Wicked Ambition (48 page)

‘I was.’

‘Do you have a clue what this ordeal has been like for me? The charges I’ve faced? The names they’ve been shouting? What I’ve been accused of? You could have put a stop to it with one phone call, but did the call come? No.’

‘They wouldn’t let me…’

‘Don’t be pathetic,’ Fenton snapped. ‘You could have broken out; you could have grown some balls. Your management isn’t the law.’ Grimly he gestured about him. ‘This, however,
is
. And I’ve been at the receiving end of it. You won’t know the half of what I’ve gone through in the lonely hours of the night, the moment of my arrest, the heckles and the taunts and the shameful interrogations, and now you’re telling me that
you
were scared? I thought I’d heard it all but that’s got to take it. You always were a pitiful creature, Scotty.’

The tantrum child in Scotty wanted to bang down the phone and storm out without so much as a backward glance, but the quiver in Fenton’s voice, just that slight admission of vulnerability, stopped him. Besides, every word he said was true. It
was
time to grow up and face his responsibilities—and if he was honest, the time for that had been and gone many months ago. Was it too late?

‘I can’t make up for what’s happened,’ he replied, ‘but I can tell you I’m sorry and I can correct those mistakes now.’

Fenton’s breath was coming in shallow rasps, overcome with the emotion of his imminent acquittal. Scotty went to hang up.

‘Scott?’ he said quickly.

‘Yes?’

‘What’s it like out there? What’s it like outside, in the real world?’

Scotty tried to think of the right words. ‘Tough,’ he admitted. ‘Frightening. Exhausting. Surprising. Amazing. Bizarre. But I should have done it a long time ago.’

‘So should I.’

At the station, Scotty kept his eyes locked ahead as an officer escorted him through a set of double doors and down a walkway. The linoleum floor squeaked beneath his sneakers. Through another entrance they were straight to the heart of the action, a foyer milling with uniforms, the riffle of paperwork and the buzz of the chase.

A woman came up to him, efficient and friendly, and shook his hand.

‘This way, Mr Valentine.’

She led him towards a room boasting a neat brass sign, reading: INTERVIEW.

Before he was sealed on the point of his confession and the truth that would set Fenton free, Scotty caught a snapshot of a case working opposite. The detective was emerging into the hall, opening and closing the door and in doing so awarding a flash of their perpetrator. The board was covered in her image, a red-haired female, a bit younger than him, hate and violence emanating from every pore and a glint of pure evil in her eyes.

The face reminded him faintly of someone, but the glimpse was too brief to tell who.

The door to Scotty’s room shut. His interviewer sat down.

All these people they were chasing, the criminals who had done terrible things, committed heinous crimes…

Fenton wasn’t one of them. He was one of the good guys. ‘So, I understand you have something to tell us?’ Scotty took a breath and began.

66

T
he US track team flew to Europe at the start of July. It was hard to believe that a year had passed since their last major tournament, yet each race remained as vital and as necessary as the first. For Leon, none more so than this: his chance to claim the title that belonged to his rival, an opportunity to set the record straight and to heal the wound.

Until he confronted Puff City with the facts, he could never heal the wound.

On the plane over he assured himself that they would still be waiting when he returned to LA—they had waited over a decade, after all. It had taken all his power of will to desist, but spilling too soon would throw his race into jeopardy. He would not give them the opportunity to take this from him.

How he longed to wring the life from that man’s body—that liar, that criminal, that hateful, despicable
murderer
…

The race came first. He had to be patient. Thirteen years he had bided his time…what was another thirteen days? The rest would follow. He would make sure of it.

The Championships were a week-long event. The anticipation was always the hard part—for some, their event couldn’t come around soon enough, it was a chance to realise the pay-off; for others, there would never be enough training or prep they could do; they’d never be ready.

Leon was ready. He wanted results and he wanted them now. This was his arrival. The guys were already thinking about Rio: a win here would signal just the beginning.

He sailed through the heats, a shiver behind Jax each time (inflamed by the suggestion that Jax wasn’t really trying yet; he was conserving his energy for the main event), and opted out of interaction with the others, instead returning each night, concerned solely with his training, his diet, his sleep, his tests, and the sole, shining beacon of the hundred-metre final.

This was his time. He had to take it, or else what had he been doing with half of his life? After Marlon died he had seized the baton—he had to win for his brother, because of his brother, in spite of his brother…

It all came down to one thing.

Nine seconds.

There were two ways of looking at it. Was it a selfish pursuit, chasing down glory and expecting everyone else to fall into line? Or was it that he had made sacrifices, putting his life on hold while he became obsessed with nine seconds of time, the be all and end all?

The night before his final, Leon met with his coach, went through his paces and retired early. Some athletes wouldn’t sleep at all. For those whose first competition it was, there was scarce pressure and thus a shot at enjoyment. For those
with medal expectations, every minute they weren’t on the track was agony. Over the years Leon had learned to discipline his nerves, reining them in on the promise of imminent release: the second he took to the starting blocks they could fly free, and then, only then, they would combine with the adrenalin that fired his run. The result had to be potent. That was the time for nerves. Like a melting pot into which every diversion was tossed, it all formed part of the explosion.

Even so, when Leon tuned into a local radio station and caught a report on the event, it burned. He lay back on his bunk with his arm behind his head.

‘Here you will see the strongest, the fastest, the most powerful men and women on Earth, the sweat and the tears, the blood, the heartache, the suffering and the joy. You will see what it means to leap into the unknown; to have worked for years and have it all come down to now. The athletes you’ll witness will be broken and mended; some will be taken apart and never put back together again. We will be making the heroes of tomorrow…’

Before surrendering to sleep, Leon’s mind threw up a flash of his brother, coming home from the track and ruffling his hair as he looked down and said:

You can do it, little bro. You can do it
.

Morning came, and Jax Jackson devoured the breakfast of champions: a bowl of wholegrain cereal mixed with raisins and nuts; two hard-boiled eggs with a buttered sesame bagel; a platter of sliced bananas topped with crunchy peanut butter and yoghurt; a handful of grapes; a glass of milk and two cups of green tea followed by a shot of coffee.

He was feeling confident. How could he not? Leon might have put the burden on back in LA but out here the guy was lagging, the gravity of the occasion getting to him just as it had in London. Jax would be sealing his gold-medal victory, no problem.

The road trip with Turquoise had cemented his resolve. For years there had been this lurking, latent terror…terror that the Danny Fu scandal would emerge and the shame would force him into an early grave—or an early retirement, and they might as well be the same thing. Now the risk had been removed, Turquoise had vowed it was done with, and his sun had slid out from its eclipse. He was burning bright, unfettered, the world number one.

Bumping into Danny the previous night had made him more grateful than ever—these international comps were always tinged with hazard. Gymnast Danny had taken a silver medal on the pommel horse—the word ‘pommel’ alone enough to make Jax gag—his feminine features (and they
were
feminine,
they were
!) overshadowed by defeat that any other nation would have traded for pride. Danny and his squad rejected second best.

As Jax made his way to the locker room, the gateway to battle that was scene to so many rituals and anxieties, he recalled how Danny had blanched and the men had turned from each other, disgrace coursing through their veins. Danny didn’t speak a word of English and that was for the best. Jax wondered how their night together would translate as a Chinese character. Two swords crossing. A viper in a cave. A sausage in a bun.

A relay baton…

It was finished. He was free—and he was here for victory.

The locker room smelled of salt and the synthetic of the kit, a heady, addictive aroma each took with them and would never forget. Some athletes were stretching out their routines, headphones on, a pumping soundtrack guiding them towards the track. Others were crouched on the floor, head down and hands over their ears, blocking out the world while they talked themselves up to the race. Jax zipped into his kit and decided he was long past needing any security blankets. He was buzzing and ready to go and that was about all there was to it.

Only when the volunteers arrived to escort them through to the stadium did he acknowledge the first frisson of strain. He could hear the crowd baying, the drum of the event and the roar of the fans. Tension sparked in his stomach and snaked through his organs, a fizz of potency all the more strident for having been kept in check.

This is it, baby. The King returns
.

Coach Simpson fell into step alongside him and Jax snarled at him to fuck off—he didn’t need guidance now; he was on a different plane. The girl chaperoning him attempted conversation, scarcely believing she had been assigned this role to the man myths were made of. Every step arrived with a fresh punch to Jax’s gut and his muscles started to twitch.

Only when he turned to tell her to quit gassing did he register that she was supremely hot, and batting her eyelashes and pouting ever so slightly. An invitation, if ever he saw one.

‘You got ten seconds?’ Jax growled under his breath.

The girl was shocked to have been addressed directly. ‘Er, yes, yes, I have—’

‘Make it nine-and-a-half.’

Was he really about to do this? It seemed he was.

Jax unstrapped the watch from his wrist, at the same time as gripping the girl’s arm, checking they were out of sight, and pushing her into an empty closet.

Getting sucked off before a race was the most cardinal of sins. It was kamikaze! It was suicide! Jax needed the testosterone to burn for him like fuel out on the track but right now his need to expel was greater. He was on the cusp of another triumph; it was as good as done. This wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.

Jax commanded the girl to the floor, her eyes wide and her mouth open, giggling with a lust for adventure…and more work experience than she had ever banked on acquiring.

‘Get set,’ he told her, as his erection pounced free as cleanly as a sword.

Leon saw a different man when he looked in the mirror. This one had grown up. He had arrived. Shades of his brother—the eyebrow, the jaw—were fainter now than they used to be, because Leon looked less for Marlon these days than he did for himself.

The man he saw was stronger, braver and fiercer than the twelve-year-old who had witnessed a crime in the darkest hour of his life. He didn’t weep. He fought.

Alone in the locker room, Leon closed his eyes and visualised the race, a technique psych had taught him. It prepared the brain for the sudden burst of action, focusing on the end point and imagining the achievement before it was realised.

The finish, always the finish…

But it wasn’t the line he saw; it was Marlon in the road.

He wouldn’t change that. It was the thing he had always been running towards, and today, when he won, it would be no different.

‘Holy
shee-it
!’

Jax grabbed the stopwatch and blinked through the riot in his head to make sure he was seeing clearly. He was! Fuck, yeah! 9.56 seconds, baby!

He’d only freaking
done it
!

‘You’re a genius, d’you know that?’ He kissed the girl passionately on the mouth, dragging her to her feet through a dazed stumble.

‘Wow,’ was all she could say, unable to tether her delirious smile. ‘Wow.’

Jax puffed out his chest. He didn’t believe in signs or any of that superstitious crap, but if ever he had wanted confirmation that this race was in the bag then there it was.

Jax Jackson was hotter than ever! He was so hot he was on fire! They’d need a fucking fire extinguisher to put him out once he crossed that finish!

Nothing could stop him now.

He was going to win.

67

T
urquoise had spent the morning in a casting for a new movie. This one had her name on it, a British fantasy romance about love, loyalty and friendship. Donna wanted to keep their options open and experiment with a wide canvas of characters.
True Match
had been a hard-hitting thrill ride; this one would be its tonic.

‘I’ll touch base as soon as I have news,’ Donna promised. ‘Want to grab a bite?’

‘Can’t,’ Turquoise replied. ‘There’s something I’ve got to do.’

Donna’s brow creased. ‘Anything I can help with?’

‘No. But thanks.’

‘There she goes again.’ Donna grinned. ‘The woman of mystery.’

Turquoise remembered Harry Dollar calling her the same thing after her slot on his show. How far she had come since then.

‘Donna, listen,’ she said, touching her manager’s arm. ‘Things aren’t going to be the same tomorrow.’

‘What?’

‘Hollywood. It isn’t going to be the same.’