Complete Fixed: The Complete Fixed Series: Books 1-5

by Laurelin Paige

  I head to the refrigerator. Without asking, I pull out a bottle of water knowing it’s Celia’s beverage of choice. I hand it to her and head to the bar to fix my own drink. This encounter requires Scotch. It’s fortunate my schedule is free for the rest of the day. I quickly down two fingers of amber liquid and turn back to my guest. “Let me have it.”

  She sits on the couch. “The file or the story?”

  “The file.” I’m not interested in her story. It will be twisted to her liking. I take the file from her outstretched hand. She expects me to sit next to her. I take the armchair instead.

  I open the folder again with a steady hand. Inside, I have the shakes. I have no idea how I’ll be impacted by what’s in here, but I fear I’m about to fall down the rabbit’s hole. That’s how much I’m affected by the mere idea of Alayna Withers. Settled into the leather at my back, I begin to read.

  My eyes scan through the documents. There’s the usual info—copies of her credit report, her birth certificate, a death certificate for her parents. I don’t spend much time on these, only to note her age—twenty-six until January—and confirmation that she does indeed work at The Sky Launch.

  Celia’s quiet at first as I read. She knows when to give me space and when to push, but she can’t help commenting when she sees that I’m looking at a copy of Alayna’s latest paystub. “She’s staying there. At that night club. Even after graduation.”

  I won’t ask how she knows this. If it’s true, and I’m sure it is if Celia’s sharing it, I would have found it out too. “Why?” I ask instead.

  “She wants to use her MBA to move up in management. Take over the place one day, was my impression.” Celia takes a sip of her water. “I chatted with the owner there when I inquired about doing a redesign for them.”

  Celia’s worked fast. I’m impressed.

  There’s more that she wants to say so I prod her. “And the owner just shared info on his employees?”

  “That’s the thing. He doesn’t want to be the owner anymore. He’s selling. Asked me if I knew any buyers and highlighted a couple of his key staff to incentivize anyone with interest. I told him I might know someone.” She sits forward, excitement in her features. “There’s your in, Hudson.”

  This news rouses me and I’m already looking for excuses to make the purchase. Isn’t it good business? If you can’t get the employee you want, then buy the employee’s company?

  Maybe I made that rule up. But I’m a leader in innovative business practices. It could still be an acceptable principle even if I did make it up.

  Still, I’m not moved to action. I don’t need Celia to pursue this route if I choose it.

  I return my attention to the file.

  “There’s more,” Celia taunts.

  I ignore her. Then I see it, the information that Celia’s hinting at. A police record. “She’s been arrested?”

  Celia scoots closer to me on the couch. “She violated a restraining order. Twice. Her brother’s a lawyer and got her record buried.”

  “But you got it unburied. Let me guess—Don Timmons.” Don is a cop that Celia’s friendly with. She’s toyed with his emotions for years, fucking him simply to get information when she wants it. He’s out of her social class, something that would matter to her if she ever dated anyone seriously. But Celia doesn’t believe in romantic engagements. Not anymore. I taught her that.

  She crosses a leg over the other. “Don’t look so judgmental. Don got what he wanted out of it.”

  I’m not sure why I’m judging her. That behavior is well in line with things I’ve done myself time and time again. Perhaps therapy has had a positive effect on me. Not that I have suddenly developed a conscience. My contemptuous attitude is a defense mechanism—if I don’t approve of her actions, it will be less likely that I will want to adopt them for myself.

  “Anyway, maybe the arrest is part of the reason she doesn’t pursue another occupation. She may not want it uncovered and she knows that any decent corporate screening process would uncover it.”

  “It’s possible.” I make a mental note to get Alayna’s arrest sealed permanently. I have people more influential than Don Timmons. And I don’t have to blow them to get favors. Alayna’s too brilliant to let a jaded past keep her from her full potential.

  A part of me recognizes I’m lying to myself about my reasons for caring about this woman’s future. My motivation isn’t centered around her business career or how I might tap into her intellectual skills. I can’t name the source of my motivation, though. So I cling to the lie as long as I can.

  “On the other hand, the owner went on and on about Alayna’s genuine love of her job. She seems to be really passionate about it. She has a vested interest in the club.”

  That reasoning resonates with me. Alayna Withers did not strike me as someone who lived in fear. Why did she get her degree in the first place? Because she wanted to make the club her own makes sense. She has drive. She has ambition. That was obvious in her presentation. My original shock at her choice of employment has been replaced with complete respect. This I can support. I want to help her reach that goal. It’s admirable.

  “But the arrest isn’t the big thing.” Celia brings me back from my thoughts with an enthusiasm that threatens to be contagious. “The cause of it is. She has a mental health history.”

  I turn once more to the papers in my lap and settle on the last section of documents. They consist of doctors’ records, outpatient reports, a certificate of rehabilitation completion. It only takes a few minutes for me to puzzle out her history. Alayna Withers has a compulsive disorder most likely aggravated by the death of both her parents at a young age. She specifically targets her obsessive tendencies on men and relationships, leading to socially abnormal behavior such as stalking, vandalism, and disorderly conduct. According to her rehab report, she’s been recovered for the past two years—a similar timeline to my own.

  There’s a part of me that’s appalled by this information. The woman that stood in front of us at Stern was not fragile. She was confident and put together and in control. But I remember that strong sense that there was something more underneath her façade. I realize now that I had so easily recognized it because her carriage was so familiar. Strong on the outside, battling demons on the inside—she was, in so many ways, like me.

  I close my eyes and massage the bridge of my nose. Is that the nature of my attraction? A kinship with this woman? I don’t believe it’s that simple, but, with this new information, I am beyond fascinated with her. I’ve often questioned if there was any recovery for someone like me. Can I really get better? Do I have any hope for a full and healthy life?

  Celia was right. I want to experiment with this one more than any other she’s tempted me with in the last two years. Our objectives, though, are in opposition. I can easily guess the nature of Celia’s planned game. She wants to see if she can cause the subject to break again. See if Alayna will return to her past behaviors when pushed.

  I, on the other hand, do not want to see Alayna Withers break. I want to see her survive. Because if she can, then maybe so can I.

  I’m decided now. I won’t let Alayna out of my sight. I will pursue her. I will study her. I will not play her.

  And so it’s time to make sure Celia doesn’t either.

  I shut the folder, stand, and hand it back to Celia. “This is not a game we’re playing.” My tone informs her that this is a closed subject.

  Celia stands with a sigh. “That’s too bad. I had a great scenario. We’d pretend that our parents want us to marry—best lies are closest to the truth, as you always say.” In this case, it is the truth. “Your mother believes you’ll never love anyone so you best marry me. You hire Alayna to be your girlfriend. To convince your parents to leave your romantic life alone. With all the pretending, the girl will fall for you. The scheme will end and we see what happens. Intriguing, no?”

  I shake my head. “We’re not playing.”

  “It would giv
e you an excuse to get close to her. Don’t deny that you want to. I can read you too, Hudson.”

  Without looking at her, I motion to the exit. “We’re done here, Celia.”

  She sets her water bottle on the coffee table and starts for the door. “You’re done, Hudson,” she says as she crosses the room. “I’m not. I can play her without you.” She turns back to face me. “But be assured, I will play her.”

  “Not this one, Celia. Find another play.” I’m admitting too much interest in Alayna. It can’t be helped.

  “Yes, this one. The game’s already in motion.”

  Panic grips me. Of course, I don’t show it, except for maybe in the tightening of my jaw. “What have you done?”

  She’s triumphant, but she hides it as well as I hide my emotions. I only see it in the slight widening of her eyes. “I made an offer on the club.”

  I’m immediately put at ease. “There’s been no time. The owner can’t have accepted already.” I don’t tell her that I’ll counter.

  Celia lifts her chin to deliver her next words. “I told him my offer was good for an hour. He’s had no bites in the year that he’s had it up for sale. He accepted on the spot.”

  Fuck!

  How did I not see this a mile away? I’ve grown rusty in my time gone while Celia’s grown more calculating. She correctly assumed my weakness in this situation and secured her capital in advance of her approach. Fucking brilliant.

  I don’t even consider that she’s lying. She knows I’ll check on her declaration the moment she’s left and she wouldn’t risk that bluff. Besides, our code has taught us to be honest whenever possible. Practically, it helps keep your lies straight. Also, it makes the games more challenging.

  I’m not sure how to move next—that’s a rarity for me. I stall for time with a question that might provide me some insight. “Why?” I tilt my head, examining her. “Why do you care if it’s this girl or the next?”

  “Because you care if it’s this girl.” It’s not said with spite. It’s honest. It’s raw.

  I want to hate her in that moment. I want to loathe the way she’s trapped me, the way she’s baited me. The way she’s already destroyed something that interests me like the child on the playground that stomps on the butterfly simply because another child has given it his attention. It’s mean.

  But I can’t hate her. She doesn’t intend to be vicious. I’m the one who schooled her to look for vulnerabilities and manipulate them to be advantageous. She knows no other way to connect.

  Frankly, I don’t know any other way myself. There is a longing for that deep within me. Dr. Alberts hasn’t even begun to scrape the surface of that desire, but it is the one thing that keeps me from being completely sociopathic. I don’t care for people, but I want to.

  That’s all Celia wants as well. “If you agree to play, I’ll let you buy my offer out.” She blinks. “Simple as that.”

  With her checkmate, the ball is in my court. I could still walk away. But Celia will play Alayna Withers. It’s not a question in my mind. She’s never backed down from a scheme once she’s started it.

  Then why should I care? I’ve let Celia play others since I’ve left our partnership, Stacy being the most recent example. I never made a move to stop that. Why should I now?

  But I’ve already answered that. Because I’m intrigued. I’m bewitched. I’m beguiled. I am obsessed. Maybe this is the best chance to get close to Alayna. And even if I played the game, I wouldn’t have to work toward Celia’s outcome. I could work toward my own—to not break Alayna. It’s the biggest of excuses, but there’s nothing in the code about lying to ourselves.

  There are other ways to fight Celia, I know. If I really tried, I could come up with another way to thwart her plans.

  Knowing that is why I am completely culpable when I surrender so easily. There will be no battle. I will not counter Celia’s sly move. I will not attempt to dissuade her from her game. I will not make another appointment with Dr. Alberts. I will not fight.

  “How much is your offer on The Sky Launch?”

  With a smirk, she gives me the information.

  I square my shoulders. If I’m going down, I’ll at least do it with pride. “I’ll have my financial advisor draw up the check.”

  “Game on, then?”

  My agenda is without point now. Even if Alayna Withers teaches me that people like us can survive, with this step, I’ve already proven that I can’t.

  I seal my entrance to hell with my assent. “Game on.”

  Chapter Five

  BEFORE

  “…and if Sherry doesn’t tell him that she likes him, then he’s going to end up with Marisa. Which is just wrong. Lance should be with Sherry. Don’t you think?” Mirabelle poked my bare thigh with her toe. “Are you listening to me, Hudson?”

  “I am not.” Usually I didn’t mind Mirabelle’s babble about her friends, simply because the psychology of early teens and their so-called relationships was fascinating. But on this day, I had my own psychology I was working through, namely the psychology of Celia.

  Mirabelle huffed in the deck chair next to me “You could at least pretend.”

  Though evening was approaching, the day was still warm. I’d yet to change from my trunks after my earlier laps in the pool. By now, the sun had dried them and my skin glistened from the sun’s rays. This was one of my favorite pastimes this summer—soaking and simmering. Soaking in the rays while I simmered over my project.

  “I could pretend,” I said. “I didn’t feel that was fair. If you want to keep chattering, that’s fine with me.” I moved my sunglasses down to the edge of my nose to look at her straight on. “But if you do, know that you’re talking to yourself.”

  Mirabelle let out a sound of exasperation. “You are so mean!” Then she stormed off toward the house.

  I’d thought I’d been pretty patient, actually. I could have told her to shut the fuck up, and I didn’t. I looked at my watch. It was nearly six. I gave my mother seven minutes before she came out to scold me for picking on my little sister, on the day of her big party, no less. The berating hadn’t even occurred yet and I was already tuning Sophia out. She’d probably already be half-drunk and half-bitch. Strike that, half-drunk and full-bitch. It was my mother, after all.

  The party wasn’t really as big as she liked to pretend. Not by Hamptons’ standards—twenty families, various friends of my parents, including, of course, the Werners. Any minute Warren and Madge would show up with Celia. They were always the first to arrive at our end-of-summer parties. That meant I had very little time to finalize the details of that evening’s part of my project. And as September was just beginning, I had only a handful of days to bring the entire experiment to an end.

  I pushed my sunglasses into place and lay back down. I’d come far with Celia since I’d begun my study, though the progress was slow. Taking Mirabelle’s advice to get to know The Subject, I’d spent hours upon hours with Celia. We’d played tennis almost daily and I’d taken her sailing on more than one occasion. She was maintaining her long-distance relationship with Dirk, and I let her talk about him to her heart’s desire. I encouraged their affair, praised the silly tokens of love he sent her on a weekly basis, repeatedly remarked on the positive effect he’d seemed to have on her.

  My interest and support put her at ease. She’d let her guard down.

  And then I’d slipped in.

  Subtly, I’d begun making comments that insinuated a feeling of envy on my part. First, of couples in general. “People in love are so lucky to have found each other,” I’d say. Then I moved to envy of her and Dirk specifically. “You and he are lucky to have found each other.” More recently, my allusion of envy transferred to only Dirk. “He’s lucky to have found you.”

  Accompanied with a look of longing, that last one hit the nail on the head. How could she not believe I wanted her?

  Nothing I’d said had been a lie—I didn’t profess an emotion that I didn’t feel. I’d simply
manipulated the truth to appear otherwise. In some unexplainable way, I believed the omission of a lie kept my integrity. It also made the experiment more valid. Lies tainted the sample. Lies were easy.

  My attempt to woo didn’t rely only on words. I’d learned in earlier experiments that touch was an easy way to get closer to a subject. With Celia, I’d ignored the boundaries of personal space, brushing against her at every opportunity, casually stroking her skin whenever possible.

  My actions had an effect on her. Her gaze lingered on me longer and longer, and soon she made her own excuses to touch me. Finally, after two months had passed, I made my big move. On the doorstep of the Werner’s Hampton home, I’d leaned in for a kiss. She lifted her chin to meet me, wetting her lips as I slowly made my descent.

  Half an inch from her mouth, I’d pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” I had said with as much heaviness as I could lay in my words. “This is wrong. I’m sorry.” I’d hurried to my car and raced off, her voice chasing after me to stop. I’d left her wanting. I’d left her yearning. For me.

  Then I didn’t call or see her for two weeks. The distance had an air of douche about it, but with the event of a broken kiss preceding it, I believed my behavior would seem understandable. Gallant, even. I hadn’t wanted to destroy her relationship with Dirk, so I’d removed myself from her presence. Or, that was the scenario I’d attempted to create anyway.

  Celia had tried to contact me, despite my withdrawal. But I’d refused every call and managed to avoid her visits to the house. Tonight would be the end of our “break.” It was seemingly forced—both of us were expected at the party—but I had carefully planned my pursuit to escalate to this very evening. I felt confident about the set-up, yet there were still variables. Would she be angry with me? Relieved to see me again? Would she pretend our last encounter never happened? The variables didn’t concern me. Their unpredictability was what made the experiment fun.