Taste of Vengeance

by Kristi Belcamino

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re lucky. He’s agreed to give you another chance.”

  My eyes widened incredulously. Anger flared through me. “Give me another chance? Like I’m his bitch? Bullshit. I don’t care if he can afford to live on the moon or around the moon or whatever. I don’t need him or his money.”

  Dante was quiet for a few seconds.

  Full-fledged alarm zipped through me.

  “Do I? Dante? Do I? What are you saying?”

  I heard him inhale. “I’ve been trying to tell you this. We were going to discuss it at the last board meeting you missed.”

  I shuddered and not from the cold.

  “Discuss what? Am I broke?”

  “Well, you aren’t personally. But the corporation is foundering.”

  I stood up, startling Django. “That’s impossible.”

  “The Detroit project? It hit some snags. Apparently, a crooked contractor has delayed progress. He is taking us to court over the work.”

  “Just pay him off.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Damn. I knew I should’ve gone out there to oversee the project instead of letting you convince me to go on some lame-ass cruise on which I was nearly murdered.” My voice rose sharply. But I instantly regretted my words. “I’m sorry, Dante. I know you were just trying to help. To save me from myself. As usual.”

  Dante had arranged the cruise as a gift to try to help yank me out of my ongoing depression over my boyfriend, Bobby’s, murder. He and Dante’s new husband, Matt, had been shot when gunmen had stormed the wedding reception in Positano. The man behind it all had been trying to kill me. I made him pay. But taking his life hadn’t been enough—the grief was still palatable every single damn day of our lives.

  “Dante, are we really hurting? The business, I mean?”

  “Well, we need a fast infusion of cash. Because of the stipulations in your father’s will, I can’t tap your personal funds for this. If Thornwell wants to throw his money at us, this is our best bet. He’s agreed to meet with you Tuesday in his office, although, I must say, he’s making an exception for you. Most Silicon Valley business is done at parties like the one last night.”

  “That’s absurd.” I remembered the man asking me if I liked it rough and the women in bondage gear. “Sex parties?”

  “I don’t know if that’s what they are.”

  “That’s the vibe I was getting.” A fucking understatement. “Shit got all Eyes Wide Shut in there.”

  “I guess some people go off on their own at these parties and have sex. It’s sort of a freewheeling deal in this crowd,” he said.

  “This crowd?”

  “The powers of Silicon Valley don’t play by the rules. They are always pushing boundaries, especially in the sex department,” he said. “They’re into lots of wife swapping and orgies, that kind of stuff.”

  I stood and paced my rooftop. The ubiquitous fog had settled revealing the glowing skyscrapers in the business district to the east. To the northwest, somewhere in the dark, was the Golden Gate bridge. I couldn’t see it from my four-story building. But to the southeast, I could see the struts of the Bay Bridge.

  But what I really liked to look at was my own neighborhood. The Tenderloin was filled with real people. Not like the insulated pocket of well-to-do in my old Russian Hill neighborhood.

  The Tenderloin had a storied history of speakeasies, burlesque houses, jazz clubs, brothels, and crime. Though arguably more sophisticated, the crime, bars, strip clubs, and single-occupancy, pay-by-the-hour hotel rooms of today carried on their legacies and, in turn, had given rise to an entire small village of homeless people.

  I knew many of them by name. One of them, Ethel, inspired me to start a new business within my father’s company. I’d developed work-live housing to get people off the streets. Eligible homeless people could live in an apartment upstairs and work at one of the businesses at street level. They could stay there forever, or move on and open up a space for someone else. The street level of the building could contain up to a dozen storefronts. Anything ranging from acupuncture, to a gourmet market, to a café or bookstore. It all depended on the skills of the residents. One large area was open so people could have kiosks set up in an open market environment if they had more niche offerings.

  That was the business Damien, and his partners at Sky Enterprises, wanted to invest in.

  “So, they combine business with pleasure at their parties,” I said.

  He shrugged. “All I know is that they view themselves as different. They don’t believe that societal norms and rules apply to them—that they’re above them. And in some ways, they are right. Promise me you’ll meet with him and hear what he has to say?”

  I thought about everything Dante had said. In a way, this subculture fascinated me. I was all about laissez faire sex. And while the guy who grabbed me was lucky he got off with a kick to the balls, in his defense, he probably was expecting the bondage girls and had been acting appropriately.

  “Promise me?” Dante repeated.

  Dante only whipped out the “promise me” on rare, important occasions. He knew if I promised, it was a certainty.

  I hesitated. It wasn’t much to ask. Just hear the dude out? I remembered the irresistible pull I felt toward him and how I’d felt weak and powerless under his gaze. And that was from across a room. But that was a fluke. This would be different. It would be in an office building. During the day. It would be professional. I could handle being in the room with him for a half hour or so. It’s not like we were going to strip down and fuck on his desk. We’d be talking business. Completely professional.

  7

  Dream Come True

  As the clock struck midnight, everyone at the party was inebriated in some way. High or drunk or both. That was to be expected, of course. Sydney was convinced she was the only one in the room who was sober. Even if she hadn’t wanted to be, she was still combating the effects of being drugged with a psychosomatic drug. She still saw flashes of lighting and heard thunder at odd moments.

  She didn’t want to exacerbate it with too much to drink.

  Everybody at Joyful Justice wanted her to go on vacation and relax at the beach while doctors probed and prodded her and tried to “fix” her. But that was bullshit. Who had time for that?

  When the mission to find Alaia came in to Joyful Justice, Sydney leaped on it. She was on the plane to France to meet Thornwell and Zimmer before anyone could object.

  And Mulberry? The one who would object the most? The only person who could possibly even come close to convincing her to stay? He didn’t even know who she was anymore. It was better to stay busy on a mission than let her mind spin off in that direction.

  But it didn’t stop her heart from leaping at every text or phone call, hoping it would be Mulberry on the other end, saying his memory had returned.

  An image of Mulberry’s bloody torn flesh on the battlefield flashed into her mind, unbidden. And the helpless feeling she’d had. At the time. And now. He’d lost so much blood he was lucky to have survived. But when doctors brought him out of his drug-induced coma, he only remembered the life he’d lived long ago, married to another woman.

  It was like losing a piece of herself. Mulberry had been there from the beginning. He was the one there for her when she was still a New York City dog walker named Joy Humbolt who held her dying brother. He was the one who helped her become Sydney Rye. He knew her like no other. Without his memory of her and what they had shared, Sydney felt less solid, as if her life was an apparition that could float away.

  Shaking off those memories and thoughts, Sydney scanned the room from a comfy chaise lounge, pretend sipping on the same tequila gimlet she’d been handed hours before. Every once in a while, she headed to the bar pretending to refresh it. The air was thick with marijuana smoke as people lit small pipes or joints and passed them around. Several small bowls of pills were in circulation as well.

  As it grew
later, the crowd at the party continued to thin. But it wasn’t from people going home. If she hadn’t been paying attention—or hadn’t read Alaia’s journal—Sydney might not have noticed the people escaping out a series of side doors. Sometimes there was a whispered conversation or a meaningful look, but for the most part, people just wandered off in pairs or groups, out one of the several doorways branching off the main room.

  By three in the morning, only a hand full of the original twenty or so party goers remained in the main room. Much of Sydney’s night had been spent fending off a couple wooing her for what she assumed was a threesome. It was exactly as Alaia’s journal had described it.

  The woman, pudgy and falling out of her top, kept looking at Sydney and licking her lips. The man was worse. He trailed his hand down Sydney’s bare arm, and it took everything in her power not to thrust two fingers into his eye sockets.

  Sydney hid her irritation and made her escape by saying she needed to check on Blue. She’d already checked on him twice, but they didn’t need to know that.

  Peeking through the window into the backyard now, she saw Blue’s head resting on his paws and the other dog, a small, scruffy, bichon frise, snuggled up beside his chest, sleeping.

  “Adorable, right?”

  It was Zimmer.

  “They seem to get along great. He’s cute. What’s his name?”

  “Snuffles.”

  “You’re kidding.” She laughed.

  “Nope. Damien was very adamant about the name.”

  She turned away from the window.

  “Are you having a good time?” His eyebrows drew together in concern.

  “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. It’s a dream come true.”

  The house was surrounded by a small forest. Gurgling fountains bubbled every few feet. Everywhere one looked was green. Birds sang, even in the dark.

  “It’s my little slice of nature.”

  “It’s really peaceful. Serene.”

  She turned to face him. “Do you always do business at four a.m. at a private house with everyone high?”

  He chuckled. “Well, Damien and I like to think we are reinventing the way business is done. We do it our own way and it applies to how we find new ventures, how we feel people out to see if they are good fits for a collaboration.”

  “Am I good fit?”

  “I’ve done some research on your company, CyberForce. I think that providing private security with the high-tech devices you’ve invented would be a great partnership. It dovetails with our interests.”

  Sydney nodded. Dan had done a great job creating a shell company with a glossy website.

  “You mentioned magnetic implants in hands that will act much like a chip does in an animal, but on a less invasive manner.”

  “We are also expanding into devices that monitor health.” Sydney watched Zimmer carefully. Alaia Schwartz device was along those lines. She waited to see if he would react. But he only smiled.

  “Tell me more.”

  “The subdermal devices implanted in the hands would monitor blood pressure and blood sugar levels and send the results by Bluetooth to medical facilities.”

  “Brilliant!” Zimmer said. “Do you have any devices we could test out?”

  “The proprietary nature of the devices precludes me sharing them at this point in our conversation.”

  It was bullshit. How could he not see right through her nonsense?

  “Fair enough. Well, we are most definitely interested in taking it to the next level.”

  Again, she nodded. The less she said, the better.

  “Can I get you anything?” His voice had something in it. She looked up. He was solicitous, but there was something else in his manner she couldn’t read. He seemed as if he were holding himself back. As if the coiled energy underneath his smooth, calm surface was barely contained. His eyes lingered on her lips. She swallowed. She didn’t trust him.

  He’d been gracious and a gentleman, but Sydney knew this didn’t mean jack.

  “Oh, there you are.” It was the woman who had been sticking to her like a remora to a shark all night. Sydney hid her weariness and smiled. “Just checking on my dog.”

  “Karl wants to know if you want to take a dip in the hot tub.”

  “There are brand new swimsuits in the cabanas,” Zimmer said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you.”

  The woman looked ecstatic. Sydney could only imagine what the woman was thinking.

  Sydney begged off and said she needed to head home, allowing whatever hot tub debauchery was going to take place to occur without her. Before she left, Zimmer handed her a business card. “Here’s my private number. Call me if you want to take it to the next level. We’re in.”

  8

  Fake

  May 2001

  The high school hallway was deserted. The late bell had rung, and everyone had scrambled off to class. He waited in the meeting spot, a small alcove leading to an emergency exit. He stared at the graffiti on the wall.

  A group of seniors spent lunch hour hunkered down in this hallway pretending to study, but really, they were probably discussing drug deals and girls they’d fucked.

  He’d always watched the group with envy. Especially because Steve was part of the group. Steve had been his best friend in first and second grade before the jocks had commandeered him for football.

  They’d quickly grown apart. Now, if they crossed paths in the hallways, Steve would jut his chin at him. He wasn’t a dick. He just wasn’t a friend anymore.

  Same as Lila. She’d lived next door to him since they were babies. She’d always been nice to him in elementary school. He remembered one day when he had to go to the bathroom and Mrs. Kopenske wouldn’t let him. He’d begged for a potty pass, but she told him he should’ve gone during lunch.

  Lila stood and told the teacher that her parents had said it was always okay to ask to use the bathroom.

  The crotchety old bitch hadn’t listened to Lila and had sent her out into the hall.

  He’d been extremely grateful to Lila. And in awe that she’d stood up to the teacher.

  However, now that they were in high school, Lila rarely said hi to him or made eye contact.

  That’s why he was so surprised when she showed up at his house the previous day.

  Her face was streaked with black makeup from crying. Her long dark hair tangled.

  His mother had stood nearby, eavesdropping, until he glared at her, and she skulked back into the kitchen.

  “If I don’t turn this paper in tomorrow, I’ll fail. My dad …” here Lila let out a big gulping sob. “He’ll ground me until summer. You’re so smart. This would take me a week. I know it would only take you, like five minutes.”

  She thrust a handout at him. He glanced down. It was an essay he’d already written. And it had taken him longer than five minutes. He’d spent about two hours on it.

  He glanced at this watch. It was already ten.

  “Please?”

  Her lower lip trembled so prettily. Her eyes had turned a brilliant green from crying. He nodded, and her face lit up with joy. She grabbed his arm, startling him.

  “Thank you! Oh, my God. You’ve saved my life!”

  They made arrangements to meet in the alcove after the late bell for first period.

  Now, he waited in the alcove, head peeking out, not sure which direction she would come from.

  Then the door to the girl’s bathroom opened, and he saw her. She was adjusting her skirt and didn’t notice him watching. She was so beautiful, it made his throat grow suddenly dry.

  She looked up, catching him staring, maybe drooling, definitely acting stalkerish.

  Her eyes narrowed, and a look of distaste flashed across her features. But it quickly disappeared. By the time she reached him and stepped into the alcove, she’d plastered a fake smile on her face, her lips curling up, her eyes remaining hard and cold.

  But he’d seen how she looked at him. And he w
as humiliated. He’d been used.

  He had been dumb enough to think she actually liked him. Not “like” liked him, but liked him as a person, as a friend. But now, in this alcove, as she kept glancing nervously over her shoulder, he knew that he repulsed her.

  “Hurry,” she hissed, holding out her hand.

  He reached in his backpack, carefully extracting the stapled and typed essay.

  Once it was in her hands, she shoved it into her own bag, wadding it up to make it fit. She turned to him, and her voice became saccharine sweet. “Thanks. You’re a doll.” She brushed past him, arching her body so they didn’t make contact.

  She paused at the entrance to the alcove. “I might have something for you next week too.”

  Her smile was fake. Her voice was fake. Everything about her was fake. He’d been a fool. Just because she’d been nice to him in elementary school did not make her a nice person. She was not a nice person. She was a cunt.

  She hurried away before he answered. He watched her with narrowed eyes. Then he grabbed his crotch and thrust his hips toward her and spoke in a low voice. “I might have something for you next week, too. Something big and hard that will split you apart.”

  9

  A Regular Person

  When I caught sight of the man sitting behind the large mahogany desk, I felt foolish for running away the other night. I still hadn’t figured out what had gotten into me. A beam of sunlight fell across the papers scattered before him. The whole of San Francisco was on display behind him, visible in the floor-to-ceiling windows. His head was bowed, and his finger traced some words on a document before him. His lips moved as he read.

  For a second, he reminded me of a little boy. There was a sweetness about his concentration. He froze, and I knew that he’d realized I was in the room.

  When he lifted his eyes to meet mine, a genuine smile spread across his face.