Wicked Ambition (52 page)

Where was G?

Kristin White departed the stage to euphoric applause.
The catwalk came right out into the crowd, studded with lights, and next to appear on the golden, glittering podium was recently outed boy-band chump Scott Valentine. Slink didn’t get queers.

‘And the nominations for Best Video are…’

Slink gritted his teeth. Roll on the end of the night. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

82

I
vy worked a half-hour on the burger stand as usual. It was vital to stay under the radar but she could barely function. Her hands shook with anticipation, her skin tingling, her mind focused on nothing save the approaching instant of her retribution.

‘If I didn’t know better I’d say you were keepin’ secrets.’ Graham was at her neck, close enough that she could feel his breath. ‘You’re sure lookin’ fine tonight…’

‘I need the bathroom.’ It was a wonder she could force the words out. They trembled on her tongue as she abandoned her position. ‘Give me a minute.’

On the way through she spotted Nicki Soba. He smiled. It would be no trouble getting past; all she had to do was claim she had knocked off early and wanted to witness the charade. He would award her access; she’d be able to step straight into the fray, and then…

She could shoot Robin point-blank if she wanted.

The washroom she chose was on the eleventh floor,
tucked away from proceedings. This hadn’t been updated like the others, with its cracks in the walls and residual graffiti. Ivy had scoped the place a thousand times and knew every inch and nook of her fortress.

Earlier she had concealed the sack of clothes and weapons, tucked behind a loose panel beneath the bank of sinks. Withdrawing it, Ivy retreated to a cubicle and closed and locked the door, already peeling off her uniform and dragging on her own clothes.

Catching her breath, she sat.

IF NOT VICTORY, REVENGE!

It was printed in hot-pink marker on the back of the cubicle door, the lettering neat and precise. Ivy reached to touch it, her fingertips tentative, tender almost across its surface, as she might in another life have caressed a lover’s cheek. Surrounding the words was a vacant loop, the only unmarked space there was amid a sea of frantically scribbled transmissions, a halo as much a protection as a warning.

Victory had never been hers. But revenge? Revenge was in her blood.

From inside the stadium she could hear the muted thrum of beats and the united roar of the fans. Ivy closed her eyes, imagining the cries were for her, urging her on, baying for the carnage she was about to unleash. She released her breath slowly, tasting salt and iron, her tongue flicking across the split in her lip where she had bitten too hard in anticipation.

Ivy shoved the bag into the trashcan, forcing it down with her fists. As the lid snapped shut, quick as a trick in disappearing the evidence, she stared indifferently at the hands
that would carry out this great execution. Wrists pale and brittle, like branches in winter.

Only when the bullet entered would it be over. Only when Robin’s flawless skin was ruptured, that smile erased, that heartbeat frozen, one and the same as hers and yet a universe apart, would it be finished. In front of thirty thousand disciples whose shrieks of panic would hardly be discernible from their fanatic cries of ecstasy; massacre as they tried to flee.

How delicious it had been to pay Leon a visit, how delectable to have doused the rag and struck the match. Ivy pictured the flames licking at the walls of his apartment; the quiet asphyxiation as he lurched, blind and gasping, for a way out…

Revenge
.

It had been in her since before she was born.

83

I
t was hard to believe that this time two years ago Robin had been an ordinary girl who had never even stood on a stage. The Platinum Awards were a huge deal, broadcast globally, and now here she was, fronting before millions at the crescendo of a sell-out tour.

‘Wow, check you out!’ Barney grinned, impressed by her super-slim leggings and shimmering crop top that showed off her California-tanned belly to perfection, a look completed by giant wedge heels and a dramatically sweeping fringe.

He led the group in a collective hug, as he did before every gig, and, while they groaned at the cheesiness of it, secretly they embraced it. With her arms around her band mates’ shoulders, Robin felt a sense of solidarity. They were her team, her family, the only family she’d ever had. She wondered what her mother would say if she could see her now, on top of the world, left to die but choosing to live, and for once it didn’t sting.

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe she didn’t care.

Maybe friends were the only blood you needed.

As they made their way towards the stage Robin could hear the awards being handed out, the applause and the fans’ euphoria. Beyond the rigging she caught a glimpse of the stage lights and the contagious, addictive glow of the spotlight. It was a serious place to be. Gathered at the Palisades Grand was the elite of the music industry.

Robin pictured a girl in a London bedroom, singing into the mirror as she herself had done once, dreaming of making it big one day. She pictured the girl in a flat. It was painted in astonishing detail for somewhere she had never visited. The carpet was tortoiseshell, a mess of yellows and browns; tired lamps scattered, their shades dusty and damp; a hostess trolley in one corner; and on the mantelpiece a clock trapped at a quarter to three…

The photo she had been sent catapulted towards her through the shadows.

‘Are you all right?’ Polly touched her arm. ‘You’ve gone really pale.’

Robin caught herself. ‘I’m fine.’

‘We’re on.’ Matt slammed his downturned palm into the middle of the circle and the rest of them followed, releasing with a flourish. ‘Let’s rock!’

The woman in the picture was nobody to her, and yet the grim familiarity of her clung on…the scrawled, childlike writing on the back…

ROBIN.

She swallowed her terror.

The second she was onstage, she would be safe.

84

S
cotty was shaking like a leaf. Even though his slot had been and gone, the buzz still rushing through him was intense. His first onstage resurgence was over. It was done. And instead of the jeers and boos he had envisaged, the crowd had been angelic. While he had stood waiting for the nominees’ VT to run, he had even seen a group close to the podium talking among themselves, more interested in their own business than in his. Realising you weren’t at the centre of everybody’s universe was a liberating insight indeed.

He decided to watch the rest of the show with Joey and the guys, whose seating was towards the back—a relegated position for America’s once-so-hot boy band. In the interests of retaining a low profile, an escort led him through a staff gangway. When they stopped to let a camera pass, he noticed, tacked to the wall, a security ID poster comprising palm-sized employee mug shots—you never could be too careful these days.

Amid the hundred or so gathered, one stood out.

He recognised that face…but from where?

A red-haired, hard-faced, grisly-eyed woman; he had seen her someplace before but try as Scotty might he couldn’t put a finger on it. On close inspection she bore a resemblance to Robin Ryder—albeit a gone-wrong, skinny-ass, redhead Robin Ryder. But the context was familiar, too: the head and shoulders, cropped and disembodied, pinned to a board…the hollow bearing of the formally photographed…a shard of memory that was quickly usurped by Fenton’s imploring expression and overtaken by the distraction of those emotions.

The woman flashed evil. He should have known where he had seen her image before and could have been able to prevent the carnage if he had…

But no, the connection was lost.

85

C
osmo Angel’s cobalt Ferrari roared up to the sumptuous entrance of the Palisades Grand, where it ploughed through a NO STOPPING sign and screeched to a halt with a furious shriek of tyres. The photographers had a field day as Cosmo leapt out, manic and unshaven, his shirt undone, his hair a frenzied nest, murky pockets of sleep deprivation haggard beneath his eyes…a husk of the Hollywood star he had been. Cosmo hadn’t been seen in public since his ‘Kingdom Come’ disgrace. It was quite a reawakening.

Abandoning his vehicle, he stormed towards the gate.

‘Mr Angel, sir…’

‘Out of my way, fuckhead.’

‘Mr Angel, if you’d just—’

Cosmo grabbed the man’s lapels and pulled him up, lifting him off his feet.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he lashed.

The cameras were going crazy. This was a pap’s wet dream.

Cosmo released the man with such force that he went crumpling to the steps, and barged through, heading straight to the theatre. He was royalty, for Crissakes, it was Access All Areas! Everyone on the planet knew who Cosmo Angel was—and if they hadn’t before the YouTube exposé then they’d recently received a thorough education.

He was here for one reason.

To make Turquoise da Luca pay.

Even thinking her name made him ready to bubble over with wrath.

As Cosmo stampeded through a gauntlet of guardians, each too afraid to counter not just an A-list movie giant but also a rampaging lunatic, he resolved that there was simply nothing more to lose. Turquoise’s actions had crucified his career. They had slaughtered his marriage. They had slain his reputation. They had castrated him. He was a zombie, battered and butchered, and all because of what—the blackmail of some
whore
?

That was all Turquoise would ever be, no matter how far she thought she had come or how she reckoned to have left little scared Grace behind.

Grace Turquoise da Luca was a slut hooker cash-grabbing, ball-breaking bitch that opened her legs for money.

If there was nowhere to go but down, Cosmo was taking her with him.

86

L
eon’s T-shirt was torn and blackened by fire. His skin was slick, chalky with salt and smoke as he stumbled on to the street, one arm raised like a flag.

He was dizzy. He couldn’t see straight. The cars skewed and tipped and weaved.

‘Jesus.’ The cab driver didn’t recognise him. ‘You OK?’

‘Drive.’ He climbed in. ‘No questions, just drive.’

‘Whatever you say.’

Leon’s lungs were charred, fighting to keep up. In the back seat he shook, desert-hot then glacier-cold, his chest compressed as though he had been winded.

‘D’you need the hospital?’

‘Faster,’ he instructed. ‘Drive faster.’

Downtown they hit traffic. Leon thought of the first words she had said to him, when they had met in London; her dark eyes guarded, a warm, deep blue:

I was handling that myself…

That was Robin all over. Never asking for anyone, never
needing a soul. Tonight, there was no choice. She was in danger.

‘Hey—!’ the driver hollered as Leon busted open the door and took to the packed gridlock, chasing the ground, pushing towards that last lone goal that was beautiful in its simplicity. The more he ran, the more his body opened up to the pursuit, clean air rinsing through him and his legs falling into the rhythm that they had known for so long. He was lighter than the wind, quicker than water, flying so fast it felt as if someone were at his back, giving him what he needed as he shot past parked cars and stationary trucks, rigid with their bottled-up impatience; not like him, free as an eagle, flying, flying…

The glinting peak of the Palisades Grand soared into view, a shining prize that shimmered in the fading sun like a relic. Light bounced off its silver contours and one second he was close enough to touch, the next impossibly far away.

Leon ran and ran, he didn’t know where his might came from, something bigger and braver than he was, something he didn’t understand. He let it in and then it was as if the ground left his feet, the goal coming closer.

He pushed past security, a web of arms battling to rein him in but they weren’t swift enough. Speed was his missile. The intruder was unrecognisable as Leon Sway, his face and arms streaked with soot, his T-shirt ripped and pitted with holes that revealed his shoulders and back. As he tore through the lobby, heavies chasing and raising support, feeling for their weapons but to no avail, the throngs parted like waves to let him through.

‘Sir, stop right there, sir!’

‘Stop that man!’

‘Somebody get him!’

A screeching siren sounded in his wake, security alerts winging around the building.

‘Police!’ they hollered. ‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’

Never. They would have to kill him first.

87

T
he glare was too blinding. The lights were too hot. The crowd was too loud. Robin felt like she had back in San Francisco, a sitting target, exposed and vulnerable.

The throbbing bass counted her in and she missed her cue, the lyrics deserting her so that Matt threw her a fleeting quizzical look before repeating the refrain.

She couldn’t get a grip on the rhythm; it was like deciphering a foreign language. At last her voice came through but she was off-pitch, the world discordant, jangly as keys, and time distilled to the moment she couldn’t escape from. She was overcome with a need to flee.

Her gaze was drawn into the darkness beyond the stage, where something unknown and unseen lurked, terrifying as a monster under the bed. Beyond the pounding beat and the sound of her dwindling vocal a distant siren sounded, high and thin and so very faint that Robin thought it might be inside her own head, the shrill approach of panic.

88

I
vy heard the alarm go up. Nicki Soba’s radio crackled with the news.

Red alert. Security breach. Stations on guard
.

This was it. No time to waste. They were coming.

She melted into the horde of fans at the brink of the VIP pen. All attention was on the stage, and shrouded as she was in obscurity Ivy trembled with promise. The section had been cordoned off. Already she could see the goons receiving their instructions: one by the rope, another up in the circle, a third by the nearest exit.