Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

  ‘. . . and forgive us for the sins we have committed. Oh Lord, grant us the power to serve You, in Jesus’s name, Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’ The word echoed around the table.

  ‘Right, boys, tuck in before I claim the lot. I’m starving and nothing’s safe.’

  Davie grinned as Jono repeated his oft-used banter, but he noticed Zander didn’t. It was no secret that his mate hated his dad, but Davie found it hard to feel the same. Mr Leith was always a right laugh, even if half the scheme was terrified of him. Davie preferred to keep onside, amuse him, avoid rocking the boat. So while Zander sat in silence, barely raising his eyes from the table, Davie kept everyone entertained with a steady stream of stories and gossip. He liked doing that. Taking something that happened and adding bits on until it was a blinding story that bore little resemblance to the truth. What did it matter? It gave everyone a chuckle. And he liked that Jono always gave him the time of day – gave him a wee idea of what it must feel like to have a dad.

  ‘More peas, Davie?’

  ‘No thanks, Mrs Leith. I’m allergic to vegetables. Bad for ma health.’

  Zander’s dad laughed again, but Zander just gave him that look, the one that said, ‘Shut the fuck up, ya diddy.’ It wasn’t exactly a newsflash. Davie winked at him, just to wind him up even more.

  The first crash was so loud that Davie’s initial thought was that a car had smashed through the front of the house. That had happened up at number 1 on the end, when the ice-cream van had mounted the kerb and gone straight through their new double glazing. The police and an ambulance were called, but only after every kid in the street had filled their pockets, hats and jumpers with every piece of confectionery they could loot from the back of the van. The irony was that they’d only put the double glazing in so that the kids wouldn’t hear the ice-cream van.

  Now, startled by the noise, three of them jumped to their feet, only Zander’s dad staying perfectly still. Even the second bang, just as loud as the first, didn’t make him move. Later, Davie would decide that he’d known what was coming, was prepared for it.

  His mum used to talk about ‘time standing still’, but he never really knew what that meant until that moment. They just stood there, frozen, not saying a word, and then suddenly the door burst open and three men charged in, all of them wearing balaclavas and tooled up. Davie might have peed himself just a little.

  Zander’s mum was screaming now, but Jono was still sitting there, saying nothing, not moving. What was the point? There were three of them and they were fucking gorillas. Gorillas carrying fuck-off big knives, and a baseball bat that had huge nails hammered through the end, so it looked deadly.

  He definitely peed his pants at the sight of that.

  Only then did he notice that Zander had run in front of his mother and was holding the bread knife that had been on the table just seconds ago. Mrs Leith had her eyes shut, praying now, lips moving but nothing coming out.

  Always in touch with his emotions, Davie was quick to realize that he now qualified as being fucking terrified. This wasn’t good.

  One of the balaclavas had gone round the back of Zander’s dad now, grabbed his hair and pulled it back, while Balaclava Two punched him square in the mouth. Still Jono didn’t react. Man, he had balls of steel.

  Balaclava Three watched the action and only when Jono’s head had been returned to something approaching a normal position did he speak.

  ‘Where is it, Jono?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Bang. Another punch. This time teeth came flying out and blood splattered all over the table. All Davie could think was that it looked like he’d put tomato sauce on his gammon steak. Oh God, they were all going to die. Frantic, he eyed the door. He could make it. He was fast. Nippy.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, son.’

  Apparently Balaclava Three practised mind reading when he wasn’t studying effective methods of intimidation and torture.

  He was going to die. And he hadn’t even said goodbye to his mum. Tears sprang to the back of his eyes and he fought to stop them falling.

  Zander’s dad’s face looked like mash now, blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, his forehead.

  ‘Last chance, Jono. And, son –’ he was talking to Zander now, ‘– don’t get any ideas about that blade you’re holding, because if it comes anywhere near me or my men, I’ll take it off you and your ma will be wearing it as an earring. Do you understand me?’

  Zander didn’t reply, his eyes blazing, his knuckles white around the sheath of the knife.

  ‘Last chance, Jono, then these fine boys will be having liver for dinner. Yours. Uncooked.’

  The balaclava laughed, and that made him even scarier than when he was just being generally mental and deadly.

  One of the sidekicks pulled Jono’s hand onto the dining table and held the knife above it. Then slowly he brought the blade down, to the left of his thumb, then the next finger, then the next, a thud between each digit as the point of the blade hit the table. Faster. Faster. He repeated it one side to the other, then back, then again, then back, the noise matched only by the battering thuds of Davie’s heart.

  ‘Where is it, Jono? Where is it? Where is it?’

  He was speaking faster now, keeping time with the twisted game of chicken that was going on at the table.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Aaaaargh, ya fucker!’ Jono screamed, as the blade punctured his middle finger, impaling it on the table.

  ‘That’s yer wanking hand fucked, then,’ the boss said, apparently amused at his own joke.

  ‘Keep going,’ he ordered his co-psycho.

  The thudding started again, between the fingers, faster, faster . . .

  ‘Aaaaaargh.’ Index finger this time, blood spurting everywhere.

  ‘Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners . . .’

  Behind Zander, his mum had turned up the volume and was rocking back and forward, eyes shut, as if she’d cut herself off from reality altogether.

  Davie wished he could do the same.

  Thud, thud . . . Over and over again, until all five fingers had been impaled and released a spurt of thick red liquid. Davie wanted to vomit. Right there. Right now. This was the most horrific thing he could ever imagine.

  ‘Get the boy.’

  His imagination screamed and went into the foetal position. One of the balaclavas turned from Jono and weighed up the options. The teenager with the knife in his hand, or the one with the rapidly spreading damp patch on the front of his grey stay-press trousers?

  No contest.

  ‘No. No. No,’ Davie whimpered, moving backwards until he was flush against the Formica unit. All he could look at was the knife, the one that was coming towards his face, at his neck now, the tip pressing against his skin, piercing it, a trickle of blood, a scream that he didn’t even realize was his.

  ‘Da, tell him. Tell him now!’ Zander was pointing his weapon straight at his dad now, his face twisted with rage.

  ‘OK, ya cunt!’ Jono yelled, stopping the balaclava before the nick became a decapitation.

  Davie’s relief was instant, mixed with an urge to go over there and do Jono’s other hand himself. What the fuck had taken him so long to intervene? The sadistic bastard.

  ‘Lovely. We’re all playing nice now,’ the boss psycho announced. ‘So. Ten seconds and then we start that all again. Where is it, Jono?’

  ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘I don’t think you have the hang of this question-and-answer thing. I didn’t ask where it wasn’t. I asked where it was.’

  Jono spat a huge ball of bloody goo onto the table. Davie’s urge to vomit rose again.

  ‘I’ll take you to it.’

  The chief psycho laughed. ‘Now, why didn’t you say that in the first place, when you still had two hands to wipe your arse?’

  His buddies reacted to his signal, pulling Jono up from the table, snapping handcuffs onto his bleeding h
ands. Jono reverted to stony silence, obviously determined not to give them the satisfaction of his pain. Davie resisted the urge to boot him in the baws as they dragged him within kicking distance, then past him and out of the room. They were gone as fast as they’d arrived.

  Only then did Davie wonder where the police were. Surely to Christ someone would have called them, let them know that three psychos had just stormed the house at the end of the terrace, the one with the statue of Our Lady in the garden and the font of holy water at the side of the front door?

  But even as the question ricocheted round his brain, he knew the answer. No one around here would call the police, because the only thing more terrifying than three tooled-up maniacs on the rampage was the thought of what Jono Leith would do to you if he found out you’d brought the police to his splintered door.

  ‘You OK?’ The voice was distant, vague. ‘Davie! Are you OK?’

  It was Zander, shouting at him now, while he guided his mother to a chair and supported her as she sat down. Her eyes were still closed, her mouth still repeating the same prayer as she rocked back and forward. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .’

  Davie’s legs gave way and he collapsed onto the floor.

  ‘I’m OK. I am. What the fuck was that?’

  Zander was on his knees in front of his mum now, holding her, trying to stop the movement.

  ‘Billy McColl,’ he answered. It was all he had to say.

  Billy McColl. The biggest drug dealer on this side of Glasgow, an old pal of Zander’s dad. Obviously the friendship had hit a stumbling block. But why the balaclavas if everyone except him knew who they were? Then Davie remembered the camera at Zander’s front door. The laughs they’d had when it had been installed, right up until Davie had flashed his willy at it and Zander’s mum had dragged him down to the chapel and forced him to confess. The priest had made him repeat the story three times. Old guy must have been hard of hearing.

  ‘Jesus, Zander, he’ll kill him. He will.’

  Zander pulled his mum even tighter, forcing her to stay still while he stroked her hair, shushed her, cradled her like a baby.

  ‘I fucking hope he does.’

  45.

  ‘Drunk In Love’ – Beyoncé (ft. Jay Z)

  His car was parked right outside the building, but even that was too far away. Zander opened the nearest door and watched as she stepped in, the curve of her ass magnificent as she slid onto the leather seat. By the time he got round to the other side, his hard-on was pressing against the inside of his fly, desperate for release. Not yet. Patience. He jumped in and saw she wasn’t playing to the same rules of restraint. Her skirt was already up to her creamy thighs, her stockings straining, her right hand inside the delicate lace of her panties. He made a cursory glance to check that the divider was blocking the driver’s view. Spectator sports weren’t his thing.

  At least not with her. He wanted her all to himself.

  As soon as he was beside her, she removed her hand from her panties and thrust her fingers into his mouth. He could taste her. Wanted her. And forget patience, it had to be now. Adrianna was on the same page and calling the shots. Climbing on top of him, she straddled him, the deep plunge of her cleavage in his face, forcing him to inhale her musky scent, her nipples straining through the sheer fabric of her silk blouse, demanding attention. He started to unbutton her shirt; she stopped him. His hand crept downwards, pulled the lace to one side; she grabbed his wrist, blocked him again.

  He groaned. This was excruciating. Desperate. He needed her now.

  Suddenly the car drew to a halt and in his peripheral vision he saw a concierge approach.

  Laughing, he flipped her to the side, enjoying her defiant yelp. Just in time, she pulled her hemline back down, flicked her hair, recovered her poise, smile wide as the concierge opened the door.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Leith. Welcome back to the Carlyle.’

  The Carlyle. Zander’s favourite New York hotel. Sometimes called the Palace of Secrets, it was trusted for its discretion by JFK, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Princess Diana and a galaxy of other stars over the years. There was a long-standing rumour that there was a secret underground tunnel that allowed its illustrious guests to arrive and leave in absolute privacy. Zander was happy using the front door, especially this morning, when haste was at the top of his agenda.

  Wordlessly, not touching, they headed inside, turned left to the elevators, where another concierge was waiting. Zander let Adrianna go in first, but she paused halfway, so he was forced to pass her. As he did, she grabbed the lapel of his jacket and positioned him so that he was leaning against the rear wall facing her, her back to the uniformed gentleman.

  ‘Central Park View Suite, please,’ Zander told him, then turned all his attention to Adrianna. Not that he had any choice. She’d already grabbed his hand, sliding it into the waistband of her skirt, then down, until his fingers could feel her wetness.

  They ascended thirty-three floors, and as the doors pinged open, the concierge kept his gaze discreetly averted, allowing Zander to withdraw, recover.

  ‘Thank you,’ Zander said to the concierge, who replied with a wry smile as the door slid shut.

  There were only a few steps to the suite door. There, Zander’s body was pressed hard on hers, pushing her against the wood, her hand down, squeezing his balls until he managed to open the mechanism with his key card. Door open, they fell inside, before Adrianna strutted to the window, forcing him to follow, bringing the landscape of Manhattan into their world.

  There, she placed both hands wide on the glass as his arms wrapped around her, his breath against the back of her neck, licking her, tasting her. His solid erection pushed into her back, his hands found her nipples, tracing a slow, excruciatingly teasing line round them, then squeezing, hard enough to make her gasp. Adrianna’s head fell to one side and she groaned, then twisted round to the sofa on her right, gliding downwards so she was positioned over the arm of it, her ass in the air, waiting for him.

  Zander knew what was expected and swiftly obliged. He dropped to his knees, slid her skirt up to reveal her flawless, taut buttocks. Her legs wide apart now, he slipped between them, as she tore off her panties, allowing his tongue to explore her cheeks. Slowly, tasting every drop of her, he moved downwards, until he found her clit, circled it, teased, then entered her, making her pant, scream, beg him to go deeper, until . . .

  ‘Stop!’ she demanded, then reached back, grabbed his hair, pulled him up while she spun round to face him. ‘I don’t want your tongue. I want your cock.’

  Zander smiled, happy to relinquish control, every one of his senses white hot and ready to explode.

  Deftly, Adrianna freed his throbbing penis, pushing his jeans downwards. Sitting on the arm of the sofa now, she lifted her legs, spread them wide again, pulled him into her, guided his cock inside her. One leg clasped round him, then the other, holding him in a vice of pure desire. He rode her, pummelled hard against her, watching the ecstatic curves of her beautiful face.

  ‘Bed!’ she gasped. He obeyed, swiftly kicking off his boots and jeans. Wearing no socks today had been an inspired move. Her arms snaked round his neck, allowing him to carry her through to the king-size bed, still inside her, her mouth biting down on his until it drew blood.

  As he placed her down on the bed, she slid her legs over his shoulders, so that he could get deeper, further, faster. In only seconds, he felt her pussy clamp down on him, her body buckle, her eyes shut and her hands grasp the white bed linen.

  ‘I’m coming.’ Her voice was pure sex. Deeper, further, faster.

  ‘I’m coming. Like. Never. Before,’ she screamed, shuddered, lost control.

  Zander fought not to come with her. Not yet. Too soon to let this ecstasy end.

  He slowed, switched to tender movements, but as soon as Adrianna’s orgasm had subsided, she snatched back control and switched it up again.

  Seizing the power and displaying the suppleness a
nd strength of a gymnast, she moved from under him, pulled him down and then climbed on top, straddling him, pulling him inside her. Skirt still round her waist, the new position finally giving him the opportunity to tear open her blouse, revealing a black plunge bra, over-plump, flawless, natural breasts. Using every perfectly formed ab muscle to raise his torso, he sucked her nipples through the lace, then flicked it open, letting her breasts spill out.

  The muscles in her tight thighs clenched as she lifted and lowered onto him, time after time, until he knew he couldn’t stand it much longer, would have to come, but no . . .

  Not yet. Still too soon. A rapid movement, a lift, he flipped her onto the bed and parted her legs, then twisted round so he could go down there, lick her, taste her, his face buried in her pussy.

  ‘I want to taste you too,’ she murmured, manoeuvring under him, taking him in her mouth, scratching her nails down his back as they both lost themselves in the classic sixty-nine, sucking, biting, sweating, shuddering until they both came, hard, fast, loud, together this time, both of them drinking from the other.

  Eventually, spent, Zander collapsed beside her, face to face now.

  ‘You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’ he told her truthfully.

  ‘I am,’ she said, her eyes a blazing contrast to her smile.

  ‘And an incredible fuck,’ he added, laughing.

  ‘I’m that too,’ she agreed, kissing him, softly this time. ‘And if you lie right there I’ll show you all the other things I can do too.’

  Zander didn’t object.

  46.

  ‘All I Wanna Do’ – Sheryl Crow

  There was no denying that elements of the last couple of days had been highly indulgent, given that she was here for only a week and it was work, not pleasure.

  Although, Sarah preferred to look at it as assembling the tools for the job and then conducting research.