Power Games Read Free Page A

mysterious ) . He owned a dachshund named Trey.
    At nineteen, Kevin Chase was the biggest superstar on the planet. He couldn’t go for a dump without Security producing the toilet roll.
    The Coke was brought over. ‘ Thank you … ’ prompted Joan.
    ‘Whatever.’
    Sketch nodded towards the paused plasma screen mounted above his desk. On it, Kevin’s image was frozen onstage at the Chicago United Center, mic to his lips, hips strutting, his metallic suit and dark shades part of the Raunchy Robot theme. In the front ranks, a sea of eager Little Chasers grasped for their hero.
    ‘Joanie,’ tried Sketch, who knew that bringing in Kevin’s mom usually achieved the desired result, ‘what do you think?’
    ‘Well, I—’
    ‘I can answer for myself, can’t I?’ Kevin scowled. ‘It’s a fucking hand gesture, what’s the big fucking deal anyhow?’
    ‘Kevin!’ admonished Joan. ‘Language!’
    ‘You have to understand that this isn’t what the fans expect.’ Sketch laid it out. ‘Kevin Chase is boyfriend material, OK? He’s about puppy dogs and first dates. He’s about Valentine’s cards. He’s about cookies. He’s about … abstinence.’
    Kevin gulped. Recently, he had run an interview with a British tabloid, in which he had happily blasted sex before marriage. Ha! That was some laugh. At this rate he wouldn’t be getting sex until … well that was the fucking funny bit because he couldn’t even think of when. Christ! It wasn’t as if he was short of offers. He was Kevin Chase, for God’s sake; by rights he should be nailing any girl he wanted.
    Except he couldn’t … Physically.
    That was why Sandi had called it off. The label had tried to salvage it, but Sandi had a fire in her knickers and Kevin’s hose was officially out of order.
    Kevin started picking the skin around his thumb. Loneliness swept over him in a silent tsunami. His management had control over every other aspect of his life, so he sure wasn’t about to hit Sketch with a confessional on his sexual problems.
    Sexual problems! Him! It was enough to make him throw up.
    ‘What Kevin Chase isn’t about is this.’ Sketch gestured once more at the still. ‘Pelvic thrusting. Cursing. Rubbing his crotch like a … I don’t know, like a dog with his balls in a knot. Telling girls he wants to,’ Sketch consulted his iPad and inhaled sharply, ‘ grind you up against the wall where your mom and dad can’t see .’
    ‘That was part of the song.’
    ‘It wasn’t.’
    ‘It should’ve been. It’s not my fault I’ve got to sing like a pussy. I told them I wanted the lyrics to reflect my personality.’
    Sketch put down his pad. He assumed his I’m listening face, tempered by a twinge of fatherly concern. When all was said and done, he was the closest thing Kevin had to a father—hell, maybe that was where it had gone so wrong.
    Abandonment issues: oldest fuck-up in the book.
    Of course the record company was doing little to alleviate it.
    Forget it. It’s for the kid’s own good.
    Sketch contained a gruesome shiver. You just keep telling yourself that.
    He straightened. ‘What would reflect your personality, Kevin? Tell me.’
    But Kevin didn’t know, or else he couldn’t articulate it. He didn’t even know if he had a personality, outside of what everyone else told him it was. Lately he had started gazing in the mirror and not recognising the person looking back, half expecting the other Kevin to do something he hadn’t asked it to, like stick its tongue out, or burst out laughing at the punchline his life had become. He might laugh too, if he could remember the joke. Instead, every day was a circus of grabbing bankrollers, snatching and pawing at his fame like rabid dogs. He had no real friends.
    He scratched at a mark on the knee of his jeans and tried not to cry.
    ‘Listen to Sketch, honey,’ Joan crooned, leaning forward in her chair. She wore ill-fitting Prada and too much make-up. ‘He knows what he’s talking