by LP Lovell
Ah, fuck. I’m never going to catch that plane. I grab her and throw her on the bed, eliciting a high pitched squeal. Blake McQueen is the best and worst kind of distraction.
“I’ll be back in two days.” Rhett crouches down slightly, forcing me to look at him. “Try not to get yourself killed. And no hookers or strippers.” He smirks.
I roll my eyes and then I stop myself because shit, when did I become the sad bitch who gets all mopey just because her man goes away? Fuck him. I’m going to get drunk and hire a stripper on pure fucking principle.
He sighs, rising to his full height. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”
I look up at him innocently. “What?”
He smiles and cups the back of my neck, pressing his lips to my forehead. “Nothing.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
His hand slips from my neck to my cheek, and his eyes fix on my mouth as he drags his thumb over my bottom lip.
“And Duchess….”
“Hmm?” I lift my eyes to his.
“Just so we’re clear, you’re fucking mine. Remember that.” And then his lips are on mine, taking, claiming, owning me in every way. He pulls away, and by the time I open my eyes, it’s to watch him walk out the door.
I’m woken up early the next morning by my phone ringing, and I mean normal person early, not my early. I’m expecting Rhett, but when I glance at the screen, I see my father’s office number. I frown and answer it.
“Wow, twice in one year. Anyone would think I’m your only child, Daddy.” My voice is still raspy from sleep.
“Blake, your mother and I need to see you.” He says coldly, ignoring my jibe. “Tonight, seven thirty.” He demands, hanging up the phone before I can even respond.
My instant reaction is of course that I’m not going. I’m not a bloody dog he can just summon, but when I start to think about it, I’m curious. Firstly, he only uses the phone if it’s dire, secondly, I haven’t been invited to their house since I’ve been back. I’m curious as to what would make them allow their abhorrent daughter inside their house.
I sit there, staring at the glass of whiskey in front of me as I wait for Renee.
I wish I’d never gotten involved in this shit. My father was heavily involved in the Cartel, and my brother and I were dragged into it by association.
My dad was locked up for drug trafficking when I was nine and continued to run things for the Cartel from his jail cell. You’d be surprised at the network that exists, even behind bars. My mother was a Mexican girl, naive and hopelessly in love with him. She was too gentle for the world he dragged her into and she soon became addicted to heroin, as though she was trying to escape her living hell. Once you’re involved with the Cartel, there’s only one way you’re leaving it. She overdosed when I was sixteen, and my uncle took legal custody of Luca and me. Legal doesn’t mean actual, so I looked after my twelve-year old brother, made sure he went to school and tried to make sure he wouldn’t fall into the fucking cess pit our family crawled out of.
For years, I had no idea the extent of my dad’s connections. He paid for my education and put me through Harvard, and at the time, all I could think was that he owed me that much. Of course, it wasn’t him paying it, it was the Cartel. I was just too consumed by my hatred for him to stop and think.
They dragged Luca in when he was just sixteen, had him running drugs on the streets, and, of course, they recovered their debt from me eventually. They wanted me to work for them, and they told me if I didn’t, they’d kill Luca. So I did it, embezzling dirty money, fixing accounts, stuff like that. The Cartel has money invested and stashed everywhere, laundering it, cleaning it. That was my domain.
I made them money—a lot of money, and they, in turn, gave me a lot of money, trying to buy my loyalty and entrance me with wealth. A few years in and I broached the Cartel boss, Andre, not the kind of man you want to spend any kind of time with. I told him I wanted out, and he actually let me. I was sure the only way I was getting out was with a bullet in my head, but it might have had something to do with the fact that I was dating his daughter, Renee. He was sure to inform me that if I ever spoke about any of our business dealings, I wouldn’t be alive long enough to finish the sentence.
So I got out, used the money I had invested to buy property, and my business started. I was lucky. My brother wasn’t. He thrived on the illegal lifestyle a lot more than I ever had. Luca was a master at finding ways to get large shipments across borders, a skill that is worth its weight in gold to the Cartel. I tried to get him out of it, but people need to feel worthy, to be good at something. It’s our sense of self-worth that defines us, and for Luca, without the Cartel, he was worthless.
He was the best, until one day he wasn’t. He was personally handling a big shipment into London for a client and he got caught. He thought he was untouchable hidden behind the Cartel, but of course, it was them hiding behind him. When he got arrested, I had hoped he would be deported back home, but he wasn’t. He was tried in Britain as an example and got twenty years.
Within days of his arrest, his boss had contacted me and asked if I could do anything, knowing I had contacts in London. I’d love to say that they were helping him out of loyalty, but that would be a lie. They just wanted him out and away from the questions of the police.
So now, here I am, two months into his sentence. I have looked at every loophole there is, and aside from him selling out the Cartel - which would result in his immediate execution anyway - his only option is getting extradited back to the US where the Cartel probably has the sway to get him out.
The chair across from me screeches as the legs drag over the tile floor. Renee drops into it and crosses her legs elegantly. Her dark eyes narrow, focusing on me. She looks good, really good. Her red dress clings to every curve, and believe me, she has many. That body coupled with the face of a super model, and Renee Garcia might well be her father’s most lethal weapon, because believe me, she could kill me right here if she wanted to.
“Torres.” A small smile touches her lips, but it’s hard, insincere.
“Renee.” She used to be one of my best friends. We grew up together, dated, loved each other, but where I hated the lifestyle, she loved it. I watched her slowly turn into a cold shell; deadly, calculating, unfeeling.
“Are you any closer?” She taps her nails on the table impatiently.
“I’m working on it. Give me a few more weeks.”
She sighs. “You have two.” Fuck.
“Or what?” I growl.
She cocks an eyebrow, a small smirk pulling at her bright red lips. She ignores me and stands, smoothing her skirt down. “It was lovely to see you again, Rhett.” That’s it? She affords me two fucking minutes of her time?
I push to my feet and grit my teeth as I embrace her, allowing her to kiss first one cheek and then the other. She steps closer to me, winding her arms around my neck more tightly and bringing her lips to my ear.
“If your brother cannot be freed, then he poses a risk. You know how Daddy gets.” She pulls back and gently kisses my lips before releasing me and walking away.
They’re going to kill Luca. I have two weeks, or they’re going to kill my little brother.
I take a seat at the enormous dining table to the left of my father. My mother sits across from me, her expression hard and cold. I’m not sure whether it’s displeasure on her face or just the Botox, happy and pissed tend to look exactly the same where she’s concerned.
“Well, this must be important if it’s broken your stale mate.” I say acerbically.
My father says nothing, simply glares at me as he throws a newspaper down on the table in front of me, The Times to be exact. He opens it to page five and slams his finger down on the page.
“This has to stop!” He snaps. I glance at where he’s pointing and see a picture of me from weeks ago. I’ll admit, it’s not the most flattering picture. Okay, so it’s a minge shot. What can I say? I wear short dresses. I get drunk, and well, I’m
not all that graceful at getting out of low sports cars at the best of times. Add some alcohol and a combination of drugs into the mix, and me trying to get out of a car holds a mild resemblance to a sheep that’s beached on its back, hopelessly flailing its legs around until it decides to just give up and die. Yeah, that.
“At least my nipples haven’t made an appearance.” The nip and minge shots, otherwise known as the money shots for the press. There’s a reason they follow me around, and it sure as shit isn’t to catch what fashion trend I’ll be setting next. Apparently slut chic isn’t a thing. Who knew?
“Blake! Have you no shame?” My mother sneers.
“Um…Is that a serious question?”
“My office has released a statement this morning.” My father clears his throat. “You’ve had too much exposure. We can’t cover this up anymore. We’ve released a statement saying that you have a drug problem and have been sent to rehab.”
He might as well have slapped me in the face. “What the fuck?”
“Blake!” My mother snaps.
“I haven’t even touched anything for weeks now.” I defend. “That picture is weeks old.”
“Well, all I’ve seen for weeks is you gallivanting around with that Torres boy.” My mother spits. I’d hardly call Rhett a boy.
My father laughs coldly. “Ah, yes. Rhett Torres, the man whose entire business is founded with dirty blood money.” His eyes snap to mine, boiling with anger and hatred. “You are a drug addict, a whore, and a disgrace. You will stay off the radar for the next two weeks so we can pretend you are in rehab.”
“If you were so concerned, why not just actually send me to rehab? If I’m such a fucking addict?”
He drags his eyes over me and curls his lip. “I wouldn’t waste the tax payer’s money on you. You’re a lost cause.” Pain ripples across my chest as he glares at me as though I physically offend him. Damn him, and fuck the pair of them for making me feel like this. They always do this, make me feel like a piece of shit, completely unworthy of their time or effort. And why? Because I won’t fall into line. I won’t embrace the silver spoon they want to shove up my arsehole.
I steel myself and do what I always do. I shake it off and I suit up. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I a let-down, Daddy?” I paint a smirk on my lips, refusing to let them see that they have an effect on me.
His face flushes to an unhealthy shade of red, verging on purple. I watch as his jaw clenches and a vein in his temple throbs. I actually tense as I watch him boil over. He slams his fist down on the table, making me jump in my chair.
His eyes lock with mine and my heart hammers in the silence of the room. “I don’t give a shit what you do, Blake. Go and shove half a tonne of cocaine up your nose if that’s what you want.” He grinds his teeth. “But don’t do it for the world to see! I will not have you ruin my career because you are too much of an ungrateful, spoiled brat to have some respect!”
“Of course, we all know your career comes before everything else.”
He ignores me.
I hear my mother tut. “We had such high hopes for you, Blake.” My father’s eyes meet mine for a brief moment before looking away as though he can’t bear to look at me.
I laugh. “So that’s it? I can fuck a supposed drug dealer and spend my life high as a kite, as long as no one knows about it?” Neither of them says anything. I knew they didn’t care, of course, I did. I mean, what kind of parents tell their daughter while she’s still in the hospital that the second she’s recovered, they’re sending her away because she’s an embarrassment? That’s right, mine. I guess I just thought that somewhere under those layers of ice, they cared, that they genuinely wanted what they thought was best for me, even if they were deluded. But I was wrong, so fucking wrong. All they care about is their image. I could over dose tomorrow and they would be more concerned with the PR fallout than the fact that they’d lost their daughter.
“You don’t give a fuck about me, so you’ll forgive me for not giving two shits about your fucking career.” I stand up and turn on my heel, storming out of the dining room.
“Blake!” My dad shouts after me. I flip him off over my shoulder.
I rush out the front door and down the stone steps at the front of the house, my heels clicking over the steps as I go. I jump in the car and peel out of the drive in a blaze of wheel spin and flying gravel.
Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision. My relationship with my parents has always been turbulent at best. I’ve pushed and pushed them. When I look back now, I can’t really remember why it all started. I hate to be that walking cliché, but when I think about it, maybe I did just want their attention. I wanted them to care because if I think about it, they never have. I’ve always been a pawn, something they can and will use to whatever purpose. I guess I want them to love me. Is that wrong?
Rejection ripples across my chest, the pain an acute blow that takes my breath away. Insecurities rear their ugly head and I long to just not feel. It hurts. Everything they say and do hurts, and I fucking hate it. I take a minute to just feel sad, to feel the pain, and then I pull my shit together and I get angry because anger is an easier emotion to deal with.
They think they can control me. They think they know me. Well, fuck them.
I walk past the queue of people waiting to get into Ice. Guys shout and wolf whistle as we walk past, and I smile. I’m wearing the sluttiest dress I could find, and in my wardrobe, that’s bordering on stripper wear. The red dress is short with a neckline that drops almost to my belly button. This dress needs to be memorable, and well, when this much of my tits are on show, I’d say it’s just that.
“Rhett is going to kill you.” Milly laughs. Little does she know.
I walk up to the door and smile at the bouncers. They open the rope and let us straight through. A couple of people in the crowd complain. They really shouldn’t, I’m Blake McQueen. I don’t queue.
As soon as I’m inside I scout the club, looking for one of my old friends. I spot Poppy near the bar, talking to a group of guys. Poppy Preston is the ultimate socialite, daughter of a fashion designer, party girl, model, and drug dealer.
“Blake!” She smiles when she sees me, throwing her arms around my neck.
“Babe. How are you?”
She holds her finger up and turns to the bar, slamming back a tequila shot. “I’m good. I’m so glad you’re back. It’s hard maintaining the front page on my own.” She laughs.
“Oh, I’m about to change that.” I smirk.
She narrows her eyes. “Really? Do tell.”
“Well, I need your help. I’m in the market for a little sugar.” I cock an eyebrow. “And then, just sit back and enjoy the show.”
“Of course.” She opens her clutch bag before she pulls me in for another hug. I feel her slip the plastic bag into my palm as her lips press against my cheek. “You always were quite the show-woman.” She laughs.
I slide a fifty into the top of her bra and wink as I flash her a smile. I pull away and turn around, heading for the back of the club where there’s a small smoking area. There are a few people out here, and I scan my eyes over them until they stop on a guy. I approach him and his eyes trail over my body. “Hey, I couldn’t ask you a massive favour and borrow your phone?” I Purse my lips together and shift my weight, popping my hip.
He smiles, running his tongue over his teeth. “Sure, sweetheart.”
“You’re a doll. Thank you.” I take the phone when he hands it to me, and I place a lingering kiss on his cheek. He actually blushes and I have to try hard not to laugh.
I move to a quiet corner of the balcony and pull the small business card from my clutch bag, dialling the number printed across the front.
“Detective Sanders.” A guy answers.
“I’ve just seen Blake McQueen dealing drugs in Ice.” I hang up before I get a response.
Next, I dial the number that I googled and scrawled in biro on the reverse of the card.
“Main Media, Steph
anie speaking.”
“Stephanie. I’m about to give you a tip that will make the front page. Get photographers down to Ice as soon as you can.”
“Why? I need…” I hang up. Someone will show up.
I hand the guy back his phone. “Thanks.” He opens his mouth to say something but I walk away. I don’t have time for his blushing and flirting bullshit.
I go back into the club and find Milly, dragging her onto the dance floor. My eyes constantly flick to the door until finally I see the guy I’m looking for, Derek Sanders, the detective who tried to caution me for smoking weed a couple of years ago. I remember his face when he watched me walk out with my dad, without even so much as a slap on the wrist. He was pissed, he even told me that he knew I wouldn’t get charged because of my name. He’s a guy with a chip on his shoulder—just what I need.
His gaze skims over the crowd until he spots me. Of course, I stand out in my bright red dress. Our eyes lock and I smile, popping my clutch bag open and feeling over the contents until my fingers brush the small bag of cocaine inside. I take it out and pinch it between two fingers, holding it up in front of my face for him to see.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Milly hisses, trying to snatch it away. “Are you trying to get…” Derek pushes through the crowd and is only a few steps from me. “…arrested?” I take the blow and shove it inside my bra. His eyes drop to my tits, a scowl etched into his features.
He grabs my arm and pulls me out of the crowded dance floor. Slowly people start to notice the scene as I’m escorted out of the club, and greeted by another two uniformed officers.
A couple of reporters are waiting on the street, and I can’t help but smile.
“Search her.” Derek barks at one of the officers. Lucky me, he’s a hottie—or, at least he is in that uniform. “It’s in her bra.”
The guy’s eyes pop wide as he nervously steps up to me and starts patting me down. I hear the continuous click of cameras as his hands roam my body. His eyes meet mine and he swallows as he runs his fingers under the material of my dress, and then my bra. I flash him a sensual smile as his fingertips come dangerously close to my nipple, and push my chest out, bowing my body into him. He pulls his hand away with the bag of blow between his fingers.