Just fake—everything.
Fake conversations. Fake smiles. Fake hairpieces. Fake shelves packed into fake knock-off dresses made by fake legal workers—undoubtedly children—in some factory in a foreign country.
Fucking fake—I can’t stand that shit.
I have made an appearance, and that is enough to say Monroe Consulting cares.
We don’t.
And neither do I.
That’s fucking fake as well, and that makes me a hypocrite because I happen to enjoy the authentic dollars they put in my bank account—so I fake it.
Perfectly sensible, right?
Wang is causing all kinds of trouble with the bridesmaids, and I think he may end up taking all nine of them back to his hotel room for an old fashioned gang bang.
Despite the lackluster attendees, the reception’s remote location is fantastic, with a cliffside view of the ocean and big beautiful trees dotting the landscape.
The white waves draw my attention.
I’d rather be out on a sailboat than hobnobbing with this elitist bunch. I do not need to stay for the cutting of the cake—overpriced and rather gaudy—or the toss of the garter—probably fragrant with plenty of hoe-logne.
While I have been known to dance, I won’t amongst this crowd because no one is worth the honor. I polish off my second bourbon and depart from the table with proper niceties.
On my way to the nearest exit, I loosen my tie and undo a few buttons on my shirt before popping my sunglasses on. The sun is too bright, too happy, too cheerful for me.
A white delivery van blocks the main path as I rush to detour around the back and bound my six-three frame into a petite woman carrying a full case of wine.
Who am I kidding?
She’s not a woman; she’s a girl—a damn kid.
“Excuse me! Shit! I am so sorry,” I mutter as her enormous hazel eyes flicker with intrigue. They’re mesmerizing spheres of wonder. Her blonde hair is piled high, but a few stray tendrils have fallen to dangle upon her shoulders covered in a sheer white blouse. I notice the peek of white lace in the dip of her cleavage. Her plentiful handfuls bounce as she jars back from unexpectedly running into me.
“I’m sorry!” Her soft feminine voice whispers through the air like a calming breeze soothing my senses and easing my stress. “I parked in the path because I had so many boxes.”
Please don’t ever stop talking.
She’s stunning but far too young. A worker, part of the catering team—the help—and very fucking real. One glimpse of her tiny frame, and I question her ability to carry an entire case of wine alone. I’m not a gentleman, but I am a decent human being.
“Do you need assistance?”
Get away from her, J.
“Nah,” she mutters with a smile trapped beneath the most innocent pink pout I’ve ever seen. “Thank you, though.”
“You don’t even look old enough to drink,” I absentmindedly mumble. She giggles as I notice the logo on the back of the van—The Vinery at The Village. My mind conjures up the possibility of her being the crazy ad girl. I don’t ask about the box again. I carefully remove it from her hands and take the situation into my own.
“I was supposed to have assistants, but they called in sick.”
“How many more boxes?”
“This is the last of fifteen,” she says, leading the way to the kitchen.
And no one thought to help you?
Stop caring, J.
Cease, now.
“Lot of work for one,” I say as she opens the door. “I’m sorry none of these bastards helped you.”
She generously grins. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, setting the box down. “Anytime.”
Do not go there, asshole.
Following me out, she chirps, “Have a good day!”
Dammit, she’s pleasant.
Stripping out of my jacket, I walk to the rental car, trying to put the girl with the mesmerizing eyes out of my mind.
Do not turn around. You know she’s staring. Do not do it.
Glancing back, I catch her waving and smiling. I do nothing but speed away to the nearest gas station with shaky hands. I buy a pack of smokes and a lighter before moving the car to a crowded grocery store parking lot.
Stepping out, I light my first cigarette in almost a decade.
It’s long overdue.
“You can’t look it up…” I mumble, sensing how right my intuition feels. “Hell!” I breathe, pulling my phone from the console and putting in directions to The Village. It’s less than half an hour away. “Don’t do this, J.”
The phone rings in my palm. It’s Axel. “How was the wedding?”
“Disgustingly loving.”
“Did you get laid?”
“No, fuckface, I left early.”
“I’ve been watching rape girl,” he says as I roll my eyes and lay my arms on the roof of the car and rest my head in my hands. Sometimes my brother has a unique way of wording things.
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
“She took the ad down at one point,” he informs what I already knew. “Edited and reposted. This poor girl will end up dead or sold.”
I close my eyes and see hers. “No shit.”
“You need to stop,” he warns, detecting the conflict in my voice. Axel knows me way too well. “You cannot do this.”
“How do you even know I am thinking about it?”
“Because I know you, Jynx, and you’re in Northern California,” he replies, snickering. “This one is screaming your name, but if you go back to being the guy you were at twenty-five, then you might as well give up everything you’ve worked for because you will lose it all.”
“She’s too young,” I excuse, wanting to believe I can stay true to the lie. “I haven’t even thought about the ad.”
I don’t bother to tell him how much I already know.
Or that I haven’t been back to Madame Tilda’s because my leased apartment in Phoenix looks like a stalkers haven.
Or that she didn’t bother to hide her IP address, and I know her entry point, and therefore, her address.
Or that I’ve been in Northern California every weekend for the last month.
I already used up all of my saved tokens in the jar for this one.
And I’m the only one who understands—it’s too late to stop me. The hunger, the craving, the desire—it’s already there. I have been watching and waiting.
“Have you seen her?”
“No,” I say, snarling. I tell myself that the girl at the reception wasn’t her, even though I know it was. Pure accident. Fate. “You seem to think I want to go back to the slammer.”
“You’ve had some issues in the past.”
Issues involving one specific girl over a decade ago.
I should’ve swiped her when I had the chance.
But by that point, it was too late.
I was arrested for stalking.
Her name was Celeste Albatross, and I had been watching over her for years. To most, she was just another nameless nineteen-year-old girl from the wrong side of the tracks.
Four days after my incarceration, a group of guys brutally raped and murdered her in the woods.
I wasn’t a killer.
I was a stalker.
Problem?
I ain’t got one.
At first, I was accused of her murder until the dumbasses realized the timeline didn’t add up. Three days post-mortem, the coroner finally released their estimations that she had been dead for twelve hours when they found her body, and I was behind bars at the time of death.
For three days, they badgered and harassed me.
Three days they could’ve been chasing down the real killer.
Three days they gifted to that bastard.
He escaped.
That son of a bitch got away with it. Enough money and power in Daddy’s back pocket—disappearing wasn’t a challenge.
Charles �
��Chuck” Tullen, Jr.’s father was a senator. And Chuck was also my best friend. He hasn’t been back to the States since, and Celeste wasn’t significant enough to warrant his extradition.
The bandwagon of bad boys—Chuck, Fitz, Vice, Axel, and me—had been hanging out and causing mischief since high school. We broke into empty houses, stealing whatever we could get our hands-on, and selling pretty pills to the kids on campus.
Fitz’s father was the police chief, and he was more concerned about his wife’s deteriorating health battle with MS. His son’s behavior fell by the wayside as he turned the other cheek and looked away.
We agreed from the beginning that we’d never have girlfriends unless we would share. We liked to party—booze and drugs with one hot girl and our five. Typically, the girls were more than willing because we ran the fucking town and had since high school.
I was the instigator, the leader of our bullying brotherhood—stupid teenage boy shit that carried on into young adulthood.
At fifteen, Celeste was the most beautiful girl in town. Unfortunately, she was just as reckless as we were. She loved a party, and I started keeping an eye on her.
Celeste always resisted our advances as a whole, but privately, she and I became friends. She wanted more, but I refused.
For one, I was six years older than her and a troublemaker. And two, I didn’t want to have to share with my heathens.
Instead of dumping my fake friends and having a real relationship with Celeste, I kept an eye on her, which morphed into stalking to keep her safe.
A good guy shrouded in bad.
At night, I fantasized about abducting Celeste, having her all to myself. I quickly found release in private, but I kept my shit in check publicly. I never would’ve hurt her like they did because I was very much in love with Celeste.
Out of spite from my rejection, she reported my valiant, dedicated efforts to the police for the third time—the last time—and Fitz’s father randomly decided to act on it.
Before the night of her murder, I—alone—determined who, when, and where we would hit. My gang should never have been anywhere near Celeste.
Chuck kidnapped Celeste with Fitz and Vice in tow. He drove them out to the woods, where they proceeded to rape, stab, and strangle Celeste. Fitz and Vice confessed to the rape and ratted out Chuck to receive lesser charges. Chuck committed the gruesome killing.
I don’t know if I believe them.
I don’t think about it much anymore.
My brother wasn’t involved in the ordeal because he was busy trying to figure out how to bust me out of jail from the stalking charges. Our parents were living a luxurious life in Europe and building my inheritance—Monroe Consulting.
He wound up calling our drug supplier, Victor Cruz, who was also Deacon’s father and President of the Reckless Rebellion MC. Uncle Victor hired my defense team, but I managed to spend eight months behind bars because I liked to fight.
And at that point, I was pretty damn angry at all that had gone down. My attorney convinced the judge that I was of no danger to anyone because my sole obsession was deceased.
After I was released, I hooked up with a group that ran for RR known as the Tennessee Twelve and never looked back. I took Axel’s ass with me because he didn’t need the bullshit of my parent’s lifestyle any more than I did.
I put in the work.
I sobered up.
I cleaned up.
And I stayed the fuck away from any serious relationships by learning to crack code. I traded stalking for hacking, learning a lot along the way.
When I discovered one of Dad’s trusted employees skimmed off the pot and could prove it with hard data, Dad finally forgave my roughshod youth and hired me.
That was eight years ago.
I never broke the oath in our pact of thieves. I never told the police that my friends premeditated the torture of Celeste that night out of revenge.
Chuck was jealous because Celeste was in love with me. He killed her to hurt me and prove that he was a big man.
Big man on the run is what he is.
Love sucks.
And I refuse to ever fall again.
6
Hit the Vein
Echo
The day after my graduation, I stare at the ad one final time early in the morning as my duffel sits packed for the trip to Las Vegas with Selia. We have front row seats for a show tonight that I don’t want to miss, but she is taking her own sweet time in the shower. I pick through my makeup, tossing more into my purse than I will ever need. She opens the door, and I hand her a towel.
Touching my shoulder, Selia asks, “How much longer are you leaving the ad up?”
“Only until fall term.”
“You accepted the invitation for your doctorate?”
“I did,” I reply with a smile. “Dr. Abigail Maines.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” she says, drying her hair. “Are you ready to go?”
I glance at her ridiculously athletic figure. To say she is a buff is an understatement. The girl could enter competitions if she wanted to. My hourglass isn’t bad, but I’m not Selia. I’m mortifyingly top heavy. I typically wear baggy sweaters and hoodies, keeping the girls covered unless I’m at work. Morgan prefers her employees to look professional in white shirts and slacks.
“Yeah,” I respond, feeling a tad insecure. “But I suggest you put on some clothes.”
“Are your parents leaving?”
“They’re at the airport now,” I mutter, disheartened. “Fly in late Friday night and out by eight on Sunday morning.”
“I am sorry, Ek.”
I hold back my tears. “Don’t be. They cannot stand one another. Mother must be shopping, and Dad must be with one of his lovers, or they make everyone miserable.”
“Why do they even bother to stay together?”
“Because Dad feels like he owes Mom for dealing with Alan and Caroline’s death. Little do they realize, we all would’ve been better off if they’d split years ago.”
She drops the towel and rummages in the closet. “What about Daphne?”
“She’s headed to Alabama, starting college over the summer, just to get away from them,” I inform. “And poor Brandon is stuck in damn rehab.”
“You should go see him and help your sister out.”
“… Me?”
“Yeah,” she suggests, dressing. “We’ll go to the show in Vegas tonight and have a good time. I’ll fly back. You drive to Alabama and take care of your siblings because you, my dear, are far better than either of your parents.”
I repeatedly blink. “… You want me to drive to Birmingham?” I sound like the idea is kooky as she nods with a big grin. I pick up my phone. “It’s over two thousand miles and two days of hard driving!” I whine as the idea flickers in my mind. While intriguing, I’m not the kind of girl to drive across the country on a whim. That’s Selia. Maybe I need to loosen up. Morgan said I needed to get to know myself. “I can’t do that!”
“Why? You have a brand new car that Daddy bought you. And you have driven, what? Two miles a day for four months? Get out on the open road. Clear your head. See your brother. Help out your sister. You have three months before you have to be back here.”
I scramble to find excuses. “What about The Vinery?”
“Morgan will give you time off,” she persists, pulling on the skin-tight jeans and slipping on the stilettos—for the boost. I understand all too well. We’ll end up destroying our feet by fifty just to have thirty-five years of slightly less than average height. “She adores you. Tell her you have a personal family issue that you need to tend to.”
I don’t know what to say.
If Brandon ever stands a chance of healing, he will need the support of family, and I’m quite possibly the only one who cares enough to visit him.
“Fuck,” I mumble as she tosses her extra-large suitcase on the bed.
“Pack your shit while I finish getting ready so we can get the fuc
k out of here. An overnight bag to Vegas will not cover a couple of weeks in Alabama.”
Another minute passes, and I whisper, “I love you, Sel.”
“I know you do,” she says, putting on a blouse with no bra. It doesn’t matter because she has no cleavage. “And I love you, too. Now, trust me on this one. Take your pretty new gas-guzzling 4x4 SUV, your Daddy’s credit card, and drive.”
“He’ll kill me,” I mutter, glancing at Selia.
We both shake our heads with mischievous grins and simultaneously cackle, “No, he won’t!”
“He was so proud of you,” she adds, smiling. “There is no way that man would say two words about his dear daughter doing anything. You’re the star in his eyes.”
“I should call and tell him.”
“You can do that on the road tomorrow,” she says, blotting a little makeup on. “I’m going to be waiting for you if you don’t start packing!”
“I’m on it!”
“That’s my girl!”
And I hit publish—one final time.
RAPIST WANTED
Vibrant college graduate, 20-something adult female seeks any race/21+/professional male for a sexual encounter.
You are:
Natural Dominant. Alpha. Male.
No nerds, truckers, wannabes, virgins, or bikers. Professional-types, athletes, and bad boys welcome.
Pure ravishment, abduction, and torture scenes. No personal communication is necessary.
I am:
Brunette. Hazel eyes. Looks like the All-American girl next door, cheerleader type, innocent. Physically active, runs the park loop in the evening. Social gatherings downtown every weekend. Works at The Village. Physical passed. No drugs or diseases. Psychological screenings passed.
I offer my body for use at your discretion with complete confidence. Again, no exchange of names or personal information is required. I do not wish to know your name, your dog’s name, or your prior relationship record. I am not looking to date, have an affair, or engage in a romance.
All that is required by you is a willingness to control the scene and a hard cock.
Beautiful Things Evil People Do Page 5