Taste of Vengeance

by Kristi Belcamino

  Once, outside my building, he’d spent an hour talking with a homeless veteran about politics. After a week spent together, I knew I’d have withdrawals when he took off on a ten-day trip overseas.

  The day had ended at sunset, with him pleading off, saying he needed to get up at three to fly out of the country for ten days.

  When we said goodbye, he’d leaned forward and for a second I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead he said in a somewhat nervous voice. “There’s room on my plane for one more.”

  I had laughed. Of course, I had. But inside, I knew he was serious.

  But the moment was gone.

  “I want to see you when I get back.” He said it as if I wouldn’t dare refuse. So, I didn’t.

  “Okay.”

  I’d spent the entire time he was gone waiting for his texts like some lovesick idiot. The only healthy thing I did was double up on my Budo practice to keep my lustful hormones at bay.

  And today, finally, was the day he was supposed to be back and I hadn’t heard word one from him. And it was eleven in the morning.

  I was making coffee when my phone buzzed. Damien had snapchatted me an image. I opened it. The words “Party at Zimmer’s. Tonight, at seven. Dress sexy” were scrawled in hot pink script across a picture of a pool at night with candles floating on the water.

  A party? I was disappointed that hadn’t wanted to see me earlier and privately. That was bullshit.

  Maybe I’d skip the party. To show that I wasn’t used to being an afterthought. I wasn’t one of the masses of women who shunned tradition and wanted to fuck him without strings attached. Not me, buddy. I make my own rules. Not you.

  I was about to set my phone down when he snapped me again as if he sensed my reluctance. This time it was a picture of a brilliant white stretch of beach lapped by turquoise waves. The words said, “Come tonight. to receive exclusive details about our yearly soiree.”

  Huh. Intimate. Yearly soiree. What the fuck was that all about?

  I was intrigued. So of course, I’d have to attend to find out more, but I’d make him work for my attention. I immediately headed toward the rack of clothes in one corner of my loft. If only Dante were here to help me pick out something suitable. I’d facetime him. Because this was one party where I wanted to look like a bad ass boss babe. Not Damien Thornwell’s bitch.

  18

  Boom

  Sydney eyed her phone. There was a snap from Damien Thornwell. It must’ve come when she and Blue were out walking on Ocean Beach.

  For the past week, she’d dug up every scrap of information she could about Alaia and Sky Enterprises, and still hadn’t found out what happened to the girl while she waited patiently for an invite to the next party. When her phone dinged from Thornwell, she didn’t have to open it to know what it was. The invitation. Finally.

  19

  Success

  May 2005

  The girl lay by his side crying. She stared at the ceiling and the tears pooled at the corner of her eyes and then dripped slowly down her cheeks onto the bed sheets.

  “I thought you liked me,” she said, sounding stuffed up.

  He was propped on one elbow looking down on her.

  “I do like you. A lot.” He traced a finger around her bare breast. She was incredible looking.

  Maybe she’d want to fuck one more time before they had to get ready for graduation ceremonies.

  “Then why are you breaking up with me?” the girl said.

  He made a tsking sound. “Dasha. I’m not breaking up with you. We were never exclusive, remember? I’ve always been honest with you. We’re both going to graduate and probably move across the country.”

  “That’s not true. You’re staying here. So am I.”

  “Dasha,” he said, tenderly, wiping at her tears. “You’ll get over me. There are going to be all sorts of guys who will want to date the hot nurse you’re going to be.”

  “I only want you.”

  He could feel his chest inflate. “I know. I know.”

  Without realizing it, he glanced over at the small ceramic dish that sat on his dresser. He was going to be a fucking millionaire. The fucking pills worked like a goddamn charm. If the woman took them each and every day. He’d convinced Dasha they were birth control pills. She’d been too afraid if she went on the pill her conservative Hindu parents would find out about the doctor visit. He told her he’d take care of it.

  She’d been his first success story.

  He’d worked for the past two years to get the pills on the market, but the FDA had ultimately shot him down, saying it would not approve the drug with the risks involved: addiction, allergic reaction, even death.

  Fine. It would be distributed as a black-market item. It would be all deep web and dark web sales. Now, to find the perfect business partner. He had just reached out to a hacker friend he’d joined forces with in high school. He knew he could trust the guy. And the friend’s coding, hacker, and chemist skills nearly exceeded his own.

  They’d go into business together and become the two most powerful men on the planet. Fuck the FDA.

  20

  Sexy as Fuck

  “Dress sexy has me stumped.”

  Dante laughed. “You always dress sexy.”

  “That is no help.” I said, eying the stack of clothes on my bed. “Can’t you come over and help me decide. This is important. I need to be sexy as fuck. I need to look like a boss.”

  From the sounds on the other end of the line, I knew this was an insane plea. It was Friday night at his new restaurant in Calistoga—some ninety minutes away if you were driving my Ferrari—and dinner preparation was already underway.

  “Gia, you could wear a white sheet and you’d still be sexy as fuck.”

  “A sheet? I didn’t say ‘tacky as fuck” I said sexy as fuck. Please come down.”

  “Impossible.”

  My heart sunk.

  “I have an idea. What time do you have to be there?”

  “Seven.”

  He was quiet for a second and my heart stopped. Maybe he would come down.

  “You’ll arrive at seven-forty then,” he said, and then he mumbled to himself. “Your outfit will arrive no later than seven. Have your makeup and everything else ready so all you have to do is throw on your clothes.”

  “Yes, maestro.”

  At seven my door buzzed. I raced down the four flights wearing a huge red kimono and bare feet. A man in a black tee-shirt and jeans stood outside the back of a livery car. He was holding a thick garment bag. He looked a little like an east coast gangster.

  “Miz Santella?” And sounded like one. I liked him immediately.

  “That’s me,” I said. He smiled and handed me the bundle. I tried to tip him, but he brushed it off. “Mr. Marino already took care of me. Have a nice night.” He donned an imaginary hat and stepped back into the vehicle. I stood staring and then shrugged.

  You never knew with Dante.

  Upstairs I took the clothes out of the package and groaned. I punched Dante’s number on my phone.

  “I said sexy. As. Fuck. I said Boss Babe. Not Boss Man.”

  “Trust me.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the black mass spread out on my bed.

  “It’s Balenciaga,” he said.

  “Big whoop. So, let’s get this straight—you want me to dress like all the dudes at the party?” Then it struck me. “Oh, fuck me! Is Damien gay? Or bi? Is that why you want me to dress like a man?”

  “All the other women are going to be dressed—as you might say— ‘tacky as fuck.’ You want to stand out from them. The only thing you wear underneath are red silk panties. No bra. Nothing else.”

  I frowned. “How do you know I own red silk panties?”

  “Oh, pleeeze, Gia. How long have we been friends?”

  “Are you sure?” I eyed the black silk tuxedo warily.

  “Yes. Oh … and wear your lace-up stiletto Louboutin’s. I had them hem the pants to fit those shoes
perfectly.”

  “Of course, you did,” I muttered.

  “Have fun. I’ve got to oversee the execution of the hazelnut praline terrine at the mayor’s table. Oh—and wear your hair down.”

  “Thanks, Dante,” I said in a soft voice, but he’d already hung up.

  Standing in front of the wall of mirrors in my loft, I smiled.

  The suit fit like a wet dream. It hugged every curve of my body. My red polished toes peeked out from the hem of the silk pants. The lapel of the blazer dipped to my belly button, exposing bare flesh and the barest hint of cleavage on each side. A tiny swell. Such a small sliver, you might think you’d imagined it. Perfect.

  I was rummaging through a shoe box of jewelry when I got a text from Dante. “Wear your dangling ruby earrings. Not the emerald ones.”

  I dropped the emerald earrings and reached for the rubies.

  Dante was a goddamn virtuoso.

  I glanced one last time in the mirror before walking out and nodded.

  Boss Babe. Sexy. As. Fuck.

  21

  Birds of a Feather

  The security team that greeted Sydney and Blue at the door didn’t mess around.

  One man had a wand. “Please lift your arms.”

  Blue growled at him.

  “Where’s Jeeves?” Sydney said. “He’s much more hospitable.”

  The two-blond hulking bodyguard-slash-musclemen were not amused.

  The man held out his wand, his eyes lingering a little too long on her breasts while the other consulted the screen on his watch, scrolling through a tiny electronic list. His eyebrows were knit together in concentration. He obviously hadn’t been hired for his spelling acumen.

  “Just like it sounds,” Sydney said to help him out. “S-Y-D-N-E-Y-R-Y-E.”

  “Got it.” He acted embarrassed.

  Blue growled when the man with the wand stepped closer. “I don’t think he likes you,” she said.

  “Just doing my job.”

  Sydney walked past him with Blue flanking her. “Tell Mr. Zimmer and Mr. Thornwell that Blue doesn’t like security wands. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  The long hall was lit by dripping wax candles in gargoyle sconces that gave the place a gothic feel. At the end of the hall, a rectangle of white light fell on the floor. As she grew closer, she could hear voices and laughter.

  Pausing outside the door, Blue looked up at her expectantly.

  She shifted so she could see inside and assess the situation before she committed.

  The kitchen was as large as her whole rented beach house.

  Half a dozen people huddled around a massive marble-topped island dead center in the room. An orange steel Bertazzoni stove dominated one side of the room.

  Thornwell looked up. He had on a pink frilly apron covered in flour and a smudge of the white stuff on his nose. His eyes were crinkled with laughter. Zimmer was beside him, wearing a checked blue apron, his hands sticky with wet dough. He looked at her and held up his hands in surrender.

  “I’d greet you, but trust me you don’t want me to touch you right now,” Zimmer said. The last part of his sentence was imbued with meaning. As if she were waiting to be touched by him. Sydney hid the disgust she felt and smiled.

  “I hope it’s okay I brought Blue again. He’s awfully lonely back at my rented cottage.”

  The flicker of distaste that raced across Rich Zimmer’s face was so subtle and brief, she thought she might have imagined it if she didn’t already know what a creep he was. His face split into a wide grin. “You can put him in the back with Damien’s dog. He loves it here.”

  Sydney smiled at Thornwell. “You brought your dog, too?”

  “I always do. This is his home away from home. Snuffles suffers from some separation anxiety. Breaks my heart to see the look on his face when I have to leave.”

  Sydney smiled, but something about the way he said it was off. It was robotic. There didn’t seem to be any real emotion behind it. She didn’t quite trust Thornwell.

  Zimmer jutted his chin at a door. “The backyard is through there.”

  For a second, Sydney hesitated. Her instinct was to tell him to fuck off, that Blue was staying by her side, but she had to play the game. At least for a little while.

  “I know. Thanks.”

  Opening the door, she saw some steps leading to a massive pool area with a waterfall. The entire area was lit by Tiki lamps. Damien’s dog, a little white scruffy thing, ran up wagging his little tail and crouching, ready to play. Blue looked at Sydney.

  “You remember your friend, Snuffles,” she said. “Have a good time. He’s little, though. Don’t hurt him.”

  Closing the door, she turned to the people gathered around the island. Everyone wore 1950s-style aprons. Flour and sugar and cinnamon and eggs were spread on the island.

  “We’re making dinner,” Zimmer said. “Well, the roast is already in the oven. We’re technically done with dinner and making dessert. Homemade cinnamon rolls. Want to help?”

  Sydney shrugged and grabbed an apron from a big stack hanging on a nearby hook. It was weird that these ultra-rich people made their own dinner, but Alaia had mentioned in her journal that some of the sex parties went down like this so the host could excuse the household help for the night. It helped conceal the debauchery from strangers at the same time it helped the partygoers relax and build a bond before they got busy.

  After Sydney walked over, Thornwell introduced the other women.

  Cat had dimples and curves and didn’t look old enough to drink. She wore thigh-high boots and a tight black leather miniskirt that was about six inches shorter than her apron. Maeve might have been old enough to drink. It was hard to tell what she was wearing, but whatever was under the apron was tight and white and several feet above her gold platform heels. The third woman, introduced as Zoe, was exotic looking with voluptuous lips, big hair, and caramel skin. She wore shorts that fit like men’s underwear, a tight black top and bare feet. She might have been any age from nineteen to thirty. She didn’t even bother glancing up when Sydney was introduced.

  All of their eyes were slightly glazed. It had to be from more than the wine in the glasses sitting before them. That’s when Sydney spotted a small ceramic dish on the island. Probably something interesting in there. Molly or Ecstasy. Something to lubricate the guests.

  Sydney almost asked where the men were. Was this supposed to be Zimmer and Thornwell’s own private harem?

  But a few minutes later, three more men showed up. She recognized them as players in the tech world. Part of her last week had been spent memorizing the faces of all the big Silicon Valley players. These three were part of an elite group of up-and-coming tech rock stars. One was an entrepreneur. One a V.C. Another a founder.

  They were introduced as Andy, Nick, and Tim.

  At first, they seemed interchangeable because they were all dressed the same: jeans and black or gray tee-shirts. One guy had a black blazer over his tee, but they all had the same sort of haircut—longer bangs nearly hanging over one eye.

  And wasn’t it total bullshit that the invitation prodded women to dress up and yet the men all wore jeans?

  That’s when it struck Sydney—they were all emulating Thornwell and Zimmer. The hair. The jeans. The tee-shirts.

  They’d just rolled out the cinnamon rolls and stuck it in one of the four stacked ovens, when one of the beefy security guys appeared in the doorway with a latecomer.

  A woman with dark hair stood behind him. It was the woman at the party who had run away. Well, now, things just got interesting, Sydney thought.

  The woman paused in the doorway. Sydney watched the woman stare at Thornwell, who hadn’t noticed her arrival yet. There was something in the woman’s eyes.

  Up close, the woman’s resemblance to Alaia Schwartz was even stronger. How odd.

  Sydney watched her carefully. She’d get to know this woman. Maybe she knew something.

  22

  Yin & Yang


  The blonde woman was the only one not dressed like a stripper. She wore formfitting black pants and a loose, black silk blouse unbuttoned several buttons. Her nonchalance was sexy in itself. Her bob was tucked behind her ears. Her face unadorned except for a slick of lip gloss.

  She exuded effortless chic.

  Dante was right. Nothing was worse than trying too hard.

  She caught me looking and met my gaze straight on with her unusual grey eyes and a slight curve of her mouth. I couldn’t help but smile back.

  There was something on her face. I stared until I realized what it was—her skin was scarred near her eye. Quickly, I looked away. But then fixed my eyes on her again. She took in my own scarred temple.

  With a small movement, she raised her wine glass an inch and gave a slight nod. I lifted my chin in response.

  As I watched, Damien leaned over and pulled back her blonde hair to say something. A green stab of jealousy ripped right through me. Was he fucking her? She laughed at whatever he said, but I noticed the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She shot another glance my way and moved away from him.

  Damien plucked the lid off a ceramic dish and held it before her. She shook her head with the slightest movement and he set it back down. He looked irritated. But then he noticed me watching.

  “Gia!” he rushed over and swept me up in a hug. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough.” I watched his face, but his grin only grew wider.

  He turned to the security guards. “Your services are no longer needed tonight.”

  The men bowed and ducked out.

  “I missed you,” Damien said in a low voice in my ear. “We just finished making dessert. Dinner is almost ready. Let me get you a glass of wine.”