suggested a flat in Kentish Town, which to Chloe, who just wanted to get Nate into bed, sounded quite squalid. But before she could object they were on their way. Nate liked to shun the extravagances he could well afford, and while he didn’t quite stretch to the night bus, a cab would do well before a private car.
Chloe placed a hand on Nate’s leg and gradually moved it higher until she heard his breath catch. In the darkness of the taxi, everybody squeezed in tight, she was able to attend to the rapidly expanding bulge in his jeans without anyone much noticing.
Erica Lang, opposite Nate, was staring. Chloe had caught her eyeing up her boyfriend several times and was shocked by her inability, or reluctance, to conceal it.
When they arrived everyone piled out into the cold. Nate put an arm round Chloe’s shoulders and she caught Erica giving her a bitchy look.
There was a problem getting into the building and it soon transpired that none of them actually lived there–it belonged to some mate of a mate. After several failed drunken phone calls they found a back way in and trailed through a dark, damp-smelling corridor. A couple of spongy mattresses and a telly in one corner suggested they had come to the living room.
‘What is this?’ Chloe whispered.
‘Just a place to crash,’ Nate said casually, sparking up a joint. This was part of his image, she thought, this whole mock-poverty thing. The hypocrisy of it bugged her–but everyone had their niggly things, didn’t they? When he saw her anxious expression he said, ‘Chill out, babe,’ and flopped down on to a misshapen couch.
A man wearing skinny white jeans and pointy cowboy boots the colour of English mustard put some music on. Bottles of beer and badly rolled joints were passed round but Chloe refused both: she didn’t drink much anyway because it was bad for her skin, and she wasn’t in the mood to get stoned. But as the atmosphere changed and everyone started laughing about things and she couldn’t understand why they were funny, she began to feel bored. Erica Lang had appeared on the other side of Nate and was listening with rapture to everything he said, which sounded like a deeply serious monologue about music transcending class boundaries.
Chloe sighed and sat back, disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to deliver her news in quite the style she’d imagined. Oh well, maybe it could wait–it might be safer for Melissa to confirm the part was hers anyway before she told anyone. In the meantime, she could hold the promise close to her chest and savour its possibility.
The guy in skinny jeans passed her a soggy joint and Chloe held it between her fingers a moment before thinking, What the hell. She drew the smoke into her lungs and coughed embarrassingly. Nate finally forgot about Erica and turned to his girlfriend, delighted.
She dragged on it a few more times before passing it on.
In seconds another came round and she toked on that as well. A few minutes later she was starting to feel quite spacey, but it was a nice, warm feeling. A short fat girl told a joke and it was the wittiest thing Chloe had ever heard. Clever, too. God, actually it was completely profound.
By the time another smoke was passed over she felt buzzy and completely happy to sit and listen to all the wonderful, intelligent things people were saying. She became aware that Nate was kissing her, and that other people on the floor were kissing each other as well. Nate’s hand roamed over her breast and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. She thought if he touched her nipple she would just come straight away.
‘Can we find a room?’ she found herself saying. Somehow Nate had managed to manoeuvre her legs around his waist and was reclining her on the sofa in front of everyone.
‘No one’s looking,’ he said throatily, kissing her neck. ‘They’re doing their own thing.’ He was fumbling with the buckle on his belt. Vaguely she recalled he was wearing two belts–how hilarious!–nd she burst out laughing.
‘Shh,’ he murmured, sticking a tongue in her ear. It felt huge and thick like a slug.
‘I don’t want to do it here,’ she protested with some effort. Turning her head, she saw that Mister Cowboy Boots and Short Fat Girl were having it off and one of Short Fat Girl’s boobs was hanging out. This was the craziest night ever!
‘Take me to bed, Nate,’ she purred, disentangling herself.
Desperate to get into his girlfriend’s pants, Nate stood up and extended his hand. Hitching down her dress, Chloe followed him into the room next door. It was completely empty apart from some piled-up cardboard boxes. There were no curtains on the window.
Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her on the floor, his hands unbuttoning her and sneaking underneath her bra. It felt so good she didn’t even care about the splintery wood beneath her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and said something about how amazing he was and how she wanted his big cock inside her right now, all the stuff men wanted to hear. With deft hands he unclipped her bra and peeled down her top half, exposing her breasts.
Chloe’s head was swimming. Everything felt amazing. The world was amazing. Nate Reid was amazing. She was completely, totally, madly in love.
Gradually Chloe was aware of the door opening. A pale shaft of moonlight illuminated the thin figure waiting there. It was Erica Lang.
‘Room for one more?’ she asked, pulling off her high-necked shirt to reveal virtually non-existent tits with alarmingly dark, extended nipples.
Nate made a guttural sound in his throat as she came closer. ‘Can we, babe?’ he asked Chloe, his hand finding its way past the elastic of her knickers.
Chloe was floating. She wanted the pleasure to go on and on and never end. As Erica knelt to join the party she closed her eyes and gave herself up.
LA, just you wait, she was able to think before ecstasy took over. You won’t know what hit you.
14
Los Angeles
Cole Steel stepped off his state-of-the-art treadmill and wiped his brow. Not that there was much perspiration there–Cole was a man who did not break sweat.
‘Are we done yet?’ his agent Marty King gasped in desperation, taking a breather at the rowing machine. He was a squat man in his fifties with jowls, ginger spray-on hair and a face like a fat Gene Wilder. His eyes were shifty and a touch watery with age, and when he exerted himself his skin broke out in a patchy pink rash. He was also the canniest agent in Hollywood, with a catalogue of A-list clients and major deals to his name.
‘Not yet,’ said Cole, polishing off a two-litre bottle of mineral water. ‘I didn’t get that martial arts equipment installed for nothing.’
Marty King sighed and wiped his own, copiously sweating, face. They were in the bespoke home gym at Cole’s Beverly Hills mansion, complete with its own indoor pool, hot tub, sauna and steam; and of course all this goddamn kit–Marty died a little bit every time, he swore it. But Cole was a man who liked to work out, and even more so when he was talking business.
‘Put this on,’ said Cole, slamming a body protector at his agent.
Marty grimaced but did as he was told. When Cole started pumping iron he was like a maniac and you just had to strap in for the ride. It was the same mind-space he adopted when acting: complete immersion and total focus. Marty himself
