by Elena Monroe
He was the Golden Boy, until she tarnished him...
Elena Monroe
© 2020 by Elena Monroe. All rights reserved.
No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the written consent and permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, dialogues, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living or dead, businesses, locales, or events other than those specifically cited are unintentional and purely coincidental or are used for the purpose of illustration only.
The publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors, omissions, or contrary interpretation of the subject matter herein. The author and publisher assume no responsibility or liability whatsoever on the behalf of any purchaser or reader of these materials. The publisher and author do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for third party websites or their content.
First edition.
Cover Design: Maria with Steamy Reads
Editor/Formatting: Sarajoy Bonebright
Proofreader: Liz Argote
Line/Content Editor: Mackenzie Letson
To the ones who love as fierce as epilogues, ache as much as the chapter and were forged by prologues.
George –
It wasn’t always easy with us but stories like this one proves that you can prove the universe wrong. I love you.
Mac –
Girl. Like come on, what do I say? You are legit the one keeping these guys in line. Without your constant support, reading every line, the ideas, the consistency police, the voice messages and so much more these books wouldn’t be here. Take a piece with you because it’s joint custody.
Amber –
Genuine, kind, keeps me from neglecting the world – you are an amazing soul that I truly can’t get over how much alike we are. Twins for life. Vic was always for you and I hope he lives up to your every desire of a book boyfriend. Step bro romance coming soon… promise.
Liz –
You will never be someone I can’t turn to. You saw a side of me I don’t share often – the wounded side and you loved it just as much. That is something I can’t forget. We grow right along with our lives but never let the distance come between us.
Sarajoy –
DON’T EVER LEAVE ME.
Give Me Books Promotions –
Stalker, loyal customer, annoying, slightly disorganized but always thankful for how smooth you guys make things. Forever yours.
Maria at Steamy Reads –
I am petrified of Photoshop and have zero desire to learn it but I am learning so much from you about design, photos and getting to see behind the curtain to help make things easier. Thank you for the magic.
Rule Breakers –
I write for you guys.
All day.
Every day.
All of my stories belong to you.
Something Corporate - “Punk Rock Princess”
Underoath - “A Boy Brushed Red Living in Black and White”
J. Cole - “No Role Modelz”
Saosin - “Voices”
Parkway Drive - “Wild Eyes”
Arizona Zervas - “Nightrider”
Drake ft. Giveon - “Chicago Freestyle”
Rehab ft. Quintino - “I Just Can't”
SAINt JOHN - “Roses (Imanbek Remix)”
Lovelytheband - “I Should be Happy”
He was the Golden Boy, until she tarnished him...
I woke up to my roommate and best friend missing. In her place was a note on my bedside table that read: You can only find me with your eyes closed.
No one thinks a note like that is meant for them.
I knew it was meant for me, a clue, a way to seek Justice.
Whoever left me that note was hoping I didn’t let my parent’s legacy die when they did.
They wanted to see what kind of warfare I was capable of.
Justice before starting a war with the man who wrote the rule book...
I woke up every day to the same nonsensical bullshit that was my life.
They say bad things only happen after dark, but I was the exception to every rule.
I was bad, and I happened whenever I wanted.
I wanted someone to challenge me, put me in my place, force me to be better than war strategies, to hold the audacity to traipse across enemy lines.
A pink-haired receptionist wasn’t my first choice for shaking my resolve.
I can still smell her, but I wanted to know if she’d taste like Victory.
Death before dishonor meant not losing to her…
BLURB:
PROLOGUE: VIC
CHAPTER ONE: JUSTICE
CHAPTER TWO: VIC
CHAPTER THREE: VIC
CHAPTER FOUR: JUSTICE
CHAPTER FIVE: VIC
CHAPTER SIX: JUSTICE
CHAPTER SEVEN: VIC
CHAPTER EIGHT: JUSTICE
CHAPTER NINE: VIC
CHAPTER TEN: JUSTICE
CHAPTER ELEVEN: VIC
CHAPTER TWELVE: JUSTICE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: VIC
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: JUSTICE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: VIC
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: JUSTICE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: VIC
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: VIC
CHAPTER NINETEEN: JUSTICE
CHAPTER TWENTY: KHAOS
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: VICTORY
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: JUSTICE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: JUSTICE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: VIC
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: JUSTICE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: VIC
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: BOWEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: JUSTICE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: VIC
CHAPTER THIRTY: JUSTICE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: VIC
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: JUSTICE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: VIC
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: VIC
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: JUSTICE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: VIC
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: VIC
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: VIC
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: JUSTICE
CHAPTER FORTY: VIC
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: JUSTICE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: VIC
EPILOGUES
JUSTICE
VIC
VICTORY
I had waited my whole life for the moment I turned 14 and was granted permission to attend the prestigious private school, Servants of Patmos.
There was no real reason for me to be that excited to stay in a gothic building out of a horror movie in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, but having no competition meant winning was even easier.
Winning was the only thing that mattered in my life. It replaced things ordinary people thrive on like: love, stability, comfort, and normally functioning relationships.
I knew better. My personal standard for myself was so high that no one was going to reach that brass ring. Everyone else was a loser, so my standards for other people were pretty low.
Going to Servants of Patmos, I thought my competition pool was going to only extend as far as Khaos, Grimm, and Bowen, but I failed to see it was never going to be that way. The Clave also considered competition between us versus the rest of the world.
We were all forced to swim, one of the few sports sanctioned by Servants of Patmos. Lacrosse, swim, croquet, and golf were th
e only choices you have, and we all had to agree for any real concrete decisions to be made.
Competing was something embedded in us from a young age, so when we hosted almost every swim meet it didn’t come as a shock. The whole town hated us and our elite fucking school on the hill. The public school in town, Badden Creek, wanted to rub their middle class air down our throats.
We were sophomores, settling into our secluded lives in the woods, when the rumors from town circulated up the hill. The rumors always found their way up to us, privileged air aside.
Thomas Jones had transferred into Badden Creek, carrying his swim records, gold medals, and Olympic dreams.
Thomas Jones just became my enemy number one.
The townies knew us as the assholes on the hill, who threw the best parties. It wasn’t false. No parents, no rules against getting shit faced, and no one to stop us.
In high school, we were pretty aware of our last names and the weight that came with them. It wasn’t just privilege, but power.
Thomas Jones took the bait when Khaos threw his traditional rager the night before the meets. I was pretty sure Khaos never got a hangover, and if he did, he still swam his ass off enough for me to not care.
When someone fucks with my winning is when I give a fuck.
Thomas was a cocky prick. Normally, I would appreciate it, but he was clenching a Solo cup filled to the brim with cheap beer and still made every conversation revolve around him winning tomorrow.
Even I wasn’t that much of a douchebag. I knew I was going to win, and I didn’t need to talk about it. Let my perfect smile and elitism slap you in the face before you ask my name.
Victory Rockefeller.
Vic for short. I was pretentious enough without my full name giving away the apple of my eye.
“Thomas, right? Heard you’re after some records.” I joined the group of women crowding Khaos and Thomas, like bees in search of honey. Too bad all they were going to find was Sour Warheads.
He shifted his eyes up towards me without moving from his spot on the couch. He was taking inventory of me and coming up with everything I could see he didn’t grow up with. The beat up AirForce Ones, the hole in his shirt that the letterman jacket wasn’t hiding, and the pissed-at-the-world attitude really became crystal clear from this distance.
I was sure my Rolex pissed him off more.
“I already have the records. Guess no one broke it to your ego,” he snapped.
“Take it easy. I’m not the enemy.” I was placating him and lying. I am the enemy. I had a way of lying that people never caught, setting the golden standard.
He wasn’t going to agree to lose for any reason. You could see the fucking pride oozing from this guy.
Thomas probably liked winning, the attention, the glory, the way it felt… better than love.
Once he was drunk on the booze and pussy, I offered to write him off with a check for any amount he wanted, if it meant he agreed to lose.
Loser didn’t take the deal, even though it was clear he was hurting for more of this life—the kind of life where you’re on top, and the air is actually crisper. Trust me, I’ve been breathing it my whole life.
The hangover we were all nursing the next day felt like we already lost before we even got wet. Instead of a headache, my hangover was fueling a kind of rage that was laser focused on winning. It was fueling my desire to win more than Thomas. Before him, I never faced competition.
The first wave was taken by Badden, when we all retired to separate locker rooms. I threw a water bottle against the wall in defeat, and it barely elicited anything but annoyance from the Horsemen. They were used to my outbursts by now; they should be, since I threw them my whole life.
Addicted to winning.
Perfectionist when it came to strategy.
Expert at being the exception to all rules.
“Calm down. We can still take the win,” Grimm was a voice of reason, always—reason and fucking sound judgment.
AKA, fucking annoying.
“It should have been a perfect fucking win!” I shouted, still grabbing onto anything I could throw, toss, or destroy.
Our coach was a joke, basically just supervision we had to have while under eighteen. He was well aware we ran shit here, legal adults or not; it was evidenced in his shaky voice. “Next wave is starting. You ready?”
With my back still towards the door and our coach, I balled up my fists tightly, trying to kiss glory goodbye. There was no way to win in my books now. The only way for me to be satisfied was to not get close to losing.
The guys headed back out to the pool, while I stayed behind. My heat was last, and I had time before the gunshot shoved me from the block into the water. I had better plans when I wandered into the visitors’ locker room, surprised to find Thomas lying on the wooden bench with headphones on.
Slamming my fist into the lockers, I startled him into paying attention to me. “Last chance to take me up on my deal, hot shot.”
“I’m not for sale. Never will be.” He pushed off the headphones and crossed his arms like that would fucking save him from making bad decisions.
If it were that easy, everyone would just cross their arms.
“Suit yourself…” Walking around the row of lockers, I found a bin full of extra dividers we threw in the pool to create the lanes.
Wrapping it around my hand, I yanked it tightly, and my thoughts ran wild. All the strategies poured into the forefront of mind. I worked best in strategies, warfare, defenses, and tactics.
Picking your battles carefully is a fucking joke. You need to cause a war for every little injustice, or no one is going to take you seriously enough to stop picking fights with you.
Turning the corner of lockers, I ended up exactly where I wanted to be, behind him with his headphones back to hugging his head and arms still folded. Squatting down to one knee silently, I pulled the rope down against his exposed throat with so much pressure I felt the rope wrapped around my hand slicing through me like butter.
His body thrashed against the rope, making his headphones crash to the floor as I kept him on the bench.
Arrogant asshole thought folding his arms was going to save him from me.
I held the rope tightly with my fists closed and watched his body run out of fuel to fight me.
Standing up, I unwrapped my hand and looked at the angry red imprints it left behind, covering the front and back of my hands. Tossing the rope into the same bin I found it in, I left the locker room without an ounce of remorse. I left with the opposite actually. I felt fucking glorious, because nothing really mattered but death before dishonor.
JUSTICE
Justice rarely happens on its own. It comes from a place of starvation, threat, violence, guilt, and dishonor.
Justice sees no color, no gender, no right or wrong; it’s simply needed and snowballs until that justice is had.
My parents named me Justice after their stint in the Peace Corps, after the world robbed them of change and things got less peaceful. Instead of investing in change, they decided I would be that change, born and bred to usher in difference.
The night I realized my life wasn’t just some peace march, but a rally calling me to right the wrong of their deaths, will always be one of the worst moments of my life.
I can still feel every emotion like it was yesterday. It was cold for California, raining like it rarely did, and I was home with my babysitter, while my parents fought the good fight. I kicked myself for not remembering what they were protesting that night.
Peta?
Oil drilling?
Plastic in the ocean?
None of these would be too far off.
My babysitter never let me answer the door. She was a safety nut, but I made a break for it when she pulled the vegan pizza out of the oven, ripping the door open to two police officers. Both of the officers in their black uniforms were made of steel, but I could see the compassion written all over their face.
My babysitter
ran up behind me, out of breath, dominating the situation, when she pushed me behind her.
I’ll never forget the ridged shell of a human she became when I heard the cops saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I thought it was a joke meant to make me behave better, even though I wasn’t a bad kid. So what? I snuck candies when no one was looking; that shouldn’t condemn me to a life without parents.
She kept pushing me back, like that would be enough to keep me from flying out the door and banging my fists against the cop’s back. When he kneeled down, he held my shoulders tightly, looking at me deeply in the eyes, like he knew how much it hurt.
One minute, I had my loving parents, and the next I didn’t. No one could know what that felt like.
You can’t explain it. You can’t rip out your broken heart to show them that half is missing. You can’t show them the pain, because it lives inside you, trying to destroy your ability to love. Love is just regret waiting to happen. I knew that now.
The day I lost them was the day I took my name seriously. It was the day I decided to be the change this world was going to swallow, if it was the last thing I did.
My parents didn’t die in vain, while blowing up a deadly nuclear facility, making residents in a radius riddled with cancer, headaches they ignore, and death they stave off without medical insurance, just to feed the arms race America wants to be in.
Their kind of fight lives within me now, replacing all the broken pieces.
Justice before war.
JUSTICE
I think the unsolved mystery that was now my life was killing me quickly—not slowly, like I had expected.
Time moves extra fast when your brain is stuck to one thing all day, every day. It moves at rapid speed, working only in loopholes, evidence, and clues. Without one clue leading to another, time flies; finding one is the pause button I needed.
The worst part? I worked for the Illuminati, and I couldn’t find that one clue. I was literally sitting in the damn building and not one clue.
My best friend has been missing for 47 days, and I was no closer today than yesterday to finding her.