Victoria Fox - Power Games

If you want my ass so bad you’ll have to damn well find it first!

But they had found it last time, hadn’t they?

No way was he laying his ruined rump bare. He might as well put a tablecloth under it, give them a knife and fork and invite them to pull up a chair. Christ!

Today, Mitch was in luck. The restroom was empty. After a quick inspection in the bank of mirrors, comprising a swift adjustment to his chestnut-coloured toupee and a reassuring thumbs-up, he unfastened his pants. As he emptied himself into the urinal, he prayed that Melinda had scarpered back to the apartment. Mitch was grateful for tonight’s TV slot—with any luck his wife might have gone to bed by the time he returned. Occasionally she would grope for him in the dark, murmur something enticing like, ‘Have you showered? If you’ve showered you can put it in me,’ but if he left it long enough she would have her eye mask on and her earplugs in.

If Melinda only knew where he’d been, what he’d seen …

Images from the house at Veroli came rushing back: the elderly couple, the shed in the courtyard, the driving rain … Part of Mitch wished he had never gone, had never laid eyes on the terrible reality. But there had been no choice.

Now he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that these creatures were out there, biding their time, preparing to strike, their skills and machinery eclipsing anything this planet had to offer. Rome had confirmed their existence once and for all.

The invasion was nigh—and Mitch was its target.

Signor Rossetti had explained. ‘They want you, Senator Corrigan. You are a special man. You will soon run America, the most powerful country on Earth …’

Mitch would never forget those words as long as he lived. Them.

One probe was all it took. Fiercely he yanked up his pants.

Trembling, Mitch Corrigan bolted for the door.

The car arrived on the dot of six to escort him to the studio. Mitch was due live on America Tonight in an hour. He couldn’t be less set for a public airing if he tried.

‘Remember our focus is the campaign,’ Oliver, his PR guy, chattered, stabbing keys on his BlackBerry. ‘I’ve briefed the producer on what we will and won’t say. I’m not sitting through a Who’s Who of Mitch Corrigan movies like we did last time.’

Mitch’s knee started to shudder as the downtown traffic rushed past. ‘It’s what they’re interested in,’ he conceded. After eight years in politics, people still hankered after morsels from his showbiz past: instead of hearing his views on a proposed health reform or a controversial rule on education, what they really wanted was a rendition of a celebrated catchphrase from his best-known flick, nineties action-fest A Good Day to Die. In it, Mitch’s character Blaine, a stunt driver, tells his arch-enemy to: ‘ Side with me if you want to ride with me. ’ Those ten words had haunted him the majority of his adult life. They got yelled at him in the street, at party conferences, on beach vacations, in restaurants when he was halfway through his shrimp appetiser …

‘Wrong,’ corrected Oliver, ‘we tell them what to be interested in. Once we confirm our White House campaign, they’ll soon see where our priorities lie.’

Mitch felt exhausted by the whole thing. Along the line he guessed he must have signed up for this demented full-throttle ride, first Hollywood, then Washington, then a fucking presidential bid. Why was he doing it to himself? Fame was a cruel mistress. She had brought him notoriety, but she hadn’t brought him happiness.

In the vehicle’s wing mirror he spied the same black car he had noticed trailing them on to the freeway. Mitch narrowed his eyes. His knee juddered.

Quietly he eased back in his seat.

‘Everything OK?’ asked Oliver.

‘Fine,’ he replied.

Mitch couldn’t confide in Oliver. He couldn’t confide in anyone. They would pour scorn on his revelations: Too many drugs with the Screw Crew? That had been the name of his actor clique, years ago when the A-listers had stalked Sunset for babes and tallied up their victories. Maybe he had taken too many drugs. Maybe he had lost his shit at too many parties. Maybe the whole thing was a delusion brought about by his longevity at the top of a precipitous fame mountain: a gradual decline.

Mitch could forget all about a White House campaign if the world uncovered a breath of what he knew. Who would have thought it? This was the man who, back in his heyday, had been king of the silver screen; he had wrestled crocodiles, battled felons, shot at hijackers from a swooping chopper and flown missiles into Vietnam …

Yet here he was, besieged and cursed, tripped and taunted in the endless labyrinth of his waking nightmare. His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his trousers. He checked the mirror again. The black car was still in pursuit.

‘Here we are.’ Oliver was all business as their vehicle pulled up at the studio. Mitch sank down in his seat. The black car slid past, its windows opaque.

‘Senator Corrigan, it’s an honour, thanks again for joining us.’ A smiling producer led him through the rear entrance, and he was encouraged by Oliver to raise a hand to the waiting band of paps shouting his name. Ten minutes in Make-up and he was set.

Mitch had to wait backstage while Jerry Gersham’s star billing took the stage. Noah Lawson was that rare concoction to which every actor aspires: looks, charm and talent. It was why he was Hollywood’s hottest property. Mitch knew that while he himself had done an OK job, somehow garnering his handprint on the Walk of Fame, he had hardly been the most versatile of players. In fact, his acting was shit.

‘Side with me if you want to ride with me.’ Good grief.

The studio audience went crazy as Noah told a joke. The actor ran his hand through his blond hair and gave them an easy grin. So charming, so relaxed …

Mitch wished it could be that straightforward for him.

The studio lights burned. A trickle of sweat travelled down his neck and into his collar. His tongue bloated. His lungs squeezed. Panic rose in his belly.

The house at Veroli flashed terribly through his mind. The thing …

Mitch released a strangled cry. He could take it no longer. He felt his asshole begin to protest, that horrid twitching dance it forced him into whenever it recoiled against a further assault, as if still reeling from the penetration two years before, as if so certain it was about to happen again: his poor, vulnerable, raided asshole.

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my final guest for this evening. D’you want to ride with him? ’ Cue roar. ‘It’s Senator Mitch Corrigan!’

But it was too late. The wings were empty. Mitch had already fled.

New York

Tawny Lascelles was partying in a club on Gansevoort Street, less with friends than with tolerable randoms who were out to get papped with anyone who was anyone and, better still, the most desirable supermodel on the scene. Who cared if the hangers-on were genuine, so long as they were the right level of attractive? Which basically meant attractive enough to act as a plumping cushion for Tawny’s irresistible jewel, but not so pretty as to rival her in any discernible way. Tawny did not like to be rivalled.

It was survive on your own in this industry, or don’t survive at all.

Tawny was fresh from this afternoon’s FNYC shoot, her first for Angela Silvers’ tag as it announced the launch of its hyped new range. Working with the upcoming label was her most envied gig to date. She treasured the bitten expressions on her fellow models’ faces as yet another deal went her way. Tawny snagged all the major names. Why? Because she was outrageously stunning, she chilled with the right people and she flirted on that line between innocence and danger that, for all the hard work in the world, models either possessed or they didn’t.