The Power Trip Page 3

  He came back two weeks later, sober and alone. He sought her out and asked if she had a boyfriend. She said no, although at the time she was living with a hunky barman who worked at The Keys.

  He invited her to dinner.

  She said no.

  He invited her to visit him in L.A.

  She said no.

  He invited her upstairs to his suite.

  She said no.

  Instinctively she’d known that Cliff Baxter could be her big break, and that to make it happen she had to play hard to get. So she’d strung him along for several months, and each time he made the Vegas trip she’d continued to play it cool. Then just when she’d sensed he was about to give up on her, she’d accepted his dinner invitation.

  That night they’d ended up in his suite where she’d given him the blow-job of his dreams.

  Just a blow-job. Nothing else.

  Two weeks later, she was living with him in his L.A. mansion.

  * * *

  ‘Mr Baxter. They’re ready for you on the set,’ the young Second AD called out, peering into Cliff Baxter’s trailer after knocking on the door twice.

  When the star didn’t respond, she tentatively ventured inside and saw that he was asleep on the comfortable couch, snoring loudly, wearing nothing but a robe that had fallen open revealing solid tanned thighs and chocolate-coloured underwear.

  The girl squinted at the sleeping movie star and wondered what she should do. She was new on the job and intimidated by being in the presence of such a big star. Fortunately, she was saved by the arrival of Enid, Cliff Baxter’s personal assistant, a fierce, older woman, clad in a no-nonsense Hillary Clinton-style pantsuit and Nurse Ratched running shoes.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Enid enquired, taking in the nervous young girl and her boss’s half-exposed torso.

  ‘Mr Baxter is needed on the set,’ the girl said, an agitated quiver in her voice. ‘I’m supposed to tell him.’

  ‘Then I suggest you wake him,’ Enid said briskly, placing a large messenger bag filled with papers on the table.

  ‘H-how should I do that?’ the girl stammered.

  ‘Like this, dear,’ Enid said, leaning over and giving Cliff a vigorous shake on his shoulder.

  The girl took a hurried step back as Cliff sat up. ‘What the fuck?’ he mumbled. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You’re at the studio,’ Enid announced. ‘You’re wanted on set, so shift your ass.’

  ‘For a rehearsal, Mr Baxter,’ the girl said, bravely joining in.

  ‘Must’ve dozed off,’ Cliff announced with a big yawn. ‘Friend’s bachelor party last night. It ended late, had my driver bring me straight here.’

  ‘And how did little Miss Live-In like that?’ Enid said caustically.

  ‘C’mon, Enid,’ Cliff said, standing up and laughing. ‘What did Lori ever do to you? She’s a sweet kid. Why do you always have to put her down?’

  Enid pulled a face, and began extracting papers and mail from her messenger bag and piling them on the table.

  ‘Shall I tell Mr Sterling you’re on your way?’ the young AD asked, trying to avert her eyes from Cliff’s open robe.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, tell Mac I’ll be there in five. And next time I’d appreciate a fifteen-minute warning. You can go get me coffee now. Black. Plenty of sugar. Have it waiting on the set.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Baxter.’

  Cliff threw her a jaunty wink. ‘Run along, unless you’re planning to witness me bare-assed naked.’

  The girl blushed, and hurriedly backed out of the trailer.

  Cliff chuckled. ‘They get younger every day,’ he ruminated, shrugging off his robe. ‘And you know what, Enid? Here’s the crap part – I get older.’

  ‘We all do,’ Enid said crisply. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself and for God’s sake put some clothes on. I’ve seen better packages at the post office.’

  ‘You can be such a mean old bag,’ Cliff said, seemingly unphased. ‘Mean and ornery. Dunno why I put up with you.’

  ‘Because,’ Enid answered matter-of-factly, ‘I have worked for you for almost twenty years, and I am one of the few people who can break your balls without getting fired. And speaking of balls, yours are hanging out.’

  Cliff grinned. ‘Surely you know that hanging out’s my thing?’

  ‘If you’re not careful, your thing will be out too.’

  Cliff grabbed his pants from the back of the couch, and pulled them on. ‘Don’t you wish,’ he said, still grinning.

  ‘No, Cliff,’ Enid said sternly. ‘I am one of the few women in this world who has no desire to see your cock, your balls, or anything else you might have to offer.’

  ‘Dyke!’

  ‘Yes, dear. And I’m proud to say that I enjoy pussy almost as much as you do.’

  ‘Except Lori.’

  ‘She’s not pussy, she’s a predator,’ Enid said sharply. ‘Not good enough for you.’

  Cliff shook his head. ‘For crissakes . . .’

  ‘Just don’t marry her, that’s all.’

  ‘Marry her!’ Cliff exclaimed with a throaty chuckle. ‘When did the M word raise its ugly head?’

  ‘You should get going,’ Enid said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘It’s unprofessional to keep people waiting.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘And when you have time, there are a few things I need your answers on,’ Enid added, waving an expensive-looking envelope in his face. ‘This is an invitation you might like.’

  ‘Not another black-tie event?’ he groaned. ‘I’ve attended enough of those to last me a lifetime. This is Award Show City. No more. I’m over it.’

  ‘This invite is something different,’ Enid said. ‘I’ll show you when you get back. Now it’s your turn to run along.’

  ‘And she talks to me as if I’m twelve,’ Cliff said, shaking his head again.

  ‘And sometimes he acts as if he is,’ Enid retorted.

  ‘I might be forced to fire you when I return,’ he threatened, reaching for a shirt and putting it on. ‘You have no respect.’

  ‘Later, Mr Baxter,’ she drawled sarcastically. ‘Is that enough respect for you?’

  ‘Fuckin’ A!’ And with another wide grin, Cliff exited his trailer.

  Chapter Five

  Dateline: Miami

  Luca Perez stretched out on a striped lounger wearing a barely there powder-blue Speedo, his well-toned thirty-year-old body oiled to perfection, not an inch of flesh spared. On the table next to him stood a tall glass containing a Mojito. Next to his drink was a Lalique dish filled with ripe red cherries, a pile of the latest entertainment magazines, his iPhone, his platinum diamond-encrusted Chanel watch, and several crucifixes attached to thin leather straps.

  Luca, his eyes covered by Dolce & Gabbana shades, was almost asleep, but not quite. He enjoyed lying there in a half-drowsy state, allowing his mind to run riot. Nothing to disturb him. No one to bother him. Just a lazy day of doing nothing except perfecting his tan. And what a beautiful day it was, with hazy sunshine, a light breeze. He’d recently returned from a demanding world tour, so life at his Miami mansion was good.

  Tomorrow, his significant other, Jeromy Milton-Gold, would return from London, which meant goodbye peace and quiet. Jeromy was a social animal. He always wanted to go out and be seen at leather bars and gay clubs – something Luca preferred not to do, even though they’d met at a notorious rubber fetish club in London two years ago. Meeting Jeromy had changed Luca’s life. Before Jeromy he’d been firmly closeted, living a secret gay life lest his legions of female fans found out, for Luca was a huge Latin heartthrob, a singer women worshipped and adored.

  And he was married. And he had a son.

  At the time.

  He still had a son, Luca junior, who was now nine years old. But he was no longer married to the larger-than-life Latin superstar – Suga – the woman who’d discovered him as a teenager, nurtured his talent, married him, had his baby, and made him the star he was today.


  Suga was twenty years older than Luca, yet still a voluptuous beauty with a huge following in South America. She’d accepted the fact that her husband was gay with humour and understanding. Divorce – no problem. ‘Ah, but Suga had you at your best,’ she’d joked. ‘Go do what makes you happy, Luca. My heart goes with you.’

  Suga was an amazing woman, and to Luca’s delight they’d remained close friends, sharing custody of their handsome young son, who’d inherited the best of both his parents.

  So, against the advice of everyone else – his agents, managers, record producers and label bosses – Luca had made the leap into gaydom. If Ricky Martin could do it and survive, why couldn’t he?

  And survive he did. His fans were fiercely loyal; they adored him. Gay or straight, it didn’t matter to them. He was Luca Perez. He was their god. Now he was their gay god.

  Still, Luca didn’t wish to flaunt his coming out. No threesomes or kinky goings-on in public, although once in a while he allowed Jeromy to throw a wild party at the mansion – no cameras allowed.

  Jeromy Milton-Gold was not the partner people would expect Luca to choose. Jeromy was a tall, slim, very English Old Etonian, with patrician features, floppy brown hair, and a somewhat snobbish attitude. At forty-two he was twelve years older than his sun-kissed, blond-haired, buff-bodied, famous boyfriend. They made an incongruous couple; however, it seemed to work for them.

  * * *

  The envelope addressed to Luca Perez and Jeromy Milton-Gold looked like it contained something interesting, for it was of excellent quality, with intricate embossed gold calligraphy, and most of all it appeared tasteful and expensive.

  Sitting at his David Armstrong Jones desk in his London showroom adjacent to Sloane Square, Jeromy Milton-Gold pried open the envelope with a silver letter-opener and extracted the enclosed invitation.

  He read it carefully. Twice.

  A satisfied smile crossed his face. This was one invitation they were not turning down.

  He slid open the centre drawer of his desk, carefully placed the invitation back in its envelope, and put it next to his passport. Tomorrow he would show it to Luca and insist that they accept.

  Sometimes Luca could be stubborn, only this time Jeromy refused to take no for an answer. This time it was a done deal.

  Chapter Six

  Dateline: New York

  The politician and his lovely wife were invited everywhere – they were one of the most popular couples in the city. He, so honest-looking and upstanding with his regular features, well-cut brown hair and an ‘I will do everything I can for my people’ attitude. She, both delicate and strong at the same time, slender, with shoulder-length honey-coppery hair, a beautiful face, and widely spaced warm brown eyes.

  Her name was Sierra Kathleen Snow. His name was Hammond Patterson junior, although – much to his father’s chagrin – shortly after getting into politics he’d dropped the junior. ‘It doesn’t sound right,’ he’d muttered.

  ‘I’ll tell you what sounds right,’ his father had raged. ‘Using the family name and the family reputation. That’s what sounds right to me.’

  Hammond Patterson junior wasn’t so sure. His father had been a Congressman for many years, and that was not the role Hammond was planning to play. Instead, after college he’d gone straight to law school, then pursued a career as an attorney, and in time he’d parlayed that career into becoming – at thirty-six – one of the youngest Senators in the house.

  Representing New York as the junior Senator, he was full of ambition. He had high hopes that eventually he would become Governor of the State, then after that, possibly make a run for the White House.

  Why not? He had all the right credentials. And most of all he had supreme confidence.

  Hammond was an extremely driven man. Nothing was about to stop him.

  Sierra, on the other hand, possessed a warmth and candour that attracted men and women alike. She was smart and compassionate with a generous soul. As far as Hammond was concerned she was the perfect political wife, an asset to have by his side at all times, which is exactly why he’d picked her.

  Recently Hammond’s climb to the top had come across an unexpected stumbling block. And that stumbling block was the disturbing realization that he’d fathered a daughter in his younger years. Apparently he’d gotten some girl pregnant, and that girl had gone ahead and given birth to a daughter named Radical.

  Radical had arrived at his office one day, fifteen years old and determined to meet her father.

  Hammond was furious and shocked. When the girl finally got in to see him and announced that she was his daughter, he didn’t believe her. This couldn’t be happening to him. It was impossible.

  But Radical produced a birth certificate with his name on it, and informed him that her mom had recently died from a drug overdose, and that she had nowhere else to go.

  Two paternity tests later, Hammond was forced to admit that this strange unruly teenager with streaks of green in her dyed black hair, multiple piercings, and a snotty attitude was indeed his.

  Sierra, being the kind and thoughtful person that she was, had insisted that Radical join the family.

  ‘We have to take her in,’ Sierra had lectured him. ‘She’s your daughter. You have no choice. Think of your public image if you don’t.’

  Finally Hammond had agreed, terrified that the sudden appearance of an illegitimate teenage daughter would wreak havoc with his carefully projected image.

  The public, it turned out, still loved Hammond and Sierra. They were accepting of Hammond’s youthful transgression. Sexual scandals involving politicians were nothing new, and with Sierra next to him, Hammond could do no wrong.

  Radical turned out to be a nightmare. Rude and wilful, she caused trouble wherever she went. She hated her father, and he hated her right back.

  Angry that he was stuck with her, Hammond soon packed her off to boarding school in Switzerland, even forcing Sierra to agree that it was for the best.

  Radical went. But not without a fight.

  * * *

  When Hammond’s assistant, Nadia, entered his office and showed him the fancy invitation, he didn’t hesitate. Without checking with Sierra, he instructed Nadia to immediately accept.

  Hammond smelled big money, major campaign contributions when the time came for him to run, for he was well aware that important connections were everything. Plus this was a fine chance for him to start planting the seeds of his unstoppable ambition.

  Yes, Hammond knew a viable opportunity when it came his way. He was no fool.

  * * *

  Sierra Kathleen Snow was born into great privilege. Her father was the well-respected Pulitzer Prize winner Archibald Snow, an academic and renowned writer of history tomes, while her mother, Phoebee, was a true New York society beauty whose family dated back to the Founding Fathers.

  Sierra had an older sister, Clare, who was married to a pediatrician and had written a series of best-selling books about parenting. Clare and her husband had three young children, and resided in Connecticut. Sierra also had a brother, Sean, who lived in Hawaii with a woman he’d picked up on the beach.

  Clare was the darling of the family, while Sean was the dark side. Sierra was somewhere in the middle.

  At thirty-two, Sierra was still not sure where she fitted in.

  She was Archibald and Phoebee Snow’s daughter. She was Hammond Patterson’s wife. She was Clare Snow’s sister. But who was she really?

  Every morning, upon waking, she asked herself that question.

  Who am I today?

  Am I the politician’s wife?

  The dutiful daughter?

  The loving supportive sister?

  Who am I?

  It was a question that haunted her, because she honestly didn’t know the answer.

  Her illustrious parents disapproved of Hammond; although they’d never actually said it out loud, she knew that they did. When Radical had appeared on the scene, the expression on her mother’s face h
ad said it all: we always suspected that Hammond was a rogue. Now we know for sure.

  A rogue who harboured aspirations to eventually become President of America. With her by his side.

  The very thought made Sierra shudder. She’d been married to Hammond for eight years and didn’t love him. She’d started off thinking that she did, but after a while she’d realized that she’d married him to get over a broken heart, and that he’d married her because of her impeccable pedigree and family connections.

  Hammond was not the man he’d pretended to be.

  He was a psychopath. A very clever psychopath.

  To the world he presented a smiling honest face, a nice-looking man filled with empathy and caring. With his brown hair, regular features and captivating smile, he seemed like such an open book. However, Hammond’s public persona was way different in private. Sierra knew for a fact that he was a bigot, a misogynist, and hated gays. He had a cruel tongue and a nasty sadistic streak. He talked about everyone in a disparaging way, including her family, and he loathed his own father. He was forever voicing his wishes that the man would drop dead of a sudden heart attack.

  At first she’d tried to dig into his psyche, discover where all this anger came from. It was a lost cause. The charming attentive man she’d married had turned into a secret monster who actually scared her, which was why she hadn’t left him.

  Two years into their marriage she’d realized what a fraud he was, and she’d threatened to divorce him. Very calmly he’d informed her that if she ever left him, he’d arrange to have her entire family killed, and that he would make sure she was maimed for life.

  Shocked and horrified, she’d considered going to the police. But who would believe her story? She was Sierra Patterson, wife of the up-and-coming politician, Hammond Patterson, a man who fought for everyone’s rights – including those of gays and women.

  It was an impossible situation, and to make it even worse, Hammond was continually unfaithful, sleeping with any woman he could get his hands on.