Wicked Ambition (36 page)

In Chicago they picked up Rufio. He had flown in from a friend’s pad in New York and Robin sensed he was looking to avoid returning to the UK for as long as he could.

‘Can we get food?’ he demanded. ‘This hangover’s a bitch.’

She agreed to take him for a burger before rehearsals.

‘I’m breaking up with you,’ she said as he was squirting tomato sauce.

The sauce was suspended mid-air. ‘Are you joking?’

‘No.’

He screwed the bottle in his fist and a slurry of red burst out over his lunch, like some sort of demonic vomit.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just not the right time.’

‘Because you’re somebody out here and I’m a loser?’

‘That’s not it.’

He stared at her.

‘I’m not that shallow, Rufio. You know me better than that.’

‘Whatever.’ He concentrated on rescuing his chips.

Robin folded her arms across the table. ‘Things are hectic,’ she explained, ‘and recently I don’t have the time or energy for a relationship, what with everything else.’ It was true, but she left out the caveat that all break-up conversations did: that if it was the right
person
then none of that mattered. Rufio wasn’t right for her because somebody else was, even if that person had no interest in knowing her any more.

‘Is it some other bloke?’ he asked, reading her mind. Made to wait a millisecond, he slammed a fist into his palm. ‘I’ll punch the geezer’s face in—’

‘It isn’t.’

‘Liar.’

‘Come on. You can’t have thought this—’ she motioned between them ‘—was for ever.’

‘Obviously you didn’t.’

Robin sat back. ‘Will you be all right to get home? I can organise someone to take you to the airport, if you like.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Fine.’

Rufio grimaced. ‘You can get my flight. Upgrade.’

‘OK.’

‘And I’m gonna need someplace to stay when I get into London.’

She frowned. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d moved out?’

‘I was squatting in Mayfair. Got evicted.’

‘Right.’

‘So I’m homeless and I just got dumped.’ He surrendered his dignity to one last plea, fixing her with a kicked-dog expression. ‘Don’t you have a heart?’

Her patience snapped. She had stayed with Rufio because of her own insecurities, because of some fictional attacker she’d invented in a period of stress and exhaustion, and she didn’t like the woman it had made her. She was stronger than that. It was time to call it quits.

‘It’s not my fault you’re homeless.’

‘D’you know what?’ Rufio seized the burger and tore into it. A blob of onion relish plopped on to the Formica counter. ‘The way I see it, this is my lucky escape. Who else is going to put up with your issues, Robin? You’ve got complications, man. Deal with them.’

‘I’m dealing with one right now.’

He didn’t get it. ‘Go see a doctor or something.’

‘What for? I feel fine.’

‘No one who gets within ten feet of you feels fine.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘You don’t care about anyone except yourself.’ He spoke through a mouthful of churning meat. ‘I should’ve seen this break-up coming because fact is there isn’t room for anyone else in your selfish existence!’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ She pushed her chair back.

‘Not now you’re Miss America,’ Rufio grumbled. ‘Aren’t you paying for this?’

She threw a stash of dollar bills down and walked out.

They ran a tech rehearsal that afternoon. Gossip was rife about the Fraternity/Fenton Fear shocker and while Robin hadn’t caught up on the bulletins she was quickly filled in.

‘Turns out the manager’s been taking them all up the ass,’ put in Matt.

‘Do you have to be so crass?’ Polly objected. ‘We don’t know anything yet.’

‘We know he’s been boning Scott Valentine—it’s anyone’s guess about the rest.’

‘Right, so just because Fenton’s gay it means he’s automatically promiscuous? Oh, and a pervert? You’re such a moron, Matt.’

‘Isn’t he in police custody? Figure that one out.’

‘What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’

Barney raised an eyebrow. ‘Ignore him,’ he advised, ‘he’s just threatened.’

‘By what?’ Matt was admiring the female dancers onstage, warming up to their routines in figure-hugging leggings and crop tops. ‘I know where my preferences lie.’

‘Fortunately for us,’ Barney muttered while the others resumed their squabbling.

Robin took a seat. A runner brought her a Coke and she accepted it, grateful after the new routine. Fans had discovered one of her earlier, unreleased tracks via YouTube, the high-octane ‘Spinning’, which by popular demand was now being incorporated into the song list. Its accompanying moves were punishing and they only had an hour more to lock it down.

She’d been aware of the Fraternity scandal breaking but it was the death of Bunny White—Kristin’s sister—that disturbed her more, and how the two events were being linked in the press. Could a girl be so devoted to the
idea
of a boy, not even the boy himself, that when the illusion was shattered it all became too much? Suicide at any age was obliterating
for those left behind, but in someone so young it defied logic. Robin had dismissed Kristin as picture-perfect and it just went to show that everyone had their crosses to bear: maybe if she’d had that foresight with Leon things wouldn’t have ended the way they had.

Since their fight in New York she couldn’t stop thinking about him. What could she do? If only she had known about his brother sooner. If only she had bothered to find out. If only she had given him half a chance, because hadn’t he given her a hundred?

‘Hi.’

A voice interrupted her thoughts. Robin turned to see a stacked, dark-skinned guy in a vest and jogging pants, his green eyes twinkling. It was Farrell, the dancer they’d auditioned back in Hollywood and she had point-blank dismissed on account of his similarity to Leon. She guessed they had drafted him in on the new number.

‘Mind if I sit?’ Farrell asked.

Robin budged up. She smiled. ‘Not at all.’

46

H
aving Leon Sway and Jax Jackson side by side on the
Friday Later
couch was the ultimate publicity coup. The show’s host didn’t intend to let an opportunity go to waste.

‘OK,’ said Harry Dollar eagerly, knowing just how to press his guests’ buttons, ‘we all know who’s fastest—but tell me, guys, who’s strongest out of the two of you?’

‘Hey,’ countered Leon, ‘Jax is only faster on a good day.’ The audience laughed along. ‘In fact,’ Leon turned, baiting his opponent, ‘you almost lost to me last week, right?’

Hostility wafted off Jax like a force field. Harry egged them on.

‘Your title’s under threat, then, Jax?’ he pressed.

‘Believe,’ Jax retorted tightly, ‘this guy ain’t got nothin’ on me.’

They looked absurd sitting next to each other, like men from different planets. Leon was in a black sweater, pants and sneakers, his hair cropped short. Jax had opted for low-slung jeans secured with a number of hanging decorative
belts, a vest that showed off his bloated guns, and a cap worn sideways. He’d agreed to the slot on the understanding that it was in promo of his soon-to-be-dropped hip-hop debut, only to find his PR had ballsed up.

‘How about a showdown to prove it?’ Harry rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation, encouraging the audience to bellow their approval.

‘We can’t race here,’ snapped Jax, too quickly.

‘Strength, not speed,’ clarified Harry. ‘Let’s see how I fare against two world-class athletes, shall we?’ The crowd hollered, the host assured that this was going to spell TV gold. You could practically see the testosterone crackle between these two—and it was time to have some fun with it. Harry was a laugh-a-minute entertainer: all it took was a humorous spin and his guests were powerless to resist, because if they did the joke would be on them.

‘Now I’m no Olympian—’ Harry stood, shaking his muscles loose ‘—but I used to work out, let’s see, once or twice a year?’ Cue more laughter. ‘So I stand a good chance, doncha think? Line up, boys.’ He started jogging on the spot. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’

Jax revved up their onlookers by flexing his biceps and gurning appreciatively at the bulge. Spurred on by their cheers he adopted a series of rippling Strong Man poses. ‘Let the kid sit this one out, Harry,’ he jeered. ‘We don’t want him doin’ himself an injury.’

It was exactly the fighting talk the show had banked on. Harry would join the others in a push-up contest, his involvement a comedy foil to the real-deal rivalry. Neither athlete could turn down the challenge, and neither could be the first man to fall.

‘Leon?’ Harry opened his arms wide. ‘What do you say?’

Leon shrugged. ‘I say it’s on.’

Swiftly Jax kissed his guns before dropping to the floor. The crowd hooted as though the gesture had been for effect, but Leon knew it was done in seriousness—and anyway, Jax didn’t have that sense of humour. He wasn’t sure Jax had
any
sense of humour.

The trio lined up, close to the deck, face down, arms supporting their weight. Harry made a gag suggesting he couldn’t hold the first position, before imitating Jax’s stern game face and fixing on the ground. Leon sensed Jax’s bulk alongside him, his grit determination.

A bell sounded and the competition began. As the floor advanced and receded, Leon barely felt it: he trained way too much for this to be a problem. Jax started showing off with one-arm raises, eliciting a cheer from the ranks. After a few mangled attempts the host bowed out, elated at the combat he had managed to engineer and kicking back to enjoy the show.

Jax and Leon rose and fell like pistons beneath the studio lights. The crowd bayed for their favourite to win, stamping their feet in rhythm with the compressions.

‘Go, Jax! Go, Leon!’

Next to him Leon could hear Jax’s breath start to grind. He’d returned to using both arms, his exhalations coming short and low, almost a grunt, while his triceps quivered under the pressure. Leon saw a bead of perspiration splash from Jax’s forehead on to the floor.

They kept going, pumping through the repetitions, keeping pace. Jax’s cap fell off and on the next descent he snarled it in his teeth, tossing it to the side like a dog with a rag.
The audience continued to shout, and Harry at the periphery urged them on like an instructor at the pool. Leon’s arms were stinging but he wasn’t done yet. Blood pumped through him, a furious fuel, when he remembered what Jax had said to him down at the track.

You’re a dead man…Just like your dead brother
.

Well now he was feeling very fucking alive.

Jax was groaning, a strangled cry that came from deep inside, his inbuilt mechanism to rage in the face of defeat even if it killed him.

‘Come on, big boy,’
he was telling himself, a rasping command only Leon could hear,
‘show ‘em what you got
.’

‘Whoa, steady there, guys…’ Harry clocked Jax’s sweat-bathed brow. Did they have paramedics on set? The way this was going one of them was ending up in the ER.

A string of drool was looping out of Jax’s mouth. He contained it, vacuuming it up like a string of spaghetti. The moisture was pouring off him now.

‘Argghhhhh!’
came the final choked outburst before Jax collapsed on the floor in a heap. Leon didn’t slacken the pace. As Jax was helped up, good-natured applause ringing round the studio, Leon switched to using one arm and flashed the cameras a smile.

Coach Teddy Simpson met Leon in the parking lot. He’d been in the audience tonight and had offered his protégé a ride home.

The Ford had seen better days. Leon pulled the door a couple of times, before leaning down into the window. ‘Can you open up? Door’s jammed.’

Teddy reached over. ‘Sorry. Freakin’ car.’

Folding his height into the front seat, Leon almost squashed a bunch of half-dead flowers in the foot well. Reaching down to collect an empty 7UP can, he wedged his gear down by his feet. Teddy’s clean-living discipline began and ended at the track.

‘Well that was an education,’ said Teddy, pulling away. ‘I won’t ask if Jax needs a ride.’ Jax had evaporated the instant shooting was over, tearing off his mic, storming backstage and telling anyone who’d listen,
‘I’m never doing this freak show ever again.’

‘I’d say he owes me a few victories, wouldn’t you?’ said Leon.

Teddy nicked his jaw. ‘You can beat him. You know that, right? Your body’s capable of it—now you just gotta convince your mind.’ He knew Leon’s story, knew what he was in it for, and, while he liked to keep an arm’s-length relationship with the guys, you couldn’t help your favourites. Sway was brave, resilient, and forgetting all that he was without doubt the fastest twenty-four-year-old on the circuit. The Bullet was quick—in twenty years of coaching Teddy had never seen anyone run like that—but there was something he didn’t buy into. He sensed that even if Jax’s body made it through the season, his attitude wouldn’t.

Leon looked out of the window. ‘Can I tell you somethin’? Off the record.’

‘Shoot.’

‘I got this feeling that won’t shake, Teddy. I think Jax is gonna try something at the Championships. He’s gonna try to bring me down.’

‘You’re paranoid.’

‘Nah, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. This is real.’

‘You gotta watch what you’re sayin’ there, kid. That’s playin’ with fire.’

‘I know. And Jax has let on exactly what happens if I get burned again.’

‘He threatened you?’

‘I can take care of threats myself: I know what bullshit smells like and Jax is full of it.’ A frown set in his brow. ‘But Jax is biding his time; I can sense it.’

‘You have to focus,’ cut in Teddy. ‘Concentrate on your run, nothin’ else. Stay low off the blocks, keep your head down and
focus on the race
…What’s Jax gonna do about it?’ He tapped a finger to his forehead. ‘It’s what’s in here that counts, kiddo, that’s the untouchable stuff. You get strong up there and nobody’s got a thing on you.’

They pulled off the San Diego freeway. Robin Ryder’s voice came on the radio, talking about her new single. Hell, he loved that English accent. Abruptly he turned it off.