a white imprint of Robin’s face, just the silhouetted contours, the line of her brow, nose and lips—and of course the hallmark fringe. A glass birdcage hovered over winding silver steps. Metallic moving platforms extended to the audience. It was stylish to the max.
‘You like?’
‘I love.’
‘We open with “Told You So”,’ explained the director. ‘Spotlight, then bam! You’re up in the cage. Fade to black and in a blink you’re down on the boards, free as a bird. Magic.’
‘How do I get there?’
‘Let us worry about that.’ He gestured to the flanks of the model. ‘This is your series of pulleys and platforms; it’s the oldest trick there is. All you need to be is in the right place at the right time—oh, and be happy to get thrown about like a pinball.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
Drummer Matt leaned back and put his hands behind his head. ‘Seriously, you’re gonna recreate this at every single venue?’
‘Sure we are,’ said Barney. ‘All this, it’s the point of Robin’s show. The whole outlook: style, sex, a let’s-see-what-you’ve-got-then stance…’
The tour was to kick off at the start of next year. They were covering multiple sites across North America, major arenas she had never imagined filling but incredibly tickets were shifting and one had sold out in hours. Her success over the Atlantic had been thanks to a recent US version of The Launch, which had sparked interest in its British counterpart. Word of mouth had taken her the rest of the way; an underground rumble that began via YouTube and in an overnight surge had fans addicted to her tunes. Her album Beginnings had been released at a time when the Billboard 100 had been saturated with manufactured groups (boy band Fraternity had held the number one spot for eleven weeks) and had offered a welcome contrast. There was no one quite like Robin Ryder. She was quintessentially British but at the same time identifiable to and representative of females worldwide.
‘Did you hear about Puff City and the US track team?’ Polly asked when they were done. The women grabbed a coffee in the canteen.
‘No.’ In spite of herself Robin’s tummy flipped at the connection to Leon Sway. Why? He was nothing to her. ‘What about them?’
‘Jax Jackson wants to release a single.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘I know. My bet is he was laughed out of town before someone with half a brain realised they could make a charity gig out of it. Anyhow it’s going ahead.’
‘With Puff City?’ She was agape.
‘Yeah. You should ask them about it at your meet. Anti gun crime or something? Jax wanted to go it alone but he’s been forced to rope in the rest of the team.’ Polly rummaged in her purse for red lipstick. ‘I wish you could smoke in here.’
‘I’m surprised they said yes. Isn’t Jax a bit of a dick?’
‘He’s a lot of a dick,’ said Polly. ‘But, honey, Jax and the guys are in demand. And if they’ve got a cause attached to it then, well, who’s going to be able to say no?’
It would certainly give Leon the screw he was so obviously after, Robin thought. Not that he would be short of offers, sending bunches of hackneyed flowers all over town and relying on his looks to make up the rest. She had seen in the Metro that he’d returned to LA. He probably had seventeen girlfriends queuing up at home that he couldn’t wait to get back to, not to mention The Waltons family set-up.
‘D’you know what? I’d rather talk about the tour.’
Polly nodded. ‘Nervous?’
‘Nah.’ Robin grinned. ‘Not my style. Far as I’m concerned, they can bring it.’
Later that afternoon she returned to her flat, electing to walk because being cooped up in Barney’s HQ all day had made her feel foggy, and she had a song that had been niggling her for ages that she wanted to get on paper before sunset.
All the way back she had the sensation of being followed. It was hard to pinpoint, an instinct she would subsequently put down to imagination, or a weary mind playing tricks, but every corner Robin turned, every street she crossed, she was conscious of footsteps trailing behind. Normally she avoided taking a route through the super-busy heart of the borough, instead cutting across a quieter park, but not today. She moved swiftly through the hordes of people, anonymous in the swarming masses, and must have managed to lose her tracker—if they were even there in the first place—because by the time she arrived home, she was alone.
11
Leon landed at LAX to a feverish reception. Paparazzi were jostling over the barriers for a clean shot, lights flashing and cracking and his name repeated so many times it lost its beginning and end. ‘Leon! Leon! Leon!’ He had hoped to fly back quietly and avoid the uproar, but no such luck. Something told him he had better get used to it.
‘How is it being back in LA?’ reporters demanded. ‘What have you got to say to Jax Jackson? Can you defeat him at the 2013 Champs?’ Microphones lunged and he had to shield his eyes from the glare. A woman got past the rope and clung to his shoulders, and before he could do anything to stop it she planted a kiss on his mouth.
‘Step away, ma’am.’ Airport security dragged her off.
Leon had been thrust into the realms of the super-famous and now it seemed like everyone wanted a piece. Being on home ground meant the hype was ready to hit new heights, beginning with this hare-brained idea of Jax’s to record a single. Frankly Leon found it embarrassing. How could he say no when it was for charity? He couldn’t be the only one who turned his back, especially when it was supposedly making a stand against gun crime.
Jax wanted stardom, that was the distinction between them, and The Bullet didn’t care how he got it. For Leon, it was different. He trained, he ran and he focused. Yet his first steps back on American soil and he was being treated like a movie star. He’d never got into it for celebrity; he didn’t care about that. He ran to win.
‘Do you think you’ll ever beat him?’
Leon stopped. ‘Sure, I’ll beat him. This isn’t the final score.’
‘Is The Bullet impossible to outrun?’
‘Nothing’s impossible.’ An image of Jax’s trademark gold vest clouded Leon’s vision. Emblazoned on its back was the tip of a bullet in flight. ‘When you’re at the top, the only way is down. Jax is on borrowed time. I’m the one to watch.’
The Compton house where Leon grew up was like any other on the street, a grey one-storey villa protected behind a barred steel gate. Out front was a yard—his mom kept it nice as she could but the grass was tired and yellowing and a football lay part deflated by the trash. There was nothing remarkable about the place, nothing to suggest it had once been the scene of a brutal crime, but scratch the surface and the scars were there. They said that the years would heal, but each time Leon returned it ached as deeply as it had twelve years ago.
Paint was flaking off the gate, the catch stiff. If only they would let him buy them someplace else, his mom and sister, but
