The Power Trip

small breasts, cropped hair and enormous khol-outlined eyes. He thought her name was Marta, he wasn’t sure. Sometimes he felt he wasn’t sure of anything any more, not after some of the atrocities he’d witnessed. He’d recently returned from Afghanistan, where he’d watched a photographer colleague get caught in the crossfire between border guards and a car carrying two suicide bombers. The guy had had his head blown off — literally — by getting too close to the bombers simply to catch the best shot.

The image of the car blowing up was embedded in Flynn’s mind, and the headless body of his friend lying in the mud. It was a photograph he couldn’t erase.

After returning to Paris, he, who didn’t drink much, had gotten hopelessly drunk two nights in a row. Marta, or whatever her name was, happened on night two, and he wished he’d never picked her up and brought her home.

After reaching an unsatisfactory orgasm he managed to slide her off him.

‘Comment c’est fini?’ she said indignantly.

‘Not tonight,’ he mumbled. ‘Go home.’

So she did. Reluctantly.

In the morning, nursing a massive hangover, he discovered she’d taken his wallet with her.

No more drinking.

No more random sex.

It was his own fault, he should’ve known better.

Lately, things were getting on top of him. His recent visit to China, where in some places it was deemed acceptable to drown baby girls at birth. Another trip to Bosnia, attempting to give aid to women who’d been raped. And then to Pakistan, to write a story for the New York Times about an American citizen who’d been drugged by a prostitute and had one of his kidneys cut out and stolen.

Flynn needed a break.

Sorting through his mail, mostly bills, he came across a fancy envelope addressed to:

MR FLYNN HUDSON & GUEST

Extracting the invitation, he scanned it quickly.

It wasn’t his kind of thing, but then the thought occurred to him — why the hell not?

Maybe this was exactly the break he’d been looking for.

Chapter Four

Dateline: Los Angeles

Being the girlfriend of a huge movie star did not sit well with Lori Walsh’s ego. Oh yes, in one respect it was all strawberries and cream. Her name was out there — people were exceptionally nice to her — important people. Her photo was in all the magazines, frolicking on the beach in Malibu, or walking her significant other’s two large black Labradors. She was always included in the endless red-carpet interviews at premieres and award shows, hovering beside the famous one, looking like the adoring, albeit slightly awkward, girlfriend.

But why was her name out there? Why were influential and powerful people nice to her? What was it all about?

Because…

Because she was the live-in girlfriend of Cliff Baxter. The Cliff Baxter — the man with the George Clooney charm, Jack Nicholson acting talent, and irresistible good looks. Mister Movie Star. No mistake about that.

Mister — ‘I get my ass kissed every time I fart.’

Mister — ‘Everyone wants to be my friend.’

Mister — ‘Even when I’m full of shit, you’re still gonna love me.’

Lori, an actress herself — although much to her chagrin she was constantly referred to as ‘former waitress’ — had been Mister Movie Star’s girlfriend for the past year. ‘A record,’ his friends had informed her, as if she’d won some kind of amazing race. ‘You must have something special,’ his friends’ wives had whispered in her ear with slightly puzzled expressions, because in their minds surely Cliff could do better?

Yes, she had something special all right. Patience. And the knack for pretending not to know when her famous boyfriend ordered in a late-night call girl for a midnight snack in his pool-house office, or spent time on his computer watching porn.

Apparently his former girlfriends had objected. And with the objections came banishment, then after they were gone it was onto the next.

However, Lori was smarter than all of them. She was going for the prize. The ring on the finger. She was one canny girlfriend who was sticking it out.

Cliff Baxter was heading full-tilt towards fifty, and he’d never been married.

Lori was twenty-four, half his age — which was the perfect Hollywood age difference. Besides, she loved him in a kind of screwed-up way. She felt safe and protected with him — and sometimes, she even felt loved.

The truth was that she wanted to be Mrs Cliff Baxter even more than she wanted a career, and that was saying something as she’d always harboured an ambition to be the next Emma Stone. She and Emma even looked a little alike. They had the same athletic body and slightly toothy grin, although Lori considered herself to be a sexier version of the talented actress. Cliff was very into Lori’s amazing mane of red hair, although what really turned him on was her matching pubes. She’d offered to do a Brazilian for him, but he was having none of it. ‘I like a woman to be natural,’ he’d told her. ‘Enough with the shaved pussies, they’re not sexy. Keep it real, babe.’

So be it. Whatever Cliff wanted, Cliff got. It was quite a relief not to have to go through the agony of having the hair ripped from her crotch by a harassed Polish woman with a penchant for inflicting pain.

However, being just the girlfriend was risky. A year was a long time. What if Cliff got bored with her? What if he discovered the porn and the call girls were enough to keep him satisfied?

She didn’t care to think about it. She dreaded going back to being just another Hollywood starlet begging for a job. Oh no, that was not about to be her future.

To protect herself she’d made it her mission to find out all of Cliff’s dirty little secrets — facts that nobody knew about him. She was determined to discover the real Cliff Baxter, not the adored icon with the starry image and self-deprecating charm.

Lori was extremely adept at underground activities; she’d learned from her mom, Sherrine, at an early age that it was useful to dig out people’s secrets and use them to advantage. That’s how they’d gotten by after her dad had done a midnight runner. They’d survived because Sherrine had known how to manipulate people — such as their randy landlord who was cheating on his wife, the supermarket checkout clerk who was padding customers’ bills and pocketing the cash, and the cable guy who was into making money on the side.

Free rent. Free food. Free cable. They got by. While her mom juggled a series of boyfriends who also contributed to their survival.

Lori hadn’t spoken to her mom in eight years, ever since Sherrine had caught her making out with one of her transient boyfriends. At the time Lori was sixteen. Sherrine’s boyfriend was twenty-five and a total stud. And Sherrine was thirty-five and beyond pissed. She’d thrown Lori out along with the boyfriend, who’d allowed Lori to camp out at his place for a few weeks until she’d run into Stanley Abbson, an elderly gentleman who drove a Bentley and was very partial to underage girls.

Stanley Abbson was seventy-five years old, but thanks to Viagra he was still able to get it up. They’d met on the boardwalk in Venice when Lori had skateboarded into him and almost knocked him flat. He hadn’t minded at all, and after a couple of lunches he’d invited her to move into an apartment where he kept two other teenage girls. It was a decent apartment overlooking the ocean. Lori could hardly believe her luck.

Stanley — who she’d found out lived elsewhere in a large house — gave the girls a generous allowance; all he asked in return was the occasional girl-on-girl show, which was doable — until he started bringing along a few of his pervy old business acquaintances to watch and sometimes participate. That’s when Lori decided it was not the life for her, so she’d packed up and left, taking with her Stanley’s solid gold watch and the stash of cash he’d kept