by Elena Monroe
The Hunt was three days, consisting of a dinner filled with networking and gloating, a hunt of those we deemed problems, and a ceremony hailing the abundance we have been blessed with.
Three days of pure, unrivaled bullshit.
If I could sign the guest list and go home, letting them pretend I was there, I would.
The 4H was the party trick of this shit. Parading us around like we were a fucking circus act, born weird, so why not embrace it?
Funny how when you’re the party trick, freak, birth defect, etc., you can’t quite see it that way. You see it in a way that makes you feel like stagnant prosperity.
ABIGAIL
Jus and I shared an apartment in Venice. It was modest and big enough that it didn’t feel like we were colliding every minute or breaking the bank.
She was a good roommate in all her rebel vibes glory. She was always fighting some great injustice, which made her name kind of ironic, but everyone was afraid to make that joke. I was pretty sure she’d find a way to castrate you with just a look.
She wasn’t the kind of tough that was built on insecurities or the kind of tough that forced your eyes to roll back with annoyance at every soaked-in-sarcasm one-liner dropping from her mouth like punches. She was a bad bitch who just learned to use her magic for good.
That’s actually how we met: She was holding a protesting sign outside the town hall. I didn’t pay her much mind until the protesters stopped to berate me for supporting the senator inside where I needed to go… because that made sense.
One of the local officials had been just accused of sexual harassment, and the world hadn’t caught fire yet. Honestly, I was tallying the counts against men, and I thought for sure if we hit a certain number of offenses, we would see the scales tip in our direction.
Now, I wished that were true, but the sad truth of an office of all women and four men in power told me that it didn’t matter how loud we were. We needed to take matters into our own hands.
Jus saved me from the interrogation that day. She was the one that stopped the other women from turning on me, and who knows? She may have even stopped them from throwing food or paint if I didn’t heed their warnings.
“Spill. Why are you not on Vic’s desk anymore?” She uncapped the ice cream pints and dug spoons into the tops as I kicked my heels off.
Today was the most agonizing day of work I’ve had in too long. It dragged on like Vic probably willed it to.
“It’s a long story…” My voice was strained and jaw tight as the thought of explaining it again.
“What did you do to piss him off?”
“Not get in and out of Grimm’s house without being seen. Guess that’s all it takes. I’m not gonna argue with him. It’s their company, and if I like my paychecks, I’ll be quiet and sit pretty.”
“You have more power than you think…”
After taking one bit of the ice cream, I left it on the counter to run a bath. Every part of me was tired from being bored.
Grimm’s offer to join him at some secret event their families do was the most stimulating. He was my boss, and I was determined to have a say in where the lines were drawn this time. I wasn’t letting opportunity and power push me into breaking into someone’s house because my boss said to.
I only knew it was a secret, family, invite-only event, because I was the one who had the invites drawn up. Vic was practically giddy for months thinking of the event.
Fucking weirdo.
Who is excited for family events? Never mind whatever you call an event with their families in the secluded mountains for three days.
No, thanks.
Now that I lived in California with my family back in Chicago, it almost made me regret my own words mocking Vic’s happiness.
Maybe he loved his family.
Maybe they loved him just as much.
Maybe he was the golden boy son who drank up all the proud parent moments.
Maybe his mom and dad honored their bond instead of chastising it out of him.
I had to compartmentalize loving my parents and the trauma they stuck me with.
Stripping out of my business casual clothes, I slipped into the hot water with a sigh escaping my mouth. There was nothing better than a bath. My bath tray was set up with a candle and book, begging me to relax.
Gliding my thumb over the mechanism, I watched the lighter produce a flame and set the wick on fire of my custom-made Wick Wish Candle Co. (also a California resident and local business owner) work of art. Rachel was an angel who hand poured these candles and wax melts that made reading a full sensory overload… in the best way.
The essential oils infused in her voodoo magic filled the bathroom instantly as I melted further down into the steamy water. I hadn’t even picked up my book yet, and I could already feel the day falling off of me.
No phones.
No boys.
No problems.
The bathtub was my safe space. Really, it was the water. That’s how California truly seduced me out here under the guise of modeling.
I just wanted to be surrounded by the water, letting the waves crash against my eardrums, and the constantly beautiful weather, making sure I’d always enjoy the view outside.
Grimm had the perfect view of the ocean with his house up a hill and sitting nudged into a cliff overlooking the whole ocean.
My pull to the ocean was exactly how I got caught in the first place. I was there before the sun even came up. I wasn't sure how that mattered to a guy like Grimm; he looked like the darkness was his friend. Sneaking was easy, I was wearing tie up shoes instead of heels in case he had hardwood floors.
None of that mattered, because I got sidetracked looking out his floor-to-ceiling windows with an ocean view. I felt hypnotized for longer than I meant to be, before I made my way upstairs with his garment bag.
The shower was running, and I knew I had to be quick as I unzipped the bag, fixed any wrinkles, and hung the suit up on the hook that Vic told me would be here.
It didn’t matter how quick you were. If someone like Grimm pulls out a gun, it’s due to how slow you were; it’s a silent alarm that someone is in their space.
Privacy always seems to be big with guys who look and act tough. Not to say he isn’t. I’m sure he would have shot if I was anyone else.
Privacy is a bubble you create for yourself to keep all of the parts of you that you don’t want people to judge safe.
I get it. I have parts of me better left in Chicago.
My mind was still stuck on Grimm. I giggled to myself thinking how different our nights were right now.
He was at some lavish event, rubbing elitist elbows and drinking champagne, while I soaked off the day with my mundane things. It made my mind drift, thinking about what could possibly be the things he deemed mundane, what helped him clear his mind… Did he feel the pull of the ocean too?
After I soaked until my skin wrinkled on the surface, I stood up feeling the cold hug my body from the clear difference in temperature. Reaching for a towel, I wrapped it around me and continued with my robe over the top when his words echoed in my head: …find out who you’re really working for.
I always wondered what we actually did. No one could tell me beyond financial advising, and even our website seemed shrouded in mystery. It was all black with only our logo centered on it; there was no company motto, morals, ethics, bio, or even contact information. You even needed a password to get past the logo.
After I got transferred off the front desk, where I greeted everyone, I was promoted to working for Vic, and I stopped questioning things out loud, just silently in my head now.
It was hard not being loud when every good documentary on Netflix is a mystery waiting for you to solve it in 12 episodes or an hour and a half. Soon you start to see in only mysteries and motives.
This world made us experts at collecting clues and dramatizing everything.
There were habits of being model material I couldn’t leave behind: skin c
are regiment, clean diet, being ultra-aware of my reflection… I wasn’t holding out hope of a dream that had long sailed away, but I had grown accustomed to people seeing me as the success of that dream coming true.
People were always shocked to know I was an assistant for someone in power and not the one wearing angel wings down a televised runway. That’s power and attention rolled up into one. That’s someone who can make decisions, not just take phone calls.
Okay, maybe I held out some hope.
Jus knocked on my bedroom door with a light set of knuckles. My bathroom was the shoe box inside my room, with paper thin walls, so it wasn’t hard to hear her knock.
“Abi? I’m gonna order Thai from DoorDash… you want anything?”
Jus had surprisingly slipped into the lap of luxury from couch surfing when I first met her. After we met up for coffee and stayed in touch, I didn’t think twice about telling her about my position that opened when I left it.
A few weeks later, they sent her a detailed email telling her to cleanse the colors from her hair, cover any tattoos, and invest in a new wardrobe.
Jus, being Jus, didn’t comply with any of it. She still rocked combat boots and pink hair.
I loaned her some clothes and offered her the spare bedroom I was already trying to rent on Craigslist anyways.
That’s how our beautiful friendship started.
“Sure… sticky noodles?” I shouted back, without making my way to the door as I pressed the serum into the ends of my hair.
Feeling empowered, which I always did freshly rinsed and after some self-care, I texted Grimm before it faded.
Me: Monday, what time should I be at work?
It was marked read, but he didn’t reply right away. He didn’t seem the type to text, call, or communicate at all...
Grimm: Kind of busy.
Me: You’re my boss, and I need notice of any schedule changes.
Grimm: Didn’t we go over this? Do what you want.
Me: Well, maybe you should talk to Vic and get me reassigned.
I dropped my phone on my bed, leaving a mystery in his answer, because I knew it wouldn't work out in my favor, no matter how brave I felt.
My life was in shambles, and I didn’t really have anyone to blame. It was easier to blame someone when life went wrong, and when you can’t, it creates a small monster—a monster that eats away at your confidence, motivation, self-worth, and all the things keeping you up right.
Grimm wasn’t going to be the reason I grew another monster under my complexion—one I worked hard on. It was an eight-step Korean regime to be exact.
I was choosing to blame no one and not taking that bait either. It is what it is.
GRIMM
“Jason, be social, son. Everyone is here to meet the horsemen.”
My dad had been gray since I could remember—not salt and pepper, but a kind of light gray that covered his whole head. His age didn’t hinder the power you felt when he walked into the room.
Every man in the room was upper echelon, powerful in their own right, and then you saw my dad. He was the essence of power.
It made you mentally reconsider what you knew as power before you laid eyes on him.
The only thing my dad was proud of was me being the same horsemen he took honor in. The rest of me could be complete shit, and that wouldn’t matter. I could rape every girl I had been with, and he would turn a blind eye if I was still grim and rode the horse of death.
I imagine being in his position isn’t exactly easy either. He grew up in this world the same way I did, where killing someone is just a Tuesday and everything else pales in comparison.
Murder really dulls the senses.
“Please stop calling me Jason…” My teeth gritted, and hearing my birth name roll off his tongue felt fake.
“I will not have you make a scene.” His fingers dug into the sensitive skin above my elbow, and I winced—only on the inside.
I let my features fall back into place, the mask fastened back into place. These three days were just an annoyance, and it would all be over soon. I clamped my eyes shut, trying to picture the spare bottle in the glove box of my car. Xanax brimming to the top. The allure of being a ghost, the sedation of feeling constantly numb, painlessness, and mentally removed.
That was the only thing I was sure of as much as I was the consuming energy of my father—the pain I was born feeling.
Long before the four firstborn sons were sent to learn what carrying our last names really meant, I knew I was different. I wondered what death felt like. I wondered why I had a nagging feeling of pain that had no real source I could find in the depths of my mind. I wondered why I felt numb to the joys of life people seem to chase.
My mom took pity on me when I was seven. She bought me a cat thinking maybe I had anxiety or needed a companion. She was wrong. I didn’t need a companion; however, I did have anxiety. I honestly wasn’t sure anything would have fixed me even if we could all go back.
That was my first taste of death, when I decided to take my cat’s life. It was a high that hit my lungs as I sucked in my pet’s last breath in between my lips. It was a kind of high that Xanax couldn’t stomp out.
The only way to feel that kind of high again was killing.
Too bad I was ignoring the itches, until a name appeared from an anonymous number with a location.
Everything else was a cock tease: choking girls until their hands grasped onto me, begging me to stop, the self-punishment, the skipping doses just to remind myself the pain was still living and breathing...
“Duchess, this is my son, Jason.” My father practically dragged me to the woman’s side. Normally there weren’t many women, let alone my age and as beautiful.
“Pleased, just Jessica is fine. You must be a Rothschild. It’s easy to spot in the eyes.” Her smile stretched, and I felt a sense of calm against her Russian accent.
Anything resembling calm made my shit list. I didn’t want to be calm. I wanted to be satisfied and fixed. People really needed to stop thinking women were the key to all my problems.
My father’s hand slid down her back with such ease I wondered how close they truly were. Maybe he was just interested, and this was how power plays were made.
“Don’t talk much, do you? Typical Rothschild. Silence is the devil you trust; speaking is the temptation you don’t.”
Her voice was raspy, deep for a woman, and her lips were so swollen it made you wonder how you were understanding her with the accent at all. I couldn’t place her accent specifically, maybe a hint of Russian under something else that was presented as polished.
I shrugged. “Not much to say.”
She started walking, and I trailed along in the hopes it meant I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else if I stayed close enough.
“Are you excited for the hunt tomorrow?” She sipped her champagne, and I twisted the top off my bottled water. If I wanted my meds to work, I needed to stay away from alcohol. In my youth, I was reckless enough to not care, and that almost did turn into rape.
When you attend school with three other people you make acquaintances with the townies, and those townies are the life of your private parties. Well, I took double my Xanax that night, thinking whatever the alcohol reacts with means there’s another dose floating around in my body untouched.
Wrong.
It meant the alcohol made me feel out of control, dazed, and confused on another level.
Hormones were another reaction I didn’t account for.
The girls all in bikinis giggled their way into the heated pool, so warm that the steam mixed with the crisp air, shrouding any clarity in a heavy fog. A girl with a beauty mark under her brow took a liking to me. I didn’t really know why when I was exactly who I am now then.
Asshole.
Quiet.
Mentally unstable.
Tattoos warning you to back off.
This girl didn’t care. She pressed against me in the pool, hands gliding up my chest an
d abs under the water until my hormones shrieked with pain.
She could give you all the hints, be naked and touching you, but you still had to ask if you’re sure… which I didn’t.
It was my fault it went further than she expected. It was my fault when she ran out of my room and cried to her friends I tried to rape her. It helped create the monster inside me that has its own set of urges and demands.
Now I stick to water. No alcohol.
Now I wait for women to ask me if I’m sure.
Now I kill people so the bad doesn’t lean into rape or mistakes I can’t take back.
“Want a drink?” The blonde with the hint of Russian in her voice asked me, with her hand resting on my forearm.
“I don’t drink.” Moving away from her touch, I saw her neutral mouth fold into a frown.
Leaning in, like this was a game, she asked me, with her lips against my ear, “What do you do for fun?”
Giving her a playful smirk with my eyebrows tense, she laughed into me. I could smell her sweet clove cigarettes and the warmth radiate off of her icy skin. She was the opposite of my new secretary. Jessica was a friend of the devil himself, and Abigail was an angel.
I was walking a line between these two, wedged uncomfortably and not by choice.
“Have you seen them? I heard they keep them on the property.”
She was practically giddy as we stepped through the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors leading out to the balcony that spanned across half of the house with two staircases on either side. This spot overlooked the whole compound. The fountain, the perfectly manicured trees, and the lush grass rubbed in the kind of wealth that belonged to whoever owned this place.
Fuck a drought, right? That was in the category of not affecting the 1%-ers.
Us.
Ignoring every question, I didn’t expect her hand to cover mine and her lips to chase mine.
I still let her. Human interaction in small doses was recommended by my therapist, and thinking of Abigail had my cock stirring.
She wasn’t even scared as the gun pointed towards her. Her thick eyebrows stayed in place, expressionless, staring at me, like I wasn’t scary at all.