Dark Cherries

by Eve Bradley

  Dark Cherries

  Eve Bradley

  Dark Cherries

  (A Reverse Harem Suspense Romance Novel)

  Conmen and Billionaires Series

  Copyright Eve Bradley

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. An Angel Appears

  2. The Offer

  3. The Devil in the Mirror

  4. Breathe Right

  5. Secrets that Kill

  6. The Gift

  7. The Movies

  8. Divine Punishment

  9. Make Me Up

  10. Dead Bitch Walking

  11. It’s Vacation Time

  12. Dreams and Wishes

  13. The Best Lies I Can Tell

  14. Hospital Gowns

  15. Underground Operation

  About the Author

  One

  An Angel Appears

  I walk alone.

  The city lights are blinding ahead of me, especially in the darkness, and the alcohol thudding through my veins doesn’t help my off-kilter sight. I’ve swirled and hit the guardrail on the highway a few times, my hands hitting the cold metal, gripping tight so that I don’t collapse and roll into traffic. The cars that pass me whizz by so loudly that I clap my hands over my ears and stumble.

  I had been staying in a homeless camp stationed near Whole Foods. My memory shutters through my mind as I try to remember how I got here. The images passing through my brain include Lenny, the meth-head, offering me a drink. I think that was my first wrong decision. But then Jack, the vet came to join us, then Lorna, the old schizo, and I was too wrapped up in how pleasant the numbness felt to turn away.

  There is an unspoken familial tie between all of us, because, even though we try to keep our heads down, sometimes trouble finds us. We’re always looking out for one another. It’s just like in normal life when you and your friends have each other’s backs. Only here on the streets, without a confirmed home or predictable source of food, the stakes are life or death.

  I vaguely realize that my breathing is loud and funky. Did I take the cocaine too? Thinking back to the interaction I had just had, I doubt myself. The smells in my nose aren’t right. My memories aren’t right.

  Maybe it was my secret fondness for mind-numbing devices that put me on the side of a busy highway. But where was I going?

  The tiny, bleached shorts that Lorna gave me are ripped in spots and riding up my ass, and I wear a red hoodie that I stole from a swimwear store at Huntington beach because it reminded me of my college days.

  Ah, when things were good and golden. I had a future then. A future and a family. Now I’m an aimless wandering ghost girl. I laugh aloud at the thought. No one would even care or notice if I stepped into traffic. Maybe I could walk out and the cars would pass straight through me as if I were a wisp of smoke.

  Suddenly, I hear a car pull up behind me and two giant bluish lights come to a stop. I hear the purr of the engine, then the click and the slam of the door. And then, there he is. He’s standing there staring at me as if I am a baby turtle trying to make its way to the ocean. His eyes are wide, and his arms are splayed, fingers relaxed.

  “Woah,” he says. “Are you alright?”

  My chin dips a few times and I cannot move my hand from shielding my eyes. His lights are so bright that I can hardly see his face. All I can see is the outline of his tall, authoritarian figure.

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “Just fine.”

  “You should get off the highway,” he tells me.

  No shit. Some people are so predictable.

  I look out across the street, head spinning and swimming. My sight is watery, but the sound of his voice is angelic, hopeful, and promising. It is as if in those words, him even caring that I live, means that he is some sort of savior. I stagger closer, squinting to see him. His eyes are gemstones and his body is carved wax. Surely, he can’t be real.

  “Are you okay? Really?” he asks, his voice stern with passion. “I could take you somewhere safe. Do you live around here?”

  I start to giggle. What a fool. Doesn’t he see what I am? I don’t live around here. I live nowhere. But, despite my internal monologue, the man draws out his phone. It’s a nice sleek iPhone, one of the newer ones I’ve seen in stores. The screen’s brightness burns my eyes. It’s then that I see that he is popping in the numbers…9…1…1…and I slap the phone from his hands.

  “What the fuck, girl?” his brows are drawn low.

  I am closer to him now and can see his pretty features. He has a nice nose and lips, smooth and crested with perfectly groomed, short facial hair. I can tell he is one of those guys who uses products on his hair because the dark blond locks are purposefully messy. I know he’ll smell like one of those boys coming out of the locker room wafting with cologne. Except I’d bet he’s near thirty, not some immature high school boy.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Don’t what? Try to help you?” he asks, confused.

  “Yeah.”

  He pulls himself back, and tilts his head, assessing me from head to toe.

  “You’re on some good shit, aren’t you? You’ll die out here if you don’t come with me. Listen, I know life might not seem worth living, but you need to leave that attitude behind you. Right here, right now,” he points to the road. “Just let me take you somewhere safe.”

  “Somewhere safe?” I repeat.

  Is there anywhere safe in this world? Isn’t safety just an illusion? I think back to a thousand jagged memories in which nothing was safe. Where I was consistently met with the crashing of glass bottles on walls and bruises on my body. I had to make hard choices in order to survive. You know where they got me? Here on the side of the road, strung out and lost in a hazy world of hunger and pain.

  I nod, giving him my response. His lips form a grimace, and he waves me over to his car. His nice black Tesla. I am not a car girl by any means, but I feel like a glob of dirt sticking to a diamond in this moment, allowing my naked legs skim the leather and feeling the warmth coming from the heated seats against my backside just feels wrong.

  He makes sure that I am buckled in, and then we speed off into the night. The danger of the situation is a far-off bell chiming in the back of my mind very faintly; so faintly that I can easily ignore it. I am not afraid of much. I’ve had to be strong my entire life, to turn disasters into laughter, and sorrow into smiles. So, who is he to cause my stomach to tumble with anxiety?

  When I swivel my neck to look at him through the veil of my amber hair, I think that he looks like an upstanding citizen. Normal. He may even have a family at home with a lovely wife who irons his shirts. Ooh. Fancy.

  “Where to?” he asks, itching his thickly muscled bicep, watching the road keenly.

  “Well…”

  I want to tell him that I live in alleys and under bridges. But how do I say it? That would be like telling him that me being in his car now was pointless, that he shouldn’t have wasted his time. But then I remember where my drunk mind had been taking me.

  “Santa Monica?” he asks, pointing to my sweatshirt.

  “No,” I smile, liking his observation. “You can take me to LAX. I was headed there anyways.”

  “LAX?” he lets out an impressed breath. “Here I was thinking you were a homeless junkie.”

  “I am,” I blurt out suddenly. Fuck. What is wrong with me.

  He nods slowly and licks his bottom lip. The glide of his tongue gives me an odd sensation, something fluttery and painful that I don’t want to feel. But with drugs and alcohol skewing my body’s natural desires, a glimpse of his tongue on his smooth lip gets to me. I laugh again, slapping my hand down on my thigh.

  “You think this is funny?” he glances at me briefly, eyebrows low again, p
lied into stoic confusion. But then there’s a slight pull at the edge of his mouth. I can see that he’s trying to hide his amusement.

  “Only a little,” I explain, exhaling loudly. “Sometimes I go to LAX to pretend I am one of those elegant women with somewhere to be. Successful. Excited. Heading home to their families. I sit in the bars until some guy feels bad enough for me that he buys me a drink. Then I can keep on pretending.”

  The man makes no sign that he is affected by anything I have said. He stares straight ahead, giving me the courage to continue.

  “I mean,” I clear my throat, “It beats sitting out in the cold, hoping no one notices me. You get a lot of weird proposals on the streets. Especially as a woman.”

  “Woman?” he smirks at me. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty,” I tell him. I mean, I’m probably close to that. What’re a few years give or take?

  “Hm.”

  This small, mumble of intrigue sends my anxiety through the roof. Maybe he’s finally acknowledging the strangeness of the situation. He’s probably wishing he never stopped his shiny Tesla for the likes of little ole’ me. But who the fuck cares now? I’m just here for the ride. I’ll end up back behind Whole Foods again, and Lenny, Jack, and Lorna will welcome me back as if I hadn’t been gone for five minutes.

  “How’d you end up homeless? Don’t you have any family?” He glances at me with a pointed expression that could shred me up inside if I let it. But I don’t let the words hurt me. I’ve stuffed all of my baggage away into the itty-bitty carry-on cabinets in my mind. Nope, not today Satan.

  “It’s just me,” I tell him.

  But, I think he knows that I’m hiding something. I think everyone can guess from my aloof nature that I have plenty to hide. I don’t owe anyone anything; not the sob stories of my past, nor the terrors I’ve seen. Quite frankly, I believe that the first quarter of my life will forever go unspoken of, and perhaps it’ll fall through the cracks to my subconscious, never to be heard from again.

  He continues to drive without further comment, but he doesn’t take me to LAX like I wanted, which is too bad because I really wanted to bum some drinks off of some of the guys who lurk at the bars and sky lounges. I don’t have the nerve, nor am I in the right mindset to say anything, so I lean my head against the car window and let myself drift in and out of sleep.

  We end up in a neighborhood. The kind that I shouldn’t even step foot in because it reminds me what a disgusting piece of shit I am. All these people with their big houses and big fancy cars have their shit together, that’s for sure. They pay their bills on time, wear suits and dresses every day, play golf for fun, and enjoy mimosas in the mornings.

  He pulls through gates and into a smooth cement driveway up towards a giant house. It’s California style, more like a modern bungalow with palm trees swaying gently overhead. I blink a few times rapidly to piece together my predicament and suddenly realize that I can’t go in.

  “Um…what are we doing?” I ask him, rolling my head around to look at him.

  He looks nice enough, in fact, maybe even innocent.

  “You’re not going to LAX to bum more drinks or drugs,” he tells me with a broken grin. “You’ll stay here tonight and then we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

  He gets out of the car and dashes over to my side, helping me out as if I’m a breakable vase or something. He handles me with care and helps me walk awkwardly to his front door. I hope he doesn’t have a wife or kids waiting inside. That would be even more awkward. Then I’d really be in deep shit. Hey, hi. Yeah, your husband picked me up on the side of the road. I swear I’m not a prostitute.

  He fumbles with his keys and then pushes the door open wide. It’s cozy inside. Clean, with white floors that gleam in the low light. A staircase thrusts into view and everything is fresh, white, and modern. His rugs are the lightest gray, and if there is any décor, it’s mirrors or modern art. Although I note small touches of softness, such as a fluffy blanket on the couch, a woolly cream rug in front of his electric fireplace, and throw pillows puffing up the leather seating, there’s not much else filling the space.

  “Don’t worry,” he says.

  His voice hits my head like an alarm. Don’t worry? Why would I worry? Should I be worrying? I glare back at him, my mind still foggy from the intoxicants. I certainly can’t make a good decision right now, so I walk into my savior’s den, uneasy and unprepared for whatever will come.

  “Listen,” he says as we walk inside. “You can borrow some clothes, take a shower…there’s food in the fridge. Whatever you need, just ask.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I look down at my ripped mini shorts and the stolen red sweatshirt and shrug.

  “I thought you liked my outfit,” I tell him. “ Short shorts always get the guys.”

  His brows lower. He tilts his head, and his cold gray eyes suddenly look like ice. When he looks at me this way, it sends shocks through me, almost like I’m being reprimanded.

  “I’m not most guys. In fact, I’m not a guy. I’m a man,” he says stiffly. “Go ahead and clean yourself up. I’ll leave a towel and clothing on the sink. You want coffee? Or are you ready to sleep off that haze?”

  I’m startled, and I start to laugh and then cover my mouth with my hand. Coffee? Clothes? Clean myself up? It’s like I’m in some alternate world. Being offered these things so swiftly is nearly unsettling. A small part of me wishes I could bring all of my homeless friends back to this attractive man’s home for a shower. We can truly appreciate these things as you never know when the next one will come. And coffee? Watch me drink the whole pot. I don’t get these sorts of luxuries in tent city.

  “Yeah…coffee is good,” I mumble through my giggles.

  He gives me a strange look and then leads me up the stairs. I’m not sure how many bedrooms he has but it seems like a lot. The hall looks like it stretches on for miles. He leaves me at the midpoint in front of a door and retrieves a neat pile of clothes. They must be his because they smell delicious, like sweet bergamot and cool jasmine. It’s a clean, overpowering scent that I could drink up forever.

  He nods at the door and leaves me. I can’t tell if he’s trusting or if he doesn’t really care what I do because he has enough money to fix the damage no matter what sort of hell I raise. Maybe he’s just a nice guy, although I don’t know what I’d bet on at this point. I’ve learned the hard way that people, as much as you might think you know about them, will choose things that make no sense.

  When I enter the giant bathroom, I see that his shower is one of the walk-in kinds with the showerhead at the top that makes it seem like it’s raining down on you. The tiles are all gray with intensely white grout. I see soap dispensers at the side of the shower and there are even built in benches and shelving. I wonder what he uses the seating for.

  I’m so excited about feeling the luxury of the hot water on my body that I peel the tight worn shorts away from my legs and bare my small ass and light brown pussy hair in all their glory. I used to shave when I lived in a house and had access to razors, but it’s been a while since then. Finally, I throw my red sweatshirt on the floor and hop into the shower, turning the water on to its hottest setting.

  It’s so gloriously amazing that I practically moan when the water hits my skin. I cup my breasts with my hands and then rub my nipples as the water hits them. Steam trails through the air, clearing out my senses, along with the intense feeling of intoxication, clearing that path for sobriety. I see his razor and don’t even hesitate to scrape away the hairs all over my body like I used to.

  I feel sharper but also tired as if I could pass out against the wall. But I don’t have time for that and lather my hair and body in rich soaps.

  After showering and shaving, I feel a little more myself. A little prettier and a little less homeless. The heat has relaxed me, unbundled my muscles and given my limbs that lazy feeling. I dress in his oversized sweats and t-shirt and forego the dirty old bra that had
been holding my d-cup boobs.

  When I wipe the mirror with my towel, I stare into the face of a woman I barely recognize. It’s a reflection that I haven’t known for two years, a reflection that haunts me and reminds me of destructive innocence. My bronzy-blonde hair is tousled and wet, my face free of makeup and clean. I have a cute nose and tiny freckles where the sun kisses my face every day. My lips are soft, my bottom lip fuller than the top. I used to be pretty. At least, that’s what people said.

  This house has the “someone’s always watching you vibe.” The longer I stand there looking at myself in the mirror, the longer I feel like someone is looking at me. So, I hurry down the stairs to find the man standing at his marble-topped island in the kitchen. Although the lights are dim, they still burn my eyes.

  “How was it?” he asks, pressing me with an intense expression as I come around the island, skimming my fingers on the counter. I stand across from him and let out a shivering sigh that tells him all he needs to know.

  “You know I wasn’t always homeless,” I tell him. “I used to take showers regularly and didn’t wear shitty clothes.”

  He slides a thick mug across the counter and inside is steaming, velvety, creamy, coffee. My insides are mushy now. My thoughts dance towards seduction and eventual marriage; a con that involves an obscene amount of footwork. Isn’t that what all the young gold-diggers promote? I knew of a few girls on skid row who’d steal clothes, go out to nice lounges, and try to find their way off the streets through marriage. Although, the likeliness of that happening is one in a million for any girl like that-- the lies always catch up with you.

  I tilt the cup of coffee to my mouth, and he watches every moment, his angel eyes cutting me deep. I take a large swallow, lick my lips, and sigh again.