by Victoria Fox
Tom wasn’t convinced, and who could blame him? Two months back Aurora had passed out at the wheel of her vehicle with a cocktail of drugs in her system. She could have died. The cops had arrived at the scene, realised the state she was in and taken her immediately to hospital, where she’d had her stomach pumped and been sick into a tray until her insides ached. Then came the inevitable arrest—and that photo. It had been splashed across the world’s media: little Aurora Nash, once the bouncing blonde baby of two of America’s most famous, most conservative and most clean-living country and western stars, was, now, at fifteen, a bleary-eyed mess, doped up on who knew what and, so it was widely reported, moments from death. But it was the attitude that seemed to shock people: the hard-edged glare in her eyes, the been-there-done-it-all weariness so at odds with her youth.
The Ferrari had been trashed, its hood concertinaed like an accordion. At first Tom and Sherilyn had been angry—well, as angry as they’d ever be. She’d been grounded for a week, but with Jenna’s help had sneaked out on the second night. They never noticed. Tom had bought her a replacement car, though she’d had to wait a month—and she still wasn’t permitted by the authorities to drive. Who knew how long she’d be without a ride! She was going out of her head.
‘This has got to change,’ Sherilyn had told her, but more with sympathy than rage. Sometimes she wished her mom had more balls. ‘Perhaps you should come see Lindy.’
God! Seeing Lindy was a fate worse than death. She’d probably make them have mother/daughter sessions or something equally horrific. No, she’d handle this herself in the same way she always had: sweet smile, big eyes, promises to be good. Bingo.
‘See you later, kiddo,’ said Tom now, bending to kiss her cheek.
‘See ya, Dad.’
After he’d gone, Aurora unclasped her bikini top and lay back down, slipping her earphones back in and letting her mind wander back to the sexy guitarist and the pool.
The next thing she knew, it was cold. Shit—she must have fallen asleep. The sun was fading and the temperature had dropped. How long had she been out?
She checked the time: almost seven.
Gathering her things, she padded through the vast sliding doors and into the Nash/Rose mansion. It was a huge ranch-style place, with a mix of LA grandeur and Tom’s more earthy Texan roots. She grabbed herself a glass of lemonade from the refrigerator. Tom’s avocado facemasks littered the vegetable compartment.
The second the door shut, she jumped.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
A man—at a guess he was only a year or two older than her—was standing in the doorway, arms laden with brown grocery bags. He was dark-skinned and dark-haired, short, with green eyes and a young, smooth-skinned face. He looked as startled as she did.
Aurora became aware that she was topless. She folded her arms across her breasts, but could see the effect her nakedness had already had on him. The boy’s cheeks were aflame.
‘Er … I am … My mother is …’ His English was bad. Distantly Aurora remembered the Mexican housekeeper her parents had hired recently.
‘You’re Julieta’s son?’
‘Yes,’ he said, relieved, but still not knowing where to look. ‘She not well today … I come to help … The lady boss says is fine …’
‘You’ve spoken to my mother?’ Aurora demanded. She let her hands drop as she sipped the lemonade. It was cool inside, the air con made it so, and she felt her nipples stiffen.
The boy nodded swiftly. He dumped the bags on the central island.
‘I will leave. You are busy …’
‘You’re not going to help me tidy these things away?’ Aurora asked, gesturing at the groceries. ‘I thought you’d come to help.’
He nodded. She’d never seen a blush under such dark skin before. He was five-six at a push, not the calibre of man she would normally go for, but something about him was attractive and she felt a stirring ripple through her. She wondered if he was a virgin.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Sebastian.’
‘Well, Sebastian,’ Aurora said, setting her glass down and slinking round the counter. Her bikini briefs were tiny and she leaned over the bags, pushing her ass out for him to admire. ‘Shall I show you exactly where I want you to … put things?’
He rustled pointlessly with the bags.
Aurora smiled, lifted herself up on to the counter and crossed her legs. His eyes were level with her breasts. ‘Do you play pool?’ she asked.
The boy gulped, gaze darting to the water outside.
‘Not that sort of pool,’ Aurora clarified, though she imagined they could have several entertaining games out there as well. Instead, she took his hand. He didn’t object. She drew it to her right breast and felt his fingers cup tentatively round the soft flesh. His eyes were transfixed on her body, his mouth slightly open, in fear, desire or disbelief it was impossible to say. When she drew her own hand away, his remained. They stayed like that for several moments, the groceries between them. Sebastian’s touch became firmer, beginning to knead, before his other hand seized the second breast and then he was pushing them together, squeezing and releasing. Abruptly he leaned in, took one of their peaks between his lips and sucked.
‘Come,’ she told him, slipping off the counter and leading Sebastian through to an adjacent games room. Centre stage was a magnificent green-felt pool table, the triangle of gleaming balls laid out in perfect arrangement and two slim wooden cues down each side.
Aurora settled on the edge of the table, enjoying the smooth, glossy veneer beneath her bare thighs. ‘Strip,’ she told him. When he looked confused, she added more softly, ‘Take your clothes off.’
Fumbling, Sebastian removed his T-shirt, unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his jeans. He had a broad chest, muscular, and stocky, virtually hairless legs. The hard-on visible through his underwear was modest, but sufficient. Aurora raised an eyebrow. He peeled them down and over his ankles, kicking them to one side.
She appraised his dick. It was rock-hard and reasonable in length, his balls ripe and buoyant in a nest of dense black hair. Slowly she took off her own briefs, and the minute she parted her legs, he dived for her like an animal, plunging in with force.
‘Fucking hell, hang on!’ She pulled back, easing him out. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
Sebastian’s face had taken on a slack, robotic expression. He sank to the floor and started rummaging about in his jeans, at last removing a coloured wrapper. So much for being a virgin. The second time he entered her Aurora was thrown back on to the table, scattering the pool balls wide. She raised her arms and grabbed each of the top pockets with her fingers, the boy pummelling into her, deeper and deeper, all the way in then driving back out, his hands under her ass. He was half up on the table now, one knee bent on the felt, the other foot steadying him on the floor. Aurora didn’t think she had ever in her life been nailed with such conviction.
He mounted the table, crouching, and flipped her round. She saw two of the yellow balls rush into the top pockets, heard the velvety plunk of one vanishing in another. Gripping under her belly with one hand, the boy pushed into her from behind, snatching her tits with the other, tugging them hard. She felt the slap of him against her and she grabbed one of the pool cues, sliding its length underneath till she could move the cold, flawless line of it back and forth, bringing her off. The boy took the lead, clasping its end and driving it between them. As she was on the cusp of coming he whipped it out from under her, slid his cock out and replaced it with the butt of the cue. With a strangled groan he ejaculated. Rocked forward with the motion, Aurora screamed aloud on the crest of her orgasm. The boy collapsed forward and they stayed motionless on the table, wrapped in sweat, gasping for air.
‘Fuck,’ was all Aurora could say. ‘You’re an outrageous fuck, Sebastian.’
He began kissing the length of her spine, from behind her neck to the top of her ass. She was still riding the gentle spasms o
f her first climax when he bent to lick her. Lazily she smiled, parting her legs to receive his tongue, feeling it flick and plunge between her till she was coaxed to the edge of another rising swell. He used his fingers, wetting them before, on the point of making her come a second time, he dipped the tip of his thumb into her ass.
Aurora cried in ecstasy, so loud she didn’t hear the door to the games room open.
Sherilyn Rose dropped whatever it was she was carrying. Sebastian clambered back off the table, tripping over on to the floor, struggling to get his jeans on, mumbling something incoherent in Spanish.
Shit.
Triple shit.
Aurora looked up, blew the hair out of her face. ‘Hey, Mom.’
9
Stevie
Linus Posen’s party, or ‘gathering’, as it was creepily called on Bibi’s invitation, took place in his penthouse New York apartment on a Sunday night. As soon as she saw Linus, Stevie understood he was exactly the sort of person who threw parties on Sundays, changing the rules simply because he could. He was a massive presence, tall and fat, and possessed a booming baritone of a voice and mean, quick little eyes that looked like raisins squidged into raw dough.
Stevie decided on sight that she didn’t like him. Typically she’d never be so quick to judge, but his air of bored arrogance sat uncomfortably with her.
‘Are you sure I look OK?’ trilled Bibi as they stood at the entrance to the sprawling warehouse, suffused with mood beats and the hum of conversation. It wasn’t like Bibi to be insecure about anything, but she hadn’t relaxed since they’d set off.
In the cab, Stevie had been surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you fancy him.’
‘Of course I do,’ Bibi had confessed, insofar as Bibi could ever make a confession, because Bibi never seemed to be embarrassed or apologetic about anything. ‘Linus Posen is shit-hot, Steve. He’s the director that could build my career! My agent says he’s casting for his new movie. Matthew McConaughey’s tipped to star.’
‘It doesn’t mean you have to find him attractive.’
‘McConaughey? Gimme a break.’
‘Linus Posen, silly. Isn’t he old?’
‘Fifties, is my bet.’ Bibi had checked her face in her compact for the millionth time. ‘Frankly, I don’t care. He could be in a wheelchair and I’d still show him the Bibi Reiner magic!’
‘That’s sick.’
‘That’s sensible.’
‘What about whether or not you like him?’ She knew she was giving Bibi a hard time. Just because she’d succumbed to a man with power didn’t mean the disaster that had befallen her was going to befall everyone. It was just that she didn’t want Bibi getting hurt, and instinct told her that Bibi didn’t always think things through properly. Then again, that was hypocritical.
‘That comes afterwards,’ Bibi had explained patiently. ‘All I care about right now is getting him to notice me.’
The party was packed with famous faces, some of whom Stevie recognised and some she didn’t. The girls wound their way through the chatting, exclaiming sea of bodies. It reminded Stevie of the handful of celebrity soirées she’d attended through Simms & Court in London, but even she had to admit this was of a higher order. Back at Bibi’s apartment she’d teamed a pair of black skinny jeans with boots and a top: it was definitely her style, not that she’d admit to having one, of quiet, understated glamour. Bibi had tried to insist she borrow a dress but she’d turned it down, compromising by letting her hair loose and slipping on a pair of heels, to which Bibi had exclaimed, ‘We’re the same size, ohmygod, it’s meant to be!’
She regretted her decision. All the other women were in gowns and skirts and Stevie felt criminally underdressed, especially next to Bibi, who was clad in an imitation (a good one) Versace minidress and fierce heels.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Bibi, taking her arm.
‘Sure. Why?’
‘You seem a bit … I dunno, quiet. Is everything all right?’
It wasn’t the first time Bibi had attempted to get her to open up. Being a relentless gossip, she’d been on at Stevie about ex-boyfriends and past experiences pretty much as soon as she’d got here, and doubtless could tell something was the matter. It wasn’t as though Stevie didn’t feel able to confide in her—on first impressions Bibi was a live wire, but underneath all that was a deeply caring and unselfish friend—it was more that she didn’t want to think of it herself. She’d done a stupid thing, a reckless thing, and she regretted it. That was all there was to say.
‘Honest, B. I’m fine.’
Bibi accepted it: she knew when to push her luck. She plucked two flutes of gold champagne from a passing tray and nudged Stevie in the ribs. ‘There he is,’ she murmured, the champagne vanishing in one. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Will he know who we are?’ Stevie disliked feeling like a groupie. She had no desire to meet Linus and even less to witness his ego being fawned over.
Bibi grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the group surging around the director, nearly colliding with an oncoming array of canapés that was more artwork than food. ‘If he doesn’t now,’ she promised, ‘he will soon.’
They got held up by Bibi’s agent for a few moments, a flinty-eyed woman named Carrie Pearce, who had bobbed hair the colour of rat. From the way she spoke to her client it was clear she deemed Bibi incredibly lucky to have her representation. Stevie couldn’t work out why, since Bibi seemed to go for endless auditions and never secure any lasting work.
‘Stevie’s from England,’ said Bibi, in a way that managed to make it sound exotic.
Carrie looked bored. ‘It must be quite something for you to be at a party of Linus Posen’s,’ she said unpleasantly. ‘Are you in the business?’
Stevie shook her head. ‘I’m a sales assistant,’ she told her, correctly anticipating the admission would pass like a bad smell under Carrie’s nose and feeling satisfied when it did. Why should she be made to feel self-conscious? After much searching, she’d finally landed a part-time position at a clothes store on Broadway and was proud of every cent she earned.
Carrie smiled tightly as Bibi blathered on, her eyes skipping across the room for a more interesting and important person to talk to. Stevie became aware of someone watching her and was compelled to turn round. A man with longish brown hair that curled under his ears was standing several feet away, his gaze unwavering even at having been found out. He raised his glass in her direction. He had a cute smile. She smiled back, regretted her haste and looked away.
‘Come on!’ sang Bibi, linking her arm once Carrie Pearce had departed. Stevie followed her friend through the crowd where, excruciatingly, they had to join a sort of queue to speak to Linus. She saw his spongy white head gleaming under the considerable lighting.
When at last Bibi’s turn came to speak to the famous director, she introduced herself as though they were old friends, chatting away happily while Linus impassively listened, every so often chucking a soft salty devil-on-horseback between his fleshy lips and chewing ferociously. He ate with his mouth open, sweet prune pulping on his tongue, and stared blankly and brazenly at Bibi’s breasts for the duration. Stevie, hovering behind, felt disgusted.
Men like Linus made her skin crawl. They believed their position gave them entitlement to any woman they felt like pursuing, confident there’d be plenty in reserve if that one said no. It didn’t mean anything. They could speak all they liked of love and the future, of leaving their wife, of making it real—and they didn’t mean a damn word. And before the object of their attentions could snap out of it, the spell cast—of sleepless nights and pining and lusting, of dreaming pointlessly of a happy ever after—she woke one day and realised she’d abandoned who she was, the morals and standards that she’d stood by, all for the sake of …
‘Bibi, are you going to introduce me to your … ravishing friend?’
Stevie blinked. Linus was gawking straight at her. Bibi was bouncing up and down in the background and pointing frenetically: be
cause she rarely drank, the champagne had gone straight to her head and her cheeks were flushed pink. Her eye make-up had smudged. ‘Of course!’ she squealed, ecstatic. ‘Stevie Speller, this is Linus Posen.’ She gave Stevie a little excited thumbs-up when Linus leaned in to take her hand.
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he said huskily, and she shivered as his lips met her skin.
‘Steve’s rooming with me,’ said Bibi proudly. There was a protracted silence during which Stevie could practically see a reel of corresponding images turning over in the director’s mind. ‘Isn’t she a doll?’
Linus smirked, his eyes hooded. ‘I’ll say,’ he leered, absorbing Stevie’s classic beauty, her pale, oval face and the dark, almond-shaped eyes hidden behind her glasses. A good girl. Sensible. The kind of girl who’d tell you off for misbehaving. ‘She’s irresistible.’
Discreetly Linus folded a card into Bibi’s hand, then into Stevie’s. For politeness’s sake, Stevie took it. It didn’t look like a business card, more a private one: simply the director’s initials and a phone number. ‘Look me up if you ever need work,’ he said meaningfully. ‘I sincerely hope you will.’ And she could tell he was in no doubt of receiving her call: the cards had been dispensed with the same tolerant indulgence as with sweets to children.
Bibi seized hers with enthusiasm. ‘Did you hear that?’ she chirruped when he’d gone. ‘He just offered me a job! Steve, he offered us a job! Can you believe it? This is it for us! It starts right here!’ She clutched Stevie. ‘Oh. My. God. We’ll be like a double act. We’ll be famous, like a famous duo, like Cagney and Lacey! Or Thelma and Louise!’
‘I’m not sure, B, this seems a bit—’
‘What do you mean, you’re not sure? This is the hugest break ever! He’ll make us stars, both of us! Everything he touches turns to gold!’
Stevie turned the card over. ‘It looks kind of dodgy to me.’
‘Dodgy!’ Gleefully Bibi deposited her empty champagne flute and picked up another. She spotted Carrie Pearce and peeled off to tell her the good news. Stevie should have been relieved that Bibi was seeking her agent’s advice, but something told her Carrie did not have her client’s best interests at heart. She was unable to help the anxious feeling that had taken root.
