flash of colour at the cheekbones.

‘I’m Noah,’ he blurted.

She took the finger from her mouth and inspected it. ‘It’s just a graze.’

‘It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

I was looking at you, he thought. Why haven’t I been looking at you for every second of every minute of every hour of my life?

‘Angela,’ she said, with a tentative smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Me too.’

She stood. He joined her. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other.

‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked.

‘Aren’t you meant to be working?’

‘I can come back.’ He didn’t care. ‘Let me.’

That shy smile again. ‘OK.’

The exit chimed just as Hank, the store’s owner, came through.

‘What the hell’s just happened out here—?’

But the door was already swinging shut behind them.

Noah Lawson did walk Angela home, that day and the whole summer after. He could have walked her to the ends of the earth and back, and still never tired. He knew from that very first day that he would never be able to share her with anyone.

11

London

It was Saturday night and Kevin Chase was performing live on The Craig Winston Show. He hated gigging in tight studio spaces, so close to the primly seated front row it felt as if he was screaming the lyrics in their faces. It reminded him of his audition with Cut N Dry: the panel of execs, Sketch looking on approvingly as he had sang and danced like a court buffoon until every muscle in his body hurt. It had gone to the wire between him and some stammering kid whose name he couldn’t remember.

The choice, Sketch told him later, had been easy.

Tonight marked the unveiling of his new single, the coming-of-age ‘Wise Up’. Recently commissioned by Cut N Dry in light of Kevin’s refusal to continue playing the pretty-boy-perfect role, it was about crossing the frontier into adulthood—or at least that was how Sketch had sold it. It wasn’t quite as sexy and edgy as Kevin had hoped for, but he supposed it was a start. At least it wasn’t about cuddly fucking toys.

‘ You say you wanna feel me, girl this is the real me, come right here and deal me, cos girl I wanna call ya, I swear I will enthral ya, baby take it all yeah … ’

The audience remained on their fat asses as Kevin charged the small stage, working his dance routines, the flaps of his knee-length Cavalli coat flying out behind him. A handful of Little Chasers had been admitted which prevented the whole thing becoming totally cringe-worthy, like he was an upstart kid flaunting his wares at a school assembly, and squealed their approval as he shuffled to the beat.

‘ I swear girl you’re so beautiful, you know I think you’re beautiful … ’

At this the Little Chasers squealed some more, and Kevin noticed through the blaring lights that one of them was at least his age, if not a couple years older. That was a novelty. She was pretty, too, with a thick dark fringe and sparkling eyes.

‘Be mine tonight, the best night of your life …’ He stepped off the stage, an impromptu move, and claimed the girl’s hand. Fingers snatched at him from all directions, mauling his clothes and tugging him close. But Kevin’s gaze remained on the girl’s. ‘Don’t put up a fight, let me hold you tight …’

The girl stared back at him in open worship, her lips sweetly parted.

Kevin hit the closing high note, tipping his head back to belt it, and before the lights went down he twirled once, brilliantly, on the spot, punching his arm high into the air. The applause was ear-splitting. Kevin returned to the stage to receive Craig Winston’s praise, and decided then that he would be banging that girl tonight.

‘ Never go with a fan. ’

That had been one of Sketch’s first nuggets of advice.

But Sketch wasn’t here now, was he?

The girl was. His assistant had sorted it.

‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ the girl told him, her voice shaking wildly as she perched on a chair in his dressing room. Kevin was busy peeling off his suit.

‘You don’t mind …’ he gestured to his bare, sweat-drenched torso, ‘do you?’

She blushed and turned away. ‘I, er …’

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, relishing the power. This was a different kind of power to the power he felt on stage. Sexual. Potent. Animalistic.

It would be his first time. Great that she was older, she could steer him if he needed it, but his own pleasure would be paramount. It was the golden combination.

‘M-Marie,’ she faltered.

‘That’s a pretty name.’

Kevin kept his pants on for now. He was conscious that he hadn’t yet got hard. When were you supposed to? Now? When she got her tits out? After it went in?

He stroked her hair. ‘You like me, don’t you?’ he warbled.

‘Yes,’ Marie choked.

‘I bet you never thought you’d be here, right?’

‘N-no.’

He leaned down. ‘I’m going to have sex with you,’ he whispered.

Marie’s eyes were pools of lust. She tried to kiss him.

‘Not yet,’ he told her. ‘Take your top off.’

Her fingers trembling, Marie undid the buttons of her shirt. Underneath she was wearing a plain white bra. Her stomach was pale and smooth and she had a constellation of freckles on her chest. Kevin reached to touch them. Slowly his hand moved lower, cupping her breast. It felt heavy in his palm, like a balloon filled with water. He handled it enquiringly, as if he were testing the weight of a bag of sugar. He moved to the other one, and her nipple stiffened under his thumb.

Marie tucked her arms behind her back and released the clasp. Her tits sprang into view, full and white. Kevin registered a faint ripple of longing, obstructed before it reached his groin: a message that wasn’t quite computing.

He continued to fondle distractedly, like a chef oiling a cut of pork.

‘Do you like them?’ Marie asked in a small voice.

He supposed so. ‘Yeh.’

For Marie it was a green light. Quick as a flash, she was fumbling into his underpants, attempting to release his coiled-up dick.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked when he pulled away.

‘Nothin’,’ he grunted. ‘You done this before?’

Marie lifted her chin. ‘Course.’

‘Good.’

As if to prove it, Marie shuffled out of her skirt and knickers and stood before him in all her naked glory. Kevin watched the triangle of fuzz between her legs, warily, as if it were an animal about to pounce. Still he felt nothing.

Maybe he should speak to Sketch about increasing his vitamin dosage.

One blue pill, one red pill, every day like clockwork—he had to stay healthy, Sketch vowed, keep ahead of the competition. The pills were a special formula designed to soothe, relax and nourish. Kevin had been guzzling them for as long as he could remember. Given how out of control he had felt lately, he dreaded the thought of what he would be reduced to without them. Without them, he might die.

Joan had made sure in those early days that he never missed a pill. Do what Sketch says, honey; Sketch knows best. Of course Sketch knew best. Sketch always did. It was gruesome how much of a brownnose Joan was—all yes, Sketch this and yes, Sketch that. Her head was so far up Sketch’s ass you could practically see her toenails in the seat of his pants.

‘Can I give you a blowjob?’

Kevin looked down at his dangling appendage. Maybe once it got in Marie’s mouth it would start doing something. But that never happened in porn. The guy’s penis was already an upright, splendid spear—not a flaccid, starved little thing that resembled a gerbil at the bottom of a cage. He wanted to weep.

Kevin backed up. ‘Actually, I don’t think—’

Marie moved like lightning. She was a substantial size, the same height as him easily, and threw him against the dressing room door. Tits smashed against his chest and her glossy lips attacked his face. He could feel her warm, fruit-scented breath, and before he knew it she was clasping his dick, rubbing it with the flat of her hand, up and down, up and down, until the friction started to burn.

‘Stop it.’ He took her wrist. It hurt. ‘Back off a second.’

‘Let me, Kevin, please,’ she begged. ‘I promise it’ll be good—’

‘No—’

‘I’ll swallow. I promise to swallow—’

‘Stop!’ Kevin pushed her away. Marie stood, helpless, attempting to cover her modesty now the glow of their union was off the cards.

Her bottom lip wobbled. She was about to cry. Great.

‘Get dressed,’ he told her, as kindly as he could. This wasn’t her fault.

‘But …’

‘Just do it!’ he roared. ‘Get dressed and get out. Now!’

With a series of whimpers, Marie took her time pulling on her clothes, waiting for him to change his mind and ask her to stay. When he didn’t, she miserably hauled open the door and slunk outside, her eyes brimming with tears.

Kevin closed the door. He sank to the floor, his head in his hands, trembling.

He felt awful. What a fucking disaster.

12

Eve Harley paced her Kensington apartment and decided that she would do just about anything right now for a glass of wine. Scratch that, a bottle.

Orlando was due in thirty minutes. She was trying everything she could to distract herself, tidying things pointlessly, rearranging possessions, even attempting to settle down with her item on Mitch Corrigan, but nothing could train her mind.

Their encounter hurtled towards her like a nuclear explosion.

It wasn’t Eve’s style to be nervous. Her job landed her in dozens of compromising positions and she knew how to handle herself. But this wasn’t work.

For once, her private life was centre stage. It was an uncomfortable spotlight.

Her anxiety at seeing him wasn’t helped when she flicked on the TV and caught him live at his London engagement. Orlando was opening a restaurant in Chelsea with a popular TV chef, out on the carpet shaking hands, cameras scattering the night with stars, and his pristine, moneyed grin flashing white in the storm.

In the end, he was late. An hour passed before the buzzer sounded.

Eve had never invited him to her home before. Personal space was off limits, always had been with her boyfriends (not that he was one of those), and the arrangement with Orlando was no exception. As if she was giving something away by letting him see where she’d come from. There wasn’t a great deal of personal memorabilia about the place, and certainly no family photographs, but even so.

Predictably he grabbed her as soon as he walked through the door.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, gathering her into his arms and nuzzling her neck. He smelled expensive, of leather and cashmere scarves, of warm winter coats.

She pushed against him, went to begin, but he stopped her with a kiss.

‘So this is new,’ Orlando murmured, enjoying the game, ‘calling me up out of the blue—what’s going on?’

Eve stepped away. He mimicked her frown before realising she was serious.

‘Is everything cool?’ he asked.

‘Not really.’ A beat. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Sounds serious.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘OK if I take off my coat?’

She nodded, watching him shrug out of his jacket and hang it on the back of a chair. At last his eyes roamed over her flat, refined by nature of its postcode but still scant compared with the opulence to which he was accustomed. The entirety of it amounted to his en-suite bathroom. Nevertheless, he broke the tension:

‘Nice place.’

Eve wanted to blurt it. Knew she shouldn’t.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘A beer would be good.’

She returned with the bottle, cracked the cap and sat down.

‘Look,’ Orlando said, joining her, ‘if this is about Angela I can’t help. I don’t know what she’s doing in Vegas and my father won’t tell us a damn thing. So if it’s that you want then you’ve come to the wrong—’

‘It isn’t.’ Eve waited until he had taken a sip of his beer, wiped his hand across his mouth and then she said: ‘Orlando, I’m pregnant.’

His expression didn’t change.

Eve remembered his teasing on the phone. What was the deal? Couldn’t it wait? He wasn’t planning to be in town for a couple of weeks, couldn’t she hold off having him till then? She would have to; she went in on the joke, acted like it was nothing but every hour since the news had been agony. She had consulted her GP and conception was cited as the New Year. That meant she was coming up for nine weeks.

Eve hadn’t thought anything when she’d skipped her first period—she had never been one of those women who could count it by the day.

‘Well?’ she ventured.

His face was steady and she wondered if this had happened to him before. What was earth-moving to her was another pain in the ass for him. That stung.

‘How?’ Orlando asked.

‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’

He nicked his chin, the shadow of a beard. ‘We’ve always used protection.’

‘It can still happen.’

Eve looked down to her lap. She hated that she had to cut the apologetic figure. It wasn’t Orlando making her feel that way, just the role the woman had to fill. This was happening to her. It was her body and therefore her problem.

The chair scraped back. Orlando stood. ‘How long?’

‘Nearly three months.’

‘And you just found out?’

‘I did a test in Italy. I called you straight away. I wanted you to know but I felt it was important to tell you face to face.’

‘Why didn’t you do it sooner?’

She chose not to react against the note of accusation in his voice. He was in shock, just as she had been. Just as she still was.

‘First month it was nothing unusual. Second month, it was. That’s when I did the test. The weeks add up. So do the days. Every minute that passes …’

‘What next?’ He turned to the window, put his hands in his pockets. His back was taut, the muscles beneath his shirt strained. She wished she could tell what he was thinking, but at the same time dreaded it. Supposing he wanted to keep this baby?

Eve wasn’t ready to become a parent. Analysing it, she didn’t expect she would ever feel ready. Her own experience had been enough to put her off for life. Her father had been a terrible, violent man. All her memories were riddled with his vile disease.

Who was to say that Eve wouldn’t mess it up as spectacularly as he had? That the damage she had been subjected to wouldn’t be transferred to her own child?

Who could promise, really promise, that that wouldn’t happen?

She dreamed of her baby. It had the eyes of her father and she hated it on sight.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Orlando asked, turning to her.

At first she didn’t understand. Then, when she did, relief hit—but it was tinged with an unexpected shiver of resentment. He had assumed, albeit correctly, that she was set on abortion. Was she that obvious? Could he read it in her face?

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

She was definite. She didn’t need Orlando tagging along, holding her hand and saying all the wrong things. It would be a cold contract, not dissimilar to their relationship, in and out in a day and she would deal with it by herself.

She couldn’t think of it as a person, just a thing inside her that wasn’t yet born.

What kind of life could she give it? She wasn’t fit to be a mother, and as for her situation with Orlando—they could never provide their child with anything stable.

‘I’m glad you feel the same,’ she said. It sounded hollow.

Orlando nodded. Out on the street, car horns blared. Normal life continued; it was only their bubble that had burst. Eve didn’t recognise the serious, dark-eyed man in front of her. Their relationship so far had been defined by sex and secrets, by the thrill of the chase and a no-strings respect that left both their consciences clean.

All that had been severed. Always a string would now bind them, the cord of this misfortune, and it would throttle anything they had.

The ending made her sadder than she expected.

‘Is it mine?’

His question came out of the blue. It hit her like a slap, cold and sharp.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Is it?’

‘How dare you. You arsehole.’

‘I had to ask.’

‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to at all.’

Orlando sat down, but she pushed her own seat away.

‘You have to admit,’ he said softly, ‘we don’t know each other. I’m checking.’

‘You’re insulting.’

‘So there’s been no one else?’ His voice was quiet. Different.

To her mortification Eve blinked back the hot stem of tears.

Don’t cry! She never cried. It was the sheer injustice of his accusation, this lead weight she had been carrying around, the fear she had faced all alone, no one to share it with until now—and now she had, he had treated her as little more than a slut.

‘Yes,’ she lied. She didn’t know why. She wanted him to be jealous, maybe, or simply to prove him right, to drive him away for good. ‘But it isn’t his.’

Orlando stayed quiet a while before he said: ‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does to me.’

‘The timing’s yours. It’s definitely yours.’

But when she looked up she could see that she had lost him.

Fine—if that’s what you think, think it!

She wanted him to hurt. She was hurt, why should he get off free?

‘I need you to go,’ she said.

Orlando looked like he was about to say something, then he changed his mind.

‘You’ll let me know?’ he said, slipping on his coat and making for the door. His bearing was cool, professional, playing out the motions.

‘Yes.’

‘I guess that’s it, then.’

‘I guess.’

The door opened. ‘Goodbye, Eve.’

Eve didn’t say it back. She waited until she heard the door close, a soft, final hush, and his footsteps travel down the stairs. Only then did she let the tears fall.

13

Washington, D.C.

MITCH CORRIGAN: WHO IS THE MAN BEHIND THE MASK?

In spite of the blonde head plunging determinedly up and down in his lap, Republican senator Mitch Corrigan couldn’t stop staring worriedly at the article that had landed on his desk that morning. He squinted at the byline.

Eve Harley.

Vaguely he recalled her. She had talked to him here at the Farley Senate Building, before he had left for Italy. Tenacious. Persistent. Borderline rude. And now she had published a piece on his ‘hidden persona’. Exactly what he didn’t need.

Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the mouth clamped around his dick. His wife’s gem-laden fingers were spread across his thighs, her lips going methodically to work with as much eroticism as a fundraiser bobbing for apples.

Seated at his mahogany bureau, from the waist up Mitch Corrigan was any ordinary politician—tie neat, collar pressed and cufflinks polished. Only his flushed face was a clue to what was going on beneath: pants down by his ankles, shirt untucked, and his wife’s tongue catching and flicking his struggling dick as if it were a melting ice-pop. Finally, Mitch came. It was a ragged, unsettled climax.

He couldn’t stop staring at that venomous write-up.

Mitch Corrigan made me uneasy … He might have been a film star, but the time for acting is over … How can he convince a nation if he can’t convince me?

Melinda sat back and flipped open a compact from her Louis Vuitton purse.

‘Stop looking at it: it’s just some witch out to grab a headline.’

Mitch tucked his shirt and zipped his flies. ‘For a man in my position I’d say that headline was a substantial concern, wouldn’t you?’

‘Our marriage is also a substantial concern,’ Melinda complained, shooting him her best martyred expression, ‘but I don’t see you caring half as much about that.’

Mitch gulped his guilt like a lump of cotton wool. He shuffled the papers on his desk, moving Eve Harley’s Examiner piece to the bottom of the pile. The Melinda he had married two decades ago had been a sweet, innocent girl, unimpressed by money or fame. She had always kept his feet on the ground, stuck with him through the drugs, the drink, the partying and the depression. Now that girl was gone.

‘Don’t you care, Mitch?’ she spat. ‘Go on, have the guts to tell me the truth.’

Truth. The word shivered between them, a caped stranger.

The world would never believe the truth. It could never understand.

His phone buzzed. ‘They’re ready for you, Senator Corrigan.’

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he told Melinda, clicking his briefcase shut.

His speech went down a storm. Mitch was unsurpassed when it came to putting on a show. He was master of the persuasive address, the loaded pause and the witty riposte. His years in Hollywood had served him well.

He might have been a film star, but the time for acting is over …

Eve Harley was a clueless hack whose job it was to sniff out heat, even when there was nothing to back it up. Mitch was careful. The press would never get to him.

Afterwards, a posse of reporters was lobbying for a word. Microphones lunged as he paced through the foyer. ‘What’s next, Senator Corrigan? Is 2014 your year?’

Mitch turned at the door to his committee, winning smile resolutely in place. After feeding them their quota of practised lines, he slipped into his antechamber.

Checking there was no one else around, he located the bathroom.

Mitch had a diehard bathroom routine. He could not do the business unless any and all cubicles behind him were vacant. The stalls had to be open, wide open, so he could see into them. He refused to have his back to a closed door.

If you want my ass so bad you’ll have to damn well find it first!