The Triangle
Page 1
Contents
The Triangle
DESCRIPTION
PROLOGUE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER ONE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER TWO - ALEC
CHAPTER THREE - DANNY
CHAPTER FOUR - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FIVE - DANNY
CHAPTER SIX - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER SEVEN - DANNY
CHAPTER EIGHT - ALEC
CHAPTER NINE - DANNY
CHAPTER TEN - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER ELEVEN - DANNY
CHAPTER TWLEVE - ALEC
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - DANNY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - DANNY
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - ALEC
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - DANNY
CHAPTER NINETEEN - ALEC
CHAPTER TWENTY - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - DANNY
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - ALEC
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - DANNY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - ALEC
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - DANNY
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - DANNY
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - ALEC
CHAPTER THIRTY - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - DANNY
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - ALEC
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - DANNY
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - ALEC
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - DANNY
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - ALEC
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FORTY - DANNY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - ALEC
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - DANNY
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR - ALEC
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX - DANNY
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN - ALEC
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT - DANNY
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FIFTY - ALEC
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO - DANNY
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE - ALEC
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR - CHRISTINE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE - DANNY
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX – CHRISTINE
EPILOGUE - DANNY
END OF BOOK SHIT
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Design: JA Huss
Copyright © 2018 by J. A. Huss & J McClain
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-944475-59-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DESCRIPTION
“A suspenseful, tangled, erotic love story from the twisted minds of New York Times Bestselling author, JA Huss, and actor/screenwriter, Johnathan McClain.”
Alec. Christine. Danny.
This is how you say our names.
Danger is our drug of choice, the triangle our addiction.
Alec. Golden boy with diamonds in his eyes.
Christine. Partner in crime and owner of my heart.
They know what they want.
Me.
Danny. Unsure of everything they’re offering.
But if she needs me, I come.
So when he called, I went. It’s just that simple.
Until it wasn’t.
Until all those memories come rushing back with all the things we left behind.
I only know three things.
There is no her without him.
No me without them.
No we without us.
We are Alec, Christine, and Danny.
And this is the shape of our love.
PROLOGUE - CHRISTINE
Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted a nice office job. Personal assistant, maybe. I’d have been happy with a cubicle, but a small office would’ve been my dream. People would depend on me to answer the phone, and placate clients, and bring coffee.
Something boring like that.
And the man in my life would’ve been my boss. He’d wear a suit and a tie. He’d look at me like I was saving him when I made excuses for him on those days when he just wasn’t feeling the job. He’d have flowers waiting on my desk for Personal Assistant Day, and take me to lunch somewhere I could never afford for my birthday, and have me buy gifts for his girlfriends because he was too busy.
We’d have been partners.
We would’ve trusted each other. Respected each other’s talents. Known our places in this world.
And we’d have been happy with it.
I don’t know if any of that is true, but I think it is.
Because no one would wish for the life I have now.
Not even me.
I woke up yesterday in a strange place. This tiny basement apartment, to be specific. There was blood on the pillow and a long stitched-up gash on the back of my head. My fingertips explored that gash. Counting. One. Two. Three… seventeen stitches. About four inches long. Blood clotted in my hair.
Someone had fixed me up. Obviously.
And they took care, I think. Not to shave too much hair. Because when I hold a small compact up as I look in the bathroom mirror, I can’t see the gash through my thick, auburn mane.
Today I have a headache. A bad one, actually. But there are painkillers on the cheap coffee table in front of the couch. One of those orange pill bottles with the caps that are impossible to remove and a white label that says CHRISTINE KEENE on it in someone’s sloppy handwriting.
So I take those and feel dizzy, and stop wondering what’s happening and just… float.
I think I’m Christine but I’m not really sure.
It feels like it’s my name so I’m gonna go with it.
I don’t really have an alternative option because I don’t remember anything.
I don’t know who I am, how I got here, or why I stay.
I don’t know why there’s a shotgun in the closet, a sniper rifle under the floorboards, or a pistol under the bloodstained pillow.
When my fingers explore the scar under my chin and I wince at the pain in my shoulder every time I try to reach higher than my chest, I know I’m not that boring office girl. I am the opposite of boring.
I don’t even know how I knew about the sniper rifle. I was staring down at my dirty bare feet and just knew. There’s a rifle under the floor.
But I think I’m intuitive. Because there’s this thing inside me saying…
There is no cubicle, or flowers, or desk to put them on.
There is no boss.
There is only me and these weapons.
That same thing inside me says, Be still, Keene. Lie low. Say nothing. Call no one. Just disappear.
And it’s not even that hard to listen because I don’t have a single contact in my phone. If that’s my phone. The only thing on that phone is a text from a virtual currency site telling me a two-million-credit transfer was completed two days ago.
Even if I did have a contact I don’t have anything to say. No questions to ask. And there’s food in the fridge and painkillers on the coffee table.
So it’s easy.
There’s no panic inside me.
I give that little thing in my head total control.
Until that knock on the door.
CHAPTER ONE - CHRISTINE
I stare at the door as my heart thumps inside my chest.
“Keene,” a man gr
owls on the other side of the door. “Open the fuck up.”
I get up, the floorboard hiding the sniper rifle creaking under the weight of my dirty feet, and straighten the long t-shirt I woke up wearing yesterday.
“I’m gonna count to three, Keene. And if this door doesn’t open—”
I pull the door open. Stare at the surprised face of a man on the other side.
He’s no office boss, that’s for sure. Tall, broad frame hiding underneath a heavy leather biker jacket. Piercing blue eyes shooting anger as they find mine. They dart back and forth, scanning me. Searching for answers, or intentions, or… something.
And then he sighs, pulls me into his chest, and wraps his arms tightly around my body.
It’s such a nice hug. So comforting. And it makes that thing inside me go silent long enough for me to close my eyes and kinda enjoy it for a few seconds.
But just as quickly as he took me in, he pushes me away. “Fuck you,” he says, forcing his way into my apartment, grabbing my hand to take me with him as his foot kicks out and closes the door behind us. “Just fuck you! What the fuck, Christine? What the fuck?”
He pulls on my hand, yanking my shoulder. Not hard, but it’s fucked up and I squeak out a cry of pain.
“Shit,” he says. “Shit. I’m sorry.” And then he’s hugging me again. “I thought you were fucking dead when he called. I thought that was it, man. I thought we were fucking done.”
He pushes me away and I get the feeling this is how it is between us. One moment we’re together, the next we’re apart.
I get the feeling I should get used to that.
“What happened?” he asks, holding me at arm’s length. “What the fuck happened? What did you do?” His eyes are doing that scanning thing again. Searching for answers inside mine. “What the fuck did you do?”
If I thought I had answers I’d say something. If I had context I’d lie. If I had any idea at all I’d just go with it. Because I think that’s who I am. I think that’s what I do.
But I’m empty. Even that thing inside me is gone. I have absolutely nothing inside me. So that’s exactly what I say.
I just stare at him.
“Jesus. You look…” he starts, then stops. Runs his fingers through his hair again. “Someone betrayed you,” he says. I screw up my face as I stare at him. Mostly because betrayal… I hadn’t thought of that. “It wasn’t me. I’d never fucking betray you.”
“Do I know that?” I ask, finding my voice surprisingly low and throaty. Not what I thought it would sound like.
“Christine,” he says. “Don’t fucking do this. Not now. I need you.”
I get the feeling lots of people tell me that and none of them really mean it.
“Tell me what happened, OK? Just start from the beginning and tell me everything. I can fix this. You know I’ll fix this, right?”
He’s holding me at arm’s length again. Still scanning me for answers.
But there’s something else in his eyes now. Something soft when normally there’s nothing there but hate and anger. I know this even though I can’t possibly know this since I don’t even know if I really am this Christine girl.
I just know.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t fucking me, OK?”
“Then who was it?” The question comes out like an instinct. Like it’s something Christine would ask the day after waking up from a night gone wrong. “Him?” I ask. Even though I don’t know who ‘him’ is. Just another instinct.
This one chews the inside of his lip as he shakes his head. “No. I mean…” He sighs. Loud. Heavy. Runs the fingers of both hands through his thick, blond hair, pushing it away from his face. “Usually I’d blame him first but he called me, Christine. Told me you were here. And just what the fuck, man? Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”
It’s unfortunate. This moment. Because decisions have to be made. And that little thing inside me—the one that probably saved my ass when… whatever went down and I got this gash on the back of my head—it’s telling me to shut up. Get rid of him. Then pack up my painkillers, ditch the guns, and disa-fucking-ppear.
But that voice doesn’t seem to have the full story. There’s no indication that it understands I don’t know who the fuck I am. What I did. Or where to go.
So a decision has to be made.
Trust this guy or kill him.
Option two should worry me. At the very least should give me pause.
But it doesn’t.
Because this is my reality whether I remember it or not.
“Christine,” he whispers. And now all ten fingers are threading through my hair. They pull away—I’m getting used to that—when they find the blood-crusted gash on the back of my skull, and then, just as quick, he’s turned me around, bent me over, and gently—so gently—pushed the hair aside so he can see what’s there.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He stands me up. Roughly, but I like it rough—don’t know why that thought popped into my head—and takes me by the shoulders again. “What. The fuck. Happened?”
So we’re back to that moment of decision.
“I don’t know,” I say, choosing a path forward. “I don’t remember anything.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember?”
My arms move instinctively. Up, open, and break the hold he has on my shoulders like I’m a pro at that. He doesn’t startle but he does lean back. Uncertain.
“I mean,” I say, looking down at my dirty feet, letting my hair fall in front of my eyes, “I don’t remember.” I tip my head back up, look at him through the hazy curtain of auburn mane, and say, “I don’t know who I am. Or who you are. Or what I did. Or how I got here. Or—”
He just stares at me.
“Or if I should kill you now.”
His mouth slackens a little, slightly open as he breathes in my confession. His blue eyes softer. His shoulders slightly slumped in… disappointment? Sadness? What? Why is he looking at me this way?
“What?” I say.
“You don’t remember me?”
I shake my head.
“Do you remember him?”
I’m about to shake my head no to that too, but… “Alec,” comes out instead. “He’s… Alec.”
CHAPTER TWO - ALEC
TWO NIGHTS AGO
Ag, man. I hate being fokken shot at.
“Mr. van den Berg, sir! Get down!”
That’s what the laaitie closest to me says before a bullet chases him back behind a fortunately-for-him bulletproof SUV. He can’t be more than nineteen. Maybe twenty. He darted out from his hidey-hole to try to pull me back. And I appreciate that level of commitment and loyalty. I truly do. I’ll have to remember to do something nice for him later. If he lives.
Hell, if I live.
“Sir! Get down!”
I don’t.
And I know that gives the impression to everyone currently cocked up in this unnecessary gunfight that I’m tough or possibly crazy. Which is just fine by me, because it’s to my great advantage in life to have people believing that I’m both tough and crazy. And I can be. But the actual reason I don’t get down now is that we’re in a dusty warehouse and this is the first time I’ve worn my new suit, and I’m not keen to get it all filthy just yet.
I figure it like this: If I die, it won’t matter. But if I live, I’ll have to keep wearing this suit for at least the next few hours and I don’t want it to be all mucky. I need to maintain the respect of the people who work for me and seeing your boss in a mucky suit that got that way because he was cowering for his life don’t seem like it’s likely to garner a lot of admiration.
Also, it’s a fokken lekker suit and the thought of ruining it over someone else’s proper craziness makes me wince.
Shit.
This didn’t have to happen this way. This should have been a simple exchange. We hand over diamonds to you, you hand over money to us, we all smile, laugh, pat each other on the back
s, and head off on our merry ways.
But Americans. Eish, Americans love to shoot their fokken guns, man.
Right now, I’m depending very much on something my father once told me: If, in the face of mortal danger, you look like you’re not frightened, it will cause the other oke to take up that fear in compensation. And then you will hold the advantage and he will be made weak and vulnerable.
It does occur to me, however, that it may have just been another in the long litany of bullshit things my dad said to me over the years that appeared useful at the time but turned out to just be poor parenting.
I reckon I’ll be finding out shortly.
Oof, the bullet that just winged by me was a mite too close. Perhaps I should reconsider how much I like this suit.
But I don’t have to, because as if on command, a deus ex machina of sorts arrives in the form of my ringing mobile. I’m able to glance at the screen and see that it’s Lars ringing. Deus ex Lars. My concern, however, is that Lars usually only ever rings when something’s gone wrong. If everything’s fine, I’ll just receive a text saying so. And the fact that he’s my point person on the thing with Christine makes this particular perturbation feel even more amplified than it otherwise would in my current state.
“Yeah?” I answer as I spin behind a column of metal boxes which may or may not contain explosives, and which, in turn, may or may not have just served to make my life worse. I wink at the laaitie who was worried for my safety. I don’t really consider the action, I just do it. It seems to give him courage or embolden him or something because he pops his head up and caps off two of the guys shooting at us. Good for him. I like this lad.
“Howzit, bru?” replies Lars. “Can you talk?”
“Yeah, bru, not too busy. What izit?” The sound of metal hitting metal ricochets off the boxes guarding me. Not explosives, I suppose. Good times.
“Problem.”
“I guessed. What happened?”
Just then someone starts up with a goddamn machine gun. One of the Americans.
“Fok is that, bru?” asks Lars.