by AJ Adams
Determined to enjoy myself, I stepped out. Our exclusive girl band, Pussy Wave, was playing a live set, and they were going over great. Bubbles was having a terrific night, with the bar and floor packed. It was my success. An achievement to be proud of.
"Mr Santos?"
I vaguely recognised the dark hair and eyes. It was the wannabe singer. "Hola, guapa, how are you?"
She lit up. "I've been hoping to run in to you." She put a hand on my arm. "You left in such a hurry last time."
Her motivation was crystal. Remembering her demo had fallen flat, I was going to blow her off.
She knew it, too. Gripping my wrist, she gasped, "Don't go!"
"Chica -"
"I'll do anything," she pleaded. "Please! I need a chance. Just one!"
"Jorge?" Persia appeared at my side, air-drying her hands. "The queue in the ladies is a mile long." Then, catching sight of the singer. "Oh, am I interrupting?"
The brunette shrank visibly. "You're Persia York."
She'd made her pitch and knew she was out-classed. Not a word was said, but we all felt it.
Persia didn't miss a beat. "Want to join us, love? Or shall I go away so you can talk to Jorge?"
Her simple kindness went right to my heart, and it told me what to do. "No need, Persia." I pulled out my pen, wrote a note on my card and held it out to the brunette. "Anette, right?" When she nodded, eyes wide, I pressed it into her hand. "This will get you a meet with the producer. But," I warned her, "it's only a meet. If he thinks your music isn't a fit for our label, I won't interfere."
She was hanging around my neck. "A chance is all I need. Thank you!"
Then she threw her arms around Persia. "I will tell everyone I met you and that you're a darling."
She danced off, leaving Persia laughing. "What was all that about?"
"She wants to be a star."
"And you're her in?"
"It's my production company."
"Ah." Such a small sound but an ocean of meaning. Persia knew the score.
You know how life has crossroads, times when you make decisions that change everything? I understood this was one of those, but coño, it puzzled me because women are always fucking their way into deals. The fresa had said it herself, she'd helped along her modelling that way. It is what it is, and I'd always just accepted it. Now, somehow, it didn't feel right. I was glad I hadn't done the wannabe singer.
Persia was smiling at me. "You gave her a chance, and she didn't have to put out." She stepped closer, that scent of warm girl going right to my balls. "You let me off the hook, too."
"Yeah, I'm going fucking soft."
To my surprise, her arm slid around my waist. "We can't have that," she murmured. "You mentioned a wish list?"
I was rock solid. Sometimes, being the good guy has an upside.
Chapter Fourteen
Persia
"Venga, Lightening!" Jorge was yelling happily, waving his betting slip.
"Go, go, go!" Isa was shrieking away.
"Come on, Silver Bullet!" Orabelle screamed.
Tazanna, revealing her love for classic cinema, "Move your blooming arse!"
Ascot was packed, and we were enjoying ourselves to the max. The races are super popular, and so I thought we'd be in the stands, but when we'd arrived, we were met by Sir Ferdy Firth.
He pressed a bundle of passes into Jorge's hand. "Thanks for the fee. It's very generous, considering -" the top hat wobbled. "Well, you know."
Jorge patted him on the arm. "Friends don't have to say thank you."
As we walked into the plush private box, overlooking the end of the track, a primo position, I couldn't help but ask, "Is that why you set him up, Jorge? You wanted his box?"
"Stop sticking your nose into my business." But he was glowing with success. "Hey, this is nice!"
I looked over the plush seats, mega bar, and superb views. Kowalczyk had spent six figures on his, he'd humblebragged about it endlessly, and all that money hadn't gotten him this kind of luxury. "It's glorious."
Jorge sparkled instantly. "This will be fun, fresa."
Fun was an understatement. I was determined to forget my troubles for a day and as Jorge was an excellent host, and he'd invited my socios too, we were having a blast.
Ascot is posh, there's a strict dress code, so the Zetas were all in formal morning dress, complete with silk ties, waistcoats and top hats, while we girls were decked out in frocks, heels, and hats.
I felt like a princess, and besides all the dress-up and luxury, every race was a party because Jorge had made a stack of £5 bets, and had us all pick out a slip each at random.
"I won!" Tazanna jumped up and down and then hugged Lencho who was happily hugging her back as he looked down her dress. "Whoohoo! Flying Star, you beauty! I'm rich!"
She had no idea it was Kowalczyk's horse, but I did. It amazed me Jorge had a bet on it, but he was smiling and the other Zetas were delighted.
"Let's cash in your winnings," Lencho suggested.
"Great idea," Paco couldn't hide the glee in his eyes. "Amazing win. That horse came in six to one."
"A surprising victory," Lencho said.
"The owner must be thrilled," Jorge added innocently.
They didn't fool me for a second; the boys were up to no good. But I kept my mouth shut. From the programme, Kowalczyk had another horse in the next race, and as it was slated as the most important of the day, I suspected that's when Jorge would strike.
He appeared relaxed – if you didn't know him. I did and I could see the glint of suppressed excitement when he glanced into his programme. "There's a half hour break." He put his arm on mine, grinning with anticipation. "Why don't we go and mingle?"
Yes, his revenge was yet to come. I wasn't worried anymore; Flying Star looked perfectly happy. In fact, he was bouncing about as the course vet examined him. It was obvious the big horse enjoyed being in the winner's circle.
"That's a fit horse," Jorge observed blandly. "Lots of energy."
Yes, definitely up to no good. I didn't ask. Jorge had the sleek, smug self-satisfaction of a cat that had the mouse just where he wanted but he wasn't sharing.
As Tazanna and the rest of the pack went off to collect their winnings, we strolled around, taking in the trainers examining their horses readying for the next race.
I'd been at the races with Kowalczyk a dozen times, and so I knew all the famous faces. It was too busy in the stands to do more than wave hello, but when we walked across the grounds, I spotted Lord Grandville, a political big wheel, chatting to a property billionaire who'd arrived in his own chopper. As we approached them, the politician grinned at me and the billionaire blew a kiss.
Jorge knew them too, that was clear from the way he nodded to them, but he didn't stop and chat. From Lord Grandville's tight glance, and the furrowed brow of his companion, that was a relief to them. Funnily enough, it irritated me.
"You know them, right?"
"Sure."
"And yet, they don't say hello."
He just shrugged. "They can't be seen with me." The black eyes were speculative. "But you can talk to your friends."
It surprised me. "No, thanks." I wasn't keen because they were dull, always talking politics and money. Also, I was enjoying walking about with Jorge. Apart from the glamour and fashion that is part of Ascot, I was having a good time. Jorge had never been to the races before, and he wasn't shy about enjoying himself. As models and celebs usually pretend to be super cool, his enthusiasm was refreshing.
"Ay, look at that!" Jorge was contemplating a female jockey jumping on the back of a huge, bucking black stallion. "Madre mía, que huevos!"
"Who's got big balls? The horse or the girl?"
"Both!" As Jorge laughed, the sun came out. The smile brought warmth to his eyes, and the light emphasised the shining black hair and long, lean face. I was just thinking Jorge Santos was pretty damn lickable when the friendly brown darkened to jet. The warmth in the air vanished. If looks c
ould kill, this was Human Torch quality.
Glancing over my shoulder, I froze. Kowalczyk was ten feet away, standing by a big chestnut horse. He hadn't even seen me, he was busy talking to his trainer, but just seeing the pallid skin and fat gut gave me the shivers.
"He's excited," the trainer's voice carried clearly. "He should do well."
"I've got ten big ones on him," Kowalczyk boasted. "He'd better win, or he's dog food."
Two of Kowalczyk's heavies were there, as were the usual posse of celebs. The faces were busy fawning, and Kowalczyk was intent on showing off, but hearing those blunt tones brought back memories. Shivery became sick.
"Come on." A warm strong arm circled my waist. The sweet scent of rum and orange floated over me, bracing and reassuring. "Let's get out of here."
Without fuss, Jorge piloted me back to the private box. It was empty, but the staff had cleared away the empties and refreshed the stock of ice.
Jorge pulled out a chair for me, "I understand you want to waste him, but this is not the time and place." He handed me a cold Evian, my favourite. "Relax, fresa. He'll be getting his coming up within the hour."
He'd seen I was upset but had misinterpreted it as rage. I wasn't a tough gangster type, but I would not show weakness. "Kowalczyk's a plonker and I hope you squish him."
Menace flowed from him. "He'll go down screaming."
Dear lord, how on earth had I thought him fun and lickable? The good looks cloaked a violent core that flared at the slightest threat, promising to annihilate.
"Jorge!" Tazanna bounced in, the rest of the group behind her. Giggling with exhilaration, she pushed a betting slip into his hand. "I spent some of my winnings on bets for the next race," she declared. "Here's yours."
"Thank you, guapa." Jorge looked at it and grinned. "Flying Eagle, awesome."
Again, I knew it was Kowalczyk's chestnut but Tazanna and the others didn't. The Zetas grinned, but the girls didn't pick up on their anticipation being more than excitement at the race. For a moment I felt caught between two worlds: the familiar one that ran on fashion, fame and couture, and the dark underworld of revenge and violence.
"Two minutes to the off," Isa exclaimed. "Gosh, look at that huge stallion kicking away. He's keen isn't he?"
It was Flying Eagle and keen was definitely the word for him. He practically fought his way out of the starting gate and galloped hell-for-leather to the finish line. He was the favourite, but even I could see that finishing four lengths in front was fishy.
"You won!" Orabelle informed Jorge. "Congratulations!"
Jorge pointed to the group gathering by the horse. "Ay, but look! The steward isn't confirming it."
"Oh-oh, he's calling the vet in." Lencho's fake surprise wasn't fooling me, either.
"He was really far out front," Tazanna observed.
"Too far," Isa said darkly.
"Gosh, do you think he was doped?" Orabelle asked.
We were high above the track but the voices from the finish line carried well.
"What the fuck do you mean, it's suspicious?" Kowalczyk yelled.
"Is that who I think it is?" Isa asked wide-eyed.
"It is," I couldn't help but giggle. "Ohmigod, he's going berserk."
We could hear the swearing, kurwa mac and skurwysyn were the least of it.
Jorge put an arm around me. "Let's go take a closer look."
We had to push through the crowd that had gathered to watch the show, but all of London could have tuned in on Kowalczyk's rage. "You're saying I cheated? You fucking bastard! You'd better watch your mouth!"
"Sir," the steward squawked, "I'll ask you once more to watch your language."
"There's no foul play in my stable," the trainer protested. "I insist you do a blood test!"
Kowalczyk wasn't having it. "You go near my horse, and I'll kill you!"
Jorge sighed with unconcealed glee. "Fenomenal."
I was certain Ascot had never seen the like of this before. The punters gathered, enjoying the barney, but the celebs edged away quietly, not wanting to be caught up in a scandal.
Kowalczyk's carefully cultivated image as a fun-loving businessman was going up in smoke. Purple with temper and foulmouthed, he looked a right thug. Even the super expensive Gieves & Hawkes morning dress couldn't disguise what he was, and the Neanderthal minders at his elbow weren't helping either.
"You piss off," Kowalczyk snapped at the vet who was taking out a stethoscope and trying to listen to the big chestnut's chest.
The steward was all over it. "I take it you object?"
"Fucking right, I am!"
"No-no-no!" the trainer tried to save the situation. "We don't object. We have nothing to hide."
"I'm not having it," Kowalczyk was having the hissy fit of the century. "Skurwysyn! You can all fuck off!"
A voice in the crowd set him straight. "By God, he doped that horse."
"Yeah, it's clear as glass that bloke's a bubbling brook."
The dour Pole didn't understand Cockney, but he knew what that meant all right. "You can't say that! Shut your fucking mouth!"
Jorge watched with quiet joy and I admit, I was breathless with stifled giggles. Seeing Kowalczyk get his comeuppance was awesome.
Meanwhile, the vet put in his two cents. "This horse is not right." He put away his stethoscope. "He's way over the top, and there are some raised hairs in the neck that indicate an injection." He waved a finger at Kowalczyk. "Sir, this horse has been got at!"
That statement was greeted by a flood of abuse.
"Say what you like, but I'm taking a blood sample." The vet pulled out a syringe. "I should warn you, I took one from Flying Star earlier." A split second later, there was claret all over the place: Kowalczyk had punched him on the nose.
"Stop him!"
"Pull him off!"
Kowalczyk, the two heavies, the steward, and several of the bigger men in the audience were heaving about in a rugby scrum.
"Step back, Persia," Jorge watched, joy radiating from him in happy waves. "Don't get too close."
The crowd was having a ball. A barney on top of a horse race was just nuts to them.
"Stop!" Kowalczyk called it off, realising that fisticuffs weren't helping. But he had to haul back one of his heavies, who was about to slaughter the vet. "I said stop, balwan."
"Qué bárbaro," Jorge sighed. But he didn't think it shocking at all. He was gleeful, brimming with laughter.
As the vet mopped up his bloody nose, the steward stood ramrod tall, ignoring his own rapidly swelling shiner. "Mr Kowalczyk, this is an official notice that the Association will carry out an investigation."
"Skurwysyn!" Kowalczyk snarled. Then he turned and his eye fell on Jorge. For a second, he was totally stunned. Then, his pale eyes narrowed. "You!" he yelled, "You did this!"
Jorge went with it, theatrically putting an arm around me, while exclaiming, "Don't worry, Persia. I won't let him hit you again."
It was all eyes on us.
"That's Persia York, the model."
"Ooooh, his girlfriend?"
"Ty kurwo!"
"His ex, by the sound of it."
The two heavies loomed. Honestly, having the Frankenstein thugs zero in gave me the shivers. But I stood tall and snapped, "You don't scare me."
Jorge was right there. "You stay away from her," he ordered.
Kowalczyk redirected his rage at the Zeta. As Jorge stepped in front of me, he was practically foaming at the mouth. "It was you," he snarled. "You did something to my horse."
It was Jorge's big moment. "Ay-yay-yay, no." He waved his betting slip. "I'm a victim! I will lose my money."
The steward spoke up. "Not at all, sir. We'll refund your bet."
"That's a relief," Jorge said politely. "Come on, Persia. Let's go get our money back and bet on the next race." Then, with a glance at Kowalczyk, "But not on any of your horses."
"Kurwa mac! Get him!"
As one, the three Poles dived at us. Jorge was shield
ing me but as the crowd surged in panic, I got an elbow in the side that shoved me right into Kowalczyk's path.
He grabbed the front of my dress, and raised a fist, "Ty kurwo!"
I was so terrified, that I screamed instinctively.
"Back, fresa!" Jorge's iron hand grasped my waist and pulled me around, Kowalczyk's fist missing me by the fraction of an inch. Another twist placed me safely behind him. "Stay behind me."
It was one against three but Kowalczyk and his pals didn't have a chance because Jorge just piled in. There was no fancy footwork or artistry. He punched Kowalczyk in the gut and face; the blows landing dead centre each time.
As one heavy tried to grab his boss, the other went for Jorge. He should have stayed well away. Jorge ducked under the punch, grabbed the arm as it went by, pulled him close, and kneed him. Before they could get it together, a foot came up, and the second heavy got it in the guts.
Still, three against one are overwhelming odds, and the Poles were a tough bunch. Kowalczyk was back on his feet, and just as quick, Jorge was once again facing all three.
He didn't turn a hair. "Venga!"
Thank heaven, Lencho and Paco materialised. Like Jorge, they just went for it. It was three against three, and the Poles were built like bulls whereas the Zetas were slight, but it was a slam-dunk. It was punch-kick-whack, just like the old Batman films, and it was over in less than a minute.
"You okay?" Jorge stepped over the groaning Poles, put a finger under my chin and turned my face gently to the side. "Good," he sighed. "He missed."
I had my arms around his neck. "Thanks to you!"
The girls were crowding round.
"That bloody Kowalczyk!"
"He tried to hit you!"
"We all saw it."
I was still shaking but Jorge loudly engaged the crowd. "She left him because he hit her. And he threatened her, too. Acid in the face, he said."
Instant uproar.
Calling over the shouts of, "That's not on!" and "What a scum bucket!" Jorge yelled, "If anything happens to Persia York, we'll know it's your doing, Kowalczyk."
"Screw you," Kowalczyk was back on his feet, his men by his side. "She's a whore."
The crowd roared in outrage and for a moment it looked as if they might beat him up. Sadly, the steward popped up, with a brace of security guards. "This has gone far enough," the official fumed. "This is Ascot, not a fucking free-for-all."
