by Victoria Fox
Cosmo was with four women, stumbling in ahead of them and leaning against the closed door with the undisputed bully-rights of the jailor. The quality was better than she had expected and she saw Cosmo’s smile fade: on the way over he would have been the supreme charmer, the movie star these working girls felt blessed to entertain, and only now would he reveal what he truly was—a tyrant. At a guess the youngest was a minor but it was impossible to be certain. What was certain was the striking resemblance they all bore to Turquoise herself. She imagined the brief Cosmo had supplied: tall, dark hair, olive skin, green eyes…Some were curvier than others but the common denominators were clear.
First Cosmo instructed them to undress. There was no sound but Turquoise would know that voracious expression anywhere. As the girls were commanded to make out with each other, occasionally dipping to tend to his arousal, it all seemed agonisingly familiar.
It was when Cosmo withdrew his briefcase that she knew she’d hit on gold.
The dildos he extracted were even more monstrous than she remembered, and there was resistance as two of the girls were directed to strap them on. Cosmo produced a mountain of cocaine to get the wheels oiled and Turquoise’s eyes sprang with tears when she saw how eagerly—and how desperately—his company vacuumed it up. It was terrible watching their misfortune unfold, but cold hard evidence was the only way to catch a beast like him. She had no option, and if it stopped even one victim from meeting the same fate as that poor young girl buried so callously in a lonely cold desert that night, it would be worth it.
Coming up on their high, the girls took to their appointed tasks with zeal and soon the orgy became a writhing mass of limbs with neither head nor tail, one girl indistinguishable from the next and Cosmo somewhere in the midst of it all spiralling recklessly towards his private nirvana—but no heaven was worth it when it spelled hell for someone else.
Sick to her stomach, she was ready to kill the screen when Cosmo scrambled from the melee and took something else from his box of treats. Turquoise squinted, trying to decipher what it was, and when she saw she couldn’t believe her eyes.
Cosmo mounted a winking golden crown to the top of his head—it was crusted with rare and exquisite gems, its circumference peaked like icing, topped with mock sapphires and rubies and fringed with fur, an old-school king’s crown like something from a deck of playing cards. The girls were so busy with each other that they failed to notice, and Cosmo stepped over them to position a large sack of what appeared to be grapes—grapes?—on his dresser. Taking his position on the bed, he sat upright and gazed dead ahead, his ludicrous crown jewels perched and shimmering in the half-light.
Unnervingly Cosmo was staring straight into the eye of the camera, and as Turquoise looked directly back at him she felt a chill.
Silently Cosmo issued his orders and the girls disbanded to obey. All four got to their knees, taking it in turns to crawl to the bag of fruit and extract an orb with their teeth. Like dogs they were required to return to their master, scramble to the bed and take his erection in their mouths. It took Turquoise a few seconds to fathom what was going on: the women were sucking his dick with grapes on their tongues, and judging by Cosmo’s contorted face it was a sure-fire way of coaxing him to the brink of ecstasy. Each girl remained on him just a minute or so before it was the turn of the next, and the departing sweetheart returned to the bag to retrieve a second helping. With this routine, Cosmo was set to go all night.
These were someone’s daughters, Turquoise thought furiously. Injustice crackled through her as she recalled a conversation she’d had once with Ava, in which her friend had confided her and Cosmo’s wish to have a family. The hypocrisy of Cosmo’s wanting kids—daughters he would protect and pay for and love, if indeed he was capable of that—was odious. Did he not consider that the girls here had fathers and mothers? Did he not see them as individuals, someone’s children, beloveds, not things he could play with and throw away?
Things he could allow to die?
As Turquoise skipped through the footage, her worst fears were confirmed. Cosmo’s regal routine went on for the best part of the night, with the girls wearying and beginning to protest, and whenever they did it only gave Cosmo more fuel for fun. He’d hoped they would complain, because each time they did it gave him an excuse to hit them: the king and his lowly servants, who tended to his every need, who existed and worked in fear of his wrath.
He hit them, he slapped them, he floored them. And each time he got harder.
Cosmo Angel was one seriously fucked up human being.
Turquoise reached the end of the tape and stared for a while into the blank eye of the computer screen, processing what she had seen while trying her best to forget it.
There it was. At last, after all these years, she had Mr Angelopoulos crucified in black and white—or rather full colour, for the entire world to see, should they be interested.
And, boy, she kind of thought they would.
30
Dawn at Fountain Valley was always peaceful. Leon squinted against the morning sun, casting pale light across the circuit, the white lanes looping towards and away from him, an endless chain with no beginning or end: his battleground.
Absent-mindedly he tugged at the sweatbands on his wrists. Marlon had given them to him the day he had died. ‘Here,’ his brother had said, reaching into the glove box of his truck and taking something out. Leon had recognised the bands from when Marlon started training—they were black with white crests on; he would know them anywhere. ‘Put these on.’
‘But these are your lucky stripes.’
‘And you’re my lucky little brother. And if I get selected, if I go away next year you’ll have to fill those out; be a man, take care of things. You promise me?’
How different things might have been if Marlon were still alive. Maybe Leon wouldn’t be here at all if things hadn’t happened the way they had: maybe he’d have ended up a waster, getting stoned, dealing drugs, packing a gun. Maybe Marlon would have made the Sydney team; maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Leon could have changed the outcome if he’d reached his brother sooner…maybe not. Maybe. There were things that happened and things that didn’t. That was all. All that mattered was what you chose to do with the facts.
Leon fixed on the track. Was he willing to sacrifice another four years in pursuit of the gold? That was what the super-elite required: existence in suspension, a readiness to give up your body to the physicians and psychologists and medical experts, putting things for ever on hold—family, girls, friends, the real world—while never knowing if it would pay off.
It had to. Four years chasing the next Olympics…because he would not give up. He would never give up. He had Marlon at his shoulder and for him he would keep going.
His archrival’s days were over. It was time for a new leader.
The roar of an engine pulled him from his thoughts. Leon glanced up in time to see Jax arrive in the car lot, his bullet-shaped head poking out of the top of a ridiculous yellow monstrosity. The vehicle was a fiend, a massive neon thing Leon didn’t know the name of.
Jax leapt from the car, already in his kit, and strode towards his opponent. He was donning his hallmark vest, the gold bullet emblazoned across his back as much a souvenir as a caution, and Teddy Simpson, the team coach, was trailing in his wake.
‘So it begins,’ Leon muttered, steeling himself.
‘You. Me.’ Jax lifted his chin. ‘Let’s do it.’
It was obvious Jax had a hangover. He had been partying hard, enjoying the superhero attention in London, LA and every state their PR jaunt had visited: the plane only had to touch down before Jax was unbuckling himself and getting directions to his nearest blow job. One flash of his medal was a VIP pass into anything—and anyone—he desired. With silver Leon experienced the same, but despite the accolades it wasn’t enough: success wasn’t about where you came so much as whether you had done the absolute best you could. If there was one extra breath you could have taken, one
more push you didn’t deliver, one further crush of the lungs, the final pain you could have abided and hadn’t, that was real defeat.
What made the difference between silver and gold? Luck? Biology? Fortune of physicality, of owning a single gene that lifted you imperceptibly above the rest? Jax had been revealed during tests to possess a bigger lung capacity, but then the same had revealed Leon’s bigger heart. What couldn’t be measured, only felt in the soul, was ambition.
Leon hadn’t been banking on a duel today. He’d been here since daybreak. ‘Now?’
‘No, next week, bozo.’
The fire caught in his belly. Desire to eliminate this man was all consuming. The Championships were this summer and he had to show his mettle. Jax was getting beat.
‘A hundred metres.’ Teddy stood by. ‘Ready to fly?’
‘You had breakfast?’ Jax snarled.
Leon didn’t get it.
‘Prepare to eat dust.’
‘Conserve your energies, Jax. It must take it out of you having such wit.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Jax unimaginatively.
‘You want to get into this again? ‘Cause I’ll get into it again.’
‘Be my guest, bozo.’
‘Swop the pornos for a dictionary once in a while; it might widen your vocabulary.’
Teddy interceded. ‘Boys…’
‘You think you’re so fuckin’ smart?’ Jax glowered.
‘Pretty much.’
‘Well I’ve got news for you.’ His audience waited. ‘You aren’t.’
‘Wow. I’m enlightened.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘I’d sooner your girlfriend did it for me.’
Jax’s mouth pursed like a walnut. ‘You’re a dead man,’ he seethed. ‘Just like your dead brother.’
Leon went for him, eclipsed at the last instant by Teddy, who wedged himself between the juggernauts. ‘Jesus, you two; back the hell down!’
‘Only one way to settle this,’ Jax spat, privately relieved at the coach’s intervention: he didn’t much fancy getting floored again.
In seconds the men were crouched, strong legs in front and their hands behind the line. Leon focused on the track, waiting for his anger to subside and trying to channel it into fuel but unable to focus on anything save tearing Jax Jackson limb from limb.
Everything fell quiet.
As soon as Leon heard the pistol he was on top of the track. That’s what it felt like, as if he had fallen straight on it. The ground rose up to meet him, pushing back against every tread like a living thing, and for this handful of seconds his mind was clear. He was bursting with energy, charged with a flame, as if he could go for a thousand miles. He was back on the Compton road where Marlon had died, running to save him and save the future.
Jax was on a level, leaning into the run, winding up faster and faster till he was in full sprint, his legs turning out the treads like pistons, arms slicing through the air, cutting his way through. Leon caught sight of the finish and in an instant was consumed by the unqualified fact of it and the certainty that this was all that counted: he saw the thing he was trying to get to and he knew time was running out; that it couldn’t happen again this way.
Not again. He had to be fast enough, had to get there in time. Had to reach it or…
Jax was pulling away. The gold bullet was in sight, drawing further; the head above it dipped as if the body it piloted were in flight. The heat in Leon’s legs told him he was at his limit—he couldn’t push any more. This was as good as he got, and Jax was better.
The other man’s foot crashed over the line, sending up a flat cloud of chalk.
Bent over, his breathing ragged, Leon battled to slow his heart. Jax thumped him on the back, hard. Leon coughed and spat on to the ground.
‘Bad luck, Sway.’ Jax emptied a bottle of water over his face, neck, shoulders, blowing drops of it off his top lip, then he shook his head in a flurry like a wet dog. He watched as the younger man, palms on his knees, fought to catch oxygen.
‘Know your place,’ Jax growled. ‘Or else.’
At the sides, he grabbed a bottle of water and popped it open. Teddy was distracted by a couple of the team showing early and falling into stretches, and Leon took a long slug, holding it in his mouth a moment before shooting it in a narrow stream on to the hot ground. When he took another he pulled the liquid into him thirstily.
On the benches, a discarded news rag was blowing on the breeze. The strapline read:
ROBIN RYDER TAMED AT LAST?
Beneath it ran a picture of Robin and UK rap sensation Rufio, one third of London posse East Beatz, spilling out of a club. Another showed them clambering into a black cab.
Leon sat down next to it, resting an elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm.
Shit. She was just a girl. He had other stuff to focus on, stuff that needed his attention, but the fact was her rejection still stung. Hadn’t she felt what he’d felt that night? Hadn’t he broken down a vital wall, or at least dislodged a part of it? Hadn’t she let him in? Try as he might he couldn’t forget how it had been to hold her, how small she had seemed, her skin so sweet and her lips so soft, and how different she had been in that context from the tough image she projected, the hard exterior that she had finally let fall with him.
Why had she vanished the morning after without a word, a note, anything?
Didn’t she care?
Seeing her now with Rufio, Leon accepted that whatever had gone between them was a one-way street. Robin wasn’t interested, she never had been and he couldn’t force her to be. Now she had hooked up with somebody else without a thought for how that might be perceived. Fine, if Rufio gave her what he couldn’t, good luck to him.
Perhaps Robin wasn’t the girl he’d thought she was.
The wind picked up, carrying the paper off the benches. He watched it ride on the breeze, skimming and wheeling across the track until it disappeared from sight.
31
Slink Bullion was sprawled in his hot tub, sucking on a fat cigar. Through narrowed eyes he surveyed the two girls opposite him, their perfect tits bobbing at the surface of the water.
‘We gotta sound this out, man.’ Gordon Rimeaux, better known by his Puff City stage name G-Money, ran a hand across the back of his neck. He felt bad. Ever since Leon Sway had showed up at their door he’d felt bad. He’d barely slept a wink at night.
‘Aw, quit walkin’ round with a face like a slapped ass.’ Principal 7 emerged on to the terrace of Slink’s Long Beach mansion, his bare arms and chest mapped with artwork, and climbed in between the women. He lit his own Cuban. ‘Join the frickin’ party.’
Gordon hung back. He didn’t want to be here but they had to work out what in fuck’s name they were going to do, and if Slink and Principal refused to address the issue then he had to. How could they look Sway in the eye and act as if nothing had happened?
‘Shoot, brother, I’m listenin’,’ Slink offered, as usual the diplomat where Principal’s crappy attitude was concerned.
At the same time Principal offered, ‘Girls, why don’t you touch each other, work it a bit? Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.’
‘We can’t when she’s watching,’ one of them complained, pulling away and glaring, stoned, in the direction of Shawnella, who was perched on the rim in a scant bikini that was only a shade redder than her livid face. Slink had never maintained that he was a one-woman man, yet Shawnella couldn’t abide the company he kept. She’d insisted on making the gig tonight, slouching about moodily in hot pants and applying lip gloss every three seconds.
Shawnella mumbled, ‘Dumb sluts.’
‘Damn, woman!’ The cigar flew from Principal’s hand, landing in the water with a sad fizz and floating across its surface like a turd. ‘You tryin’ to shit all over my party?’
Slink held a hand up. ‘Chill, dog.’
‘Party’s over,’ said the girl, stepping out of the pool. The other followed and they padded inside,
dripping water. Shawnella shot them daggers on the way past.
‘That’s just beautiful.’ Principal fished the cigar out and flung it after them. ‘Frigid fuckin’ cunts!’ He sat back. ‘Where’s the champagne? Is this a fuckin’ celebration or what?’
Slink killed the beats. ‘Take control of yourself, man, for real.’ He nodded to Shawnella. ‘Go inside, baby, you heard the man.’
Principal scowled. Shawnella sloped off, long hair plaited like a rope down her back.
Once upon a time this might well have been Gordon’s idea of a party: Puff City gigs were renowned and tonight had lived up to the hype, with Slink favouring spontaneity so that appearances would spring up across LA in warehouses and underground clubs at a moment’s notice, still managing to split at the seams with followers who had uncovered the news through whispered word-of-mouth. In the nineties the crew had powered sixty-thousand-strong stadium events but these days preferred a tighter venue where fans could connect with the music. Lack of advertising meant they welcomed only die-hard disciples.
Now, he grimaced. Gordon wasn’t into that scene any more. Drugs and bought women, they meant nothing, they were wrong and they belonged to another period in his life when he had been royally messed up and hadn’t had a clue what shit was about. It had been a sinister time, a time he preferred not to recall…only now he was being forced to.
Shawnella emerged in the doorway, proficiently brandishing four champagne flutes, two in each hand, and a magnum of Cristal.
Filling Slink’s glass, she began kneading the muscles of his back, which shone like black silk in the moonlight. ‘You having fun now, baby?’ she purred, confidence restored.
Slink drew on his cigar, watching as its end glowed into life. He drew the smoke in deeply. ‘There ain’t no reason why Sway has to know a thing,’ he said, returning to the topic at hand. Shawnella released the clasp on her bikini top and climbed into the water, an attempt at distraction. It worked for Principal, at least, whose flat eyes locked on to her nipples, just visible above the line of the water, where her tits bobbed, slippery as seals’ backs.