by Mason, V. F.
Will that be a deal breaker? I should have known when I was about to get some shut-eye this would happen. Something always throws a curve ball my way as if to remind me there is no peace for me. “No.”
He nods in acknowledgment as if he expected as much. “Since you are short on cash and don’t have any shit, would you like to bartend?”
“Bartend?” I ask, a bit surprised with his proposition.
He shrugs. “I got a different gig this month with online freelancing and it pays me more than bartending, but I figured you could use a job. I spoke with Herb, the owner, and he doesn’t mind. As long as you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” I say quickly, thinking it’s almost too good to be true, so I should grab the offer with both hands and hold on to it. “I bartended back in college.” Among other things, to afford stuff.
I think at some point people asked me if I slept at all since they saw my face at the coffee shop in the morning and at the bar in evenings.
He smiles brightly, clapping his hands together. “Then it’s settled. You will start tomorrow.” He spins around and then curses under his breath, tearing a tissue from the box and wiping his elbow, but stops when I tell him, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Ah, darling. How could I not? We all need a bit of help sometimes.”
Entering the room, I shut the door behind me and lean on it while seeing a bed, one dresser, and a table along with the wardrobe laid out in it—neatly, not that I expected anything else from Sara.
And in this moment, I slide down to my ass, hiding my head between my knees as tears stream down my cheeks; the only proof I’m alive.
We all need a bit of help sometimes.
Isn’t that the truth? Even if this help comes from strangers who most of the world would have never trusted.
I get a second chance in this life.
And I intend to use it wisely, doing my best to help catch the serial killer by integrating all the professional expertise I possess.
But not because I want justice for what was done to me, even though that’s important too.
No, I want justice for my little girl.
My little girl who didn’t survive the indifference this society demonstrated to me.
Zachary
The car pulls up by the rusty building, the walls so cracked it’s a wonder it hasn’t crumbled at our feet yet, and I press the button, allowing the window to slide down.
My whole attention is zeroed in on the woman standing on the balcony on the fifth floor, her dark hair blowing in different directions while she gulps for breath over and over again as if she can’t get enough fresh air in her lungs.
She’s wearing a simple white shirt that probably does nothing to protect her from the cold air, but her laughter echoing through the night can attest to the fact that she doesn’t mind.
Her striking brown eyes smeared in pain and permanent sorrow are invisible to me from this distance, but I’ve memorized them from countless videos and photos I’ve seen of her.
Does her laughter reflect in her pools now, washing away the grief I did my best to inflict on her?
Or does the invisible knife I tore through her heart three and a half years ago when I took away her daughter still draw blood and bring her agony?
“Boss,” James, my driver, says and looks at me over his shoulder. “We’re here. Should I wait for you or—” He gives the place a glance. “—or are you going to stay the night?”
An amused chuckle almost slips past my lips at the implication of his words. Does he think Phoenix is one of my countless women who help me fulfill my need for sex, which my body craves, yet my heart and soul stay cold in the process?
Whoever says that one can suffer in silence is right, but even the suffering cannot shut off the basic needs of the human body.
Although James’s surprise is valid, since all the woman gracing my bed live in one of the most expensive parts of New York, belonging to Manhattan’s elite. Some of them have even flashed their faces for various magazines due to their fame.
None of them needed Zachary King to elevate their statues in life, yet all of them wanted me to become something more than their bed partner despite me making my stance clear multiple times.
Love happens once in a lifetime, and I’ve already loved in this life. So what’s the point of starting a relationship with anyone when it won’t go any further? What a waste of my time, but more importantly, the woman’s.
Strangely, none of them shared my sentiments and cursed me whenever the affair ended, claiming I was a dick. But then again, it wasn’t anything a little jewelry couldn’t fix.
Until the next one.
I can never start a new relationship where love is expected from me.
James clears his throat again, snapping my attention to him, and I reply, “Let’s go home.” He nods and pulls the car away then speeds up as he gets onto the main road, all while hundreds of scenarios of how I can meet Phoenix Hale play in my mind.
And in each one of them, at the end of it all, she spits in my face and shouts at me to leave her alone—because I can’t imagine anything else.
She will never want to help me, yet working with her is the only way to find the true killer, because of his obsession is Phoenix. I don’t need to have a past with serial killers to recognize the signs.
Our firsts are always so important to us, as they settle us on the path we choose. I can still taste the victory of my first international business deal on my tongue, earning my first million, reminding me how excitement shook my entire body, and how finally I could dictate what was going on in the company.
Mainly, I had the power to veto any time Dad wanted to put someone on the board of directors from his fucking wife’s family, who I’ve managed to ignore most of my adult life.
They’ve already had their hands in the family business; Dad made them stockholders after all, and for their greedy asses, that should be enough.
Phoenix will be on my side one way or another; she won’t have a choice, and I don’t mind using whatever is necessary to achieve that goal.
My phones rings in my pocket, and I take it out, grinning, as I slide it to accept, knowing it’s a video call. A three-and-a-half-year-old gazes at me with her mother’s brown eyes and, strangely, my dark hair.
She smiles at me, the dimples showing themselves in her cheeks while she blows me a kiss. “Daddy!” she shouts, giggling. “I called you!” She says it like it’s the biggest achievement on this planet, and in a way it is.
After all, her nanny—and one of mine back in the day, Patience—handles all calls and hides the phone from my daughter, who has a tendency to call me in the most inopportune moments, but I pick up every time, talking with her until she gets bored.
She is the most important thing in this life for me, and has priority above anything or anyone else.
“Yes, you did. Did you steal the phone from Patience again?”
She rests her chin on her hand and sighs heavily. “I don’t steal, Daddy. I borrow!” she says, frowning a little, but then jumps up, and I see a lot of shuffling with her fingers blocking the camera before she comes into view again, standing a few feet away from the camera and twirling from side to side. Her pink tutu is wrapped around her middle while she flaps the edges of it. “Look at my dress, Daddy!” she exclaims, some of her words swallowed since her speech is still not super clear. “Ballet!” she announces and then runs back to the phone, coming so close all I see are her nostrils. “Tomorrow, I start, Daddy. Will you come?” she asks and then adjusts the phone again, blinking at me with pleading in her eyes, and my heart squeezes painfully even if it shouldn’t.
Whatever my daughter wants in this life, she gets.
After all, she is the princess of the castle.
“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it, baby girl.”
She is smiling back and opens her mouth to say something else, and that’s when I hear Patience panting in the distance with her voi
ce booming. “Young lady, you do not run away from me and steal my phone!”
“Borrow!” she corrects her and then drops her voice, whispering, “Bye-bye, Daddy. See you tomorrow.” And disconnects the phone before Patience can see her with it.
No doubt, she will cover it all up and act like she didn’t even touch it, making the nanny question her sanity and the job she barely agreed to take. I begged her, because I could never trust anyone else but her to watch over the ray of light in my life.
Dad strangely loved spending time with her and taking her to various places, claiming that as the grandpa, it was his duty to my firstborn.
James chuckles from the front, catching my gaze in the mirror. “She’ll be a handful once she grows up.”
Yes, she will be, and I intend to be at her side no matter what. I hope someday, once she is old enough to understand the full scope of the situation, my daughter can forgive me for what I have done in the past.
Emmaline Katherine King.
My and Phoenix’s daughter for whom I summoned all the best pediatric specialists in the world in order to assure she would survive, and she did despite the odds not being in her favor. My girl is a fighter.
Just like her mother.
If Phoenix doesn’t come to me to seek justice, she will come to me for our daughter, even if she hates me.
I imagine that hate will amplify by a thousand once she knows the truth about Emmaline.
Our daughter.
Ours, because fuck Sebastian Hale for turning his back on them; he has no rights where she is concerned anyway, unless he seeks a DNA test, and that will never happen.
Not if her mother is on my side.
He won’t be able to claim them back, even once she knows the truth, and I don’t think Phoenix will ever be able to forgive his betrayal.
Until all this is over, Phoenix belongs to me, forever under my protection—a part of me.
No one takes away what belongs to me.
Especially not Sebastian Hale.
Chapter Eight
“They say it’s possible to love and hate a person at the same time.
And I think it’s true.
Even true love can turn to hate if the person you love dumped you into the pit of hell and never looked back.”
Phoenix
New York, New York
Phoenix, 9 years old
“I hate math. Hate, hate, hate it!” I mutter under my breath, propping the heavy backpack on my shoulder, and resuming my walk through the neighborhood in the evening, trying to walk on the wide sidewalk under harsh streetlights. “I should have said no to Teacher Meghan.”
Instead, I agreed to take on an extra assignment at school to raise my grade, because I needed a perfect score in order for Ms. Thomson to sign the permission form for me to attend a school trip.
But now, I’m coming back home later than usual, and during winter, it’s so dark outside my insides shiver in fear, and I’m constantly watching over my back, a heavy rock in my hand in case someone comes toward me.
I lift my scarf higher to block out the harsh wind and almost breathe in relief when I see the old playground lit by the streetlight.
Going through this narrow path, I will save myself ten minutes and be home right on time for dinner without Ms. Thomson complaining about it.
I see a figure in the distance and still my movements, surprised anyone is here, and then speed up, ready to flee. But then I look again, my eyes widening when I recognize the boy from two years ago standing on the concrete walk, wearing a black coat that almost swallows him whole and a black suit, his shoes shining under the light.
I turn toward him, and he raises his gaze to me. “The name is here.” Only then does it dawn on me he is looking at the word spelled on it, and I nod, deciding to keep to myself that I write the name from time to time whenever I see it washing away.
The eyes of the boy always haunted me, and I thought he’d be sad if he ever came back here and not see his mom’s name on it.
“At least she lives on here,” he says before coming closer to me, and I wince when a hard gust of wind sends me back a few steps. If it weren’t for his hand gripping my elbow, I’d have probably fallen on my behind. “And you’re still here.”
I grin at him, adjusting my hat better on my head, and sigh when the cold doesn’t seep into my ears anymore. “I’m coming back from school.”
His brow rises. “At this hour?”
“Extra class to finish the test.” I decide not to bother him with my life, because he doesn’t seem interested, and besides, it’s so awkward to talk to him right now.
He is handsome, and my cheeks heat up, thinking that none of the boys in school can hold a candle to him. “What are you doing here?” No way he lives in this neighborhood, and glancing at the road, I see James waiting for him by the car.
“My mom died two years ago.” I blink, as sadness washes over me, along with pain for him. “I came here to say goodbye to her.”
“Goodbye?” This must be one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, but I soak it all up, not caring about anything.
The boy and our earlier encounter still stay one of the best adventures for me, and he’s the only one who has showed me kindness, so I don’t even mind missing dinner to hear his thoughts.
“I’m moving to study abroad till I finish school.” My brows furrow, and he must have noticed that, because he taps his finger on the bridge of my nose. “Dad can’t stand me hating his wife and new kids.”
“So, he sends you away?” I can’t imagine how that must hurt him; whenever parents from various foster homes turned their back on me, I burst into tears, and it hurt me so much I wasn’t even hungry.
But his own daddy doesn’t want him? How is that possible?
“Better me than her, I guess. Or should I say them?” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.” He glances one last time at the name on the concrete and walks off to his driver while snowflakes start to fall on us rapidly, and I giggle, opening my arms.
“Oh my God, it’s snowing!” I exclaim, momentarily forgetting about the boy while I jump up high and spin around, trying to catch all the snowflakes. “Snowing!” It almost never snows before Christmas, and I’m ready to shout from the rooftops my joy for it.
I open my mouth to catch some of them on my tongue and only then see how the boy still drills his stare into me, his green eyes studying me for so long I blush a little bit but hope he doesn’t see it, because how lame is that?
“You enjoy the simplest things,” he whispers before crooking his finger at me. Frowning, I step closer and then blink in surprise when he reaches for my backpack, unzips it, and takes out a notebook and pen. “I’m probably going to regret it, but here is my address there. Write to me if you want.”
As in become pen pals?
My best friend, Paloma, has one back in Paris. She met him when she went on a vacation with her parents, and she says they’ve exchanged letters ever since.
How cool is that?
He drops it all back inside and is ready to bolt when I shout, “Wait.” He stops, glancing over his shoulder, and I quickly tear away part of the piece of paper, scribble my address on it, but instead of my real name, I put another one.
I give it to him, and he takes it, folding it and putting it inside his coat pocket. “This is weird as hell” is all he comments on it. “But since you keep my mother’s name, I owe you one.” I don’t understand what he means by that, but I don’t have the chance to ask as he almost runs to the car then hops inside with one last glance my way.
And after that, he drives off as the snow continues to fall on me while I wonder what just happened.
All the way home, I think about this encounter and how he gave me his address at the new place.
Quickly getting home, I wash my hands and eat my dinner before cleaning the kitchen and only then check out what he wrote for me.
Mainly just his name, because I’m curious what it is.
Zach.
I smile when I press the notebook to my chest and sigh, promising myself to guard this secret and not let anyone take advantage of it.
My very first pen pal.
And who knows?
Maybe in time, Zach will become one of my best friends, and we’ll meet again.
Phoenix
“Hey, pretty lady!” a man shouts, slurring his words as he leans on the bar and wiggles the empty glass in his hand. “Another one for me and my buddies!” His cheerful friends are behind him, sitting at a round table in the right corner.
“Sure thing,” I reply and grab the bottle of tequila, placing five small glasses on a tray, and quickly fill them before putting a piece of lime on the rims along with salt. “Here you go.” I look around the place but don’t find Tracy, the waitress, to help him out. I’m about to pick it up myself—the last thing I need on the first day of my new job is a customer who spills his drink—when he swats my hands away, ready to take it himself.
Right in this moment, his friend from behind him jumps up and snatches it away, addressing the drunk guy. “I’ll get it or you’ll drop it.”
The guy grins at him and then at me before fishing for his wallet and placing a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.” With this, he walks off to the loud chants of the college kids who are about to get wasted. I’m sure it won’t be the last time they order something either.
Still, the tip is nice, and if I have to be called a pretty lady for that… so be it. Under the current circumstances, I can’t be picky.
I wipe the counter with the towel, wondering how many more customers we’ll have tonight. Judging by the early hour, only ten in the evening, and how packed this place already is, I expect a lot of customers.
The more the better; maybe then I can buy some cheap clothes and not use the ones Sara wore. I love her to pieces, but her tight black jeans along with the tank tops that barely hold my breasts from spilling out and the leather jacket that hangs inside the staff room aren’t really doing it for me.