Sweet (18 page)

‘Better leave now or I’ll get myself pregnant,’ I snickered, blowing a kiss to the vision in the mirror and draining the remains of the Aftershock. ‘Boy-toys of Brighton, let’s be ’avin ya!’

In my experience there’s two sorts of people that are always late to parties. There’s the neurotic type, that seeks endlessly to prove to its sad little self that it’s worth waiting for, and on top of that – due to its low self esteem – changes its clothes about twelve times before it feels able to leave the house.

And then there’s me. I love an audience, and it makes more sense for everyone if they’re all assembled and settled before the star hits the stage.

It was eleven before I found the big house in Tongdean – straight out of
Laguna Beach
with a big sweeping driveway, and I could see in the distance over the side gates a dirty great tree house in the back garden that would have easily housed the Sweet clan. There certainly was a lot of money in Brighton – a shame I always seemed to be on the outside, with my nose pressed up against the windowpane, while some jammy sod counted it on the other side.

I walked up the drive, rang the bell, whipped off my coat, stuck my tits out and smiled. The door opened and there stood Saz, all tanfastic from her holiday.

‘Sugar Sweet!’ She squeezed me tight, pulling me into the throbbing heat and noise of the perfect house-party in the perfect party house. ‘Vic, look, it’s Shugs from Stanwick Airport!’ she yelled over her shoulder, then leered enthusiastically at me. ‘Joined the Mile High Club yet?’

‘More like Mile Wide, in that uniform!’

She laughed and Vic came wobbling up to us, very much the worse for wear. ‘Candy! Glad you could come!’

‘Sugar,’ I kissed her. ‘So’m I. Amazing house.’

‘Parental shag-palace . . . should see ’em at it in the hot tub . . .’ She shuddered. ‘Sick bastards . . .’

‘Don’t start!’ Saz warned her. ‘Sugar’s not interested in your dysfunctional family’s idea of fun. From what I know of Sugar, there’s two things she’s interested in . . . let’s get her a drink, and she can grab the rest for herself . . .’

They each took a hand and led me into the party, stopping to grab some tequila slammers a few times for sustenance. The house was a lush labyrinth, a right old house of fun with excellent entertainment wherever you looked. Downing my fourth slammer, standing at the crossroads of the opulently open-plan ground floor, I could see a bunch of boys trying to see if they could make a dozen miniature pizzas stick to the ceiling, and a bunch of girls snivelling along to a Dido song – and then girls wonder why boys want to be with their mates! It’s called FUN! Then there was a boy surrounded by his older mates, who were encouraging him to down a bottle of some murky brown drink intriguingly labelled Yer Ho to much jeering and applause.

‘Oh no!’ yelled Saz. ‘Not rum! It stinks!’ She ran forward and caught the boy by the arm, pulling him towards the kitchen. He tripped, slipped, puked on to a pristine cream sofa and fell face-first into the steaming sludge. A huge cheer went up and the boy raised a hand to wave feebly.

‘Tosser!’ spat Saz, striking him harshly. She was obviously both the brains and the brawn of the outfit; while she was engaged in saving Vic’s house from annihilation, Vic was more interested in banging on about her favourite subject – her sodding fiancé. I waited till she went off on a tangent in search of tequila and took the oppo to slip away and wander around this wasted wonderland in my own time.

There was a small dark room full of people dancing to Basement Jaxx Greatest Hits, loads of ’em in sunnies, clowns! – like if they’re on something, who cares? Why bother hiding it, it’s a house party for goodness sake, no parents or bouncers to get past here. Or often, when people do this, they’re just trying to look like they’re on something, which is the saddest of the sad. I ducked out and saw a semi-conscious girl who resembled an underage Maxine Fox – ooh! – being carried upstairs by some guy. Obviously knowing my own feelings for the fabulous Dr Fox I didn’t really blame the perve for trying, but on the other hand it made me want to heave, reminding me of the times when I was younger, waking up and not knowing what had or hadn’t happened to me.

Well, obviously I still liked the odd mini-break to oblivion, but after the blood-fest under the pier I was a lot more careful who I took along for the ride. And she DID look underage; I wouldn’t be happy if people stood by while perverts took advantage of my little sisters a few years along the line, revolting as they might be now. So I sashayed up to him, did a double take and squealed, ‘Max! What you playing at, girl!’

The bodacious Oriental chick was feeling no pain or surprise and mumbled something about feeling sick.

I fixed perve-in-training with a stony stare. ‘Hello. I hope you’ve got a good excuse ready for taking my fifteen-year-old sister upstairs . . .’

He gaped: he could’na been more than twenty, but I could already see the future Dirty Old Man he was shaping up to be. ‘Your . . . sister . . .’ he mumbled, clearly confused.

‘Adopted!’ I spat, wrenching her from his grasp. She came without a struggle, throwing her arms willingly around my neck – even drunk out of your gourd it’s got to be preferable to cuddle up to a fellow smooth-skinned, sweet-smelling teen sex goddess than a stubbly scumbag with nose hair so long he could use it as a comb-over if he went bald, let’s face it!

He slunk off to find some other school-kid to sweat over, and I looked around for a safe billet where jailbait could sleep off her funk without fear of penetration. As luck would have it I saw Vic sitting with a pretty blonde-haired black girl on a big sofa, and by the incredibly bored look on the sister’s face I needed just one guess on what the topic of the day was. I was sure a little diversion wouldn’t go unwanted.

I hustled my zombie charge over to the sofa and lowered her down. ‘Vic, do us a favour – my little mate here’s had a rotten time with blokes recently – she’s thinking of jacking it in and joining the pussy posse – tell her about your man and lead her back on to the straight and narrow, will ya!’

In her drunken euphoria, Vic was only too pleased to have a captive audience, and didn’t notice that the girl was now well on the fast train to Noddington Junction. She threw a sisterly arm about her and, sickbag please, started in on how lovely Mr Wonderful’s hair smelt. She had it bad.

The black chick gave me the thumbs up and melted into the party and I, all stoked up by my barely legal perving, set off to seriously look for Cameron. A girl for kicks, a boy for pleasure – a bottle of Aftershock for ecstasy! I’d sampled two already this evening, and now it was time to go for the hat-trick.

20

But just because I was on a mission, that didn’t mean I’d lost my social conscience and stopped caring – oh no! From the living-room window I could see a group of kids, ’bout fifteen, sixteen climbing over the fence and heading up the drive. I nipped out and left the front door ever so slightly open to make it easier for them – I’ve always sorta felt it’s my responsibility to help the younger generation get on in life!

As I set out on my X-rated expedition there was bass pumping out of several downstairs rooms at once, clashing in the hallway and bouncing back the way it came. I came across a small room already full of writhing bodies half out of their kit, but after giving the heaving monster mass a quick once-over, with practically no perving whatsoever, I soon clocked with some relief that the one I was on the trail of wasn’t previously engaged. Be a shame to start a bloody, maiming girl-fight in Vic’s parents’ lovely house!

Then my attention was drawn by the yelps and shouts from the kitchen. Ever noticed how the main party action always seems to go on in there? Well, they say it’s the heart of the home, although in this case it was less domestic goddess and more
Hell’s Kitchen
, with a raucous amount of cussing and yelling that would have made Gordon Ramsay seem like a Trappist monk. And there at the centre of it all was what I’d come for, and it was fitting to find him here as ooh, did he ever look edible. He was certainly giving me an appetite.

You know sometimes in magazines you read these really lame-ass descriptions of sexy men: ‘His eyes were deep blue pools’, ‘His hair was the colour of ripe corn’, ‘His arse was like a Krispy Kreme doughnut I wanted to take a dirty great bite out of’, and all that sad gay crap? Well, when I looked at Cameron, I wasn’t thinking about his eyes, or his hair, or his arse either. Having had an eyeful of his abs and given them a ten, I was now thinking about one thing and one thing only.

The girls were hanging off him like cheap bling, around a big old kitchen table, giggling and drinking. They were pretty – but they were nothing special. And I was going to give him a Sugar-rush he’d never forget. I had a sudden burst of inspiration, ducked back from the kitchen doorway and into the living room where I grabbed a bottle of Ketel One from a side table, and then sauntered into the kitchen.

He looked up like I was carrying my own spotlights – all the better to blind you with, boy! – and grinned gorgeously as I slammed the bottle down on the table. ‘Wanna play?’

He shrugged the girls off. ‘What’s your game?’

I leaned down and across and looked at his mouth as I spoke. ‘Snort it!’

‘Snort it?’ some drop-kicked chick sneered, rolling eyes that were well on the way to matching her red and white Topshop dress and looking at Cam for sad approval. Course he totally ignored her and smiled at me with a sexy lift of one eyebrow.

‘Show me, Sugar.’

I didn’t need asking twice. ‘Get us some spoons,’ I smirked at the bloodshot bimbo. She did so, sulking but unwilling to show herself up in front of a boy she still thought she might have a chance with – poor deluded cow. The spoons were shared out and filled with vodka – there were eight of us – me, Cam, four adoring girls and two of the boring sort of boy who you always find hanging around hopefully where there’s too many chicks fighting over one stud, kidding themselves they’ll be getting some of the spare. Hmm . . . that might have been true back in the old days but these days the leftover girls are more likely to put on a bit of a lezzer show for the apple of their eye and see if they can’t tempt him away from his original choice with it. I’ve seen that routine a hundred times – and let’s be honest, I’ve even done it a couple.

But just like in those soft-focus, mushy old movies it was like there was just Cam and me in the room. ‘Go on then, you first,’ he teased. And so I did. And then, not quite so like the mushy old movies, I had a nostril full of vodka and a feeling like someone had just shoved an ice pick up my snout. I was tryin’ not to gurn like a toothless farmer as the pain slammed round my head and my eyeball felt like it was on fire. Then came the equally attractive sniffing and running-nose moments and a feeling not unlike you get if you put your head under water at the swimming-baths and half of it goes up your nose . . . mmm, but then came the rush, and the giggles, and I stood there laughing like a loon, watching Cam battle his way through the same set of sensations.

And then we were giggling together and with our other partners in crime, who I REALLY, REALLY LIKED now and someone had grabbed the bottle and was topping everyone up for round two. Yeah it hurt, and yeah it was pretty horrible and it didn’t really even get you all that high, but only a sadult would ever bother asking why we did it. If there was a reason, it probably wouldn’t be worth it now, would it?

But as much as I was having fun, with all thoughts of Asif and Duane and the Clifton Two well and truly shoved to one side, I had better things, or people, to do than hang out in the kitchen all night. I leaned close and whispered in his ear, ‘Do you fancy going somewhere a bit less private?’

He drew back, looking surprised. ‘What!’

‘The orgy room, or whatever it is . . .’ I inclined my head towards the hallway, thinking of the dark, writhing room beyond. A carpet of fit flesh, no less, and a carpet I wanted to join in the laying of at that.

He didn’t need to think twice – and who could blame him.

We were just getting down to it when Saz appeared in the doorway. ‘Get your kit on, quick! – the police are coming!’ We all jeered at her. ‘Swear it’s true! – the little jerk next door who complained about the noise earlier just came back to boast about it! – GET DRESSED, NOW!’

Well, say what you like about the youth of today, but they’re a resourceful lot. And they don’t hang about either. So when the fuzz did finally turn up, they were faced with the surreal sight of some fifty kids – the underage brigade had done a runner – all sitting round a game of Trivial Pursuit. Saz had even managed to find some classical stuff to stick on in the background, the kind of thing you get on those wildlife programmes Susie’s so fond of where big bastard birds of prey are gliding over snow-capped mountains as Sir David A. bangs on about wingspans and how this is the last greater-titted eagle thingy alive in the wild. Makes you feel respectable hearing just one snatch of it, and I could tell it had the cops well fazed.

So anyway, there we were, fifty mashed-up teens, a Triv board and ‘Nimrod’ reaching a climax in the background – glad somebody was. Unsurprisingly, the two rozzers looked a bit confused. A cocky-looking kid with a floppy posh-boy mop and the eye-watering arrogance to match stepped forward. ‘Can we help you gentlemen? And in return, perhaps you could help us – we’re trying to establish which came first: Barbie Doll or Mr Potato Head? It’s for a wedge – so please don’t answer if you’re not sure . . .’ This was followed by (pretty unsuccessfully) suppressed laughter and a not at all suppressed retching noise. ‘Nerves,’ explained Mr Cocky. ‘We take our Triv seriously up here in Tongdean.’

For a minute it looked like the younger of the two coppers, who I couldn’t help noticing was a fantastically fit mixed-race kid, was going to bite, but his older, colder colleague did a quick sweep of the room and decided that losing his rag just wasn’t worth the effort. None of us looked seriously underage, and he could take names and addresses till the cows or at least the parents came home, but most of the kids probably couldn’t even remember theirs and or would just be makin’ ’em up. He’d end up with a load of, ‘No honestly, my name is Doherty, Pete Doherty!’ and such, and if he bothered carting anyone off, chances are they’d only spew in the back of the police car that he had to ride around in all day. And you never really get rid of the whiff, do you?