Another Stroke of Fate (The Carnal Exhibitions Book 2)

by LW Barefoot

  Contents

  Copyright

  Fat Tuesday

  Search

  Found

  The Sculptor's Reluctance

  Police Station

  Evan

  Turbulence

  Waking

  Pacing

  Evan

  Therapy

  Baited Hooks

  Clarity

  Interruptions

  Gaining Ground

  Resuscitation

  Teacher's Pet

  The Sculptor's Confrontation

  Catch

  Light

  Evan

  Harper

  Finally

  Wallbang

  Busted

  Strength

  Unguarded Regret

  Harper

  AvoiDance

  Unknowns

  The Sculptor's Welcome

  Come to Terms

  Solace

  Pushing

  Harper

  Evan

  Revelations

  Run Ins

  Breach

  Confussion

  Harper

  The Sculptor's Impatience

  Reluctance

  Spiral

  Storms

  Aftermath

  Harper

  Settling

  Harper

  The Sculptor

  Acknowledgments

  Playlist for Another Stroke of Fate

  Author's Note:

  I am deeply moved by music. Any mention or reference made to actual songs and musicians in this work of fiction, is an attempt to share what inspires me.

  Any places, establishments or products I write about is to share my adoration and appreciation for that place or item.

  However, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015, 2016 by LW Barefoot

  Cover Image © Shutterstock

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9971815-1-7

  All rights reserved.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

  Evan

  Every person seated around the boardroom table witness as I sign over my life when I should be by Harper’s side at the masquerade ball. Thoughts of her fuel me to get this over and done with.

  I drag a fountain pen over the final documents placing me in charge of Hawthorne Holdings while swallowing my frustrations with this turn of events.

  When I lift my attention to the rest of the room, the room itself lets out the strained breath it has been holding. Weary faces mix in with a few that look like they just dodged a bullet. One man wipes his sweaty brow while another doesn’t even try to conceal the worry and dread etched across his face.

  The look on Joe Hawthorne’s face is not what I had expected. My father made the decision days ago and insisted my position made official tonight. I have willingly played into the conniving scheme to take the fall for the sins of my father and everyone here not only knows it, they’re relieved by it.

  As the room sizzles with suffocating nerves and unease, Joe Hawthorne lifts his glass tumbler to his lips and takes in a long pull of whiskey.

  Once he drains his glass, he slams it on the endless table. The vibration rattles the mahogany all the way down its expanse and rumbles under my forearms. The force and sound startle the room. A loud bark of laughter escapes his mouth. He knows the effect he has on everyone here. When he claps, the boardroom fills with carts pushed by women wearing Hawthorne signature black masks with little else on.

  “I thought we could use a little champagne to celebrate not only Fat Tuesday but also my early retirement,” Joe announces.

  Murmurs of polite conversation and relief compete with the distinct pop of corks pulled out of glass bottles with force. The releasing pressure somehow makes me absorb more into myself.

  I watch him closely as he stands and makes his way over to my end of the table. Shaking hands and grinning that snarky smile as he approaches.

  “Son, you’ve earned this,” he booms while I absorb the irony of his words.

  I’m not fooled in the least that he’s retiring early.

  “I think I’ll make my way to the ball and see to things,” he says.

  Everyone here is a member of the private krewe hosting a ball tonight of all nights. Joe’s timing is trouble. Fat Tuesday is the last day of feasting before the fast and penitence of Lent. Tomorrow morning my knees will kneel on an altar and my forehead decorated with ash for my repentance. And by God, I know I need it.

  As soon as the doors close behind Joe, everyone in attendance has something to say. Arguments and bickering start across the room. Clinking glasses get slammed down in fury. False exteriors vanish as the room erupts.

  Some of the board members are relieved that Joe no longer controls the company, but others argue that we haven’t seen the last of him. He’s not going to sit back and spend his days playing golf and fishing in the Gulf or in the swamplands.

  The only thing I can think about is our loved ones dressed and dancing in a room controlled by Joe himself.

  I push back my chair and stand to leave.

  “Evan, we’re not finished here,” one of the company’s accountants, Edward claims.

  “This paperwork can wait. Do you trust him?” I ask for his ears only, but the commotion in the room dies down.

  “Not in the least, son,” Edward shakes his head.

  “Then I suggest we pick up on the rest later. We can reconvene after Ash Wednesday.”

  We will all need forgiveness after tonight. The board for stealing my freedom and myself for far too many reasons to confess without absolution.

  “I’ll see you at the Briggs’ estate,” I shake Edward’s hand and wave to the rest of the room.

  The ride over to the ball seems to take forever. Traffic is a nightmare with the final day of Mardi Gras finally here and in full swing. The season comes to an end and for the first time, I look forward to its passing.

  I want to feel free and drunk like some of these participants, but my thoughts drift to the drugs dealt out to the exact same partiers and I’m responsible for it all. Every transaction, every life lost, every deal gone bad, weighs heavy on my shoulders. I feel the gravity of my sins and associations the moment I signed my life away.

  As I watch people blissfully unaware of their surroundings, there’s only one person I need to talk to. I call Tom. I don’t know why, but something tells me his input is paramount. I get pushed through to his voicemail and leave a brief message on what has taken place.

  We knew this was coming, but Joe’s moved up the date in unexpected haste.

  I will myself to calm down with the passage of time as we idle in traffic and wait for Tom’s reassuring call.

  It never comes.

  Evan

  “What took you so long?” Seth asks when I climb out of the back of the car.

  “I was finalizing paperwork with the board downtown. I think Joe’s up to something,” I admit.

  “When is he not?” Seth counters.

  “Where’s Harper?” I a
sk cutting him off.

  My father’s claimed more than my time tonight.

  My heart pounds a furious rhythm as I walk up the steep steps to end all the secrecy of Harper and I’s relationship.

  “At the bar,” he replies, following behind me when we walk through the front doors.

  I bypass every polite requirement as I push through faces adorned in glittering masks with outstretched hands and expectant looks on their covered faces. I’m late enough that my abrupt rudeness will be overlooked and muddled by their consumption of alcohol. Despite the fact most of these people I’ve known my entire life, there’s only one face I wish to see right now.

  The image I created in my head of what she would look like tonight teases me as I search for her. I’m ready to see if my vision is accurate. I picture Harper’s glowing hair in stunning contrast to the gown she wears, but I can’t find her. With all these people in attendance, she couldn’t simply disappear.

  We find Brad questioning the bartender. He fumbles over his words and provides no clarity at all, cautiously cutting his eyes at me. For the first time in my life, fear washes over every other instinct. Fear started in on me in the boardroom and now has a complete chokehold around my neck.

  “Where’s Harper?” I demand.

  “We lost her,” Brad admits.

  Those sick, dreadful words work that chokehold tighter.

  “How did that happen? You were supposed to keep your eyes on her while I waited for Evan outside,” Seth protests.

  “Find her,” I insist from both of them.

  Seth and Brad’s argument fades from my attention. Annabelle Briggs blubbers to her husband. I cover the few feet where they stand at the other end of the bar.

  “Annabelle, did you see Harper leave?”

  The sweet older woman nods her head frantically. She would have been the person to check Harper’s invitation when she arrived. Her husband, Doug, ushers us in a parlor off the main ballroom.

  “I swear, Evan, no one will listen to me. I’ve been watching her all night. Harper got in a car just minutes ago. The man who escorted her had a krewe mask on. He was one of you, tall, blond hair, youngish,” she states, wringing her hands around and around. “They left in the Rolls she arrived in.”

  I didn’t attain my love for classic cars on my own. The Rolls Royce Harper arrived in, isn’t the same one that drove her away from here.

  “Have you seen Joe tonight?” I ask the couple.

  “No, but your mother was sent home about an hour ago,” Annabelle says. Trying to smooth over the fact that my mom showed up here piss drunk and no doubt proceeded to puncture her liver along with her reputation.

  Somethings never change.

  My phone dings with a text message from someone I would like to kill right now.

  ‘Harper’s at your penthouse, get your ass over there. We need to talk.’ -Grayson

  My blood pressure spikes dangerously. My vision blurs staring at the text.

  It’s all I can do to get in a car to take me to the one place I dread most.

  Evan

  Seth verifies that Harper is at my building, confirming Grayson’s text. She’s in the Central Business District of New Orleans, only minutes from here. I have purposefully never taken Harper here before. My mind reels with how the hell she ended up here and the likely possibility we passed each other on the street, driving in opposite directions.

  Brad calls Tom from the backseat, I finally reach Jamie. She’s not with him and he hasn’t heard from her. He’s furious and insists on coming along, not listening to anything after I told him Harper left the ball without me.

  I’ve watched that beeping dot on the screen since I pulled up the tracking device I placed in Harper’s necklace. Watching with intensity as it pegged its location to my penthouse.

  I’m the only one with access to the top two stories, but I know my family has ways of getting in any building in this city.

  Seth swerves aggressively through traffic. He doesn’t hesitate blaring the horn and cussing out drunks stumbling in the street. When he pulls the car over, I throw the door open and climb out. Wailing sirens encroach on the building, at least, I pray this is their destination.

  I swing open the private entrance and rush to the elevator. Brad and Seth catch up before the doors close. The doors to my loft stand wide open. I follow Brad’s insistent lead as footsteps rush up the stairs behind us.

  Music blares from the surround sound speakers, vibrating throughout the open floor plan. The staircase to the second-floor loft has a satin amethyst heel sitting haphazardly on one step. A few steps higher, the other one lays in the same way. Broken ankle straps, discarded and forgotten. I don’t like how small they appear on the steps.

  I run the rest of the way up. Coming to a sudden halt when I see blood on the otherwise stark white comforter. Harper’s dress lays in shreds, scattered all over the room. So much material stretched and torn. Her mask on one of the pillows on the bed.

  Brad moves to the bathroom, pushing the door open all the way. Harper shakes as her arm reaches for the shower spout. Holding her side and dragging her helpless body across the floor.

  Brad looks like he’s on the verge of losing the contents of his stomach. He doesn’t handle guilt well at all.

  I force myself to look at her. She attempts to keep her body curled in on itself, pulling to keep herself upright. Even in this, she shows her strength. I notice the smear of blood from the bed to the white bathroom.

  I reach for her without thinking. She gags on a scream and struggles like a sloth. Her motions are slow and strangled. A guttural sound escapes her lips, but it’s a far cry from a scream. The keen is, even more, horrifying than one caused by her nightmares. She trembles and I feel like an even bigger ass than I already am.

  Her beautiful face is bloody and bruised. Both eyes almost swollen shut. Her lip’s split open. One arm trying to protect her midsection.

  Brad loses the battle with his stomach and relieves himself in the toilet as I stare in shock at Harper.

  I hear voices yell at me, but all I can focus on is her. My ruined, already scarred love, trembling on the floor.

  My arms are forced behind my back, and before I can put two and two together, I’m read my Miranda rights. I struggle to free myself as I fight with all the rage and fear that consumes me. I desperately need to be the person that scoops her off the cold floor. Shouts ring out over Harper’s whimpering plea.

  Cold metal encases my wrists and I fight harder. The metal bites into my skin and does nothing but fuel my anger as I’m forced up from my knees and pulled away.

  I’m forced to leave the reason I was here at all.

  The Sculptor

  I hold the brush loosely as I pull paint across a canvas. It lacks passion. The same emptiness reflects what is missing within me.

  I have to school myself not to roll my eyes at the model across the room. Nothing about her can evoke any of my paltry emotions. I study the unfinished painting and I almost cringe. My usual depth and attention to detail are missing completely.

  “We’re finished for now. You may get dressed,” I say, standing to rinse the brushes in the sink behind me.

  When I’m finished, I hang them to dry, before turning back around. The model hasn’t moved to get dressed. She lies there as if I have any use for her. I hate the way her posture is more seductive than moments ago. It would tempt anyone, but anyone is not me.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you didn’t hear me, Jessica. We’re finished with this session. I will have my assistant set up another time.”

  I don’t have an assistant and there will be no repeat modeling session. She smirks and starts crawling on all fours to me. They’re all the same. All wanting something I can’t give.

  Her curls almost reminded me of someone I long for. That’s the only reason I agreed to this painting in the first place. As soon as she took her clothes off, I wanted her to put them back on and leave.

  I look over her and
focus on Casey’s multiple innocent portraits hanging on the walls behind her.

  My attention pulls back to the creature who belittles herself in a feeble attempt at seduction. Her overly thin hips sway as she crawls and I want her to get to the point. Do I outright reject her? Do I blindfold her and allow her to suck me off while I fantasize about her lips belonging to someone else?

  Jessica stops and kneels between my legs. Her shaky hands reach up to undo my belt. I allow her to fumble around and work to get in my pants. The click of the metal in her shaking hands pulls up long dead memories of the clatter I warned Casey with.

  If I were to make Jessica another one of my victims, no one would believe she started this. Yet, I don’t think she deserves my mark. I come to that conclusion as her brown eyes gaze up to mine. She’s so unremarkable I almost pity her. She’s not worth the risk it would take to start back to my old desires and tastes. The only person I would risk it all for is gone and with her all my lust and desire.

  But there is something enjoyable about Jessica’s embarrassment and the way she keeps looking up for reassurance from me. She’s not going to find any here.

  When her palm finds my unawakened lust, her eyes shoot to mine.

  “I’m sorry. Am I doing something wrong?” her voice barely audible.

  If she wants the truth, then by all means, I intend to give it to her.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” my tone drips in distaste. I like how her eyes round in surprise.

  She’s so shallow I can see the thoughts ticking through her small mind. Lust, disappointment, desire, rejection. She might prove to be an asset after all. There is no anger behind the rejection and that’s something I haven’t seen in a long time.

  Maybe this night will prove to be more than an utter waste.

  I tilt her chin up for her to look me in the eyes.