CALLIE (The Naughty Ones Book 1)

by Kristina Weaver

  This has been my passion since the day I walked into one of the poorest neighborhoods in the District and witnessed the suffering of the children, mothers and the elderly living there.

  Those lives are ruled by poverty and fear of the gangs that run the place. It is appalling to think that a mother with three kids and no help is forced to support them all working seventy hours or more a week, just to get shaken down by some little punk who wields a gun.

  I’m not altogether altruistic though—never think that. I’d come to that neighborhood following Remy Harrow, a woman I have wanted since I was seventeen and invisible; a woman who probably doesn’t even remember me or even know I still exist.

  As a social worker, she travels all over the District, doing what she can for families in need. I understand that; I lived that life not too long ago myself, but I find it unacceptable to have my woman traipsing around in that shithole.

  So I’d bought the neighborhood bit by bit, greasing palms and calling in favors to get it, every last mile.

  And I’ve spent the last year and a half working my crews to the brink, rebuilding and turning the place into a gated community. All that’s left now is for the people to move from the cramped apartment building I’d moved them into, and ensure that the community gets adequate policing to keeps the gangs at bay.

  Now that that is done, and I can be somewhat assured of Remy’s safety while she does her job, I can move on to the real issue at hand, my Holy Grail. The one goal I’d set higher than all others and have done all of this for.

  I can move ahead with ruining Remy’s life so that the only option—the only person—she has to turn to is me.

  I’ve wanted her for years; I have worked tirelessly to get here, and now that I have, I have no intention of stopping. By this time next year, Remy will be mine.

  My lover.

  My wife.

  My slave.

  Chapter 2

  Remy

  God, what a freaking day!

  “Did you see that place Rem! It is freaking awesome. Mrs. Childers gave me a tour of the three-bedroom that was built on her old property, and I swear it’s bigger than my apartment.”

  I smile and listen to Liv as she starts rhapsodizing about a gated community that was sponsored by a billionaire mogul who’d seen the place and gone nuts about the elderly and single mothers having to live in unhealthy and dangerous conditions.

  I’d agreed wholeheartedly with his assessment since it was my job to go into that shit-pile everyday to check up on the families and report on the living conditions and welfare of all the kids under my care.

  I’d even bought a bottle of cheap wine and gotten drunk to celebrate when they’d temporarily moved them all to an apartment building and started bulldozing things to the ground.

  Having never lived in such circumstances, I’d been shocked—and remain so—at the lack of basic amenities that many people actually live with on a daily basis: things like hot water, a yard to play in, and above all else, safe streets.

  Just a week before, my husband, Brian, had asked me to quit after a gang member threatened me when he thought I’d report him for using little kids to run drugs.

  And then Mr. Chase Alexander Marshall had announced his intentions. It still boggles my mind to think that a man can be so rich that he bought three blocks of run-down and neglected real estate in Washington, and then tore it to the ground with the intention of not only rebuilding and giving the families quality homes, but that he’d struck a deal and started a campaign with the MPDC to add additional patrols to safeguard those who will live there.

  The anti-crime and drug campaign is a solid one that went all the way to the council and came out the other end victorious.

  Not only didn’t I have to quit my job, but the news had given me a new lease on life. So much so that I’d finally told my husband that I wanted a divorce.

  He’d refused, of course, and gone straight to my parents with the scandal. So my new lease had been short lived and unsuccessful but for that one brief second I’d felt good enough to conquer the world.

  Now, I’m going home to a man I loathe; a man who thinks nothing of taking his mistress to the very same country club I’m forced to attend on weekends for the ritual Sunday brunch with our parents.

  Every Sunday, I am forced to choke down my breakfast and my gall when Brian loves up on me and puts on a show for them all, pretending to give a shit about me.

  The bane of my existence, and the one thing I don’t care about. Well, I suppose I care enough to hate it, but there you have it.

  That’s all my life is.

  I’m the wife of an up-and-comer—the next big thing in politics. I’m the arm candy from a good background and a father who sees nothing wrong with that.

  Stupid: that’s what I am since I did this to myself. I’d spent senior year of high school and all of college mooning over my boyfriend, putting on this image so that he could get where he wanted to be and use my wholesomeness as a cover.

  The ex-QB and golden boy, soon to run for senate and still too immature to realize that there’s more to life than parties, prestige and bragging about his last game.

  As if it didn’t happen years ago.

  “What’s up hon? I thought you’d be happy about today’s move.”Liv asks, pulling me back to the present.

  I sigh and lean back in my chair, looking over the small office Liv and I share, and wish for the millionth time that some schmuck hadn’t decided that light gray and mustard was a color combo made in heaven.

  “Oh, I am Liv, really I am. I just hope this whole project is a success and that the powers that be don’t lose interest and let it turn into a crime hub again. I saw the place Polly Bates moved into, and it was great—a little two-bedroom with a yard and a small porch out back. It was nothing fancy, but a lot better than what they had.”

  Liv starts talking about every house she’s seen, again, and I tune her out to focus on the issues plaguing me lately: Brian and his mistress, my folks and their cold refusal to help me, the endless lectures I get from them all, and the misery that is slowly starting to eat me alive.

  “He’s so hot though!” Liv gushes and I zone back in, raising a brow.

  “That Marshall guy. You remember, I told you I got to meet him at the ribbon cutting ceremony Well, he is HOT with capitals and freaking glitter too. Dirty blond, not exactly my thing, but that face of his more than makes up for it. And his eyes!” She goes all dreamy and I roll my eyes.

  I’ve never understood why women get so dramatic about the color of a man’s eyes. They’re just eyes, and most of the time they’re nothing special. I, myself, have a set of aqua orbs that others seem to go mad for, and yet when I look in the mirror, it’s all just blah.

  “That’s nice.”

  “Rem! You don’t understand, hon, his eyes are two different colors! One is this really dreamy golden color—like maple syrup—and the other one is a mix of gray/blue that made my knees weak. So freaking—”

  “Hot. Yeah I know.” I snort and catch the peanut she throws at my head between my teeth with a snap and a grin of victory.

  “God. You’re getting really mean the longer I know you. Is that ass still making you miserable? Go ahead and divorce him already.” She mutters, throwing a dart at the photo of Brian that hangs on the board on the right wall.

  His face and shit-eating grin are a pincushion of tiny holes, proving not only her accuracy but how much she detests my husband.

  “You know I can’t. My parents would disown me. About the only way I can get them to see things the way they really are is if I have proof that Brian is cheating. And even then, I don’t think they’d care. Apparently a Harrow always stays the course.”

  “Bastards.”

  I agree, and then dig a box of peanut butter cups out of my drawer, taking great delight in the first bite when I remember them all commenting at dinner the other night that I need to start watching my figure.

  “Yup. So—”<
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  My words die when the phone on my desk starts ringing and I hold up a finger, answering with a smile.

  “Remy.”

  Instead of getting Sylvie, the receptionist from hell, I hear a masculine cough and what sounds like a sigh.

  “Miss Harrow?”

  A shiver races down my spine at the sound of that voice and I pause, pretending for just a split second that I am free to hear the husky sensuality there, before I clear my throat and start breathing again.

  “Yes. What can I do for you?” I ask, rolling my eyes when another dart sails by, pegging Brian square in the left eye.

  “This is Chase Marshall.”

  “Oh, Mr. Marshall, Hi. Er, sorry. I was actually about to call you and offer our appreciation for the great—”

  “Your supervisor gave me your number. We should get together to discuss the programs your department will be working on for the families who live on the property. I’d also like to get your opinion on a youth center I’m considering.”

  At that, I feel a smile bloom and this time when Liv lobs her next dart, I don’t frown. I’m getting a chance to meet the great Chase Marshall, a man I’ve recently idolized to the point of obsession. Rock on!

  “Uh, okay. I have appointments till late tomorrow afternoon, but I can meet you for a quick lunch.”

  I’m reshuffling as I speak because I’m pretty sure forty-five or fewer minutes is not going to cut it with all the ideas I have stored in my brain. The youth center is actually something I’ve been thinking about, and then there’s the park and—

  “Sorry, but it will have to be tonight. I’m inundated with meetings all through tomorrow and the next day. I’ll set up a dinner for, say, seven?”

  “Dinner? Er—”

  “Good then. I’ll email you my address and send a driver.”

  “Driver? No, I have my—”

  The line goes dead without so much as a goodbye, and I’m left staring at the dead phone as the next dart hits Brian’s crotch—deeply.

  “Please tell me you’re having dinner with that hunk of burning love.”

  “I am.”

  Gosh, I am. Now I just need to find a way to explain why I’m missing my anniversary dinner.

  Oh well.

  Chapter 3

  Chase

  “This is cold…even for you.”

  I shrug, not giving two fucks that Gabe’s right, and continue to scan the dossier in front of me. I’ve looked at this thing so many times I don’t need the physical copy to see every word on every page.

  I also don’t need to see the photographic evidence, but I look anyway, needing it to bolster myself—to justify what I’m doing. Maybe to— oh, who am I kidding?

  I look at this file and see every single one of Brian Carson’s transgressions, and I relish knowing that he will soon lose the one thing in his life that is at all worthwhile. And then I'll crow about the fact that she will soon be mine.

  Not yet, though, not until she finally signs those papers she’s had sitting in her desk for over four months. Once her signature is there, I will consider her completely free, and then, well, I’ll take her in every known position my kinky mind can come up with.

  “Look at this. The man is married to a goddess and he’s running around screwing her cousin! How fucked up is that?” I snarl, flicking at the photo with a growl. “Who marries such perfection and taps out to play with a-a—”

  I stop myself because I do not personally know Helena Harrow, but from what I’ve seen, and the ease with which she’s betraying Remy—her own cousin—I don’t much like her.

  That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for her shitty personality though because, let’s face it, they’re making my goals a lot easier to achieve. No way will Remy stay when she finds this out.

  “You’re purposefully setting out to ruin a man.”

  “Yes—as I ruined all the others.” I concede without an ounce of guilt.

  My mission in life since I was forced to leave the U.S. and go back to mum in the U.K. has been to bring down every man who’d fucked with me those last months in high school. I’d spent innumerable hours following their progress, successes and failures and used it all to take from them what they took from me.

  My pride.

  My ability to get back up.

  They’d pushed me to my breaking point and I’d caved, having no choice but to leave my father and scuttle back to my mother, licking my wounds like a fucking beaten dog.

  And I’d let them take something else from me that I will never forgive: my Remy, the girl I’d adored. The girl who’d laughed with me when we’d won debates together and talked about math problems that I got and she could not for the life of her understand.

  We’d been friends of a sort, and I’d loved her even then, if only from afar.

  “Chase, buddy, maybe you should take a break and rethink this. The man is going to be a senator one of these days.”

  “He was going to be a senator. Now he’ll be lucky if he can get elected mayor in some Podunk town.” I mutter, smiling at the thought of the great Brian Carson, the golden boy quarterback, Mr. Popular, falling from grace and forced to crawl away with his tail between his legs.

  “This is—”

  “I told you why I’m doing this, and I don’t give a damn if you agree with me or not. If it was just my pride, I could drop it and walk away, but I won’t rest till every single one of them suffers for what they did to her.”

  That gets me a frustrated sigh, and Gabe pulls at his hair as he paces the carpet in my home office, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

  “She doesn’t even know half of it and she seems just fine all these years later.”

  “Yes, but I know. According to what Weston got, she spent three months on antidepressants and another month with her grandmother in Florida. That makes me think that she didn’t fare too well afterward and then that swine swooped back in and carried on as if nothing had happened—as if he wasn’t involved!”

  The familiar rage boils back up and it takes more than a few minutes to get back under control and calm enough not to go after those men and beat them all to death with my bare hands.

  My late nanna is right though: revenge is more than a quick fix. No, the only way to make them suffer sufficiently is to take away everything they hold dear: money, power and freedom, and watch as they writhe in a cesspool of their own making.

  “Fine, do it, but for God's sake, leave the woman alone. She’s a nice kid. She’s not window dressing, dude.”

  “You think I don’t know that Gabe? I’ve watched her smiling vacantly while that idiot struts around like God’s gift to women for years. She’s not happy with him.”

  Gabe shakes his head and flings off his jacket, loosening his light-blue tie even as he paces to the bar and pours two large snifters of Lagavulin, obviously wound up enough to need a drink at six in the afternoon on a Wednesday.

  I accept mine with thanks and lean back, awaiting his next salvo. The man is a great friend and an even better right hand man, and I can honestly say that he’s been as vital to my success as my driving need for it, but he’s a damn moral compass I don’t need at the moment.

  “You think she’ll be happy with you? You work no less than eighty hours a week, sometimes more if you’re on another tear like you were this week.”

  That’s true. Sleep is not my friend and I can live with four or five hours a night before hitting the gym and then starting my day. Part of that is the driving urgency I’ve started feeling lately.

  Remy’s been married to that jerk forever, and I can’t stand it anymore. Plus, I need to get all of my business squared away so that I can focus on her and her alone.

  She is now my sole focus, the sun that I revolve around, and I won’t let anything interfere, not even the business that has sustained me through the years.

  “I don’t think she’ll be happy with me, Gabe. I know it. But I can ensure that nothing bad ever touches her again.”

&
nbsp; He snorts and rolls his eyes at my conviction.

  “I hate to break it to you, boss, but the woman thrives on walking into bad situations and fixing them. She’s a social worker and crisis counselor; I don’t see her leaving that any time soon.”

  “Which is why I’m going to keep her so busy with the latest projects that she won’t have time for anything but that and me.” I counter, smiling at his eye roll when he downs his drink.

  “Christ, am I glad I’m not someone you’re focused on. Anyone ever tell you you’re scary controlling?”

  “Many times.” I muse, grinning broadly. “I’m happy to report that my confidence hasn’t taken a hit yet.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 4

  Remy

  Gosh. The house is…huge. A massive white colonial monstrosity that takes up a full block, easily, surrounded by rolling green lawns that are so bright green they looked painted on. And my goodness the trees…

  I love trees, especially towering hulks like the ones lining the long drive all the way down to a circular drive that’s dominated by a fountain. I’m officially overwhelmed and cowed at the prospect of meeting the man who owns a place like this.

  “Here we are ma’am.” The driver says after opening the door and offering his hand to help me out.

  “Thanks.”

  I walk up to the door and pause with my fist halfway to the wood, wishing again that I could have gone home and at least changed out of my gray pencil skirt and light pink silk blouse.

  My hair is a total mess of frizzy curls, which I’ve rolled into a messy bun that will have to do because, short off a flat iron and a shitload of gel, nothing good will happen there.

  My gray flats also aren’t what I would wear for a meeting with a billionaire philanthropist, but again, I had no time to do anything but finish up my last meeting at six before rushing to the waiting car Mr. Marshall had sent.

  I’ll have to have the driver drop me back at the office so I can get my car and drive home, so I have transportation in the morning…shit, that’ll make me way later than ten o’clock, and Brian already threw a fit when I called and told him I couldn’t make dinner tonight.