Wicked Ambition

Jax wanted stardom, that was the distinction between them, and The Bullet didn’t care how he got it. For Leon, it was different. He trained, he ran and he focused. Yet his first steps back on American soil and he was being treated like a movie star. He’d never got into it for celebrity; he didn’t care about that. He ran to win.

‘Do you think you’ll ever beat him?’

Leon stopped. ‘Sure, I’ll beat him. This isn’t the final score.’

‘Is The Bullet impossible to outrun?’

‘Nothing’s impossible.’ An image of Jax’s trademark gold vest clouded Leon’s vision. Emblazoned on its back was the tip of a bullet in flight. ‘When you’re at the top, the only way is down. Jax is on borrowed time. I’m the one to watch.’

The Compton house where Leon grew up was like any other on the street, a grey one-storey villa protected behind a barred steel gate. Out front was a yard—his mom kept it nice as she could but the grass was tired and yellowing and a football lay part deflated by the trash. There was nothing remarkable about the place, nothing to suggest it had once been the scene of a brutal crime, but scratch the surface and the scars were there. They said that the years would heal, but each time Leon returned it ached as deeply as it had twelve years ago.

Paint was flaking off the gate, the catch stiff. If only they would let him buy them someplace else, his mom and sister, but they refused. Memories were all they had left.

A couple of kids rode past on their bikes. Leon turned, dipping his cap so he didn’t get recognised, but even so they circled a few times at the end of the street.

‘You’re Leon Sway, right?’ one of them asked. ‘No way, this is dope! My mom said you used to live round here!’

‘Tell your mom I said hi.’

‘No shit, I will. You hanging for a while?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re the coolest, man. How’d you get to be so fast?’

‘Practice. Discipline.’

‘Doesn’t it get boring?’

‘Never.’

‘If you raced a bike who’d win?’

‘Me.’

‘If you raced a car who’d win?’

‘Me.’

‘If you raced a lion who’d win?’

‘Me.’

The kid laughed uncertainly. ‘You’re funny.’

‘See you around.’

The boys rode off. The one who’d spoken did a wheelie and thumped the arm of the other kid, calling him a wuss for staying quiet.

Leon put his key in the lock, stopping to ready himself against the ghosts of the past. In another life Marlon would be on the other side, his arms wide open.

Hey, little bro. Want to shoot some hoops?

But it was this life that counted. And his brother wasn’t here any more.

Marlon Sway had been nineteen when he’d died. As one of the most promising athletes on the circuit, he had been destined for greatness, the Sydney Games locked in his sights. He’d been returning from the club one night when a street fight had broken out. Somehow he had got mixed up…a gang conflict spun out of control…a stray bullet…a wrong place, wrong time…Perhaps he had tried to intervene, ever the peacemaker, but wasn’t that worse? He had been caught in the crossfire. Marlon had staggered home with a punctured lung. Yards from his front door, he had collapsed on the road and his heart had stopped beating.

It had been twelve years and still Leon couldn’t pick at the scab, afraid it would bleed as easily as it had when the wound was first made.

He remembered it as if it were yesterday. A deafening sound that split the world in two; the unmistakeable crack of ammo tearing the sky. Instinct had compelled him to run from their home, out on to the street, a feeling in his gut that this was bad. He hadn’t known what it was to run until that moment. Time had fallen away quicker than water as his brother’s body, slumped and lifeless, had lurched closer. Be faster…be faster…

Each and every race he ran, in Tucson, in London, in Athens, in whatever competition and wherever it was, he was there, on that rainy night in Compton when his brother was lost. The splinter of the starting pistol was all he needed. Instead of the line, he’d see Marlon. He’d hear his mom screaming, a violent, feral sound. His brother’s eyes, empty. Marlon hadn’t looked asleep, he hadn’t looked peaceful; none of the things people said were true.

If I’d been quicker, I could have beaten this. I could have stopped it.

It was the need to always be faster, to make it in time that powered Leon’s sprint from that day and in all the days to come. For as long as he came in second, he wasn’t fast enough. He was too late. He was tormented by the idea that had he reached Marlon sooner there could have been a chance at life, a flickering ember he could have roused…

Or at least to have been there when his brother died, so that he hadn’t been alone.

Before he turned the key to his family home, Leon rested his forehead against the door. Twelve years, and it might as well be twelve days. Closing his eyes, he let the memory settle, waiting for it to scatter like light on water. He missed his brother so much.

Marlon was the reason he ran. For him he would run and run until he couldn’t run any more, he would run till his heart gave up and his strength gave in. That was his destiny.

If anyone stood in his way, they would be taken down. Jax Jackson included.

‘Leon, honey, is that you?’

The door clicked open and his mother emerged from the kitchen.

‘Hello, Ma,’ he said, squeezing her tight. ‘I’m home.’

12

‘Gorgeous.’ The photographer clicked away as a stylist rushed to adjust the hem of Kristin’s gown. ‘And lift your arms one more time? That’s it! Beautiful.’

She was shooting cover art for her new album, Heaven, which involved being suspended from the rafters of a studio warehouse with stirrups digging in under her arms. A shimmering halo was bolted to the back of her head and the robes had to be twenty feet long at least, pooling to the floor in swathes of frosted ivory that were meant to look celestially sylphlike but were in fact dragging her down like a lead anchor.

So this was what it felt like being an angel for the afternoon…uncomfortable.

‘Smile, then, Kristin!’ her mother barked from the floor.

‘I am.’

‘Not from where we’re sitting.’ Ramona White was cross-legged at the wardrobe girl’s table, busy applying lipstick. ‘Think of the fans. Do you think they want to see you looking miserable? You’re selling a lifestyle, remember, not just a handful of ditties.’

Kristin hated when her mother insisted on coming to shoots and interviews and anything else she was perfectly capable of handling alone. She’d been years in the industry now and didn’t need Ramona to hold her hand. It was humiliating; it undermined her reputation and made her appear weak and unable to make decisions, hauling Mommy along to look out for her. Doubly challenging when her mother insisted on criticising everything she did, which made Kristin invariably revert to the role of frustrated teenager storming off and slamming her bedroom door. For the sake of today, she bit her tongue.

‘Almost done,’ the photographer lied. Kristin knew it would be an hour at least before she could be brought back to earth and the stills hit the can. ‘Everything OK up there?’

She was determined to retain her professionalism despite her mother’s carping. ‘Fine.’

‘If we could have you gazing up, eyes nice and wide, that’s it…Let’s try one with hands together, in prayer…Loving it, sweetheart, that’s awesome…’

‘I don’t like it,’ snapped Ramona. ‘She looks too whimsical.’

‘That’s what we’re going for, Mrs White.’

‘It’s Mz.’

‘Sure.’

‘What about those poor kids, saving up their allowance to spend on this? They want to see friendly big-sister Kristin, don’t they? Not some scowling pre-Raphaelite.’

‘Kristin’s fan base is growing and we should grow with them.’

Ramona’s mouth set in a grim line. Kristin could practically hear the thoughts turning over in her head. I’ve been doing this since the beginning, you moronic upstart. I created Kristin White and everything she is, every dime she’s made and every record she’s sold. Your fucking paycheck today comes down to me! But her mother stayed quiet.

‘Kristin, what do you think?’ asked the photographer, attempting diplomacy.

‘I’m happy with this approach.’

‘Then look it!’ crowed Ramona. The camera popped as Kristin fired a scowl in her mother’s direction. She couldn’t win. It was about control and always had been: the outcome was less important than the means used to reach it, and as long as Ramona had the last word and the final approval, she was content to proceed. Bunny abided by the same rules. Her sister was currently curled on a beanbag by the props closet, tapping away on her cell phone. She had a competition tonight, the last before the Mini Miss Marvellous rounds began, and according to Ramona could risk nothing in the run-up to ‘the ultimate pageant of all time’. Kristin wished she could take Bunny to the movies, or bowling, or a trip to the mall where they could get milkshakes and whisper behind their hands about boys—normal things that normal sisters did. Bunny was fourteen in two weeks’ time and was being made to dress and act like a forty-year-old. When would Ramona let up? Never?

Kristin’s eyes brimmed with tears. As far back as she could think her life had been about pleasing Ramona, doing what Ramona wanted to do and when, and her opinion didn’t matter at all. Just like now.

‘I want her facing us,’ concluded Ramona, ‘with her arms stretched wide. It’s much more inclusive.’ She resumed attending to important business on her BlackBerry.

The photographer acquiesced. As Kristin’s manager, her mother’s word was law. He smiled at Kristin somewhat sympathetically, making her want to burst into tears even more.

‘OK,’ he resumed. ‘Let’s try that out.’

Ninety minutes later the shoot was over. Bunny had fallen asleep and had to be shaken awake by Ramona because the competition was across town and they were yet to get her through make-up. Kristin checked her cell for a message from Scotty and was disappointed not to find one. Since returning from Tokyo they hadn’t been able to see much of each other. She missed him. She couldn’t explain it, but he seemed to be growing distant.

Was there someone else? There couldn’t be: aside from anything else, where would Scotty find the time? Every waking hour he spent either with her or with Fenton and the boys.

‘Go get ‘em, kiddo.’ She managed to give Bunny a fleeting hug before Ramona yanked her youngest daughter out the door. At least this meant she wouldn’t be around to peruse the stills: perhaps they could salvage the earlier shots, after all.

‘Your mom sure knows her mind,’ the photographer commented after they’d left.

Kristin sighed. ‘Tell me about it.’

Bunny White coughed violently as her mother blasted yet another flare of hairspray.

‘Isn’t that enough?’ she enquired timidly, meeting her bronzed-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life reflection in the mirror, and in the same flash catching Ramona’s icy glare.

‘I say when it’s enough.’

Bunny hurt. The sequins on her ball gown were sharp and uncomfortable, and when she touched her hair it felt like candyfloss, all sticky and fossilised.

‘Show me your smile.’

Bunny smiled.

‘More teeth.’

She smiled wider.

‘Good. Now hold it.’

She did as she was told, the muscles in her face aching despite their rigorous training. Her lipstick tasted horrible, like emulsion, and she was tired. For the last month she had been kept up each night practising her routines, and when that was done, her Q&As. Who was her role model? What was her favourite food? Where was her dream holiday? Which did she like best, strawberry or chocolate? All for the Mini Miss Marvellous showdown. Her mom wanted her to win as many titles as she could in the run-up to secure her position as the mightiest contender on the circuit. Intimidate the competition, she’d been instructed.

‘We’re ready for our princesses!’ A fat woman entered the girls’ dressing room, wibbling with excitement as she beckoned the entrants. ‘OK, everybody, file up onstage!’

A cacophony of squeals followed, the gaggle of baby beauty queens scrambling over each other with their stick-on hair and fake dangly earrings, desperate to reach the line first.

‘Elegance,’ snipped Ramona, holding Bunny’s shoulders in place with an iron grip. ‘A lady never rushes.’

Tonight’s head-to-head was freestyle dance. Ramona had chosen a medley of disco tunes to accompany her daughter’s sequence, and as ever their strongest challenger was Tracy-Ann Hamilton, who strutted her stuff like a dynamo. Partway through her routine Bunny started to flag, and it was only the steel-grey glower of her mother that compelled her to continue. As she turned and twisted, jumped and spun, executing the painstakingly choreographed steps with all the dedication she could muster, the circus of surrounding faces became a gawking, gruesome carousel of grasping would-be victors, she at its centre, floundering helplessly like an animal in the road about to be shot.

‘Adequate,’ appraised Ramona as she came off to thunderous applause. Bunny’s heart was pounding, her breath short, and she bent over to catch herself, thinking she might barf. ‘You mangled the jazz axles. Why? Didn’t we go through them enough times at home?’

She struggled to talk. ‘I thought my shoes were going to come off. They’re too big.’

‘Nonsense.’ Ramona knelt and roughly grabbed a stiletto, forcing Bunny to steady herself on her mother’s shoulder. ‘Stop leaning on me, Bunny, it’s amateur.’

‘Sorry.’

‘These are fine. Better too big than too small. If you weren’t complaining about this you’d be whining about blisters.’

‘And the winner of the Freestyle Miss Pretty California category is…’

‘Come on, you bitches!’ hissed Ramona.

‘Bunny White!’

‘YES!’ Ramona punched the air. Bunny looked up, waiting for congratulations but her mother was too busy accepting compliments from the envious parents around her. Seconds later she was being roughly pushed to the podium to collect the bouquet.

‘Curtsey! Curtsey!’ rasped Ramona from the side of the stage.

Bunny obliged, rictus smile in place. Fleetingly she wondered if Scotty would ever get to see her take the spotlight like this—maybe when she began to compete internationally, maybe then. Her heart leapt at the thought of his name alone. Where was he now? What was he thinking? All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and dream about him.

On the drive home she closed her eyes and tried to do just that. Not easy with Ramona grousing about how she could have been better, that with a little more work and taking things a little more seriously she could have been perfect, how nothing but perfection was good enough and how tonight they had been lucky…until she realised her daughter was asleep.

Before yielding to slumber, Bunny conjured Scotty’s face and imagined for the hundredth time kissing his lips. He hadn’t visited the house recently and this was a source of both relief and panic to Bunny: relief, because she didn’t have to see him vanishing into her sister’s room every day, tortured by what could be going on behind closed doors; and panic because if all that stopped then she might never ever see Scotty again as long as she lived.

Scotty was the only person in the world who could save her.

He was the only person she truly trusted.

He couldn’t be taken away from her. She’d die.

13

As it happened, Turquoise and Robin didn’t need to plan their hook-up in LA. Both stars had been booked on to America’s leading talk show Friday Later, and when they met in the green room they greeted each other like friends.

‘It’s good to see you,’ said Turquoise, giving her a hug. Robin made her feel like a protective older sister. Though the girl cultivated an air of invincibility, dressed in a tangerine T-shirt and skin-tight pants, her fringe falling over an extraordinary palette of make-up and a slash of flamingo-pink lipstick, Turquoise saw it for the mask it was. Robin acted as if she didn’t care: just her versus the world, a one-woman army. Why had she built so many walls?

‘Ditto.’ Robin beamed. ‘Hey, I heard you’ve got a movie coming up?’

Turquoise’s heart caught in her throat. She still hadn’t found a way to say no. Donna had insinuated that turning down the Cosmo Angel project would slam the door on future opportunities in Hollywood—major names were being attached and walking away could spell disaster. It was their only shot. The idea that Turquoise’s bête noir could not only rob her of her youth but of the dream she and Emaline had shared was an abomination.

She’d find a way out. She had to.

‘Possibly,’ she said vaguely. ‘It’s early days.’

‘Exciting, though, huh?’

She forced a smile. ‘Yeah.’

Cosmo kept a tight rein over his PR and news of his involvement couldn’t be broken yet: Donna had warned that tonight could bring up the proposed collaboration and had briefed her response. Their meeting in London with Sam Lucas had gone smoothly, and, as predicted, the part of Gloria, a rags-to-riches songbird, was the perfect role at the perfect time…What possible reason could she give Donna for her refusal? In the past she had made no bones about her desire to enter the movies. There was nothing whatsoever about the role—at least on paper—that she could feasibly take objection to.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Robin. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘On air in five!’ The producer passed through to check their mics. Turquoise could hear the audience being warmed up, laughter bleeding in from the studio.

‘Absolutely fine.’

Robin looked unconvinced and she teamed it with a decisive nod.

The style of Friday Later was to keep each guest on the sofa to join in conversation with the others, so, as the biggest star with the longest airtime, Turquoise was on first. Harry Dollar, the host, wasted no time in asking about her move into Hollywood.

‘I’d rather not jinx it,’ said Turquoise, with a coy expression that betrayed nothing of her ravaged nerves. ‘But it’s promising.’

‘Can you give us a clue?’ Harry appealed to the audience. ‘We want to know, don’t we?’ Turquoise re-crossed her legs, laughing along graciously. ‘I heard Sam Lucas’s name on the grapevine…?’

‘I couldn’t say, Harry. Really.’

‘But you can confirm we’ll be seeing you on the big screen very soon?’

The studio lights burned. The glare of the cameras swung round to capture her response, which for a second relinquished to a flicker. ‘Yes, you will.’

It was a relief when Robin was invited to join them. She talked fervently about her upcoming tour and the collaboration with Puff City.

‘I’m seeing them while I’m over,’ she enthused. ‘It’s a big deal for me—like, huge. These are the guys I had on my walls growing up. They’re legends.’

Last was a raconteur comedian, who steered them mercifully towards the end of the show. Afterwards Harry kissed Turquoise and told her she was ‘a woman of mystery’. If only he knew.

‘D’you want to hit the town?’ asked Robin.

‘Sure.’

They took a car to Chilean hangout Astro off Santa Monica. Robin had invited the comedian and his entourage and as they chatted carelessly on the way Turquoise wondered if she would ever reach a point in life where she could let go so easily. Would she ever enjoy a night without the hot breath of fear hovering at her shoulder? Would she ever meet new people and feel able to open up, to embrace their company without restraint? Would she ever escape the dread of having Cosmo Angel expose her, demolishing all she had strived for against inconceivable odds, in just a few poisonous words?

If Donna had her way, in a matter of days she would be shaking hands with her costar-to-be and signing the contract as easily as she signed away her fate.

Panic flooded over her. ‘Sorry…’ She fumbled to collect her purse. ‘I—I have to get out. Driver, pull over.’

Robin’s face was etched with worry. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t feel well. Please excuse me. I’ve got to go home.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No. Don’t. I’d rather you didn’t. It’s just a headache.’

‘Then let’s at least get hold of your car—’

‘I’m fine.’

The vehicle came to a stop. ‘I’ll call you,’ she said, before stepping out into the night, not caring if she was seen, hailing a cab like anyone ordinary and wishing with all her might she could be just a girl on the street, no one remarkable, invisible, untouchable, free.

Cosmo Angelopoulos liked to watch. Grace Turquoise got that pretty quick, the minute she turned up at the door to his Hollywood mansion and found a six-foot black girl waiting for her inside. The girl was drugged up to the eyeballs, reclining on a velvet sofa with her legs wide apart. Wordlessly Cosmo tore off Grace’s coat and pushed her to the floor.

‘Open your mouth, cunt,’ he directed. ‘And look like you’re enjoying it.’

She recognised Cosmo straight away. She had seen him in the papers, on TV, the twenty-something up-and-coming actor who was billed to take Hollywood by storm. Yes, he was staggeringly handsome. Yes, he resembled a young Marlon Brando with his brooding looks and muscular build. Yes, he had the face of a boy who would never say no to his mom. Who knew he was also a despicable pervert who liked to beat on women? But she was here to do a job, and as one of Madam Babydoll’s she couldn’t afford to disappoint.

Grace used her tongue in the way Cookie had shown her. The black girl’s thighs were strong and held her in place like a vice, hands snatching down to push her in deeper. It was salty and sweet and wet, and every time she broke for air Cosmo forced her back.

‘Keep goin’, bitch,’ he snarled, kneeling next to them for a front row seat. ‘You like that, don’t you, you greedy whore?’ Grace closed her eyes and concentrated on the task.

‘Oh, yeah…’ the girl moaned. ‘Yeah, baby, that feels so fine…’

Cosmo started to feel her up. He began by removing Grace’s thong, roughly dipping his fingers in, two or three at once, which made her gasp her discomfort. They were covered in a freezing cold gel that was meant to open her up but instead she contracted against. His thumb pushed violently into her ass, forcing her to cry out.

‘Get back to it, slut.’

The girl’s hips tilted to meet her and Grace forced herself to keep going, despite the pain. Cosmo freed his cock and slammed into her, grunting at her rear, snatching at her breasts and pushing in deeper and deeper till it felt like there was nothing left of her to give. With a gurgling whimper he climaxed. She felt a jet of warm liquid spurt across her back.

If she’d thought that was it, she was mistaken. Cosmo could go all night.

‘Your turn, bitch.’ He slapped the black girl’s face, twisting her pair of dark, hard nipples to bring her out of rapture. An enormous dildo appeared, its tip glistening. Obligingly the girl attached it to her waist, an obscene rubber proboscis, huge and frightening as Grace was flipped over a chair and her legs brutally spread. The hurt was like nothing she had ever experienced, tearing her in two, but still there was no mercy. The girl pounded into her, delirious, deaf to her complaints. Cosmo paced, proudly stiff once more, pausing at intervals to refresh his viewpoint. Eventually he stopped at Grace’s head and drove his cock into her mouth. She could taste the remnants of his first ejaculation and gagged.

When it was over, she returned to Madam Babydoll’s with three thousand dollars in her pocket. It was the most she had ever been paid for a job but that made no difference.