No Perfect Princess

by Angel Payne

  With a long sigh, I stepped off on the top floor and made my way toward my little piece of San Diego’s skyline. The El Cortez was an icon, constructed in 1927, though the historic charm ended at my front door, giving way to the modern lines of my two-floor unit. Instantly, the cathedral ceilings and bright-on-white color scheme were a mini-vacay on the chaos of my thoughts. Once I added a long soak beneath the rainforest spout of my enormous shower, I’d be even better.

  I frowned after stepping inside the door, when I wasn’t greeted by my security alarm, which normally begged me to enter my code to silence it. Maybe I forgot to set it yesterday morning when I left for the bridal salon. Claire—correction, little Ginny Foo-Foo—had insisted on hitting the road early, meaning I’d only had one cup of coffee before Andre called up to order my ass to get into gear.

  A glance to the entryway table provided another explanation. Sorrelle had clearly been by because my mail sat on the surface, neatly sorted into three priority piles.

  Urgent

  Peruse Me Later

  Bitch, Please—Circular or Bust

  His categories, not mine—though I adored the hell out of that handsome boy, and had been thrilled when he started dropping hints about staying on with me after he’d been of service in Chicago. Good PAs were hard as hell to find. I’d even paid his moving expenses.

  I turned for the kitchen. After grabbing a bottle of water, I’d hit the shower. I could feel the heaven of it already…

  Until hell took over my world anew.

  Revision. It sat on a stool next to my kitchen island, grinning like a hound of hell turned into one of the earth’s shittiest human beings. In case I didn’t get the message from the bloodshot eyes, rusty blade shave, and greasy skin, there was a fashion note, too: last year’s jeans and a threadbare polo were the perfect touches of dystopian chic.

  I stopped so hard my bare feet squeaked against the floor. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  His soft chortle bounced off the walls—then hit my stomach like bullets. Shit.

  “Now is that any sort of greeting for your brother?”

  “Fuck off, Trey. How’s that for a greeting?”

  “Tsk, tsk…Mary.”

  “Shut up.”

  “But Mary is such a pretty—”

  “I suggest you stop before I cut out your balls, drizzle them in expired tartar sauce then feed them back to you, asshole.”

  The bastard snickered. “Tartar sauce. How perfectly bourgeois of you, m’lady.”

  “I’m calling security.”

  “Good luck with that, too.” His words stopped me halfway down the hall to the VIP service phone. As I whirled back around, he laughed before flipping everything on a one-eighty, snarling with bared teeth. “Ridiculous bitch. Who do you think let me in here? Guess it’s true what they say, about blondes and the gray matter. Or lack of it.”

  God, how I longed to park my fingernails in his eyes. But maiming him wouldn’t lead to the information I needed. “What the hell do you want? Why are you here—aside from that adorable little stalker fantasy you keep entertaining?”

  It wasn’t that impossible. Not where Trey Stone was concerned. I was starting to get nervous but predators like Trey fed on fear. Having the man as an on-again, off-again client for a year had proved at least that much.

  At one time, the guy had been okay as a client. Just okay. He’d tried cleaning up his act but took a dive back into the filth right before the shit about Killian’s true identity hit the fan last year. In the end, nobody had cared whether Kil was a biological Stone or not—but that was after Trey had time to swoop in and damn near destroy the company from within.

  After Killian reassumed the SGC helm, Trey had disappeared. We all assumed he’d slithered under his favorite rock for good, never to surface again.

  Assumptions. This moment sure as hell proved what dangerous shit they could be.

  I silently swore at my hammering heart and locked my legs, holding my ground—even after he rose from the stool and prowled toward my position. Okay, screw the locked legs. An instinctual step back. Another. But then, dammit, my back slammed the wall. There was literally nowhere to run or hide.

  “Uh oh, Mary-Mary-quite-contrary. Looks like I have you…right where I want you.” He pressed in, trapping me with his huge frame. Killian may have been taller, but Trey was the width of a linebacker.

  “Back off.” I steeled my jaw but had to force out the next word. “P-please. Whatever you want—I’m sure we can discuss it like rational adults.” Keep the bad guys talking. Wasn’t that what the experts always said? Dammit, I’d never paid much attention. In my world, “bad guys” were nothing worse than asshat paparazzi and journalists who tossed out the talking points during interviews. Nothing like a washed-up rich boy with a brilliant mind that had gone to waste thanks to his entitlement issues and victim complex.

  In short: a semi-psychopath with a shiny new plan.

  I think that qualified as the bad guy.

  Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

  The asshole slanted toward me by another inch. Ran a finger down my nose and over my lips. “Where’s that strut and sass now, hmmm? All that big talk and bad-ass temper?”

  Show no fear. It was a tougher mantra as he continued going with the finger, dipping it along the neckline of Michael’s T-shirt in slow, almost sensual, assessment.

  I swallowed hard against my gag reflex.

  “Well. Looks like someone had a sleep over last night. Naughty little kitten. You really need to stop sleeping around so much, sister. You could give our family a bad name.”

  I glared. “But you’ve done so beautifully in that department already, kitten.”

  Pushed too hard. The explosion of pain through my skull verified it, as he reared back, then backhanded me across the face. As my head snapped from the impact, instinct drove a hand up to cover my cheek. My fear had been justified—a fact that did nothing for my horror from the moisture welling in my eyes. Weak. You’re so goddamn weak. Why the hell didn’t you see that coming? You deserved what you got, baby girl. Pain and humiliation.

  I knew what came next. The reaction Andrea Asher had programmed in me to be next. You don’t like being embarrassed and hurt, darling? Then take back your dignity. Fight for it!

  “Bastard!” I swung out, catching the edge of his jaw, trailing a thin red line beneath the grunge of his stubble. “You think you’ll get away with this?”

  He curled a gloating smile. “Ohhhh, sweet sister, I will indeed get away with it—and will be happy to tell you why.”

  “What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?”

  His lips twisted again—back to the same sinister look he’d worn when I walked in. With equal menace, he seized my upper arm and dragged me into the living room, before hurling me onto the large turquoise couch. “Listen to me very carefully, bitch. I don’t like repeating myself. As you can probably guess—or maybe not, knowing your mental capacity—I’ve had a bit of time on my hands lately. Time to do some very careful research on a few things.”

  I pushed back against the cushions. Carefully. “Things…like what?”

  “Like you.”

  “Like—” I huffed to disguise the fresh frisson of fear along my spine. There’s a damn good chance he has nothing. This is classic bait-the-bear. “Me? Why?”

  He exploded again. Scooped up a custom Venetian glass figurine and flung it against the wall. “Cut the crap, Margaux. You know damn well why! Granted, you had some very creative help with burying the bones, baby cakes, but money talks; this you know.”

  “Ahhh,” I muttered. “Does that explain the fact that you look and smell like a sewer?”

  He stalked back over. Loomed over as if I were the next Venetian glass under consideration. Shit. I wasn’t in a boardroom with him anymore, surrounded by lots of witnesses to his temper. “Being cut off from what’s mine explains that,” he finally seethed.

  “Guess it does,” I said softly. “But Killian had no choice a
fter discovering what a naughty boy you’d been with Papa Josiah’s money.” I dared a smile now. A tiny one. “The golden gates of Stone don’t get opened for inside traders, Trey.”

  “Yeah? You don’t say. That’s cute, sis; real cute. Well, how’s this for more cuteness: what can be buried, can be dug up. And guess what appeared in my shovel about my very own sister dearest?”

  I clamped up and simply glared. His taunt still didn’t prove he’d learned anything significant. At least not the most “significant” secret I could think of. Nobody knew the whole truth about that except Andrea, and she’d paid lots of people to keep their mouths—and their files—shut.

  Trey rocked on his heels. “So it seems someone once had a swoony love affair with a well-known major league baseball player.”

  Dammit. That landed closer to the mark. Much closer. But not right on the money.

  Fortunately, I was a master of the nonchalant blow-off. “Not classified, asshole. Anyone who thumbed gossip magazines for those eight months knew about Doug and me.” His silence spurred me on. “Are you kidding me? That’s what this is all about? What you broke in here for?” I surged to my feet, marching toward the front door. “You’re going to leave now. And if you don’t, I’m going to find you in whatever hovel you’re calling a home, and sue you out of every box of ramen you’re stashing in the place. Breaking and entering’s just going to be the st—”

  He flipped me around and slammed me against the entrance foyer wall. This time, I saw stars from the force. In a haze, I watched my mail tumble to the floor, victim to the backdraft of his assault.

  Time to scream.

  But as I sucked in air, he clamped a ruthless hand over my mouth.

  “I wasn’t done, bitch. And if you think this is my bad side, just try interrupting me again. Are we clear?”

  I nodded in frantic agreement. Tears stung once more and this time I let them, blinking fast in an effort to keep my vision clear. My heart thrummed in my throat. My whole head pounded, but I had no choice. With Trey’s hand locked over my mouth, I was pinned. Forced to hear out the rest of his tirade.

  No. Not a tirade.

  The darkest nightmare of my life—put into words.

  “So, it was rough when Dougie broke up with your sad little ass, hmmm? Maybe a little more than rough?” He cocked both brows, officially making me hate him more than I ever thought possible. “Amazing what the right people in the right places will do for enough bribe money these days. My little friend at the hospital gave me some very interesting reading material for a few nights, dearest. Now let me try to remember this all correctly. Margaux Corina Asher, admitted for—what was it?—oh, that’s right. In the papers, they called it ‘exhaustion’.” He threw back his head, laughing loudly. “Right. Oh God, that’s original. Exhaustion.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to stomach anymore. Maybe the floor would be merciful and break open times fifteen stories, allowing the earth to swallow me. My evil half-brother was still laughing, not caring that the sound had turned cartoonish in its cackle factor. He was so proud of his little coup, unearthing my worst secret—and now, clearly intent on destroying me with it.

  But why me? Had this become the new Stone family initiation rite, watching your world go up in flames while Trey held the matchstick? Yes, he was the spawn of the devil, and yes, he still jonesed to crush Killian by any means possible, but where did I figure into either situation? I’d never, not in a million years, thought he would turn his hate on me.

  What was his angle? Other than the fact that he obviously knew the true bomb to be dropped here—and couldn’t wait to detonate it?

  “We both know it wasn’t exhaustion…right, sweetie? Let me try to see if I can remember all the details correctly. Oh, but wait. Silly me. How does one forget words like attempted suicide? I mean, wow, Margaux. That’s something I’ll bet the world would love knowing about you. ‘Step right up, folks! Read it here. Perfect, polished Margaux Asher, really not the put-together diva you all know and revere.’ No? Guess Mommie Dearest thought so, too. She took care of everything, didn’t she? Had everything sealed up, nice and proper, and sold a different story altogether to the media. Won’t they be supremely interested to know they were utterly lied to, along with the rest of the world?”

  With a flourish of smug satisfaction, he stepped back. As his hand popped free of my face, I heaved in a huge breath. Another. I hadn’t exactly been suffocated, but pure fury required a lot of pure air.

  I dragged my hand through my hair, openly glowering. “What the hell do you want, Trey? Or should I say, how much do you want?”

  He smacked his hands together so hard, the claps pinged audibly off the stucco walls. “Brava! See? You aren’t really that dumb, after all! Hmmm. Hey,”—he drew the word out, waggling brows over his dark, evil eyes—“maybe you aren’t really a blonde, after all. I don’t know, Margaux. Does the carpet match the drapes? That might be fun to find out.”

  I shuddered but managed to cloak it. Why the hell was all this happening? Now?

  From my purse on the table across the foyer, my cell phone started blaring.

  Apple Bottom Jeans.

  I swallowed to combat the leap of my heart. Michael—likely just calling to make sure I’d survived the trip home without puking. The trip? Yes. The homecoming? Maybe not.

  The ringing stopped, but instantly started again. I wavered between laughter and tears. Michael hated that ring. I’d kept it to torment him, proclaiming he’d never actually have to hear it. I made a silent, desperate promise to God and every saint I’d change the ring if I could only blink my eyes and learn the last half hour had been a disgusting nightmare.

  At least the song yanked Trey out of his obsession with my “carpet”—FYI, asshole, I am a real blonde but you’ll never get the proof—but there was a down side, too. My sidesteps across the foyer weren’t escaping his focus anymore.

  “Ohhh, babe. Don’t even think it. We haven’t finished our little chat yet.”

  “Fine.” I managed a curt shrug. “Whatever you say, brother—but I’ll tell you right now, if he calls back and I don’t answer, he’ll have San Diego SWAT here in less than five minutes.”

  “More than enough time,” Trey crooned. “I mean, we’ve finally gotten to the good part.”

  “Of course.” Shit. Where were my Jimmy five-inchers when I needed them to elaborate on my bitch hip pose? “I’ve already asked, in case you don’t remember. How much?”

  Trey smirked. “Five million.”

  “Dollars?”

  “No,” he snapped. “Fucking gumballs.”

  He wasn’t shocked by my gape. Like I expected him to be? “I just—don’t have—”

  “Of course you do, Mary Poppins. You think I walked in here ill-informed about that? You’re at least there by half.”

  “Half,” I growled. “But not all. And certainly not liquid!”

  “Tsk tsk,” he repeated. “And here I was just beginning to think you had an actual brain in your head.” In one motion, he scooped an envelope off the floor, then shoved it into my hand. It was my SGC electronic paycheck “stub”. “You’re playing in the big kids’ playground now, Margaux. Fortune five hundred. And hey, isn’t accounting right up the hall from you now?”

  I wrenched free. “You’re out of your mind. I’m not going to steal from Killian!”

  “Killian,” he spat. “Who never stole a thing in his whole life—except my goddamn birthright.”

  “Which you had your chance to claim, Trey! Only you didn’t just screw the pooch, brother. You fucked over the whole pack.”

  “Stop!” He stomped at me, pushing me against the wall again. “Stop it right now!” Just as fast, he pushed away as if I’d burned him. “You know the drill here, Margaux. Five million in three days, or I go public about everything. Your true identity. Your trip to the psych ward with all those pills in your system. Even the little ‘fling’ you’re having right now with Mr. Pearson.” He grinned as I ga
sped, softening his grip because he knew he could. “Carefully done, I might even be able to get it all into one tweet. Wouldn’t that make for a nice little internet implosion?”

  “Shut up.” Shut up? How lame could I be? But letting his threats fall to silence wasn’t acceptable, either. Not in any reality I chose to take part in. Though I desperately clung to the hope this was all a damn dream…

  “Gladly,” Trey drawled. “But remember this, sugar. I may stink like a sewer, but I’ve got the balls lined up here, nice and tight. If you don’t want to find yourself behind number eight, then get your adorable little ass in gear—and get me my money.”

  He reached down to pat my backside, openly admiring the view as he did. My teeth locked. “Get your fucking hands off me.” I bared them directly at the asshole. “And stay the hell away from Michael.”

  “Power’s in your hands now, Mary. Don’t disappointment me.”

  He pivoted and strode out the door without looking at me again.

  As soon as the door closed, I crumpled to the floor, dropped my face into my hands, and dissolved into pieces. Time seemed to freeze as I sat there shaking and sobbing, though the joke was on me; nothing had stopped at all.

  How the hell was this happening? An hour ago, my hugest concern was the changing dynamic between Michael and me, but larger—make that larger—issues had found their way to my front door. Literally.

  And I wasn’t easing a single damn one of them by wallowing in this pity party.

  I needed to get up, take action, and attempt to move ahead. That was how survivors behaved. Survivors made it through. They didn’t sit on the floor swimming in their tears, still clad in their boyfriend’s sweat pants from the night before.

  There was the second slab of the large issues in the room right now. Michael wasn’t my boyfriend—and even thinking of going there now with him was completely out of the question. The sooner my head—and my heart—grabbed that one as reality, the better. This was probably for the best. Michael took me to places that were…amazing. Places that could become addicting—or worse.

  No more. For my protection, and especially for his, I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—let him be caught in Trey’s filthy crosshairs.