by Nigel May
What she didn’t know was how the DJ would ever be able to make sense of what was going on in her life. He’d need to have the intelligence of Albert Einstein to make sense of Nikki Rivers.
35
There was an anger growing inside Heather Rivers that she didn’t know how to control. She could feel it burning her core, even in the chill that had blown in on a slight breeze through the warmth of the St Lucia evening air. But this wasn’t a heat that could be calmed by standing underneath the rotating ceiling fan in her living room or opening up the huge fridge freezer that dominated one corner of her kitchen and bathing in the frosty air emanating from within. No, this was a heat that raged within her, wild and untameable, and one that was spreading through her veins like a toxin. It had started from the moment that Kassidy Orpin had told her about Sheridan’s deception surrounding Max’s death.
Heather hadn’t moved from the seat where Kassidy had left her, alone with the news that Sheridan was to blame for Max’s death and that he had paid off a member of the Crete Police Force to save his own bacon. How could he do such a thing? Heather might have been blood-tied to the man but sometimes she had to wonder if she had not been swapped at birth for another baby. Maybe her real father was a caring, honest man who saved lives and undertook charity work in some far-flung land, but was currently perturbed by the fact that his daughter was a conniving bitch who would betray a member of her own family in order to keep her nose clean.
Heather’s stomach rumbled. She should eat, but somehow she wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t been lately, ever since her return from Crete. Eating was a joyous thing she associated with Max – sharing flavours and delights and poring over recipe books to create the perfect meal for them both. But now she was alone: Max was gone, taken from her.
Heather rubbed her stomach. Not due to the hunger but because of what she knew was there; it wasn’t just a rage that was growing inside her, it was another life. She had found out that she was pregnant in Crete, just before she learnt of Max’s death. How could life be so cruel? To give her the tiny, brand-new life that she had always craved with one hand but to take away the most important existing life of all with the other. The injustice was mountainous.
She had told no one – not Sutton, not Nikki and certainly not Sheridan. She hadn’t even shared the news with Max’s parents. Somehow telling anyone before she told Max just seemed wrong, even if she knew that it was a fact that he would never be able to hear.
Heather needed to be near Max – it was why she had chosen to bury him in St Lucia. It was one of their favourite places to spend time and the home where she had always imagined them growing old together. Him, her and a brood of little Stonehams, their family footprints imprinted across the soft sands, watching the wildlife and the wonderment of a family unit, growing, experiencing and loving together.
But Sheridan had taken all that away from her with his reckless behaviour on the Greek island. Made sure that a family unit for Heather and Max was erased before it could even begin. Maybe if her father had spoken to her, shown some remorse and pity for his actions, there might have been a sliver of chance that she would be able to forgive him. Mistakes were made; retrospect was a wise if not always wonderful thing. But Sheridan hadn’t done so. Instead he had tried to cover up what had happened and stood alongside her at Max’s graveside pretending to grieve when really all that he was doing was breathing a sigh of relief that he had escaped blame. He had shown no compassion and it was this that now fuelled Heather’s inner rage. There was now a target at which she could aim her arrows of hatred about the cards that life had dealt her and that target was Sheridan Rivers.
Heather stood up, a little dizzy as the heat of her rage smothered her brain. She needed to be as close to Max as possible; she began to walk. Her eyes blurred slightly as she made her way from her house and walked the short journey to the spot she had chosen for his final resting place. It was no more than a five-minute walk from their St Lucia home but the journey seemed a lot longer, her thoughts swimming in and out of focus as she made her way. Her legs felt heavy and the tips of her fingers seemed numb as she zigzagged her way across the field to where Max’s grave was. As yet there was no headstone, the earth needing to flatten back down and settle before the life of one so beautiful could be commemorated for all to see. A cross was visible bearing Max’s name and the dates of his oh-so-short life, but that would soon be replaced by something far more grandiose and befitting. Befitting – for whom? Heather would rather have kept the grave simple, just a headstone with a few words, but no… It had been Sheridan who insisted something huge be erected to celebrate Max; something befitting of the Velvet empire and not of Heather’s wishes. Putting his own ego before the wishes of his family, profession before personal.
Suddenly it was all clear to Heather, despite the fogginess she was feeling in her brain as she approached Max’s graveside. At first she had thought that Sheridan was wanting something approaching a mausoleum to be erected as that was symbolic of his love for Max, his love for his own daughter, Heather, and for the sorrow that he wanted to show them. But now she could see that a crypt of such magnitude would only serve two purposes: to feed Sheridan’s professional image as the multi-million-dollar tycoon and to try and appease his own guilt. There would never be a tomb large enough to house the hatred that she felt for her dad as she stared down at Max’s graveside. The mass of flowers that still rested there were discoloured from the heat of the Caribbean sun, the edge of some of the blooms now turning as black as Heather’s soul.
She felt a film of tears coat her eyes as she stared down at Max’s grave. To think that someone she loved so much could be so close yet still light years away was heartbreaking. She shut her eyes, allowing herself to believe that she could still smell the scent of his favourite cologne, the freshness of his clothes as he held her in his arms.
As she opened them again, the heat of her rage at what she had learnt about Max’s death seemed to boil over. A stabbing heat enveloped her body, turning everything around her to red. Heather’s vision blurred again and a weakness gripped her – a lack of food, a lack of desire to continue, or more likely a fusion of both. She let out a scream, filling the air with a piteous wail.
It was a scream of anger and a scream of pain as she bent double, grasping her stomach.
She could reflect on that moment for a lifetime to come but it would never change. When she fell to her knees by Max’s graveside, fury wrapping her in barbed wire, she knew it was in that moment that she felt more anger than she ever had in her life, it was the moment that yet again everything was spiralling tragically out of control and the moment she lost her barely formed child.
Later doctors would tell her that it was due to chromosomal abnormalities, a lack of food had not helped the young life growing within her, and that hormonal problems and infections might have been to blame.
They knew nothing. But Heather knew exactly what was to blame, or rather who…
36
Hatton Eden’s bicep twitched slightly as the bearded LA tattooist put the finishing touches to the Sanskrit words he was having inked along the underside of his right arm. As he held his arm above his head, lying back on the red velvet chair, allowing the best access to the skin beneath his muscled limb, he felt a sense of satisfaction wash over his entire being. It was a sensation he always experienced when another tattoo had been completed on his body, adding to his ever-increasing collection.
Mind you, he would have to be inked a whole lot more to catch up with Russell John, the famous Angeleno tattooist who had closed his popular Culver City shop just for Hatton. Russell was famed for his celebrity clientele, which included big names from the glitzy, sequinned world of Dancing With the Stars through to the more carnal delights of performers from the AVN Awards, otherwise known as the Oscars of Porn, who were all lining up to be inked by him. With a usual three-month waiting list, he was more than grateful that Russell had bumped an afternoon’s worth of clients to give him
his latest design, one that Hatton had been eager to have done for a while.
‘I appreciate you fitting me in, man. I know how busy you are. To a tattoo fan like me, to be inked by you is a real honour…’ Hatton flashed a smile of appreciation at the mountain of man, naked from the waist up, leaning over him to make a final inspection of his work.
‘Are you kidding me? You’re The Main Man. Hatton freakin’ Eden. I’d bump Rihanna, David Beckham and Tom Hardy for you, mate! It’s my pleasure. You’re my kind of canvas,’ responded the tattooist.
Hatton let his eyes scan across the myriad of tattoos across the artist’s body, one that he obviously looked after incredibly well, judging by the definition of his muscles. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a body of such outstanding chiselled beauty outside of the boxing ring. There was hardly an inch of the man’s toned flesh that wasn’t covered with some sort of design.
‘And that’s quite some canvas you have there, bro. Your tattoos are inspiring.’
‘Cheers, bro! I like to practise what I preach. You’d have no confidence in me if you sat in that chair being inked by a man with not so much as a LOVE and HATE on his knuckles, would you? How can I know how it feels or what makes for the best tattoo if I don’t understand it myself? And besides, I fuckin’ love being inked.’
Hatton could see that, as he stared across the countless tattoos decorating Russell’s body. The tiered pyramid on his neck, the Venetian mask on his left pec, the calligraphic inscription helter-skeltering down the man’s right arm, the gothic worded MAYHEM that was written across the length of his six-pack. As a body of work, he had never seen anything better.
‘The pyramid on your neck is incredible! Any particular meaning?’ asked Hatton. ‘I love the eye on it.’
‘The pyramid is believed to be a stairway to heaven. In Egyptian times the rulers viewed themselves as deities and the completed pyramid served as a symbol of their ascent to a higher place. The incomplete ones, like the one you’ll have seen on American dollar bills, are symbols of a work in progress. The eye is said to act as protection because it is all-seeing and can spot danger coming from any direction. It’s called the Eye of Horus after the Egyptian God,’ explained the inker.
Hatton loved the idea that just like himself every tattoo on Russell John’s body seemed to be there for a reason and had a depth of purpose behind it. He also loved the idea of being protected.
‘I think I should have one of those then too, before my fight in Barbados. I will need all the protection I can get up against Orlando Vince. He’s an impressive fighter and I will have to be strong to beat him. I’m just not sure about having it on my neck. I don’t think my manager would allow it.’
‘Now hang on, you are The Main Man, Hatton Eden, you can have a tattoo wherever you want. It’s not like you’re asking your dad for one on your sixteenth birthday, is it?’ joked Russell. ‘Although I’ll be honest, your manager did say that I wasn’t to tattoo your face or neck when he phoned through to see about availability for you. And from experience I can tell you that the face ones hurt like hell.’
He pointed to the scorpion inked on the side of his head and the flamboyant butterfly positioned on the stretch of skin between his left eye and ear. ‘These things of beauty were a couple of bastards to have done. I’d only recommend if you’re seriously sure you’ll never regret them. Personally I fuckin’ adore them.’
‘Yes, I think Fidge would kill me, and he’s got enough to deal with right now. I’m not his favourite person at the moment after storming out of an interview from a pain-in-the-ass reporter the other day. He’s trying to make it all better with the magazine today so that the feature on me is favourable.’
‘The press are fuckers! They love to crucify people, especially good people like you. Half my client base says so. Anyone of note is slagged off on a blog, mag or website every now and again. Just ignore them. Fuck the haters, hate the fuckers, I say!’ The shop owner moved Hatton’s arm back down to his side, his work complete.
‘Right, my friend, you are done. Mind if I take a selfie of you and me for the wall of fame and an autograph?’
‘Sure, I’d be honoured,’ said Hatton.
The boxer stood up and raised his arm back above his head as Russell John grabbed his iPhone and pointed it towards them, making sure the Sanskrit letters were clearly in view. The two men pushed together as their faces filled the screen, Russell angling the shot to make sure his handiwork was in focus.
Hatton smiled as the photo was taken. The tattoo was perfect, just as he’d hoped.
Russell shook Hatton’s hand when the photo was done and then handed him a piece of A4 paper and a pen. ‘Right then, Main Man, can you sign this please. It’s been a pleasure.’
Hatton took the pen and scribbled a message, smiling from ear to ear.
Dear Russell, thanks for the awesome tat. Love Hatton Eden, The Main Man.
‘And any time you’re in town,’ added Russell, ‘make sure you swing by for more inking. And screw any bastard who writes shit about you!’
‘Yeah, I will. Nobody messes with The Main Man. Nobody…’
He meant it.
37
Blair Lonergan lifted his head from between the spread legs of Nikki Rivers and smiled up at her, the delicious juices of her sex still visible on his chin.
The smile, Niagara wide, showed the pleasure he had obviously been gaining from the heavenly position he had spent the last fifteen minutes in, naked on the bed of his hotel suite at Velvet Toronto. He let his tongue circle his lips quickly before speaking. ‘It’s so good to see you again, Nikki.’ His words were soaked in appreciation.
Nikki, also naked, reached down to place her hands either side of her lover’s head and moved him towards her so that their faces were alongside each other. She kissed him fully on the lips, experiencing the taste of her own fervent orgasm on his skin. There was something about Blair’s face that made her know she was staring into her future. She had never felt like this before and the sex they had just experienced was urgent and tender, frenzied yet somehow gentle and flowing, their bodies taking them both on a journey neither of them wanted to end.
Blair had been surprised when Nikki turned up at the hotel. When he had left her in Barbados he had thought that he wouldn’t see her again for a good few days, or potentially weeks. He had Velvet residencies at Toronto, São Paulo and London already booked into his diary as well as potential hook-ups with ice-cool vocalists keen to feature on his latest tracks at recording studios in Stockholm and Reykjavík. Plus, there was the one-off gig that could prove to be the biggest night of his professional life, now that he had been booked to play pre-match for the crowd at the Belter in the Swelter in Barbados. The celebs gathered wouldn’t be the usual pill-popping, euphoric young crowd but the kudos from being seen as the entertainment at a Hatton Eden fight was more impressive for his credibility and celebrity status than any visibility he gained from playing at massive dance events like Sensation, Stereosonic or Bestival. Both the potential audience and his own pay packet for the event were seven figures.
But he also knew that he was looking at somebody incredibly special when he gazed into Nikki’s smouldering eyes. He had known it from the moment he first laid eyes on her just a few short days ago in Velvet New York. She was hypnotic, mesmerising and a total one-off. When Cupid fired his arrow at Blair’s heart with Nikki Rivers’s name on it, he had shot not just to disable but also to stun him into total worship. Blair had been assured of that when he hadn’t tried to smooth his way into the panties of the hot journalist who had interviewed him hours earlier. Pre-Nikki, he would have been riding her with the skill of a Canadian Mountie.
Nikki pulled him close, almost afraid to let the touch of his hard, sculpted flesh leave her side. She felt a frisson of electricity shower her body, a combination of her need to have him as close to her as possible, to envelope the fears that were bursting like popcorn inside her mind, and the last final rapturous
waves of orgasm leaving her senses from the expert tongue work Blair had just lavished on her.
Blair noticed the shiver that passed through her. ‘Hey, are you okay?’
‘I’ve fucked up.’
‘Haven’t we all?’
‘No, this isn’t just a teeny tiny “I’ve lost a one-off pair of designer Italian heels" or “I forgot to record the final cliffhanger episode of my favourite show” kind of fuck-up, this is major.’
Blair thought that the vulnerability he was seeing once again in her eyes made Nikki even more beautiful. It had been the same when he held her in his arms after she had learnt the news about poor Max. For such a strong female, perceived by fans reading blogs and gossip rags across the world to have everything a woman could desire, it pleased him to see that there were chinks in her armour; imperfections that made her perfect.
‘So tell me…’
Nikki looked at Blair, the enticing blue of his eyes washing over her as she stared beyond them, into his soul. Was Blair someone she could trust? Could she tell him exactly what nightmares were speeding through her mind? She needed to know whether Blair Lonergan would allow her to share her situation without judging, damning or, most importantly, telling anyone.
The last thing Nikki needed was for her name to be splashed across every tabloid magazine from Toronto to Taiwan with details of what was actually happening in her life right now. She’d been media bitch-slapped and betrayed on a minor level more times than she could care to remember. It was part of her shallow yet fabulous world. Two-bit soap actors and risk-taking telly pranksters were worthless hook-ups that she almost expected to come with a post-relationship serving of bedroom revelations or tales of how fucked up Nikki Rivers really is. Lies spread or tiny details ballooned to make sensational, attention-grabbing headlines. Skip a course at dinner and suddenly an ex-shag says you’re anorexic. Bite a little too hard during a sex session and suddenly you’re a kinky pervert. Nikki had lived and survived them all. But if she told Blair what she really wanted to, unburdened the thoughts that had not left her mind for months and that had now been added to with her fractured relationship with her father, this would not be a page-turning scandal and exposé that she could simply move on from. If she were to tell him then she needed to be sure, unequivocally so. But something inside told her that she could be.