Wicked Wives

‘And your mother?’ he’d enquired, watching as a deep sadness had seemed to descend upon her, dulling the brightness of her eyes. Ellie had shook her head as she’d thought of Charlene; she had often wondered what might have been had her mother never met Ray Black, for she was in no doubt that it was their tempestuous and abusive relationship that had led to her subsequent demise. The real tragedy was that in spite of everything – the gambling, the womanising and the drinking – Charlene O’Connor had truly loved ‘her Ray’. But it had been the worst kind of love; the kind that tore right through you like a cyclone, destroying everything good in its wake, and it had left her mother an empty shell of a woman; hard-faced and bitter, dependent on alcohol just to make it through the day.

‘So I’ve had to put my dreams of becoming a professional ballerina on hold for a while. Just until I make enough money to put myself through dance school and make ends meet, you know how it is?’ she’d casually explained, realising that he probably didn’t have the first idea. ‘Now that Tom’s no longer on the scene, I’ve got to look after myself, hence the reason I’m here,’ she’d looked around the low-lit club filled with drunken leering men with a resigned sigh.

‘Tom?’ he had quizzed her.

Even now Vinnie could recall the pause she had given, that she had looked down at her cheap stiletto-clad feet as if she hadn’t quite known how best to answer the question.

‘… Tom’s my … step-brother.’

Vinnie had left the Venus Club that night on a high of the like he’d never experienced before. On the surface he was incredibly modest, unassuming even, but it belied the sharp business mind and hard-nosed determination that lay at his very core. He was certainly no pushover, as some had learnt to their detriment, and he wasn’t the type to lose his heart without careful consideration, especially to a young stripper from the wrong side of the tracks. And yet on the night of July 18th, almost twenty-one years ago to the day; call it fate, destiny, or whatever you liked, he had made the decision that he could not leave Las Vegas without her …

*

‘Oh Vin,’ Ellie looked across the table at her husband with a deep fondness. He was older now, in his mid-fifties, his salt and pepper hair now more salt than pepper, and the faint lines around his eyes had turned into deep creases; years of laughter etched on his face like a timeline. She knew how lucky she was; Vinnie had taught her everything she knew. They had never had a cross word their entire marriage, and yet deep down Ellie had an instinctive fearfulness of her husband. There was another side to his gentle, caring nature, one that he kept hidden from her at all costs, but that she knew existed all the same. Vinnie had given her wealth and status of the like she had only ever been able to imagine; the chance to be somebody and make something of herself. She felt forever indebted to him because of it, and yet she had come so close to nearly losing it all …

It had been a mutual decision not to reveal to anyone the truth about Ellie’s former occupation. Not that Vinnie was ashamed; quite the opposite in fact, he had been proud of the way his young girlfriend had dealt with the hand she’d been given in life, but he was nobody’s fool; he had known how it would look. Beautiful young stripper meets older, billionaire businessman. By burying Ellie’s past, Vinnie had only ever wanted to protect her. After all, when they had married in a lavish ceremony in the lush grounds of his family’s Wiltshire estate some thirteen months later, people had whispered about the union between him and his lowly, if beautiful, secretary. Ha! If only they had known the real truth!

‘Ta-da!’ Vinnie dropped his hands from her eyes and stood back to survey her reaction.

It was dark now and the narrow cobbled Soho street was lit only by the rich amber glow of a singular streetlamp. Ellie blinked up at the dark, boarded-up building in front of her that she assumed was some kind of disused warehouse and wondered what exactly it was she should be looking at. ‘Number twelve Starling Street, W1; your new dance school …’ he announced with a theatrical wave.

Instinctively Ellie put a manicured hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

‘Now, before you say anything I want you to listen. You have to understand that a man of my, how shall I say, standing in the property business, gets to hear things on the grapevine …’

Ellie’s heart thumped against her ribcage.

‘So you already know about me losing the venue then?’ she had looked at him with a mix of indignant relief, ‘about those bastards gazumping me at the last moment?’

He put a finger to her lips to prevent her from continuing and felt the softness of them against his skin. ‘Ah, now none of that matters now,’ he reassured her, ‘what does matter is that we find you another venue, a better one; this one.’ He pulled her close to him and felt the warmth of her skin against his own.

‘We’re going to bid for it at auction next week, and we’re going to win it. So tell me, Mrs Scott, what do you think?’

Ellie kissed him then, small scattergun kisses over his clean-shaven face and then deeply, her tongue exploring his.

‘I think, Vinnie Scott,’ she breathed, ‘that you are the most wonderful husband in the world.’

CHAPTER 9

As much as she didn’t care to admit it, Allegra was feeling out of her depth. The pool party resembled a scene from a bad porn movie. There were naked girls everywhere; tanned bodies draped like mercury over blue and white striped sunbeds and couples openly having sex in the pool and on the terracotta patio outside. To her left she noticed a tall, naked brunette with shiny fake tits and tattoos willingly administering a blow job to some greasy-looking long-haired guy as another guy pumped away at her from behind, grinning manically as he frenziedly grabbed at her breasts for purchase. Allegra turned away in disgust, glancing over at a group of people brazenly snorting cocaine from a glass coffee table, dancing to the deafening sound of David Guetta like demented maniacs as they swigged from champagne bottles.

She nervously scanned the room for Tess. That shady Marco character had sequestered her off somewhere inside the sprawling hilltop villa, leaving Allegra to her own devices.

‘Hey hunny, wanna hit?’ a sinewy-looking black girl with the longest weave she’d ever seen held out a joint as she shimmied over. She was naked, save for a tiny fluorescent pink Pucci G-string that barely covered what little modesty she had left, and a pair of transparent, ridiculously high platform sandals, the like of which you could only buy in sex shops.

Allegra shook her head nervously. ‘Suit yourself,’ the girl had shrugged, kissing her teeth as she sauntered off towards some guy, collapsing on top of him, brazenly sliding her hand inside his boxer shorts and getting to work.

Allegra self-consciously pulled at her tiny designer denim mini skirt and wished she had worn her maxi dress instead. This was a bona fide fucking sex and drugs orgy; a world away from the occasional flash of G-string she’d indulged in after one too many cocktails at Funky Buddha on a Friday night back home – and it was scaring the shit out of her. She anxiously checked her iPhone. She would kill Tess for abandoning her like this. So much for fucking friendship. She’d been on her own for the past hour and a half, nervously fending off the unwanted attention of various freaks. Bloody Tess Scott … why did she always have to play the wild card?

As she made her way up the stone steps, discarding her cumbersome pair of patent Louboutins in haste, Allegra fought back the urge to burst into tears. In a moment of rare clarity she suddenly felt exactly what she was; a little girl playing at being a grown up and she wanted her daddy.

‘I’m looking for a girl …’ she stammered in a small, nervous voice to a guy who was propped up against the wall in the hallway, audibly dragging on a suspicious-looking cigarette, ‘long, dark blonde hair … white hot pants … Gucci bikini …?’

The pockmark-faced guy grinned, a horrible self-satisfied smirk that only served to accelerate Allegra’s rapidly burgeoning sense of unease. He thumbed the door behind him.

Shaking as she pushed past him, Allegra opened the door to the bedroom and instinctively put both hands up to her mouth to stifle a shocked scream. It was dark inside, the unremarkable room lit only by a small undetectable light source but it was enough to see that Tess, who was sprawled out across the bed, was completely naked save for a bottle of tequila in her hand, which she was proudly holding up like an Olympic torch. There was a guy on top of her, also naked, while another was knelt behind her, his erect cock visible as she giggled with delight, tequila spilling from her glossy lips. There was a third guy too, Allegra recognised him as Marco from the club, who appeared to be filming it all. He was shouting out words of encouragement, ‘yeah baby, you look so hot baby, ooh yeah, show us what you got …’

Stunned into silence, Allegra watched in horror as one of the three men grabbed a giant, obscene-looking dildo from a repertoire of sex toys on the bedside table.

Tess began to moan in pain or ecstasy, Allegra couldn’t be sure which. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. Jesus, was she on drugs?

Suddenly alerted to Allegra’s presence, the guys in the room all looked over in her direction.

‘Hey sweetheart,’ Marco acknowledged her, his voice a forced saccharine sweet, ‘you come to join in the fun?’

Paralysed to the spot, Allegra vigorously shook her head in the negative. Tess, seemingly oblivious, didn’t even look up.

Marco watched Allegra for a long moment, momentarily allowing the camera to drop to his waist, his dark, beady eyes boring terrifying holes into her.

‘Well, close the door on your way out then if you’re not staying, yeah?’ he snapped coldly before turning his back on her towards the action. ‘Come on guys, I wanna get this all in one take.’

Tearing through the villa like her life depended on it, Allegra finally found herself outside on the dusty road track where she ran, barefoot, sandals in hand, in the opposite direction of the villa. As the noise gradually faded and, deciding she was probably no longer in any imminent danger, Allegra collapsed against a small stone wall and slumped to the ground. Her heart was beating a song inside her chest and she struggled to catch her breath; she thought she might pass out. What the fuck did Tess think she was playing at having a gangbang with all those guys? And filming it too! Tess had always been a bit crazy but this time she’d taken it way too far. Stupid, selfish bitch. Yet as angry as Allegra was, a small voice inside her said that there had been something horribly wrong about the scene she’d just witnessed; something dark and sinister. Still, if Tess had been stupid enough to put any of that shit up her nose then as far as Allegra was concerned she deserved all she got.

With her fear gradually subsiding, Allegra started to relax a little, her thoughts beginning to take a new turn. Wiping her nose with the back of her shaking hand, she reached inside her Mulberry clutch bag for her phone.

‘Daddy!’ she said, her voice cracking with emotion as she finally broke down in tears, sobbing like a little girl. ‘Can you send a plane for me? I want to come home.’

As far as Allegra Kennedy-Ling was concerned, Tess Scott was on her own.

CHAPTER 10

Tom had been right about Candy; she was definitely a screamer in the sack.

‘Ohh yeah, baby! I’m almost there! Keep going … like that, yeah! Oh … ooooh …’

They’d been going at it ever since they’d checked into the penthouse suite at The Player, and she’d been ‘there’ at least twice already.

Tom looked down at the young woman bucking and squirming underneath him as he ploughed himself into her in long, slow strokes; her long blonde hair fanning the pillow like a yellow blanket as she laid it on a bit heavy with the vocals. She was very young and extremely sexy, yet he felt absolutely nothing as he blithely pumped himself inside her, running his hand over her toned stomach and shiny, albeit impressive, fake tits. Candy Wilson could hardly believe her luck. What had commenced as one of the shittiest days on record, getting fired from her deadbeat job at the diner by her asshole of a boss – strike that, ex-boss – had ended up here; in a luxury penthouse suite of a hotel in Las Vegas, Las fucking Vegas, with vintage champagne on tap and a rich, good-looking dude who was hung like a fucking horse and gave great oral. Jesus, the man’s tongue should come with a ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker. What’s more, he had promised to take her shopping in a limo later, maybe catch one of them fancy shows after a lobster and champagne dinner somewhere really posh. It was like something straight out of a frickin’ Julia Roberts movie! Life had been pretty shitty lately, Candy thought, what with the court case and a spell in the hospital thanks to those bastards she called parents. It looked as if things were finally beginning to go her way.

Candy had already sussed out that Tom had to be something of a high roller, simply by the unorthodox reaction they’d received upon arrival. The hotel staff had practically fallen over themselves to accommodate them in the penthouse suite – the frickin’ penthouse suite – it was at least ten times the size of her poky studio apartment back in LA and the soft furnishings were like something from one of those glossy interior magazines her mom was always reading; all gilt baroque gold mirrors, sumptuous Persian rugs, tactile suede couches, and a huge, gothic-looking bed with a ceiling mirror above it. Hel-lo Sin City!

‘This place is awesome!’ she’d squealed, wide-eyed, suddenly seeming her age as she had thrown herself down onto the bed, the pure silk and goose eiderdown making a satisfactory whoosh as she impacted onto it. ‘You some kind of face around here?’ Candy had enquired, intrigued. ‘Seems like everyone can’t do enough for you …’

Tom had smiled with a hefty display of false modesty.

‘Welcome to my hometown, honey,’ he’d laughed, throwing himself down on top of her, pushing her legs apart as his hands began to explore her young, tight body. ‘Welcome to Vegas. Playground of the rich!’

Tom had always enjoyed the physical release he experienced during sex, the rush of endorphins as he came, flooding his body and brain with dopamine and other feel-good chemicals – in fact he was addicted to it, but as with any kind of addiction, it was always such a transient, fleeting state, void of any real depth, the ultimately short-lived high making way for the inevitable crashing low.

Tom had only ever felt that deeper level of connection with a woman once in his life before, the kind of connection that transforms sex into the act of making love; the kind that touches you deep inside, leaving you with the feeling of having grown closer to another human being. Although the intensity of it had frightened the crap out of him, he had never since been able to replicate such a feeling with anyone else, though it would be fair to say he had certainly given it his best shot over the years.

As Candy loudly came for the fourth time that afternoon, Tom kept one surreptitious eye on the Louis Vuitton holdall next to the bed. It wasn’t too late to do the right thing and bank it, his voice of reason told him as he threw her around the bed like a rag doll – this one liked it on the rough side. But the other voice inside his head, the one that always seemed to lure him into trouble, was already attempting to talk him out of it. It’s just a little game of cards, it whispered to him, seductively, one that would allow you to double your money and make good your end of the deal with Jack.

No one played Five Card Draw like Tom Black; he’d been notorious in his day, a charming trickster who’d outsmarted the pros, even with the worst hand imaginable. Hell, not even Lady Gaga could read his poker face.

The internal phone unexpectedly rang, causing a post-coital Candy to jump.

Tom rolled off her spent young body and picked it up. He was convinced this one was a lucky talisman. He could see it in her eyes. When he won big tonight he’d treat her to a little spree in Gucci and Victoria’s Secret. Give her something to really scream about.

‘Tom Black.’

‘Tom! Jesus buddy! It’s been a while … they told me you were in town! How the fuck are you …?’

It was Marvin Katz, manager of The Player. The pair went way back to when Tom was a ten-dollar slots guy and Marvin was making his name on the tables, something of a player himself, or at least he would have everyone believe.

‘Jesus, how are you Marv?’ Tom stood naked, placing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he began to pace the room. ‘I hear you’re the big cheese these days … good for you buddy,’ he said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. The Marvin Katz he’d known back in the day could only just about manage to string a coherent sentence together, let alone run a chic, quality establishment like The Player.

‘It’s good to hear you, Tom,’ Marvin said, in his nasal New York accent that hadn’t seemed to soften with the passing of time. ‘I hope the guys have been looking after you with the comps so far … listen, whatever you want Tom, champagne, a limo, hookers … you just let me know, OK?’

‘Thanks Marv,’ Tom glanced at Candy who was now busy helping herself to the contents of a deluxe heart-shaped box of Godiva chocolates. ‘I appreciate it,’ he said, wondering just how far his offer of such generosity might stretch. Like a few million dollars’ worth of generous.

‘The guys tell me you’re looking for a big game, Tom.’

‘That’s right, Marv. I’m hoping you can hook me up.’

‘We’ve missed you, Tom,’ Marvin said with a healthy dose of sycophantic smarm that Tom immediately saw straight through.

‘Hey! Have you seen this?’ Candy’s shrill LA accent cut through the conversation like a shard of glass as she held up the glossy, gold-embossed menu card, her eyes wide and her exposed tits standing to attention like torpedoes. ‘It says here we got our very own butler, 24/7, like, you gotta be shitting me?’

Tom heard Marvin guffaw.

‘I take it you won’t be needing any extra services tonight then?’

‘Oh I don’t know, Marv … the night’s young,’ Tom reposted.

‘Yeah, but not as young as the broad I’ll bet,’ Marvin shot back, and Tom forced himself to laugh. Marvin Katz wasn’t nearly as amusing as he thought he was, but if laughing at Marv’s lame attempts at humour meant he would look into sorting him a game, then he’d suck it up all day long.

‘You kill me, Marvin,’ Tom chuckled, rolling his eyes at Candy, who giggled as she popped a truffle between her glossy blow job lips. ‘Let’s have a drink together later, celebrate my big win.’

‘I like your confidence my friend,’ Marvin replied dryly, with forced good humour. Some things never changed. Tom Black had always been a cocky little English fucker; way too big for his size nines, that was his problem. Gamblers like Black might think they’re the shit, but the house always won at the end of the day; they were just too fucking arrogant to want to believe it.

‘Leave it with me, Tom. I’ll put the word out, see who’s in town.’

‘I appreciate it Marv … And make mine a Bourbon on the rocks … a large one yeah?’ he added before hanging up.

Tom felt the first trickles of adrenaline stirring inside his guts, the kindling of that euphoric rush he always got right before a game. He’d played for money in the past, big money too, but nothing in this league … it was a heck of a lot of green that wasn’t even his to gamble but as far as Tom was concerned, what choice did he have? He’d given Jack his word he would get his share of the money and Tom’s fierce pride meant that he’d rather skip town than lose face in front of his friend. Tonight there could be no room for error; it was shit or bust.

CHAPTER 11

Walking through Portobello Road on a beautiful summer’s afternoon, Ellie Scott struggled to think of another place in the world she would rather be. It was Friday, market day, and the whole place was alive with tourists and shoppers perusing the eclectic mix of antique shops whose contents spilled out onto the pavement like a giant treasure trove. She loved the paradox of Portobello, the glitz mixed with the grime; struggling artists and buskers sitting alongside media moguls, wealthy fashionistas and banker’s wives. There was something uniquely unpretentious about it and it reminded her of the streets she had grown up on as a child.

Hearing her iPhone beep inside her white Birkin, Ellie dipped a manicured hand inside, blindly searching as she became sidetracked by a vintage Vivienne Westwood corset dress in a boutique window. She hoped it was Tess; call it a mother’s instinct, but Ellie felt an unsettling sense of unease that her daughter might be in some kind of trouble. But it wasn’t Tess. It was Victoria messaging to say she was already on her way to the charity event at the Cobden Club where they were due to meet. It was to be the third social event she’d attended that week and Ellie wasn’t entirely enamoured by the thought of yet another afternoon of making polite small talk with vastly over-privileged women, who she suspected cared more about making their hair appointments than they did about the charity du jour. But this was her life now, and had been for the past two decades. The polo, Glorious Goodwood, Cannes, the Henley Royal Regatta, Ascot, Glyndbourne, not to mention all the hundreds of other global events and private charities Vince was a patron of – she accompanied him to all of them. Always impeccably dressed, always impeccably polite and if she was brutally honest, always impeccably bored shitless … sometimes her jaw physically ached from it all. But what could she do? Her husband topped the Forbes rich list every year, and with money and position like that came great responsibility.

Victoria Mayfield was already at the Cobden Club by the time Ellie arrived and had helped herself to a Kir Royale and a small plate of sushi before squirreling herself away at a small table at the back of the room. Looking around her, she surveyed the scene of gossiping, overly preened society women with a heavy heart. The last thing she felt like doing was socialising. That morning her period had arrived, regular as fucking clockwork, just as it did every goddamn month. Victoria greeted her monthly cycle like a personal affront; Mother Nature sniggering at her inability to do what came naturally to most women. It was all just so unfair; Lawrence, her husband, had been home more than usual this past month preparing for a big trip to South Africa where he was due to film a documentary and, ensuring the extra time they’d had together had not been wasted, she was convinced this month would be the month she’d finally see that line turn blue.

‘Jesus Tor, not again!’ Lawrence Mayfield had smiled wearily at his wife as she’d led him into the bedroom for the third time in less than forty-eight hours. ‘You’re wearing me out!’

‘And you’re complaining?’ she’d replied, giving him a mock-disdainful look as she tore off her Agent Provocateur underwear in haste, eager to get down to business. Lawrence Mayfield had inwardly sighed. He enjoyed nothing more than making love to his wife. After all, she was beautiful and he adored her, but not like this, not on demand; it was all way too forced and unspontaneous, not to mention deeply unromantic. His wife had become hell-bent on producing, to the point of obsession, and Lawrence was seriously beginning to doubt her mental state. There was a darkness to Tor now; places inside her mind he knew he could no longer reach. And the worst thing of all was that he had not a goddamn clue what to do about any of it.