by Amo Jones
Manik
Copyright © 2018 by Amo Jones
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblance to actual person’s, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art
Editor: Ellie McLove, My Brother’s Editor
Proof reader: Petra Gleason, My Brother’s Editor
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DEDICATION
PART 1
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PART 2
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
OTHER BOOKS
I have so many people to thank, but I don’t want to drag this on. My children who inspire me daily. My partner who puts up with my crazy, and my mummy who always has my back. My brothers who are my everything, and my sisters who are my best friends. My best friend Lyla. I love you. Twenty years of friendship and that’s all I’ve got right now. My best friend, Amiria. Thank you for tolerating me. My best friend, Isis—I love you! Bitchface for life. My readers who continue to support me and have my back! My beta, Sarah! Oh Lord, this girl… I cannot thank enough. I wouldn’t be able to polish these stories if it wasn’t for you! Caro, thank you so damn much for everything that you do, Bloggers for taking the time out of their busy schedules to read, review and share me.
My agent, Flavia! Thank you for exceeding all my expectations and loving my books like they’re your own. Ellie! For editing my words in such a respectful and professional manner! Seriously, I don’t know where I’d be without you. You spend so much time on my babies and treat them like your own. PETRA! For polishing my words and turning hay into gold—I shall call you Rumpelstiltskin. The authors who inspire, support, and encourage one another—my tribe! Chantal! You’re stuck with me. Anne! You legit had no chance of running from me. Those heels won’t help. But they preettyyy though! #IvyAndHarley To Jaci—for keeping me sane most of the time, for our book dates and wine. And coffee. And red velvet cake. And general shit talking. Thank you! My Wolf Pack—(howls). Jay Aheer—I love you. Thank you for my beautiful covers. For learning my vision and nailing them every single time. Also, sorry for being a diva. And lastly, to all the readers who may be about to read me for the first time ever: thank you for giving a girl a shot.
To Wine and Chocolate for feeding my demons.
To the girls who never noticed Prince Charming…
…because the monster under their bed did that thing they liked with his tongue…
Cell bars melt together in dark waves of distress, the roof a salient contrast. The cold concrete floor I lay on is stained in puddles of damp old urine that rubs against my flesh. I clench my eyes closed and count to three.
One.
Two.
Three.
My eyes open but I’m still here, sort of. Things look warped, strange, but I’m still in my nightmare. A nightmare that I will never wake up from. I stare down at my legs, my very real legs, and see that it can’t possibly be fabricated from some subconscious part of my brain. Everything is real. Very freaking real.
“Who are you, Beatrice…?” someone asked from the corner of the room. His voice is deep, swimming with familiarity. My head pounds behind my eyes and sweat trickles down the side of my temples to the back of my head.
I cranked my neck, turning my head toward the sound, desperate to see who owned the voice that left a foul echo inside my mind.
Where the hell am I?
Why is my brain fuzzy?
“What?” I inched up onto my elbows, only to fall back down from the room buzzing in and out. Was that a cat? Three doors? Three windows? No. There are no windows in a cell. Everything was distorted by manipulation.
Heavy footsteps thudded closer, and for a second, I thought it matched my heart. “I said, who are you, Beatrice?”
“Who are you?” I counter, tilting my head, trying my hardest to see. “Did you drug me?” I asked, confused by my vision going black and then coming back in. Nothing ever stayed in focus long enough.
He finally stepped out of the dark shadow of the corner. “Sorry, Cub, but since new revelations have come to light…” I didn’t have to see to recognize the voice. Now that it’s closer and the haze of my brain isn’t as marbled as it was, it feels more familiar.
Aeron.
He kneeled beside my bed, but I lay back anyway, scrunching my eyes closed. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to feel him. I thought I ran from him, far enough to have him not catch me. “…You’re no longer something I need to keep alive. Now you’re something I need to kill and bury—like you should have been a long time ago.”
Who am I?
“Hit ‘Em Up”—2Pac
When I was a little girl, my grandpa, who I called “Pops” would tell me “Bea, you’re just like your Nona. You have so much fight in you. A little spitfire. Just remember, that it doesn’t matter the size of the dog, what matters is the size of the fight inside the dog. We all have good and bad in us, Bea, make sure you feed the right one.”
Through high school and college, I had that embedded in my brain. When I would get bullied, I would tell myself to “feed the right fire”—Until, I broke Jackson Peterson’s nose for touching my, then best friend’s, ass. Yeah, I got suspended for that, never mind the fact this limp dick jock just inappropriately groped someone. His excuse? Was that she was wearing a short skirt, so she was obviously screaming for attention.
There was screaming after that, but it wasn’t from her. There was a lot of blood and crunching bones, and I was slightly worried about how my pops would react to what I had just done. Only when he picked me up from school, he took me to get a chocolate shake at our local diner
and squeezed my hand. “You did good, kid. Must have been one helluva right hook. You get that from your nona too.” In his eyes, I got everything from my nona. A few years later, on the day of my graduation, my pops passed away. I went to wake him in the morning, but when my hand touched his stiff cold arm, I knew.
Phases then passed through my mind.
Phase one: Why isn’t he waking up?
Phase two: Seriously, Pops, wake up.
Phase three: Pops?
Phase four: the cracking sound of my heart splitting open in my chest.
My pops was my world. He taught me everything I knew and set up all the fundamental values I have as a person today. His funeral was very brief and sad. Aside from the grave workers and the priest, it was just me.
Actually, he would probably haunt me for saying that he made me the person I am today, because right now? I don’t have those fundamental values.
Flipping a bottle of Grey Goose upside down, I pour a shot into one of the glasses that are lined on the counter.
“Twenty-one?” I grin, draining the vodka down the line of shots.
Young guy in front of me nods his head, a cheesy smile on his face. He is cute, in a puffy I-still-live-in-my-mom’s-basement-feed-me-then-screw-me kind of way. In other words, not my type.
“It’s my birthday!”
“I see that.” I gesture to the shot glasses, flicking the bottle up and putting it back on the shelf.
I watch as he slowly tips his head back and sinks one after the other. When he stops at twelve and dashes for the bathroom, my roommate Kyle puts his hand out to me.
“Dish it up, Beat. You know I won that.”
Rolling my eyes, I reach into my back pocket and pull out a fifty. Slamming it onto the palm of his hand, I narrow my eyes. “You know it’s so not gentlemanly to take from a lady!”
He laughs, tilting his head back. “Well, I’m not a gentleman, and sugar, you are no lady.”
I flip him off as he walks to the back of the bar. Kyle and I met around four months ago when I first moved here from Pennsylvania. After my pops died over a year ago, I couldn’t stay in that town anymore. I packed up the house, sealed it up and left. I still have his inheritance money sitting in my savings account, untouched. Eighty-three thousand, seven hundred sixty-nine dollars was how much I inherited after the mortgage was taken care of, and $83,769 is how much is in there to this day. I couldn’t be there anymore. I’m originally from Australia, but when my mom and dad passed away in a house fire, my pops and nona (who had always lived in the US), took me in. Since then, at the tender age of eight, I have lived in the land of the free. Some say I still have a slight Aussie “twang” to my voice, but I personally think they’re just taking too much acid. So, for the past year, I’ve been drifting from town to town, making my way across the country. I guess you could say that I’m a drifter. I’m not sure what I’m searching for yet, but when I find it, I’ll know.
Later that night after our shift, we’re back home ‘laxing out and watching the latest Wentworth.
“You know, we should do this every night.” Kyle winks at me.
I shake my head. “Nope. I can’t do this every night.” Stabbing my spoon into my ice cream. “Unlike you, I actually gain pounds by so much as sniffing sugar.”
Kyle chuckles, rubbing the palm of his hand over his thick abs. “That’s why I work out, young one!” He stands from the sofa and takes my plate. I give it to him and curl my legs under my butt, watching as Kyle strolls into the kitchen to drop the plates into the sink. He is nice to look at, I’ll give him that, and although we have a strict no-sleeping-together rule, I’d be lying if I said it never crossed my mind once or twice in the privacy of my bedroom. Dark blond hair, tanned skin, and deep brown eyes. He’s beautiful.
I really need to get laid before I make a huge mistake.
Crawling up from the sofa, I sneak upstairs into my bedroom and drop down onto my queen-sized bed, turning to face the ceiling. Usually, I’d be restless by now and itching to move to a new town, but I don’t know. I’m kind of liking New Orleans.
“Mothaphukin g”—Eazy-E
Throwing my notepad on to the table, I tear my cap off and fling it across the room.
“Still going through your slump?” Lenny asks around chewing his gum.
My jaw clenches. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”
“Bro, don’t fucking sweat it. It’ll come back,” Lenny adds. Lenny has been with me since we were kids. He was the nerdy-slash-fucking annoying little motherfucker who hung off my every move in high school. I tried getting rid of him for a month solid, but he never fucking budged. He came back, and back again. I never lowered myself to bullying the little fuck—in fact, people learned pretty quickly that if they came near Lenny, they came near me—and that was something no one ever wanted. Maybe I should have bullied him, maybe it would have been more effective. However, he’s my best friend now, and not so fucking little.
My foot taps in frustration as I run my hand over my jaw. “Nah, that’s not it.”
Lenny chuckles, leaning forward. I watch him pick up a rolled-up dollar bill and shove it up his nose. He inhales the line of coke, clearing his nostril while leaning back in the leather sofa. We’re in the studio for the fucking fifth time this week—shooting blanks.
“Maybe you need to join old Pops for one of his… jobs… to get some more inspiration.”
I snort. “Yeah, I ain’t really chasing what I brought to my last album. But, if I do want another psychopathic, lyrically insane album, I’ll be sure to shed some more blood with the old man.” Vladimir Pakhan Romanov, aka, my dad. The notorious and infamous Russian Bratva boss. Being raised by a famous mafia Russian Bratva Krestnii Otets in the United States was pretty much fucking unheard of for someone of my stature (what with the fame and shit), but to me, he was just my dad—who already had a documentary show all about him—conspiracies. He’s fascinating for the system, something they need to entertain the masses. Dad’s fourth generation, which is why I have what you could call—extracurricular activities that involve me being engaged in The Family business when I’m not spitting rhymes. Yeah, if you haven’t guessed it, I’m a Vor.
“Whatcha wanting to bring this time, Ae.”
“I don’t know. Something darker, but not in a murderous way. Done enough of that bullshit to last a while. Just darker. Messy. Fucking destruction, but it can’t be forced.”
Lenny leans back in the large leather seat I have in my studio. I had the studio built in my house a couple years ago, just above my garage. Living in LA was never going to be my fucking thing—ever. Everything about Hollywood fucks with me, so I never moved from my hometown in New Orleans. I do have a studio in LA though. I started my record label, Korol’ Records a little over two years ago.
Music will not turn to shit, not on my watch.
“I know what we need to do.” Lenny stands up, throwing my smokes at me. I take them, putting one in my mouth and sparking it up. I blow out a cloud of smoke. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
The door opens and my other two minions walk in. Bo and Xavier—or as we call him—X. Hats flipped backward, hoodies up, all laughing about something they were obviously talking about just before walking in.
I ignore them, turning my attention back to Lenny, who tosses the rolled up hundred at me. “We could roll out. Got a buddy who has opened this place on the eastside.”
My phone rings in my pocket and I reach in, grabbing it out.
“Syn…” my dad growls down the phone.
I flick the dollar bill around my fingers. “Yeah?”
“Meet me at a bar downtown.”
My eyes narrow. It’s not often, if ever, my dad has ever asked me to meet him at a bar downtown. “Alright. Which one?”
“Top of the line”—Rittz
“Beat!” Kyle calls out over the loud music. The club is pumping tonight, but it is almost every night of the weekend.
I turn to face him, diving my glas
s into the ice box.
He waves a tub of ice cream in front of his face.
I shake my head. “What?” What is he doing now? It’s no secret that Kyle is a jokester. He’s terrible.
He starts scooping out spoonfuls of ice cream and putting a bit into each shot glass. Kyle is the mixologists to end all mixologists. When he makes cocktails, he creates art.
Kyle leans forward, licking the ice cream off the spoon.
I shake my head, handing my customer his glass. “You’re such an idiot!”
“What?” He puts his hand near his ear.
“IDIOT!” I yell. He laughs, his face so bright and wide that it has my smile spreading like an infectious disease. Everyone needs a friend like Kyle.
He’s still laughing when his eyes go over my shoulder, but then he stops. His smile falls and his eyes go wide. Shocked by his sudden change in demeanor, I turn around to follow his line of sight when my attention lands on the front doors.
I freeze.
I can see Kyle coming closer to me from the corner of my eye.
Holy crap, is that?
“Manik, aka Aeron fucking Romanov-Reed,” Kyle whispers from behind me, his breath ghosting over my back. I have seen photos of him all over the media, and when I say all over the media, I truly mean everywhere. He is the greatest rapper to live and rivaled even the greatest who had passed.
I tilt my head slightly, hoping to get a better look at him. Black leather jacket with a hoodie underneath, dark washed denim jeans and some clean white sneakers on his feet. My eyes go back to his face.
I gulp.
He’s obviously a work of art. Handcrafted to perfection. Intense sharp jaw with prominent cheekbones and an annoyingly perfect straight nose. You couldn’t see from here, but I knew he also carried deep blue eyes that were paired with dark eyelashes, which fanned over his tanned skin. He has equally dark hair that is no doubt the perfect length for his groupies to run their fingers through. And his body… well. It is obviously crafted by some ancient Russian god and then embellished with all the tattoos that were inked into his flesh. It isn’t just his looks though, he is talented, respected, and from what I have heard—not to be messed with on any level. I may have watched a Netflix documentary about his dad, Vladimir Romanov. Also, what I learned from the media is that Aeron, or “Manik,” had a taste for the rich and famous, although he has never been seen with the same girl more than once.