Another Stroke of Fate (The Carnal Exhibitions Book 2)

by LW Barefoot

  “What is it you want?” I demand.

  I love the hesitation that flitters across her now ashen face. This night is proving to be very interesting.

  “I…don’t think…um…this is not what I had in mind,” she stutters.

  “It never really is, but now that you’re here and clearly willing, do you want to play a game?” I prompt her.

  “Um, I don’t know?”

  She won’t even meet my gaze. My cock twitches at the thought of her submission. She notices and licks her lips.

  “I think you do, Jessica. Show me what you want.”

  As she inches closer and tentatively tongues me, I work my belt around her neck and tighten it. She moans at the contact and starts sucking me off.

  My gaze drifts back to Casey’s portraits and I let myself remember the little bitch who ripped my heart out.

  I push myself deeper down Jessica’s throat, needing to hear her choke. I close my eyes and pretend it’s Casey’s neck straining against my belt and gagging on my cock.

  Evan

  My attorney walks in the room and looks proud and shining in an Italian suit. The world’s finest fabric doesn’t conceal the gut he’s been working on for years. He gets nice and cozy before his eyes ever meet mine.

  “How are they treating you, Mr. Hawthorne?”

  I stare at the faded ash smudge on his forehead and it reminds me of how I was unable to get mine yesterday. I spent Ash Wednesday behind bars, drowning with regret.

  ‘Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.’ Those words and my absolution will have to wait until next year.

  “How do you think? Do your job and get me out of here,” I all but yell at him.

  “It’s not that simple. They have evidence that you are the one who not only had Harper abducted but that you also abused her,” he says with calm indignation.

  He has been forgiven of his sins while I’m cloaked in condemnation.

  My head pounds from a migraine that’s already set in. I feel sick when I think about Harper’s bruised face and body. I sink back in the cold metal chair. Disgusted that someone has done this to her. She’s already been through too much.

  “I have more than a solid alibi. Did you even look into that?” I point out.

  “Then explain to me how your, let me see if I get this correct, ‘sub’, is bloody and abused in your secured penthouse.”

  I’m unable to speak as I think about how it all looks.

  “I’ve been doing a little research on you, Evan, and to be honest, it doesn’t come out in your favor.”

  My lawyer rubs his cheeks with shaky fingers.

  “I know you and everyone else here think I’m responsible, but I’m not. I need to know she’s going to be okay. Please tell me that much,” I plead.

  He looks at me with pity before saying, “She’s no longer any concern to you.”

  His smug statement pisses me off. The smudged gray cross on his face doesn’t grant him the right to judge me.

  “She is mine. I fucking love that woman,” I yell.

  I don’t hold back, my voice raises as I rage at him.

  “So you see her as a possession?” he asks without hesitation.

  “No. That’s not what I meant. Quit twisting my words.”

  I’m up pacing the small room. I don’t like that my attorney is nervous. It seems like hours pass by before he starts in with more questions.

  “Tell me about your contract with Harper.”

  “We didn’t have one. She wasn’t like my past arrangements,” I shake my head.

  “What was the extent of pain you inflicted on her when you two were intimate?”

  “Is this really necessary?” I snap.

  I stare at him in anger and disbelief, not wanting to reflect on the fact that I ever raised a hand to her, at least not like that.

  “You have quite the reputation. The questionable parties you host at your estate and considering you’re known for getting off on abuse, yes, it matters. Evan, think about it, she was found in your penthouse with you bent over her. You even resisted arrest.”

  “For the record, I do not and have never ‘gotten off’ on abusing women; that would be the elder Mr. Hawthorne. All my previous relationships had iron clad agreements between myself and the women I have been intimate with. My lifestyle is perfectly legal between two consenting adults. Each one of them signed non-disclosure agreements.”

  “Do you have a signed agreement with Harper?”

  “We were so much more than what I had in the past. We are more than that,” I confess.

  I can’t fucking believe this. I have to stand here and explain my private life to this idiot.

  “What of your broken engagement? Was it too much for you to juggle both women?”

  “You’re asking all the wrong questions to the wrong fucking person.”

  I slam my fists on the table to keep myself from punching him in the throat. I like that he flinches. I continue pacing, avoiding the probing stare of the lawyer I desperately need to fire when the door swings open.

  My saving grace, the one and only person that could be here to help Harper as much as myself stands in the doorway.

  Tom walks in the room and takes in my appearance. I never thought I would be this relieved to see him. He sets his briefcase on the table and looks at my attorney.

  “Who are you?” Tom demands.

  The guy doesn’t meet Tom’s eyes either. They were all snakes, but this one is, even more, slippery than most.

  “I’m Mr. Hawthorne’s attorney,” he responds.

  “Not anymore,” Tom spits out.

  We both watch as my now former representation gathers up his papers and photos. Tom stops him and makes him leave those behind, placing his hand on the stack of papers. He sits down on the recently vacated seat and motions for me to do the same as the interrogation room door slams shut.

  “I hate lawyers. I would ask how you’re doing, but I already know the answer,” he says.

  He pulls out a mint and extends the container to me. I take several before handing it back.

  “You’ve disappointed me, Evan. We had a deal.”

  “No one could be more disappointed than me. How is she?”

  I hear the foreign crack in my voice as the sound stretches between us.

  “She’s alive, isn’t that what matters?”

  “I failed her and these pigs think I’m capable of doing that to her.”

  I’m sick at the thought of ever hurting her.

  “I know you’re not responsible. All your alibis check out and deep down I know you’re not capable of doing this. Despite what others might think of you.”

  Tom is calm, which only heightens my anxiety. I throw my chair back standing up, running my hands over my head and through my hair. I want to pull it all out. The madness that some lunatic had his hands on Harper, again. The worst part is that the people who are actually responsible could never be held accountable.

  “Tom,” I say his name before asking the question that sucker punches me before I ever get it out. “Was she…? Did they…?”

  “No,” he says absolutely. “She wasn’t sexually abused, regardless of her state of undress.”

  His words almost bring me to my knees. It was the last thing I thought of when I saw her on the floor of my bathroom. But as time crept its cruel fingers and I had nothing to do but pace a jail cell, I thought of Harper enduring that kind of harm again. It wouldn’t have changed the way I feel about her, but it would have changed her irrevocably if she isn’t already.

  Tom gives me time to process this before moving on.

  “Before we leave, you need to see the security footage from the other night,” Tom says.

  He explains how he pulled a lot of strings to fly all the way down here and help me out.

  He pulls out his laptop and powers it up. The camera view is from the elevator and another one positioned just outside the penthouse’s private entrance.

&nbs
p; A group of masked men enter the elevator with what appears to be a very intoxicated Harper. Everything about her appearance stands out against the black suits and masks the men wear. My stomach sinks when I recognize my father holding Harper up. It’s like looking in the mirror.

  Tom explains the Bureau’s face recognition intel could tell me apart from my father because he had to run it through to convince himself that I’m not the one who’s in the video. My eyes cut to his as he whispers an apology before hitting the play button for the video to continue.

  The tape rolls to the group exiting the elevator, the camera view changes to the one located on the penthouse entrance. There’s no forced entry as a key easily unlocks the door. Harper staggers and Joe yanks her in the apartment and pulls her through the door by her hair, followed by the rest of the group. They leave the doors wide open.

  The video lapses and reveals the group leaving. One by one, the men exit my home. My father points to the camera for someone to take care of. His jaw ticks because this was the first mistake in his plan. Hatred for him consumes me as he wipes Harper’s blood off his knuckles. One of his thugs does a terrible job of destroying the camera.

  Joe’s smile is satisfied and he’s laughing when the group fills the elevator. That camera goes unnoticed as they exit the building.

  Tom doesn’t wait for it to keep rolling because I know what happened later. He shuts his laptop and gives me a minute to process what I had already feared and suspected. Betrayal courses heavy through me.

  “I’m only beginning to understand what that man is capable of,” I admit.

  “Your dad has gone to great lengths to frame you for this and we have to figure out why,” Tom exclaims.

  Evan

  I was shocked to find out the local media hadn’t caught wind of my arrest. Public incarceration records hit the press quickly, so there should have been a crowd when Tom and I exited the police station.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Hawthorne. It pays to know someone in the FBI. You’ve been in the news a lot lately. Tell me, when were you going to let me know that you were about to put Harper’s life in danger?”

  “I made the best decisions I thought possible at the time. I thought I had everything covered but clearly I was wrong.”

  I watch him as he drives, his eyes never leave the road.

  “But you exposed her,” he says.

  “No, it’s not like that. Every action I took up until everything fell apart was to protect her. The residence the krewe’s ball took place was private. Hell, the krewe is private. Don’t forget that the only way we found her in time was because of the necklace I had her wear for her own safety.”

  “I was informed your brother sent you a text alerting you to her location,” Tom says.

  “I haven’t spoken to Grayson about the text he sent me. I’ve spent the last day locked up.”

  “I want to be there when the two of you do talk. As a matter of fact, I’ll set it up,” Tom declares.

  “As far as Harper goes, what do we do now?”

  I’m somewhat nervous about his answer and I want to put off talking about Grayson as long as possible.

  “We have to leave that up to her. I’m done ignoring her wishes. If you remember correctly, none of this would have happened had she come along with me a couple of weeks ago before you whisked her away.”

  I’ve had that recurring thought swimming in my mind. Blunt and brutal in all its honesty and the worst part is he’s right. I could be as angry as I want and the fault lands directly on me. Had I not been so determined to keep Harper, she would be safe somewhere else. This would have never happened if not for my involvement. Tom’s right, I’m the one who put her directly in harm’s way.

  We remain quiet as the car pulls up to the entrance of the hospital. We stalk to Harper’s heavily guarded room. Some of the tension lifts when I see Brad and Seth sitting on either side of her doorway. I approach Harper’s room with caution.

  Brad pushes the door open for us.

  “You look like shit, boss.”

  I nod, knowing he’s correct in his assessment. Mae sits next to Harper’s bed. Humming under her breath and knitting. Looking peaceful and content. Her eyes light up when they land on mine. She turns her attention to Tom and narrows her gaze.

  Several machines whine away as they do their work behind and to the side of Harper’s bed. An oxygen tube runs across her nostrils and IVs stretch in her arm.

  Tom stands next to her and brushes his hand in her hair.

  Mae’s attention remains on him as he leans down and brushes his lips over her forehead. Whispering in her ear, unconcerned with anyone witnessing his affection.

  I stand with my back pressed against the wall, hands shoved in my pockets. It’s the only thing I can think to do with them. What I really want to do is push past Tom and hover over Harper like a demented guardian. I’m apprehensive if I should even be here or not. Tom would not have brought me here if he didn’t think it would be all right. Brad walks in the room and brushes up next to me.

  “How are you holding up?” he whispers.

  I look to him and ask the same thing. He only shrugs and shakes his head.

  “Are you taking care of Rufus?” I ask, concerned for Harper’s silly dog.

  “Of course, Jamie’s been in and out. I would watch out for him if I were you,” Brad warns.

  “I figured as much.”

  Mae stands up and motions for me to come closer.

  “Don’t give me that look, Evan. Come see your girl.”

  My stomach somersaults with her statement. Damn right she’s my girl.

  The stark difference between her pale skin and dark bruises sicken me. I morbidly watch her lungs draw in air. Up and down, with the promise of her living.

  Tom excuses himself from the room, taking Mae and Brad with him, leaving me alone with Harper. Her eyes closed my heart breaking. I feel my throat close with emotion and a sharp pain in my chest.

  I lean over her still body and press my cheek against hers. Whispering my regrets and apologies along with my devastating need for her to stay with me. Pouring my love and adoration in her ear.

  “Harper, I need you. Please stay with me.”

  The repetition becomes my mantra as my fingers stroke over the exposed skin on her arm. Finding unblemished inches, touching in affection. Quietly spilling my heart out, dying a little more inside when I focus on her torn skin.

  I freeze when one of the machines starts beeping loudly in alarm. Her heart rate kicks up and mine accompanies its rhythm. I continue the litany of my confession. Forcing and willing words I’ve never uttered before in my life to sink into her.

  My heart stutters and stops as her eyes open.

  Harper

  I love the rain, but I’m terrified of storms. I’ve watched footage of Hurricane Katrina and its destruction. I feel as if a hurricane rages in the depths of this void. It was so peaceful only moments ago. Mae’s comforting hum suddenly changes, switching to that of the Sculptor and underlying tones of Evan’s voice.

  The sky darkens. Thunder booms as I stand from where I was peacefully admiring enchanted oak trees. The once swaying branches are now moving violently with the force of the wind. I need to get out of the approaching storm to the protection of the plantation sitting proudly through the canopy of trees.

  A dark figure stands on Evan’s balcony, hands tucked in his pockets as he watches me.

  The Sculptor moves from behind a tree in the opposite direction, slowly striding toward where I am. Lightning strikes across the sky, highlighting his tall silhouette. He blends in terribly with the gray atmosphere, his signature mask dark with shadows. His mouth is motionless, eerily still. His words sound off in my head, just like they used to. With his head cocked to the side, he stalks me. Taking his languid time to stroll up the long driveway. I can hear the crunch of his footsteps on loose gravel over the rumbling thunder.

  The same amount of distance stretches out between the Sculptor a
nd the looming mansion. I need to move, but the more I struggle, the slower I become.

  The wind howls with hushed words. Evan’s mingles with the Sculptor’s. Syllables prickle up my skin in electric energy. Another bolt of lightning beams off behind the mansion and my eyes move to where Evan was casually standing, but now he’s gone. I panic.

  Growling thunder awakens and charges my adrenaline as I run to the house. Whipping branches slash across my face as I rush past them.

  The cloud of rain roars with its arrival, competing with the thunder and the churning atmosphere. Adding another element to nature’s angry symphony.

  I stumble up the massive staircase of the plantation. The stairs slick from the rain. I’m clumsy and uncoordinated, but making progress. I don’t allow myself to look back to locate the Sculptor.

  Whatever threat he held, blinded me from seeing what was right in front of me. My focus should have been straight ahead, instead of looking over my shoulder. It won’t happen again, I won’t let it.

  My heartbeat matches the raging thunder as they both triumph in recognition.

  The front door opens as I approach. Slightly cracked, as if left ajar. The wind helps me push against the heavy door. I slip in the foyer and slide against the floor with wet feet. It takes every ounce of my fading strength to shut the door and lock it. I slide down to the floor and let out a lungful of air.

  The Sculptor can’t get to me, not this time.

  The old house seems empty and devoid of life, but it feels secure. It’s dark as shadows crawl over the centuries old property. Lightning and falling rain paint a cacophony of ghosts through the windows. I stiffen as curtains billow from an open French door.

  Trepidation sinks in, coating me much like the wet, relentless rain only moments ago. I manage to stand and slip as I attempt to go anywhere but here. My bare feet slide on the cold floor.

  I scream as I’m picked up.

  A mix of emotions set my pulse in rapid alarm as I’m turned around forcefully.

  Jet black hair peeks out of the Sculptor’s mask, instead of blond. Remnants of light sparkle off mesmerizing green eyes underneath the offensive obstruction across his face.