Power Games

by Victoria Fox

  ‘I guess you two’re gonna want to get t’know each other, huh?’ Carmine thrust a glass into his son’s hand and supplied a wink. Their conspiracy filled her with horror. She wanted to run, never stop and never look back, until she reached his arms.

  If only that was all there was to it …

  ‘I want you to listen carefully,’ her father had said that night in his office, ‘for if you choose to accept, our empire is yours. Everything. You take over.’

  The words Angela had waited her whole life to hear.

  Her father’s confidence, his respect, his finally recognising what she was capable of, a bond between them of trust and belief, nothing to do with her brothers.

  But she could never have guessed at what cost.

  ‘The business is dying,’ Donald had explained. ‘I’ve been shielding you from it. I haven’t told Orlando, or Luca, or any of the board. I haven’t even told your mother. I’m telling you, Angela, because you’re the one I am counting on to help. We’re in bad shape. Real bad shape.’ He had wiped a hand across his face and she’d heard him swallow, a dry, sickening sound, coarse with regret. ‘Twelve months ago I put money into a sideline I believed was a dead cert. I was wrong.’

  Donald Silvers was never wrong. He had made a fortune on those grounds.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Let me finish. That’s only the start.’

  And then he had confessed the awful truth.

  Her father had been diagnosed weeks ago. The doctors had given him mere months to live. Isabella had been protected from that blow as well.

  ‘No,’ Angela had spoken with someone else’s voice, tinny and strange in an upturned world, ‘you won’t,’ she fumbled for sense, ‘you can’t—’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘They’re wrong. You’ll get through it—’

  ‘The Zenettis can pull us out,’ said Donald, matter-of-fact, no time for weakness. ‘They’re our last hope. They can give us back our future. Your future, Angela, should you decide to commit.’

  Her chest tightened. ‘Commit to what?’

  He had laid it out in basic terms. The proposed marriage to Dino, the combined fortunes bailing them out of debt, the mutual interests to both parties as they embarked on a super-empire merging the last word in leisure and retail.

  The Silvers would take a cut, thirty per cent against the Zenettis’ seventy, but the brand would survive. Given time, it might even grow.

  And she would be there to rebuild it. Her business. Her chance.

  Her chance.

  Carmine Zenetti wanted to make it official, cement the allegiance via a union with his son. Angela was the key. Donald hadn’t been in a position to negotiate.

  Her heart in exchange for her family—not just the dying wish of her father but her own wish, too: to step out from the wings and inherit the trophy.

  She couldn’t. She must. She wouldn’t. She had to …

  ‘Wanna take a walk?’

  Dino lifted an eyebrow. Everything about him was suggestive. His knuckles were peppered with hair and he wore a signet on his pinkie. His nails were clean, his hands smooth, as if he had done nothing more in his life than to change a light bulb.

  Angela stood. She could feel her father’s gaze drilling into her but she could not return it. She could not look at him. Any other disclosure she would have welcomed, but not this. Never this. She was running on autopilot, ignoring Noah’s attempts to make contact, cancelling his calls for fear she would lose control as soon as she heard his voice, trying to find some space while she figured out what on earth she was going to do. Every way she looked at it, there was an impossible penalty to pay. Refusing her father was unthinkable.

  So was sacrificing Noah.

  Selfish as it was, it came to this: Angela did want the title. She did want the job. She did want to claim what was hers because she had earned it.

  ‘C’mon,’ encouraged Dino. ‘Let me give you a tour of our little hotel,’ he put the emphasis on our, ‘see if you like it.’

  Angela followed. She could hear Carmine preparing to pop the champagne, the murmur of approval that passed between him and her father. She felt trapped in a nineteenth-century drawing room; engaged to be married against every belief her heart held true. Her head told her different. Her head told her this was a done deal.

  Perhaps Noah would understand. Perhaps he would let her explain and then he would see that this was the only way. They could still be together—they were already forced to meet in secret, what real difference would it make?

  One promise she could make him utterly: that she would never be with Dino Zenetti in the proper way. Their partnership was for show; that was all.

  Noah would understand. She would make him.

  Dino led the way. It reminded Angela of a walk she had taken a long time ago.

  A boy she had fallen for, and nine years later still unable to set him free.

  Boston

  2005

  ‘Noah, oh yes, right there, that’s it!’

  Noah Lawson obliged, driving deep into the woman who was lying spread-eagled across her expensively upholstered sunlounger. He was sixteen, nailing his boss’s wife in the pool house he was meant to be cleaning, and what’s more he was getting paid for it. Getting paid for getting laid … What boy wouldn’t?

  Mrs Mason wasn’t bad either, tall and buxom with the greatest pair of tits this side of Vermont. Noah dipped his head to them, licking and grazing as she arched beneath him, grabbing tufts of his corn-blond hair and raking her scarlet manicure down his back. He tucked one hand behind her knee, pushing his cock harder and harder until she screamed. Mrs Mason’s lipstick was smudged, her mouth parted in ecstasy.

  ‘You make me so hot,’ she moaned. ‘Where’d you learn how to do this stuff?’

  As if to reinforce the point, Noah drew out, hovering his dick millimetres from Mrs Mason’s sweet spot. She groaned, thrashing her head from side to side.

  ‘Now! Take me now!’

  He rested his thumb on her swollen clitoris, wondering when Mr Mason with his bald head and stuffy suits and perspiring brow had last done this, and began to tease, dipping his thumb inside her, drawing out her wetness.

  ‘Noah! Please! Take me!’ She was delirious, her hands reaching up to maul his chest before sliding down to clasp his proud, rock-solid erection. Noah rode through her fingers, his balls ready to burst. Mrs Mason’s pussy was pink and glistening, her dark bush trimmed in anticipation of their weekly meetings.

  Noah Lawson looked older than sixteen. Mrs Mason would have a heart attack if she knew. Truth was, he had bedded dozens of women and none of them had a clue. He had lost his virginity to a friend’s older sister when he was twelve, a quick and strange fumble in the back seat of a vintage Cadillac, where he had panicked and pulled out and spunked all over her hand. He had come a long way since then.

  ‘You asked for it,’ he breathed, and in a single stroke he plunged into her, collapsing onto her tits. Mrs Mason was yelping, rocking so hard beneath him that he had to grab her wrists to hold her down and she was pulsing and writhing and biting his neck and only then did he let himself come, a series of white-hot electric spasms.

  Noah rolled off, panting hard, his bronzed stomach rising and falling. He gazed up at the whirring ceiling fan. Mr Mason would be back soon.

  ‘I gotta split.’

  ‘Don’t—’ She sat up, starry-eyed. ‘When can I see you again?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Keep this place dirty.’ He grinned. ‘Gives me more to do.’

  As he exited the Masons’ estate, summer sun shining on his back, it was panning out like any ordinary Friday: a couple hours at the Masons’ and then on to Hank’s Hardware for the rest of the day. Noah had quit school the year before—more accurately, he’d been expelled—and there was no one at home who gave enough of a shit to place him elsewhere: his mom was a waster and his dad had walked out on them years ago. Life was down to him. Ther
e was only one way to escape this neighbourhood and that was with a shedload of cash in his back pocket.

  Soon as he could, he was getting as far from this town as possible.

  He grabbed a hot dog, ravenous after the morning’s exertions. Mrs Mason had slipped him an extra fifty bucks, which he could have taken offence at but didn’t. There was enough money floating about this joint and since he hadn’t seen a dime of it since the day he was born, it was high time he cut a piece. The Lawsons were the embarrassment of Bourton. Everyone knew they had nothing. Everyone knew his mom was a bum and his dad had drunk himself to death in a ditch somewhere.

  Everyone knew Noah had gone the way they’d expected him to, bailing on school and drifting the streets: a loser, a troublemaker, a failure, a lost cause …

  And yeah, maybe they were right. Maybe all he’d end up doing with his life was fucking married women in their pool houses while their husbands went out to work. He’d be hauling crates for Hank the rest of his days, earning six dollars an hour and trying to remember the name of the last girl he’d slept with.

  Noah lost his appetite for the hot dog and tossed it in the trash.

  A van pulled up outside Hank’s and began unloading a delivery. Noah grabbed a couple of crates and headed through the door, colliding almost instantly with the most incredible-looking girl he had ever seen in his life.

  The crates went smashing to the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ The girl dropped to her knees, attempting to gather the mess.

  ‘Don’t,’ he knelt, ‘it’s glass.’

  ‘Ow!’

  A prickle of blood flowered on her index finger. She sucked it.

  For the first time in all his sixteen years, Noah Lawson was tongue-tied. The girl looked up at him, her eyes a deeper shade of green than he had known existed. Her skin was pale except for a flash of colour at the cheekbones.

  ‘I’m Noah,’ he blurted.

  She took the finger from her mouth and inspected it. ‘It’s just a graze.’

  ‘It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  I was looking at you, he thought. Why haven’t I been looking at you for every second of every minute of every hour of my life?

  ‘Angela,’ she said, with a tentative smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She stood. He joined her. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other.

  ‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be working?’

  ‘I can come back.’ He didn’t care. ‘Let me.’

  That shy smile again. ‘OK.’

  The exit chimed just as Hank, the store’s owner, came through.

  ‘What the hell’s just happened out here—?’

  But the door was already swinging shut behind them.

  Noah Lawson did walk Angela home, that day and the whole summer after. He could have walked her to the ends of the earth and back, and still never tired. He knew from that very first day that he would never be able to share her with anyone.

  11

  London

  It was Saturday night and Kevin Chase was performing live on The Craig Winston Show. He hated gigging in tight studio spaces, so close to the primly seated front row it felt as if he was screaming the lyrics in their faces. It reminded him of his audition with Cut N Dry: the panel of execs, Sketch looking on approvingly as he had sang and danced like a court buffoon until every muscle in his body hurt. It had gone to the wire between him and some stammering kid whose name he couldn’t remember.

  The choice, Sketch told him later, had been easy.

  Tonight marked the unveiling of his new single, the coming-of-age ‘Wise Up’. Recently commissioned by Cut N Dry in light of Kevin’s refusal to continue playing the pretty-boy-perfect role, it was about crossing the frontier into adulthood—or at least that was how Sketch had sold it. It wasn’t quite as sexy and edgy as Kevin had hoped for, but he supposed it was a start. At least it wasn’t about cuddly fucking toys.

  ‘You say you wanna feel me, girl this is the real me, come right here and deal me, cos girl I wanna call ya, I swear I will enthral ya, baby take it all yeah …’

  The audience remained on their fat asses as Kevin charged the small stage, working his dance routines, the flaps of his knee-length Cavalli coat flying out behind him. A handful of Little Chasers had been admitted which prevented the whole thing becoming totally cringe-worthy, like he was an upstart kid flaunting his wares at a school assembly, and squealed their approval as he shuffled to the beat.

  ‘I swear girl you’re so beautiful, you know I think you’re beautiful …’

  At this the Little Chasers squealed some more, and Kevin noticed through the blaring lights that one of them was at least his age, if not a couple years older. That was a novelty. She was pretty, too, with a thick dark fringe and sparkling eyes.

  ‘Be mine tonight, the best night of your life …’ He stepped off the stage, an impromptu move, and claimed the girl’s hand. Fingers snatched at him from all directions, mauling his clothes and tugging him close. But Kevin’s gaze remained on the girl’s. ‘Don’t put up a fight, let me hold you tight …’

  The girl stared back at him in open worship, her lips sweetly parted.

  Kevin hit the closing high note, tipping his head back to belt it, and before the lights went down he twirled once, brilliantly, on the spot, punching his arm high into the air. The applause was ear-splitting. Kevin returned to the stage to receive Craig Winston’s praise, and decided then that he would be banging that girl tonight.

  ‘Never go with a fan.’

  That had been one of Sketch’s first nuggets of advice.

  But Sketch wasn’t here now, was he?

  The girl was. His assistant had sorted it.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ the girl told him, her voice shaking wildly as she perched on a chair in his dressing room. Kevin was busy peeling off his suit.

  ‘You don’t mind …’ he gestured to his bare, sweat-drenched torso, ‘do you?’

  She blushed and turned away. ‘I, er …’

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, relishing the power. This was a different kind of power to the power he felt on stage. Sexual. Potent. Animalistic.

  It would be his first time. Great that she was older, she could steer him if he needed it, but his own pleasure would be paramount. It was the golden combination.

  ‘M-Marie,’ she faltered.

  ‘That’s a pretty name.’

  Kevin kept his pants on for now. He was conscious that he hadn’t yet got hard. When were you supposed to? Now? When she got her tits out? After it went in?

  He stroked her hair. ‘You like me, don’t you?’ he warbled.

  ‘Yes,’ Marie choked.

  ‘I bet you never thought you’d be here, right?’

  ‘N-no.’

  He leaned down. ‘I’m going to have sex with you,’ he whispered.

  Marie’s eyes were pools of lust. She tried to kiss him.

  ‘Not yet,’ he told her. ‘Take your top off.’

  Her fingers trembling, Marie undid the buttons of her shirt. Underneath she was wearing a plain white bra. Her stomach was pale and smooth and she had a constellation of freckles on her chest. Kevin reached to touch them. Slowly his hand moved lower, cupping her breast. It felt heavy in his palm, like a balloon filled with water. He handled it enquiringly, as if he were testing the weight of a bag of sugar. He moved to the other one, and her nipple stiffened under his thumb.

  Marie tucked her arms behind her back and released the clasp. Her tits sprang into view, full and white. Kevin registered a faint ripple of longing, obstructed before it reached his groin: a message that wasn’t quite computing.

  He continued to fondle distractedly, like a chef oiling a cut of pork.

  ‘Do you like them?’ Marie asked in a small voice.

  He supposed so. ‘Yeh.’

  For Marie it was a green light. Quick as a fla
sh, she was fumbling into his underpants, attempting to release his coiled-up dick.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked when he pulled away.

  ‘Nothin’,’ he grunted. ‘You done this before?’

  Marie lifted her chin. ‘Course.’

  ‘Good.’

  As if to prove it, Marie shuffled out of her skirt and knickers and stood before him in all her naked glory. Kevin watched the triangle of fuzz between her legs, warily, as if it were an animal about to pounce. Still he felt nothing.

  Maybe he should speak to Sketch about increasing his vitamin dosage.

  One blue pill, one red pill, every day like clockwork—he had to stay healthy, Sketch vowed, keep ahead of the competition. The pills were a special formula designed to soothe, relax and nourish. Kevin had been guzzling them for as long as he could remember. Given how out of control he had felt lately, he dreaded the thought of what he would be reduced to without them. Without them, he might die.

  Joan had made sure in those early days that he never missed a pill. Do what Sketch says, honey; Sketch knows best. Of course Sketch knew best. Sketch always did. It was gruesome how much of a brownnose Joan was—all yes, Sketch this and yes, Sketch that. Her head was so far up Sketch’s ass you could practically see her toenails in the seat of his pants.

  ‘Can I give you a blowjob?’

  Kevin looked down at his dangling appendage. Maybe once it got in Marie’s mouth it would start doing something. But that never happened in porn. The guy’s penis was already an upright, splendid spear—not a flaccid, starved little thing that resembled a gerbil at the bottom of a cage. He wanted to weep.

  Kevin backed up. ‘Actually, I don’t think—’

  Marie moved like lightning. She was a substantial size, the same height as him easily, and threw him against the dressing room door. Tits smashed against his chest and her glossy lips attacked his face. He could feel her warm, fruit-scented breath, and before he knew it she was clasping his dick, rubbing it with the flat of her hand, up and down, up and down, until the friction started to burn.

  ‘Stop it.’ He took her wrist. It hurt. ‘Back off a second.’