by Max Monroe
“What do you mean it’s being remolded?”
“There are a lot of updates that need to be made to make this a safe place for tenants. Take that, for example.” He waved his hand toward the elevator that had been out of order since I started renting the place six months ago. “That needs to be fixed.”
“So…where exactly am I being relocated to?”
He nodded toward the envelope in my hands. “All of the information, including the keys to your new place, is right there.”
“Wait…I need to relocate like right now?”
“We’re asking all tenants to move as soon as possible. The sooner we can clear this building out, the sooner we can get to work. And after my team completed a full evaluation of the premises, they told me that expediency is in the best interest of your safety,” he explained and offered a polite smile. “Have a good day, Miss Little. And inside that envelope, you’ll find I’ve left my direct cell number should you have any questions or concerns.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I was taking keys and an explanation from a man for whom I didn’t even have a name.
“Okay… And what is your name?”
“I’m Mike McConnell,” he answered.
Well, at least it’s not stranger danger anymore, right?
“Well, thanks, Mike. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Have a good day,” he said and offered a short wave before heading through the stairwell door and out of view.
I shut the door to my apartment and stared down at the envelope in my hands in disbelief. What in the hell was happening?
And more importantly, where was I supposed to be “relocating” to?
With impatient fingers, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the packet of papers. The keys to my new humble abode slipped out and hit the hardwood floor with a clatter. I scanned the papers, and catching on one detail in particular, I blinked several times.
Does that really say Wilshire Boulevard?
No fucking way.
Maybe there’s a different Wilshire Boulevard? Like, maybe Wilshire Boulevard has a shitty, twin-sister street in a different, less pretty part of town? Surely, it’s supposed to say Wilshire Boulevard 0.5 or something?
There was only one way to find out.
I walked into my bedroom and threw on jean shorts, a tank top, and a pair of flip-flops and then tossed my hair into a messy bun. With my new keys in hand and the paper with the address in my pocket, I kissed the top of Deena’s head and walked out of my apartment and toward the bus station.
Thirty minutes later, I hopped off the bus and walked the half mile Google Maps instructed. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, all while aggravated people weaved around me, I looked up, up, up, until my eyes reached the very top of a luxurious, high-rise building on the actual Wilshire Boulevard.
This was my new home?
I was supposed to relocate from my shitty, studio apartment in Boyle Heights to this amazing, fucking mind-blowing apartment building in downtown LA?
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
“WHERE ARE WE WITH THE delegates?” I asked Hare. In the race for a presidential nomination, it wasn’t the people who were in charge, but the appointed, state specific delegates. Each state had a certain number based on population-deemed necessity, and they all placed a vote to choose the next nominee for their party. But to us, right now, they were a hugely important part of the puzzle in our quest to secure the nomination for the candidate of our choosing.
As CEO of an organization that required constant vigilance, I didn’t do monthly meetings, I didn’t do weekly—I did daily.
I didn’t micromanage, but I made sure people weren’t squirreling around doing nothing but bullshit either. They were in charge of their own tasks, but when I came calling with questions, they’d better goddamn answer them.
Hare had been leading the on the ground “assault” as it were, campaigning for King with some nearly legitimate tactics. It was obviously easier to secure the nomination with actual votes than with an elaborately calculated miscount, but even that took some serious doing. Nothing about this plan was easy, but that’s why I was the one doing it. Things others found impossible, I found stimulating.
Give me your challenges, your failures, your struggling masses—I’ll triumph over them all.
“We’re in fairly good shape. We’ve got information on forty of them. I’ve spoken to all forty and convinced them quite resoundingly that King is the candidate for them…or else.”
“And?”
“And that only leaves about four thousand others.”
“Great,” I muttered, rubbing at the headache forming behind my eyes. “So where are we on the software?”
If we couldn’t guarantee our outcome with simple, old-fashioned bribes for the delegates, we’d need something that could artificially sway the numbers.
We’d known this all along, and we’d been working on a program that would be subtle enough not to raise suspicions, but effective enough to do the job—to get King elected—for months. Eric Queen was the point man on this, and I was hoping he had good news. I needed to know we had everything in place.
It wasn’t an easy feat by any means, but Wonderland, Inc. didn’t pride itself on taking the easy road. Nor did we ever back away from a challenge. I’d been preparing our IT team for years to pull off something like this. Carefully, hand-selected computer geniuses that I’d chosen and pulled in under the umbrella of our organization. There were six of them in total—four male and two female. They were all under the age of twenty-six, all of them Ivy League grads, and all possessed the ability to hack into any system in the world.
Hell, last year, in their fucking spare time, those little bastards had hacked into a popular gaming app and made it so that Wonderland, Inc. received two cents on every transaction. I was amused to say the least, but I shut that shit down quickly. When it came to computer hacking, I didn’t fuck around, and I only utilized that route when necessary. Greed without perspective and restraint can ruin anything.
“The computer team says they’re close,” Eric advised. “Should have it worked out by the end of this month.”
“That’s good since we’ve only got two until the nomination,” I retorted sarcastically. I’d been riding his ass for months, and every time I propositioned him for answers, he deferred that they were coming.
Everyone else laughed.
“What about the rabbit?” Eric asked, referencing Alex and what she may or may not have overheard, his jaw grinding noticeably over being embarrassed in front of the room.
“I’m handling it,” I told him. The “it’s none of your fucking business” was silent, but absolutely clear in the tone I’d used.
Jaybird’s eyes narrowed at my vagueness, but he could fuck right off. I moved the letter opener from one side of my desk to the other casually, but he didn’t miss it—just as I suspected he wouldn’t. He swallowed and sat back in his seat.
I grinned internally.
“All right. What about—” I started to ask when the shrill ring of Mickey Moosa’s phone echoed off the marble floors.
“Sorry, Matt,” Mickey apologized, pulling his phone from his pocket—to set it on silent if he didn’t want a bloody fucking nose. He looked like an average wealthy guy—well-tailored suits and a well-kept but bland overall appearance, but it was when he executed the simplest of tasks that you could tell he was somewhat clumsy.
“Uh,” he muttered nervously when he caught sight of the screen. “It’s her.”
“Her?” I asked sternly, watching as all the eyes in the room swung back and forth between us.
“The rabbit,” he answered.
My eyebrows pulled together as white-hot anger spread through my chest. The look on my face must have held the same intensity because Mickey looked about ready to shit himself. I wanted to know why the fuck she was calling him. Right fucking then.
He wasn’t surprised to be hearing from her, and yet, I was. That wasn’t h
ow our hierarchy worked, and Mickey knew it.
I’d given the order to move her out of that shithole and over to a place where I could keep track of any trouble she might cause, and I was the one who should be getting reports with anything she did of note. Apparently, Mickey didn’t properly understand his role as her fake landlord.
It’d been almost a week since the party, and I’d dreamed of her in that dress every fucking night. Call it possessive, but I didn’t relish the idea of Mickey getting one-on-one phone chats with her and not telling me about it. Quite honestly, the idea of that had me pissed the fuck off.
“She keeps calling me. Constantly.”
“About what?” I demanded as the ring kept on.
“Complaints. Issues. Carpet color. I don’t know. You name it, she’s calling about it.”
“She’s complaining about the new apartment?” I asked. My face was neutral, but fuck if I wasn’t laughing on the inside. Her new place was about a thousand steps up from her last, and she’d been on the cusp of getting evicted. Now, she was complaining.
The ringing stopped then, his phone finally rolling the call to voice mail as he nodded. “Yeah.”
“Stay,” I told him simply, looking to the others and dismissing them with a nod. They filed out one by one until the only bodies left in my office were Cal, Mickey, and me.
“Call her back,” I ordered as Cal stepped forward to take a seat next to Mickey. “Put it on speaker.”
He did as told, dropping the phone onto the front of my desk and leaning forward to make sure she’d be able to hear him.
“Hello?” she answered on the third ring.
“Alex, it’s Mike McConnell.”
“Mike?” Cal mouthed at me teasingly. I shook my head.
“Oh, Mike,” Alex responded, her voice turning instantly more bitter.
I bit my lip to stop myself from saying something.
“What can I do for you?” Mickey asked, looking back and forth between me and the phone. I jerked my head to the phone. Pay attention to her, you fuckwit.
“We need to talk about a few things.”
“All right. I’m listening,” Mickey answered.
“First of all, I thought the rent was going to remain the same as my old place. That was the deal, and I don’t like being messed with just because I’m a woman.”
My eyebrows drew together, and Mickey waved frantically at me as he responded to her. “The rent is the same. Nine hundred a month.”
“I was paying seven hundred for the old place, and you know it.”
Mickey’s eyes were wide as he mouthed to me, “No, she wasn’t.”
He was afraid of me, I got it. I even enjoyed it most days. But I wanted him to focus on the phone call and stop worrying about me, for fuck’s sake. I knew her old rent. I knew every fucking thing about her.
I nodded, mouthing, “I know,” back to him.
“I was fairly certain it was nine hundred,” he returned, and her voice turned antagonistic.
“I think I know what I was paying better than you. I’ve been paying it for nearly a year of my life, okay? Not to mention the fact that my cat, Deena, has had severe anxiety since you forced me to uproot her from the only home she’s ever known, and the carpet is an awful cream white. I would never choose to have white carpet with a cat. That’s insanity.”
Fucking cat anxiety. God, she was something. Pure and moral but conniving all the same.
Mickey started to argue with her, so I gestured to Cal with a flick of my fingers. He smacked Mickey on the back of the head for me and got his attention.
“Tell her you’ll call her back,” I murmured softly enough that I knew she wouldn’t hear me.
Mickey held my eyes as he said, “Okay. I’ll take all of that under advisement, discuss it with management, and get back to you.”
“I’ll expect your call quickly and for the rent to be prorated.”
“You haven’t paid yet,” Mickey argued.
I reached forward and pushed end on the call.
“Don’t fucking argue with her,” I told him as soon as I was sure the line was clear.
“But her rent was—”
I stood up swiftly. “Don’t fucking argue with me either, Mick.” My voice cut right through the room like a knife.
“Okay. I’m sorry, Matt,” he agreed easily, his face openly apologetic.
“Give her whatever she wants.”
“Whatever she…” He started to question and then, when my eyes darkened from amber to a more dangerous brown, thought better of it. “Okay. Whatever she wants.”
He stood from his seat and headed for the door after I jerked my head in dismissal, but I called his attention back as he reached for the knob.
“And Mick?”
His eyes met mine.
“Tell Eric I want the software ready in three weeks, no more. That’s a more than generous amount of time.”
He pulled his lips in on one another but nodded and then stepped outside the door.
“I thought he was going to piss himself,” Cal commented dryly.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, stop.”
“Scary Matt Hadder,” he teased good-naturedly. Cal was the only one who saw me for what I was. He could tell when I was serious and when I wasn’t, and more than that, he could tell when I was simply being what someone needed me to be. The guys needed a strong hand. With the amount of wealth and opportunity that rested at the fingertips of every member of the Wonderland organization, the only way to curb temptation was with genuine fear. Sure, I played the part, but I wasn’t entirely monstrous. The proof lay in things like “all medical expenses covered” health care for Wonderland, Inc. employees and their families. College funds for their children. Generous salaries and even more generous benefits. I might’ve instilled fear to keep things in order, but I wasn’t a total tyrant. No one would stay around if there weren’t perks to match every demand.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the party schedule for the next two weeks. I scanned the list of clients and themes and settled on one that I thought would be the best training experience for Alex. Ari Simon’s event for charity.
Not only would some of the experiences be more closely monitored behind closed doors, but it would serve as a good lesson for her on the blurry line separating good and bad.
Often, the distinction between the two—or the lack thereof—was one of the hardest discrepancies for people to accept on the transition into Wonderland. They’d often spent their whole lives being told the opposite.
Cal sat silently and watched as I pulled my phone from my breast pocket and texted Alex the details of her first party.
“She’s going to do well,” Cal reassured without being asked. I glared at him, but he just laughed.
“I can tell you care, but no one else can. Don’t worry.”
“Why do you like this one so much?”
Cal smirked. “Why do you?”
I TUGGED AT THE SKIN of my wrist as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It barely stretched, it was so taut over the flesh beneath it, but it still soothed me. Almost as if it slowed the blood pumping vigorously toward my fingers. I wasn’t sure where I learned it or when it’d become a habit rather than an occasional thing, but I’d been doing it for as long as I could remember all the same.
Red lipstick still visible and not on my teeth? Check.
Hair okay? Check.
Sexy yet classic black cocktail dress still in place and not flashing an inadvertent nipple? Check.
From the outside, I was pressed, primed, and ready to go.
But on the inside? I was fighting the urge to flee this mansion and buy a one-way ticket to Mexico.
Tonight was my first party as a cocktail waitress officially employed by Wonderland, and I couldn’t shake my nerves. Cripes, I’d been dealing with this constant nervous tension rolling around inside my body since Matt had offered me a permanent position a few days ago. It’d been a short and to the point kind of conversa
tion via text, but I was finding that Matt Hadder wasn’t the type of man to beat around the bush. He might have been sexy and charming as hell, but he most certainly didn’t waste his time with small talk and common pleasantries.
Basically, he’d gotten straight to the point, and I’d had a knee-jerk reaction of yes. The word had flowed from my fingers before my brain could even process what was happening.
And now, here I stood, staring at myself in the reflection of a mirror inside of a marble and gold-plated bathroom. I clenched my trembling hands to try to make them stop. When they didn’t, I stared at the ceiling and then myself, and then I ran that mindless circuit again.
I felt like the outcome of tonight could mean the difference between Louboutins and ramen. The irony was, it was all occurring inside what had to be an over thirty-thousand-square-foot estate in affluent Bel Air. The owner: Ari Simon—owner of Hollywood’s biggest film production companies, along with a dozen other profitable companies within the entertainment industry. The reason for the party: charity.
Some of the country’s wealthiest had all gathered inside this mansion tonight to raise money for the greater good—specifically the poverty-stricken of the world under the umbrella of various charitable organizations, including one that aided Syrian refugees.
It all looked good on paper, but if this party resembled anything like the first Wonderland party I’d attended, it was safe to say what lay beneath the surface would make most average people question society’s moral compass.
But I had a job to do, one that I was getting paid very generously for, and obviously, one that was providing much-needed money.
I wasn’t sure what was motivating me to continue to follow this unknown path down the circle of crazy that was Wonderland, Inc. Curiosity? Desperation? The instant answer was yes, a little bit of both.
The age-old saying was true. Desperate times did call for desperate measures.
Obviously, I wasn’t in the financial position to turn my back on the opportunity Matt Hadder had bestowed. It was easy to overlook things—drugs, prostitutes, illegal activity—when life had already handed you a plate full of crap.