The A-List Collection: Hollywood Sinners / Wicked Ambition / Temptation Island. Victoria Fox

      She felt him move inside her and the rest was history.

PART THREE

       Spring

50

       New York

      The man scraped the bottom of the saucepan with a knife. Brown shavings of scrambled egg peeled off the metal, curly like woodchips. Shit, he’d burned breakfast.

      ‘Nelson, honey, can you fix me some more coffee?’

      The woman at the table looked older in the cold light of day. She was overweight with loose, pasty skin and a nest of black hair, stiff as wire. With his back to her at the stove, the man tensed, but responded to his alias all the same and refilled her cup. He’d been living under the name Nelson Price for ten years now. Ten long, long years. But the wait would soon be over.

      ‘Thanks, baby,’ the woman said in a whiny voice. She picked up the remote and started flicking channels on the TV. ‘Where’s breakfast?’

      ‘I’m doing it, aren’t I?’ the man snapped, thinking she could benefit from missing a meal or two. He couldn’t even remember where he’d picked this dyke up–she’d probably come into Club 44 and taken advantage of him when he was drunk.

      At thirty-six, clad in his morning attire of stained beige jockeys, he was an alarmingly unattractive man. Years of drink had left him looking closer to sixty than forty, with ravaged skin stretched over pointed, rat-like features. His eyes were squinty, hard and pitiless. His thin brown hair clung stubbornly to the very back of his head, refusing to abandon him completely and concealing a deep, jagged scar that ran from one ear to the other. The front was completely bald and shiny as a wiped-down surface. Lean and crooked in frame, his sharp bones pushed at the skin so that when he was naked it was possible to count the knots of his spine. His nose had grown longer over the years, curved now like a beak.

      He dumped the scorched eggs on to two plates and brought them to the table, where the mounds quivered brain-like. The only bread in the apartment was covered in mould, so they’d have to make do. This one, whatever her name was, obviously didn’t give a crap as she shovelled the yellowy-brown stuff into her mouth, chewing loudly and slurping her coffee.

      Something on the TV caught his attention. A name, that was all it was. But it was her name. The name he hated beyond all others. Two dirty words.

       Lana Falcon.

      ‘Go back,’ he ordered calmly. The egg on his fork balanced uncertainly before dropping to the plate in miserable defeat.

      The woman ignored him and continued flicking channels.

      ‘I said, go back.’ He wouldn’t ask again.

      ‘What, baby?’ she said, distracted, her mouth full of food.

      Lester Fallon snatched the control and punched at the buttons. Seconds later they landed on a celebrity news channel.

      And there she was. His sister. It seemed she had an alias, too.

      Liar, murderer, bitch.

      She was rich, she was famous; she lived the life of a fucking princess like she hadn’t got a care in the world.

       Like she hadn’t killed her own brother.

      The injustice of it made him shake.

      ‘Nelson, honey, are you OK?’

      Lester put down his cutlery. ‘I want you to leave.’ He could feel his rage boiling up inside, threatening to spill. He would warn her once more, but that would be the last time. The mere sight of his sister, the mention of her name unleashed the animal in him. He could not be held accountable for his actions if this lardy-ass broad got in the way.

      ‘What’s the matter, sugar-pie?’ she bleated. ‘Don’t you want me to suck that fine old dick of yours one more time?’

      Under the table Lester wiped his palms on his hairy knees.

      ‘I said, leave.’

      The woman took her time in clearing the last of her plate. ‘Fine.’ She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. ‘You just give me what I’m owed and I’m outta here.’

      Lester’s knuckles cracked beneath the surface. He hadn’t realised that was the deal.

      ‘I ain’t got no money,’ he snarled.

      The woman made a face; she’d heard it all before. ‘That watch’ll do nicely,’ she said, her eyes darting to the cheap imitation Rolex attached to his wrist.

      In a single swift movement, Lester’s hand shot up and slapped her across the face. She responded quickly, going for his head, digging her nails in and pulling at what hair there was, the table dragged between them so the plates and glasses went crashing to the floor. He punched her once, twice, sent her flying the same way. Slut! Why couldn’t these dumb women control themselves? It was her own fault, coming in here demanding money. She was privileged to spend a night with a man like him–if anything, he should be asking for the dough. He pounced on her, not giving her a chance to escape. Fuelled by hatred for his sister, he wrapped his long, skeletal fingers round the woman’s neck, pressing his thumbs hard into her clavicle. She gasped and choked, blood rushing to her face. Her eyes bugged, wild with fear.

      A searing pain shot through Lester’s groin. In the struggle she had raised a knee and got him where it hurt. His mouth hung open and he made a wheezing, high-pitched sound, rolling backwards, curled up in a ball. She kicked him repeatedly in the back–the bitch had heels on–then hard in the head, once. He felt a trickle of blood run from his nose. Helpless, he watched as she unstrapped the watch, pocketed it, kicked him one more time in his gut then grabbed her bag and slammed the door behind her.

      He lay there a while, nursing himself and groaning. The apartment was quiet and it smelled bad. The trash needed taking out, he hadn’t done it in a week, maybe longer, he couldn’t remember.

      For eight years he had lived in New York City, waiting tables at various strip bars, the latest of which was Club 44. He’d arrived in town with enough bucks to get a deposit down on an apartment, dive as it was, on Greenwich Street, with a tiny bedroom, a bathroom whose toilet kept filling up with shit–there was a problem with his drains–and a kitchen coated in fat and grease. Everything was seventies in style, from the sludgy creams and browns of the decor to the fringed, mottled lamps, some of which worked, some of which didn’t.

      He could hear the TV reporter chattering on. It was white noise to him–only the sound of his sister’s name could skewer the surface. She was living the life of a queen in Hollywood, a rich and successful film star; that dumb fuck ex-boyfriend of hers a Vegas billionaire. Where the hell was his money? Where were the millions he was entitled to? They had taken everything from him, left him with nothing but the clothes on his back–but soon he would claim what was rightfully his. Two murderers about to pay the ultimate price.

      At least they hadn’t stayed together–to cap it all with a sickly fucking love story would have been the final insult. No, instead Laura had married the most famous actor of them all: Cole Steel. It defied belief.

      They had escaped from one of the most heinous crimes imaginable and had gone on to live the life that he, Lester Fallon, deserved. Refuge, he decided as he lay on the floor, his ear pressed against the scratchy doormat, could be found only in what was to come. Life had been cruel, but little Laura’s and that Lewis kid’s success was only part of the grander scheme of things. The higher they got, the further there was to fall.

      Lester closed his eyes, thinking he ought to try to get up. His head was banging from where that whore had attacked him.

      Memories