Contents
Trigger Warning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Afterword
STAY CONNECTED
Trigger Warning
This is a dark romance that touches on subjects that some readers may not be comfortable with. All characters are fictional, all scenes plucked from the imagination, this is simply a work of art. But sometimes, even works of art can push buttons we’re not ready or willing to have pushed.
If you’re unsure of what your triggers are – don’t read this book.
If sensitive subjects are hard for you to handle – don’t read this book.
If colorful language isn’t your thing – don’t read this book.
For those who dare, I hope you enjoy the ride!
Chapter One
SOFIA
The disguise didn't fit. I didn't know what else I expected, given I'd bought it online under a fake name. The side bar came up with all sorts of other items I might like, and customers who bought this also purchased blah blah blah.
Truthfully speaking, the ad promoting the provocative French Maid did give me a brief moment of comedic pause, despite the fact that my business was very serious. Some things simply aren't worth the price of comedy. Especially since there's nothing funny about murder.
Although, showing up to his office with my boobs hanging out of some cheap polyester lace, a pair of stilettos and a feather duster would be hilarious. There'd be no way FiFi could get past security, however. I had to hide in plain sight if I were going to pull this off. I didn't think I'd get away with it. In fact I knew I wouldn't get away with it. But getting away with it wasn't exactly the point. Killing him was.
In the past few days I’d ran my head Around every possible scenario that could follow this quest I was on. I could run. I could hide. I could do this or do that. The more I thought about it, the more my mind blurred.
In the end, the only right thing to do was to leave my future up to the judge and jury, if this ever made it to trial. Let someone else make the damn decisions.
The service elevator dinged cheerfully as it reached the top floor. I grasped the handle of my housekeeping cart, my eyes darting to the bucket with the Clorox and disinfectants. Yeah, I was disinfecting. About to rid the world of the biggest, nastiest germ on the petri dish of life.
I wondered how many people would want to thank me. How many would write to me in prison. How many would show up in front of maximum security to protest my execution.
I pushed the cart onto the tiled hallway. The doors slid shut with a satisfying whoosh, leaving me and my cleaning products all by our lonesomes.
The security camera turned in my direction, and I fought with myself not to look at it. Looking at it would cause suspicion. Not that I gave a crap about what potential prosecutors would want to use against me later. I was living in the now. And 'now' meant I was an everyday Latina maid, “Maria” as my name tag so originally proclaimed, coming to clean the omnipotent executive suites of Petersen & Stiller.
I didn't need no stinkin' security guard's misgivings aroused by me staring at a motion-sensing camera like I was up to something.
His name, etched on the door in gold letters, glared at me. Maddox Petersen. There couldn't have been a more appropriate name. It sounded like a villain from a comic book. But Maddox wasn't cool enough for that. He was the owner, founder, CEO of one of the most successful brokerage houses in the history of the universe.
They were a lot like Merril Lynch before the Bank of America buy out. And while comic book baddies can be nerds, too – and most often are – no way could Maddox Peterson qualify for prestigious characterizations like Joker or Magneto.
I stopped staring at his stupid wannabe name, and turned the knob.
The door wasn't locked, as I knew it wouldn't be. With such a crack security team keeping watchful eyes on Maddox's fortress of fuckery, there was no need to go through such cautious formalities.
Or maybe I just got lucky.
Truth be told, I didn’t expect it to be this easy. So much so that I came up with alternatives. Plan B was for Maria to clean the hallway until his three-piece-suited ass came out of the elevator. I'd feign surprise, turn around, and say, “Buenos noches, Senor Ped-er-sin,” in a forced Mexican accent. I'd bat my eyelashes, stick my hand in the bucket with the Clorox, and… boom! Plan in motion. But, here I was, able to execute Plan A and not getting thrown out of the loop.
Maddox’s office was exactly what I expected. Brash. Masculine. Too much leather, as if he was compensating for something. Spotless and industrialized. Sterile.
I sneered, making sure my back was to the cameras, pulled the mop from my cart, and started Swiffering.
I took great care around his obnoxious, stainless steel and glass desk. I bent down, going after a few dust bunnies, but what I was really doing was looking for hidden alarms, buttons, switches and dials, whatever some dick head of his stature may have wired to his throne. I didn't find any.
What I did find made my gorge rise up to my throat. I literally threw up in my mouth.
A long, blonde hair next to the wheel of his over-priced office chair. We may therefore conclude that I wasn't the only female of the species to ever be on all fours down here.
The thought of Maddox Petersen sitting in this chair, pants around his ankles while his latest conquest engaged herself on his engorged cock made my stomach lurch again.
I scrambled out from under the desk, not wanting to appear obvious, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
At least there wasn't an alarm system. At least not one I could find. In a few minutes, it wouldn't matter. He could push as many buttons as he wanted. It would all be over soon.
My phone chimed from Maria's housekeeping apron. Ding! Eight minutes to go.
I thought that was a rather clever touch on my part, setting little alarms every minute. And eight was my lucky number. I was approaching the final countdown, and the cameras wouldn't catch me glancing at a watch or a phone to check the time.
Perpetual time-checking is a sure sign of a nervous person. I was nervous as hell, but I wasn't showing it. Nobody would suspect my plot, my ploy. My ulterior motive. I couldn't afford to raise a single eyebrow.
I did a quick calculation as I replaced the mop in its holder. Dickhead Petersen's meeting would be over at six, and according to his anal retentiveness, he would be back in his corner suite exactly five minutes after.
I'd done a lot of homework on Maddox Petersen, using the computers and internet at the library. I used assumed names, assumed passwords.
I couldn't raise a flag of any kind. I couldn’t alert any cyber watch dog that I was stalking him. Like I said, I couldn't raise a single eyebrow. And my name, my internet presence, my former company was sadly, forever entwined with his. Maybe I was being paranoid, but premeditated mu
rder requires a great deal of paranoia.
Ding...
After Maddox was dead, well, I honestly didn't have much of a plan. There wasn't a need for one. I'd thought of maybe sitting on the corner of his desk, crossing my legs, folding my arms over my chest, and smiling and waving at the security camera. Maybe I’d flip it off. Give a thumbs up and a wink. Or maybe I would remain completely stoic as Petersen's lifeless body lay at my feet. A huntress and her trophy.
I liked that.
In the meantime, Maria needed to keep busy. Keep up her legit appearance.
I spritzed some Pledge on my dust cloth, and went to polish the shit head's bookshelves.
Ding…
The typical collection of volumes and reference books. Classics he's probably never read, but keeps displayed so he looks smarter than he is. For Whom the Bell Tolls, Moby Dick, A Farewell to Arms. I snorted. Maddox couldn't tell Hemingway from a herring bone if his life depended on it.
I pushed the cloth around a geode paperweight, noting the sparkling purples and blues in the middle of it like a pretty granite bruise, then moved on to his crystal trophies and awards. They all recognized him as Business Executive of the Year, CEO of the Decade, Forbes 500 Douchebag Extraordinaire, etc.
Asshole.
Ding...
What stopped me in motion for a moment was the framed picture. Just the one. It was Maddox, his arms draped over the shoulders of a very nice looking older couple, and a guy that may pass as a brother.
It looked as though it was taken a few years ago, given the touristy fashions of the day – tropical prints and Bermuda shorts. They were on an island of some sort. Maybe Hawaii. Probably Hawaii. All the rich assholes went to Hawaii. And these people all had the same smile. The same facial structure, strong and chiseled. Even the woman.
I wondered how much he paid them –
Ding…
– to pose like that. If he knew them at all, or if they were just another prop like his bullshit literature.
Or if they really were his family, and they would miss him.
Well, you know what? Screw them. They had boatloads of money, obviously. Maddox came from money. They could buy happiness, and the best PTSD therapy available. If the picture wasn't a lie, the older couple had an extra offspring, too. They'd be just fine. They could cry on their other son’s shoulder while they lowered Maddox six feet under.
As much as my grievances weren’t with them, I wasn’t going to let their impending sorry work as a deterrent.
Maddox Petersen had this coming from the day he was born. And, sorry, Mister and Mrs. P, but you spawned a cold, soulless bastard. Your son, the one with the winning, chemically whitened smile, big green eyes and shiny, shaved head killed my sister.
And payback’s a bitch.
Ding…
According to the fourth chime, it was time for Maria to head for the bathroom.
Which, of course, was a gold plated shrine. Bigger than most people's apartments, and more lavish and ornate than what may belong to the oiliest Arabian sheik. Marble countertops, double vanity, shower with waterfall heads, and this goes without saying – a bidet.
A god damn bidet. In America? What kind of point was he trying to prove with that? And to whom?
No, the world was not going to miss this guy. A part of me hoped like hell he would come in here after his meeting. It would be so befitting for him to die in the shitter with his pants down and his balls bare for the world to see.
Ding…
Okay. Five minutes to go. Or was it four?
Shit. Did I seriously lose count?
No matter. Five minutes or four, I was at the point of no return. There was no turning back, now. Maddox would be here soon. And then, he wouldn't be here at all.
I removed the toilet brush from the cart, and stood above the bidet like a weird, alternative universe version of Arthur after he pulled the sword from the stone. As soon as that door handle clicked, I'd thrust more than wire bristles in his head, that was for sure.
Becca, this is for you, I thought.
Ding…
Click!
My heart flew into my throat, and turned to acid. My stomach rolled in caustic waves. I clutched the toilet brush so tightly my knuckles went white.
Clack, clack, clack, echoed through the room as expensive Italian shoes powered their way across the floor.
Sweat erupted on my palms. I turned to the cart, to the bucket with the Clorox, and didn't see it. My vision was blurry.
Oh, my God, how can I –
“What the fuck, huh?” Maddox shouted. His voice came from somewhere in the office, probably by the desk. “What do I have to do, draw you a god damn map? How much am I paying you assholes?”
Broker of the Year? Not humanitarian?
I shut my eyes, inhaled as quietly as I could, then opened my eyes again. Clearer. Definitely clearer. That was good.
I reached for the Clorox bucket, taking a quick glance to the door. I'd left it ajar, just by a few inches, but enough for me to be able to see him.
He was pacing, running his hand over his slick head, looking out the window with his back toward me. Perfect.
“Look, I don't care at this point, alright? Just get here, and get it done for the love of shit.”
Maddox didn't bother disconnecting his call. He just threw the phone across the room, put his hands on his hips. I could see him breathing heavily, huffing and puffing like some big bad wolf.
He was a lot bigger in person. I'd only seen his face on Skype, on television, or a news feed. I never thought him to top out at over six foot. A person of his character should be no taller than seven, eight inches.
I dipped my hand in the bucket, and wrapped my hand around the barrel. I shouldn't be gripping the barrel. I needed the handle. Grip the handle, then point the barrel at him.
The gun was a lot heavier than I remembered it to be. It was longer, too. I'd only fired it twice before, at shooting ranges out in Riverside county. No one knew me in Riverside. Turns out I was a pretty good shot. A natural, as the range master complimented.
I checked the safety. Made sure it was off. And for whatever out-there reason, straightened my hair.
I went to the door, opened it with a flourish, and held the gun in front of me.
Maddox grabbed the barrel.
“Seriously, what the fuck?” He wrenched the gun away so suddenly that he almost took my finger with it. It had been coiled around the trigger, ready to blow his fucking head off, but now it just throbbed like a motherfucker.
I made a quick grab for my gun, but I was too late. Maddox held it up above his head, the way big kids hold little kids toys up high when they’re teasing. He was looking at me with an infuriating mixture of confusion and amusement.
“Who are you?” He squinted at my name tag. “Maria? We don't have a Maria working here.” His eyes traveled up and down my body. He was either checking me out, or trying to remember where he'd seen me – or Maria – before. Not that he would know any of the minimum wage, undocumented staff members cleaning his grout and scrubbing his… bidet. “Is this about the Christmas bonuses?”
He laughed at his own joke, then pointed the gun at me.
My blood boiled, rushing through my veins as if it were on fire. Everything I hated in this world was standing before me, incarnate. I lunged at him, hoping to gouge those sneering, icy green eyes out his skull.
He caught me by the arm, wrenched it behind my back, and locked his other arm around my neck. He squeezed, just enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to strangle me.
Maddox was strong, Atlas on the beach strong.
I tried to dig my fingernails into his forearm, but my hands were too small to wrap around it.
“Maria, if that's even your name, you really could have just filed a complaint with HR.”
Last ditch effort. I brought my leg up, wanting to drive my heel into his shin.
My heel, however, was in a harmless yet sensible rubber-soled sh
oe. It bounced off his leg with all the crippling impact of a dryer ball. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd worn spiked cleats. This man was built like a fucking tree.
I writhed against him, wriggling like a hooked fish, trying to escape from his impossible hold. Thrashing and fighting against his massive frame, he only increased he grip.
He could crush me like a bug if he wanted. Instead, he lifted me off the ground with no effort at all, as if he was wrangling a child in the midst of a colossal tantrum, and threw me onto the sofa. Then aimed the gun at my head.
“Are you done yet?” he asked.
My breath was coming in hitches. This is not the way any of this was supposed to go. If he wanted to shoot me, fine. But I'd be damned if I was just going to lay here and take it. Like hell I'd go down without a fight.
I rolled off the couch and scrambled for the bookcase. One of those trophies would make a great weapon. I snatched the WSJ statuette from the shelf – an Emmy Award rip off congratulating Maddox for his outstanding business practices – and raised it over my shoulder.
Maddox only looked at me, his befuddlement of earlier melting away into escalating delight. He did have the gun, after all. And two armed security guards, just now bounding into the office. They raised their weapons, training them on me and Maddox's douchey award.
“Drop it,” the first one commanded.
He must have felt really Rambo awesome, his feet spread wide apart, both hands holding a .45. His left eye squinted as he stood locked and loaded on a five-foot-five perpetrator of diminutive Spanish descent.
Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Page 1