Pete pokes his head out of the cockpit and tells us we’re ready to taxi. We should be cleared for takeoff momentarily, since it’s now 3 a.m.
“Buckle up, Buttercups. We’ve got serious work ahead of us. You know I ask a lot of you and I’m sorry for the early hour, but I also compensate you well. You’ll be given an extra bonus if we nail these fuckers. By the way, this one stays under the radar.”
The jet taxis toward the runway and we’re soon taking off into the dark sky. It won’t be long before we fly into the sun. The team starts making calls. I have one man in particular I want to contact so I make the call.
“Mr. Kirkland. Are you in New York already?”
“Not yet, Rashid, but I’m enroute. I need you to do something for me.” I explain the situation and tell him exactly what I need.
“The videos I’ve already taken care of. They have been removed. But it may take a day for me to locate the phones.”
The tension flows out of me somewhat. “Thanks, Rashid. I’m glad Wyatt got in touch with you. We’ll be staying at The Plaza if you can’t get in touch with me by phone.”
“Certainly, Mr. Kirkland.”
As soon at Pete says we’ve cleared ten thousand feet, Mike shows up with coffee and breakfast. Emily smiles her gratitude. So do I. She is a grouch when she’s hungry and her brain is not worth a shit. Leland declines the food but asks Mike to come back in five with a coffee refill. I ask for an extra breakfast, while Misha, who appears meek, nods her thanks, but everyone knows she’s the most vicious attorney in the country.
This is a top notch team on this jet. If we were to crash, the entire Hollywood entertainment industry would be in a fucking jam because there would be no one worth a shit to fix their fuck-ups. Usually I don’t have these emotionally charged feelings, but Midnight Drake has had more than her share of hard knocks. In a way, she reminds me of my friends, Prescott and Weston. Every time she gets knocked to the ground, she pops back up with her fists raised and clenched, ready to fight whoever’s trying to push her down. Whoever did this to her will pay. I’ll see to it.
My phone beeps and I see it’s a text from Wyatt. I open it up and it’s all the videos. Holy mother fucker. These are worse than hardcore porn.
“Gather round kids. We are on DEFCON 1.” Then I press play. The women are affected the worst. And these ladies are tough as nails. But I want them pissed as hell and the goal has been accomplished.
Misha nearly flies out of her seat and starts swearing. “Mother fuckers are going down. Harrison, I want to personally cut their balls off. Look at her. Just look at her. She’s fucking unconscious. She doesn’t even know where she is. That is disgusting.”
Emily takes over where Misha leaves off. “They should be castrated. Anyone who does that to a woman doesn’t have the right to a dick or balls. What slimy assholes. And how can that other woman participate? When can I get my hands on their dicks to personally rip them from their bodies.”
“Okay, ladies, let’s control ourselves here. We need our best brain-power and I won’t have that if you’re angry. Calm down.”
After the smoke no longer billows out of their nostrils and they’ve settled back down, I explain what Rashad said. “You both know he’s like a bloodhound when I put him on a task. He’ll find their phones and when he does, we’ll have one of the guys bring them in. We’ll … handle them appropriately.”
Misha’s brow shoots up. “Handle them? I want them on the bottom of the East River.”
“Misha, we’re not in the business of killing people. You’re losing sight of our purpose. We need to clean it up for Midnight and get things back on track. I need to find out what Midnight’s contract states and if Alta can drop her. I thought we checked for that after her last little issue.”
Her chest heaves with anger. But she nods and Emily says, “Yeah, our anger is making us forget that Midnight is our mission, not the dickfaces. We can worry about them later.”
“Right. So, this is what we need. Emily, work on getting her into rehab. People are very forgiving about someone with a drug problem.”
Emily’s brow furrows. “But that’s admitting she has one when she doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. Even though the videos were pulled, they were on long enough for people to have screen shots of that shit. Their impressions are solid. We can say she doesn’t have a problem until we’re blue-faced, but they won’t believe us and we need credibility. The best way to move forward is to ask forgiveness. But in the meantime, Misha, we will go after those men and get a confession. That way we get a double whammy and when Midnight gets out in thirty or sixty days, the public will be dying to see her. They will crawl all over her and want her as back just like they want icing on cake. If Alta drops her, they’ll get down on their hands and knees, beg her to come back and we may even arrange for an increase in her contract fees. Oh, and Leland, get to work on her apology speech. Relate it somehow to her tragic childhood. Do we know anything about that? If not, dig up something. I don’t care if it’s about a cat that died and she never grieved appropriately. Make it heart wrenching and emotional as shit.”
The team goes to work, while I do a little research on Midnight. She started out in the porn world, like some actors do, trying to get noticed. She got noticed all right. Long black hair with eyes to match, I wouldn’t exactly call her a raving beauty. She is, however, unforgettable. There’s something about her that screams sex. She’s definitely not your average girl next door. Having been cast in the kind of rolls that not many mainstream female actors usually want, Midnight is willing to spread her wings and try anything. Apparently at one time, she also spread her thighs a little too much. That may be what’s gotten her into trouble. But it seems like the girl can’t get a break. Then I stumble upon something that makes me do a double take. Born in Phoenix, her birth name was Velvet Summers.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say out loud.
“What?” they all ask.
“Did you know Midnight’s birth name was Velvet Summers?”
“Oh, yeah. Her porn flick name wasn’t fake,” Leland tells me.
“How did I not know this?”
Misha shrugs. “Don’t know. We have a copy of of her birth certificate.”
“Who the fuck names their kid Velvet Summers?” But after I say it, I think of my best friend, Weston’s wife. Her name is Special. Who names a kid that?
“Yeah, people are weird,” Emily says.
I keep reading and find some interesting facts. Midnight’s mother was a dancer, and not the type you’d bring home to meet your mother. She ended up in foster care but then fell off the radar when she was seventeen. It looks like she never even finished high school. Maybe she really did have a tragic upbringing. Her mother died ten years ago, when she was only fourteen, so perhaps that’s why the foster care. There’s no mention of a father in the picture anywhere. The plot thickens even further.
Emily announces she’s gotten Midnight into one of the premier rehab facilities in the country. Located in Arizona, it has a spa like atmosphere. She’ll be secluded from the Hollywood gossip and the rest of the world for a minimum of thirty days.
“It’s pricey, but worth it, I believe. The reviews are astounding,” Emily says.
“Good. We’ll drop her off on our flight back to LA,” I say.
Misha announces our legal team in New York is ready for us and we will be having a press conference.
I have to laugh. “Maybe we need to discuss this with Midnight first.”
“Oh, don’t worry, boss. I’ll get her on board. By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be as eager to crush the balls of those men as I am.”
What they don’t know is I’m going to have first dibs at those mothers and by the time the girls have their chance, those shits won’t have any more balls to crush. It’s one thing to fuck with someone who can defend themselves but to go after a girl you’ve drugged and raped? That’s inexcusable and I’’ make sure they pa
y for it.
A Sneak Peek from A Special Obsession
Prologue
Special
The text had me scrambling to get out to L.A. I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I arrived, but she’d been my best friend since first grade, and we swore always to be there for each other, no matter what. I knew she’d been through every avenue to tame her addictions, but the demon of drug abuse invaded her soul like the devil it was. None of the interventions had worked, and two years ago when I finally walked away, I’d been determined to stay out of her messy life of addiction. It had broken my heart worse than anything, but it was tough love, or that’s what they say.
Except life isn’t always what it seems. The old saying about walk a mile in my shoes nailed me right in the gut when I was caught off guard by her call a few weeks ago.
“I’m in trouble, Spesh.”
This was nothing new for Sasha. Drugs had caused her all kinds of trouble since we were teenaged girls.
“What kind?”
“The real bad kind.” Her voice shook, and it scared me something fierce.
“Sasha, you talking the kind where you need to get help again? Like the hospital kind? Because you know I don’t have much money to spare since I just opened the bar.”
“I wish. I don’t need your money. It’s way worse than what you’re thinking. I did something really stupid this time.” She cleared her throat. Her voice had an edge to it I’d never heard before.
I scooted forward in my seat and asked, “What’s going on?”
“I…I—” There was a loud banging in the background. “I gotta go.”
“Sasha, wait.” It was too late. She’d hung up on me. Sighing, I stared at my phone for a full minute before getting back to work, but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Something was up, and I questioned whether or not I should call her parents. Then I recalled what happened the last time I did. They told me never to mention her name again. Nix that idea. So I played the waiting game. One day turned into two, with at least a dozen of unanswered texts.
Finally after five days, she called again. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Sasha, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“If I tell you, it could put you in a real bad place too.”
What the hell does that mean? I took a frustrated breath. “Do you want me to come out there and bring you home?”
“I’m scared. I think I’m gonna die.”
“Sash, don’t say that.”
“No, no, listen to me. I know you’re probably thinking I’m overreacting, Spesh, but I swear I’m not. I need you to do something for me. There’s this, this thing … if something happens to me.” Panic laced her voice.
“You’re talking crazy now.” I tried to calm her, but she kept insisting something terrible was going to happen. Only she wouldn’t give me any information and then she hung up.
Another week passed before I got an emergency text.
I need you to come here. Please! There are some things you need to know. My apartment. As soon as you can. Hurry!
And that was it. I tried to call, but her phone went straight to voicemail. I almost called the police, but something warned me not to. That was how I found myself running through LAX toward the rental car buses. I had to get to my best friend—the girl who I’d known as long as I could remember—to see what had gone so terribly wrong.
When I finally parked in the lot of her apartment complex, I checked my phone. I wanted to make sure this was it. My GPS directed me here, and even though it didn’t surprise me to see how seedy it was, I rubbed my arms as my skin itched with fear. My heart pounded out a rock-hard beat that traveled up to my cheekbones and almost made my teeth rattle. The sun had long since set, and it was more than a little creepy walking up the rusty metal steps leading to her second floor apartment. Wasn’t she scared living here? I damn sure would be.
When I got to her door, I held up my fist to knock, but one touch pushed the door open. It was pitch-dark inside, so I reached in and felt the wall next to the door, hunting for a light switch. When I flipped it on, the sight froze me in fear. Her apartment had been completely trashed. I didn’t get farther than the doorway, but everything in her tiny living area was in shambles. Broken pieces of furniture lay in scattered piles, and her couch had been ripped apart with the stuffing torn out. The scene was so frightening, I hightailed straight back to the car.
“Sasha, what in the hell did you do?” I murmured.
On a scale of zero to ten, my anxiety level was at one hundred.
About a couple of months back, Sasha had texted me a number to call in case anything happened to her. At the time, I thought she was overreacting; now I wasn’t so sure. The person who answered gave me explicit instructions. I was supposed to go directly to this individual’s home and not stop or speak to anyone. It was imperative I do exactly as she said. I was to monitor my rearview mirror to make sure no one was following me. If I thought I was being tailed, I was to continue driving until I reached a point of safety. When I finally made it to the destination safely, I could never have imagined in a million years what I was stepping into. Sasha could never have prepared me for this, for what awaited me, or for what I would gain in the process. I didn’t know whether to scream or to jump for joy. But I did know one thing. My life would never be the same again.
Chapter One
Special
Three Years Later
Jeb leans over and asks, “Special, what are we gonna do about that one?” He gestures toward the corner booth, which holds the imposing figure of an extremely inebriated man. His head rests flat on the table, forehead planted firmly in place, and it’s obvious he’s not going anywhere, any time soon.
“Aw, fuck. Who kept serving him?” I ask.
“Josie. I think she was hoping … you know.” He waggles his thick brows.
“Dammit. I’m gonna have a talk with her. She keeps hoping with every guy who walks in this bar. This isn’t a damn whorehouse.”
Jeb chuckles. “Yeah, you better talk to her real quick then, ’cause her attire has been leaning more toward hooker than waitress lately.”
Running a hand over my sweaty hair, I shake my head in disgust. “The hell. I’ve been so busy, I honestly haven’t noticed. That bad, huh?”
“Spesh, I don’t know how she works in those damn shoes she wears. You’d think she was working the strip in Vegas.”
“Oh, God.” The groan I let out lasts for a minute. I’m frustrated because it’s difficult getting good help these days, and I’m working my ass off keeping this bar running. Not that I’m in financial trouble. It’s the opposite. Business has been fantastic, and that’s the problem. I need good, reliable staff, not the kind that are here to pick up men.
“Maybe you should cut back on the hours you serve food,” Jeb suggests.
“You know that’s where I make a ton. It’s a cash cow. When the customers have too much to drink and need some food to soak up the alcohol, they turn to the late night menu.”
“Yeah, but you’re running yourself ragged.”
“No, shit. That’s because I can’t seem to find solid help, besides you.” I check the time; it’s two forty-five in the morning. “Let me finish cleaning up back there,” I gesture toward the kitchen, “and then maybe that dumbass will rouse enough so we can order him an Uber or something.”
“All right. I’ll get the bar taken care of.”
When I’m done making the stainless steel in the kitchen gleam, I step back up front. Jeb is standing next to the booth where the dude is passed out.
“Any luck?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron.
“Nope. But he’s not your average poor motherfucker, I can tell you that much.”
“What makes you say that?”
Jeb laughs. “Check out his watch.”
A brief inspection gives me no hints. “Okay. What about it?”
“It’s a Patek Philippe.”
�
�Aside from the fact I can’t pronounce it, what, is it like a Rolex or something?”
He laughs again. “Let’s say you could probably buy a dozen Rolexes for what he paid for that one.”
I shoot a look at Jeb. “And how would you know? You don’t even wear a watch.”
He shrugs. “I’ve always had a fascination for them, and the reason I don’t wear one is because I can’t afford the ones I want to own.”
Jeb is older, maybe in his late forties, though I’ve never asked. When I opened this place a few years ago, he came looking for a job and said he would be my most loyal employee. He’s been with me ever since and has lived up to his promise. I’ve learned a little about him, not a whole lot though, but maybe somewhere in his past he had money. He doesn’t have much now, or at least I don’t think he does. Jeb is a wealth of knowledge, from trivia to how to change the locks on the doors, and he looks out for me. I still can’t believe my luck in finding him.
He interrupts my musing and says, “But that’s not the only reason.”
“What else?”
He holds something up between his fingers and thumb. “Well, holy cow. Now I do know what that is.” It’s a black American Express. Imprinted on it is Weston M.C. Wyndham, V. “Yeah, this dude is definitely Mr. Money Bags. Did you check out his name? So what’s he doing in a place like this? Not that my place is a dive or anything.” And it’s not. But it’s not what you’d call a high-class club, either.
“Who knows? Maybe he decided to check it out for something different.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that. But most people have a drink or two. They don’t get completely plastered and pass out on the table.”
“True. So, what should we do?”
“Did you check him for a wallet or a driver’s license?”
“Yep, nothing except the AMEX, a key fob, and a big wad of cash,” he says.
Chasing Vivi Page 34