Wicked Ambition

by Victoria Fox

  It was what he did with it that counted…and he counted, all right.

  Smirking at his reflection, Jax tossed back a couple of painkillers, took a piss and stepped into the shower. He ran the water on pummel, feeling its needles drive into his skin. Only when the water was too hot to bear did Jax turn it off and step out to towel himself.

  The mirror was clouded but he could just make out his immaculate reflection. With a finger he drew three shapes in the condensation, catching shards of his face with each stroke. Three numbers: 9.57. The world record for the hundred-metre sprint. His world record.

  He made his way back into the bedroom. The girl was awake. ‘Hey, baby,’ she purred, sliding a slim brown leg into view. ‘You wanna come back to bed?’

  Jax stood at the window and pulled the blind. Sunlight flooded in and he rested a moment, bathed in its golden balm, treating the girl to the full beauty of his profile. He gave her time to drink it all in before turning to face her, a smile playing on his lips.

  ‘You know what I want,’ he coaxed.

  The girl laughed, a high, reedy sound that flirted on the line of hysteria.

  Jax crossed to the bed in two long strides, stopping so his erection was level with her face. He lifted his watch from the glass side-table and bolted it to his wrist.

  The girl repositioned herself, swallowing nervously. ‘I want to, baby,’ she gasped, putting a hand out to touch him, ‘really I do. But I don’t know…it’s too fast—’

  ‘Damn, woman!’ Jax grabbed the back of her head and lunged his face into hers. ‘Course it’s fast, that’s the whole freakin’ point. Let’s get on it—I gotta race today.’

  The mention of Jax’s sport renewed the girl’s interest. She ran a finger over his jaw and dipped it into his mouth. He sucked, rolling his tongue around its tip. Guiding her head towards him, he checked his watch one last time, and only when he felt her lips close around his shaft did he press the button, feeling the seconds run down like water.

  Harder and harder, faster and faster, Jax thrust against the girl’s tongue, driving deeper and deeper until he detected a low moan of resistance. He was leaning over the bed now with the force of it, the girl underneath, trying to contain him. In a rush he caught sight of the end and then he was climbing, getting higher and higher and everything was flashing white and he knew he was going over, way over—

  Sonofabitch!

  Jax came fiercely, pounding the last out of it, his eyes squeezed shut.

  He pushed the girl back, bringing the watch to his perspiring face and examining it. There it was: 12.61 seconds. More than three seconds over. Damn!

  Without looking up he said flatly, ‘I gotta get movin’. Get dressed, I want you out.’

  The yellow Lamborghini was his pride and joy, its bodywork second only to the contours of a woman. Jax had caught some late-night freaky TV once about a guy who stuck his dick in car exhausts, getting hot for objects or some shit, but when it came to the Lamborghini he could kind of relate—not that he’d risk getting his own crown jewels doused in diesel or whatever they put up there. (Jax was king of his vehicle but had no clue how it actually worked.)

  The sign came up at speed: FOUNTAIN VALLEY ATHLETICS CLUB. Without signalling Jax rounded off Sunset with a screech of tyres, sending up a spray of swirling gold dust. He accelerated, flicking on the radio and settling on a Turquoise dance track.

  Sheesh, now there was a foxy female! They had shared a couple of nights once, a long time back when she had got paid for her efforts—and damn fine efforts they were. Not that the industry could ever discover her pre-fame dalliances: they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if they found out that the fierce-hot lady at the top of the music charts had once also been on top of a book of clients. Jax had needed release, Turquoise had come with a personal recommendation and, man, she hadn’t disappointed. But Jax didn’t like to dwell on the last of their meetings. That had been years ago, after his first international win—and he’d gone crazy…done things he shouldn’t…things that made him shudder…

  Danny Fu, the Chinese gymnast. They had been celebrating their first gold medals…

  Jax shook off the memory. It was like that night had happened to another person, a different man, and on an ordinary day he never thought of it at all. How could he? Each time the details reared up a small part of him shrank and died. Fiercely he changed the frequency.

  Soon he would be entering the very same industry—yeah, that was more like it. Jax Jackson, the hip-hop star! Recording with Puff City would make him immortal, unbreakable, a juggernaut…a brighter star than even Turquoise da Luca. It was about time the world got to see what else Jax was capable of. He imagined himself like Biggie without the weight, Snoop without the pigtails, Dre, only younger—screw it, all three combined to make the hip-hop god of the universe! He wouldn’t just be part of Puff City, he’d rule it; he’d be the fucking mayor. How hard could it be? Jax could rap about cribs and Krug and cookie jars with the best of them, because, when all was said and done, he was the one living the dream.

  ‘It’s all about the next competition.’ A familiar voice blared out of the radio. ‘As athletes we’re looking forward, not back. Next stop Rio. That gold is gonna be mine…’

  Jax killed the station, his good mood shattered. Who did that punk Leon Sway think he was? Freakin’ kid had a death wish, standing in the line of The Bullet. Jax scowled into the rear-view mirror, flicking the bird at a truck driver who was coming up close. Touch the paintwork on this and you die, motherfucker.

  Leon might have cut it fine in London, but there was first and there was second and nothing between counted for shit. He thought he was some hot deal: no one else dared give Jax front the way he did; they were way too in awe of the big man. Bring on the 2013 Championships: they would settle the score then. Leon didn’t stand a chance—because the beautiful thing about Jax’s life was that he never had to try that hard. Excellence had been with him since birth, and so while Sway was down the circuit every day pounding the crap out of the track, Jax preferred to lie in with a honey and recover from a hangover.

  Jax grinned. He still won, so fuck it. Victory was a gift.

  With a shriek of brakes the Lamborghini swung to a halt, huge black tyres a snarl beneath its impressive hulk. Fluid as oil the top slipped back, easing its driver into view.

  ‘Get me out on that track, coach.’ Jax flipped down his shades. ‘I got energy to burn.’

  21

  Turquoise fell backwards on to the shimmering sand, her dark hair freed and cascading around her shoulders. Sparkling ocean crashed into shore, washing up the beach on a wistful sigh. The sun blazed blindingly in a clear sapphire sky.

  Cosmo Angel descended on her, his bulk a vast, faceless shadow, eclipsing the light. Roughly he wedged his knee between her legs.

  ‘We’ve got history,’ he growled. ‘It’s time you faced up to that.’ She could smell his breath and feel his excitement. It wasn’t part of the script.

  ‘Can we cut?’ Turquoise broke away. Obligingly Cosmo rolled off, an amused sneer on his face. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, dusting her dress and blushing wildly.

  ‘Everything OK?’ enquired the director. Sam Lucas removed his cap and fanned himself against the heat. ‘If I’m feeling the burn then you two sure are!’

  Production had spared no expense. They were filming in Barbados, on the shores of the Paradise Palms Hotel, a grandiose palace that shone like a mirage in the heat. It was one of the later scenes. Turquoise’s character had hit big and was desperate to flee her past—only to be followed. It was as if Cosmo had lived out his private fantasy with the script he had written, picking up the thread of a real-life tragedy and fictionalising its outcome. Every time Turquoise stepped back and realised what she was doing—acting out her own secrets—the deceit was too much to bear. She had to stay focused on the end product and hope and pray the movie would slip quietly into oblivion.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.


  True Match was set to be the biggest movie smash of the decade.

  In the end, there had been no way to refuse Donna Cameron. While both women had been astonished at Sam’s audacity regarding the last-minute switch, Turquoise’s manager couldn’t accept no as an answer.

  You employ me for my guidance, Donna had pushed, so here it is. Say yes.

  Vocalists in your position would kill for this opening…

  They’d kill, would they?

  Word of Turquoise’s involvement had seeped through the significant channels even before anything was signed. Studios accepted her as making the transition. Sponsors supported the move. Screen moguls earmarked her for upcoming roles. Backing out would have spelled the end of her Hollywood career before it had begun…and Cosmo knew it.

  ‘Let’s go again,’ said Sam, as a stylist stepped in to secure her hair once more. It was the sixth take. She couldn’t bear having Cosmo this close to her, teasing her, torturing her, a sadist to the end, fully aware of what he was doing and savouring every second.

  ‘We’ve got history,’ Cosmo resumed, diving back into the scene like the practised player he was. The crew would put her botched attempts down to inexperience, the silly songstress who hadn’t thought acting was that hard. It wasn’t, compared with the facts.

  ‘Why fight it?’ Her co-star’s eyes were boring down and his hand was clamped to her waist. Every fibre of her body rejected him, her skin recoiling at his touch so that it was a battle to keep from visibly trembling. It could have been ten years ago, strapped to his bed, shivering in her flimsy attire as he appraised her without pity, without feeling, without humanity. He looked the same. His aroma was the same, of musk and sweat. The way he felt, his arms coarse with hair and his flat, dry palms that raced across her chest and stomach like a starved animal, hadn’t changed. Men like Cosmo Angelopoulos didn’t change.

  ‘Stay away from me,’ Turquoise said coldly, playing the part and speaking the truth. ‘What happened between us is over; I never want to see you again.’

  ‘Yet here we are. I can’t help myself.’ Cosmo wound a loop of her hair around his fist and tugged gently. ‘I’m addicted to you.’

  He kissed her. The script dictated an initial resistance before submission. She couldn’t do it. The instant his tongue slipped into her mouth, she gagged.

  ‘Cut!’ Sam put his hands on his hips. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Cosmo’s eyes flashed a warning.

  ‘No,’ Turquoise replied. ‘I, er, I wasn’t prepared to be kissed like that.’

  ‘It should feel authentic,’ mused Cosmo, lifting his shoulders in a boyish shrug as though he welcomed her input. ‘Don’t you think?’

  It’s authentic enough as it is, you sonofabitch.

  ‘Final take.’ Sam consulted his watch. ‘I want to get this and the pool scene in the can before sunset. OK to run with it this time, Turquoise?’

  She swallowed her words along with her pride.

  Cosmo had her gagged. He always had.

  ‘I’ve been to a lot of beautiful places, but this is something else!’ Ava Bennett stirred the peach syrup in her Bellini and crossed one tanned leg over another, parting the white material of her skirt. They were at the Paradise Palms Emerald Bar, a coral-themed heaven of sea-pinks and jewels that dripped from the ceiling like water. Shooting was over for the day.

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ agreed Turquoise, who finished off her third Kir and immediately ordered another. ‘One for the road?’

  ‘You’re drinking fast.’ Ava frowned. ‘Tough day at the office?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘We should get food…’ Ava hailed the barman.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Turquoise preferred to get trashed. The waiter jumped to attention but she waved him away. Being out of it every night would blunt the horror, and the next morning’s hangover might mean she could run through her scenes on a numb sort of autopilot.

  A group of fans approached for photos. Turquoise’s security was keeping their area clear but on her instruction allowed groups through every hour. When they saw movie star Ava as well they couldn’t believe their luck. Ava had taken advantage of a gap in her calendar and had decided to accompany her husband on location.

  One of the guys, young, good-looking, with an armful of tattoos, brazenly chanced it.

  ‘You ladies looking for company?’

  It was refreshing to be spoken to like a regular girl. Turquoise wondered if she might not go to bed with him tonight. She couldn’t stand the fact that Cosmo had been the last person to touch her. After shooting she had sat in the bath for an hour, foaming and scrubbing and trying to rid herself of his touch, but no amount of washing could rinse away the shame.

  Ava rolled her eyes. ‘And if we said yes?’ she teased. ‘Trust me, baby, you wouldn’t know how to handle it…’

  The guy offered a lopsided grin. He had great cheekbones. ‘Want to try me?’

  Turquoise dismissed her bodyguard with a smile. ‘It’s OK,’ she told him. The champagne was going to her head and she was starting to enjoy herself.

  ‘Come on, let me buy you a drink,’ their suitor pressed.

  ‘In your dreams, sweetheart.’

  Turquoise received her fourth from the barman. ‘You can get me one.’

  Ava looked shocked, but Turquoise couldn’t tell if it was her acceptance of his offer or the rate at which she was putting them away. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘I don’t know if…’

  ‘Come on, Max,’ said one of the girls he was with, clearly embarrassed. ‘Let’s split.’

  ‘Nah, I’m not ready yet.’ Cavalier, Max slung one arm round Turquoise and one round Ava. He flashed his killer grin.

  Another voice joined them.

  ‘Come on, Max,’ it said, threateningly calm. ‘You heard the lady.’

  Cosmo Angel’s glare was frozen. A chill seeped down the back of Turquoise’s neck. Max’s arms dropped along with his jaw.

  ‘Would you prefer to take this up with me?’ Cosmo asked hol lowly.

  ‘N-no,’ Max stammered, the swagger of moments before vanished, and in its place a nineteen-year-old kid about to brick himself. ‘I was only messin’.’

  ‘With my wife?’

  Cosmo’s hair was black and oiled, his brow heavy and dark. Often Turquoise imagined what life might have been like for Cosmo in another creation, one that hadn’t been so compassionate: a poor Cretan kid with dusty knees, bullish and stormy-eyed and thinking the world owed him a living, lurking in neighbourhood backstreets, the self-appointed leader of a gang that intimidated girls and beat up any boy who read books and was kind to animals.

  Max swallowed. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, honest, I was just—’

  ‘Get the fuck out of here, you worthless piece of crap.’

  Ava put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘It’s OK, baby, let it go…’

  ‘What’re you still standing there for, shithead?’

  Max darted out of sight.

  Turquoise grabbed her purse. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Not with him, I hope,’ sneered Cosmo.

  ‘Cosmo!’ Ava was appalled. ‘Turquoise, I’m so sorry. Jesus—’ she turned to him, trying to keep her voice down ‘—what the hell’s the matter with you?’

  Once a whore, always a whore. He didn’t need to say it.

  ‘Goodnight,’ said Turquoise, unsteadily getting off her bar stool and heading for the elevators. Security moved to come with her.

  ‘I want to be alone,’ she commanded. ‘Please.’

  The elevator soared to her tower suite like a cage rattling through a labyrinth. She was the bird inside: helpless, flightless, her wings clipped by a menace she would never be able to escape. Cosmo was toying with her; it was a game to him, a sick, sadistic game, and he would play closer and closer to the line till she was ruined by madness.

  With a shudder they came to a stop.

  The motion jolted something in Turquoise, like a stuck wheel oiled
free.

  Anger crested, flooding her senses with dazzling fury.

  How dare Cosmo? How dare he even look her in the eye after what he had made her do? How dare he inveigle his way into her life? How dare he return to torment her?

  How dare he?

  The doors pinged open. A steward in uniform smiled affably as she passed, but Turquoise didn’t return it. Instead she charged down the corridor, jet hair flying. Hatred coursed through her veins, rendering her a blunt weapon, a loaded gun, a blister-sharp dagger, ripe to fire from a heart full of ammo…

  Power. What if it didn’t have to be his? What if she turned it around? She didn’t have to lie back and take it; she wasn’t the girl he had known. Life had made her strong.

  Stronger than him.

  Resolve knifed into her with ice-white clarity, and though she was drunk she had never before been thinking so clearly.

  Whatever it took, whatever the price, she was bringing him down. Cosmo Angel deserved every damn thing he had coming.

  22

  Kristin’s phone woke her, just as it had every morning for the past four weeks. Nausea rolled deeply, thickly, in her belly; she was accustomed to it by now as she rocked on that limbo sea between awake and asleep, one toe still dipped in the untroubled world of her dreams and one in the day that was creeping in with dismal tenacity.

  Though she didn’t need to, she checked the missed-caller display. Scotty.

  Bleary-eyed, she scrolled through his attempts during the night:

  SCOTTY: 12.04 A.M.

  SCOTTY: 1.13 A.M.

  SCOTTY: 1.44 A.M.

  SCOTTY: 2.27 A.M.

  SCOTTY: 3.48 A.M.

  There were three voicemails, which she promptly deleted.

  Kristin rolled over and buried her head under the pillow, groaning loudly and tugging it down in a bid to block out the world. Sunlight was streaming in through the slatted blinds of her villa, bathing her sheets in a pool of warmth that at any other time would have been comforting but now was hotly oppressive. She could hear the ocean building and collapsing, a rhythm that might have lulled her back to oblivion were it not for the thoughts that crowded in, one after another, like a virus, and with each a fresh pinch of despair.