by Viola Rivard
Harper
Destined for the Alpha, Book I
Viola Rivard
Copyright © 2018 by Viola Rivard
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Tim.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Coming Soon
Shan
Prologue
“It still says it's declined.”
The clerk looked between Harper and the credit card, and Harper could actually see the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. She couldn't have asked for a better mark.
For the purposes of conning people, she wished the entire world was full of men in their twenties who were moderately unattractive. Too much older, and they were wise to the game. Too much younger, and they sometimes lacked the agency to make decisions. Attractive men could be played, but it required more finesse, as they lacked the eagerness to please a pretty girl. Conversely, men who were too unattractive had long-since been burned in high school, and were always skeptical of the attention of a woman.
Of course, in the end none of it mattered. She wasn't some basic hustler that went around flashing her cleavage and mewling.
Harper was an artist.
“Oh my God, this is so embarrassing,” Harper said, drawing her brows up to affect a look of moderate vulnerability. “The card can be a little finicky. At the grocery store, the cashier is always having to put a plastic bag over it to make it work. I promise, there's way more than enough on there to cover the room.”
The clerk smiled and Harper registered relief on his face. “Okay. I'll just run it manually. Give me a minute here, my computer is a little slow.”
While he tapped at his keyboard, Harper glanced around the motel lobby. The red and gold patterned carpet was worn, particularly in the space between the glass entrance doors and the front desk. The room was a hodgepodge of second-hand furniture that matched only in its banality, a frayed leather chair, a couch with cigarette burns, and lamp with a dusty gold shade. In her experience, the quality of a guest room was a step below that of the lobby, which meant she was in for a treat.
She looked at the clerk again, just in time to catch him staring. He quickly glanced away, making a show of righting his hair while covertly wiping the sweat from his brow.
“I must look like crap,” Harper said, making a point to keep her tone friendly and conversational. “It's been a rough day.”
“No, you look—” He cut off in a nervous laugh. “You're fine. Definitely not like crap. Where are you from, anyway?”
He still had her state ID—or at least the one she'd given him—perched on his computer keyboard, so the question was simply to make conversation.
“New York—and no, not the city. I'm from one of the boring parts no one ever knows about. Montclair, near Clifton.” She gave him a second to stare blankly, and then laughed and flicked his shoulder. “See? I told you, you wouldn't know it.”
He was laughing and grinning as he unconsciously rubbed the place she'd touched.
Harper leaned over the counter, making a show of looking at his computer. “Did it go through okay this time?”
“Oh, crap, sorry. Haven't typed it out yet. One second. Sorry.”
He picked up her card and began pounding the numbers in.
“You don't have to apologize. After the day I've had, it's nice to just make conversation. Thank you.”
His smile vanished as he stared at the screen. He hesitated, chewing at his chapped bottom lip, and then shifted his eyes back to Harper.
“It's still saying it's declined.”
Harper drew her brows down, and then together, and then ran her tongue along her teeth, presenting a facade of bewilderment.
“Okay, that's definitely weird. Let me think.” She paused to run her fingers through her hair, tossing it to one side and perfuming the air with the scent of passion flower and coconut milk shampoo. “Can you take a card over the phone?”
“Sure,” he said, bobbing his head in earnest.
“Perfect. How about this? I'll call my credit card company and see if I can't get this sorted out. To be honest, I'm a little on edge today and I want to get to the bottom of this before I start panicking. Can I give you my home phone number? It's a little late, but my boyfriend Patrick should still be up. Just let him know you're here with me and my card is being weird. He'll give you the number for our debit card.”
This was where smarter men tended to be problematic. They would suss out the obvious flaws in her request, particularly the fact that she'd asked them to call her boyfriend, instead of just calling herself. That was only a minor hiccup in the plan. She could still sell it, but it was a bit trickier.
Thankfully, the clerk didn't notice the holes in her plot. She could see in his eyes that he'd latched onto one detail at the exclusion of all others—Harper had a boyfriend.
“Uh, sure, here.”
He presented her with a ballpoint pen with a credit union logo and a sheet of yellow legal paper. There was a smudge of sweat on the corner where his thumb had been. Harper quickly scribbled out the phone number and then pushed the paper to him, giving him an appreciative look.
“Do you mind if I have my card back? I can never remember the number.”
“Oh, right, sorry.”
While Harper dialed the Amex customer support number, the clerk keyed in the number she'd given him. He lifted his archaic, coil-corded receiver to his ear and shifted his weight back and forth as it rang.
She decided that he was kind of cute, with his scruffy beard and pale blue eyes. His haircut was unfortunate. It looked like his mom had cut it. His nails were also too clean, which didn't mean anything, but for some reason, it always turned her off. That, and men who smiled too much. In any case, it didn't really matter what he looked like, because he would never stand a chance with her. Chief on her extensive list of traits she didn't like in men was gullibility. This was why Harper's longest relationship had lasted four weeks. Because given sufficient time, she could twist any man like a pretzel.
She heard the hum of a voice on the other line of the clerk's phone. He blinked a couple of times before responding.
“H-Hello. Is uh...” He looked anxiously at Harper.
“Patrick,” she supplied, covering her own receiver as she spoke and issuing him a bright smile.
“Is Patrick there?” He waited a few seconds, and then said, “Uh, this is Reggie with Motor Inn, in Lynchburg, Virginia.”
That was two more strikes against him. She hated when anyone of any gender used the interjection “uh.” She would rather there be an awkward pause in their sentence, as the alternative made them sound weak, uncertain, and worthy of being dismissed. Also, his name. Either his parents burdened him with a kid's name, subjecting him to a lifetime of marginalization, or he willingly chose to forsake a cool name like Reginald in favor of a diminutive. Either way, ugh.
There was more chatter on the other line, and Harper could see he was becoming flustered.
“No, uh, I'm here with his...with his girlfr
iend, Harper.”
He had to pull the receiver away from his ear as the person on the other end began to screech. Even from across the counter, Harper could make out what was being said.
“What? What? You didn't tell me you had a girlfriend, you lying piece of shit.”
Reggie was pulling at his shirt collar. “Uh, maybe I have the wrong number.”
“Oh no you don't,” the person on the other end shouted. “This is Patrick's phone, and you can tell Harper that Patrick is a lying, two-timing piece of shit!”
“Everything okay?” Harper asked. She smiled as though blissfully unaware of what he was going through.
“Uh...”
His face was beet red and the brow sweat was back in full force. Another strike. It was one thing to not remain calm under pressure, but to have your anxiety splayed across your face for all the world to see? Harper was legitimately worried that they were going to give the poor guy a panic attack.
He went on, “There's a... It's a woman on the phone. She says...”
Harper hung up her cell and reached for his phone. “It must be some mistake. Here, let me.”
He was eager to pass the receiver to her. She used her sleeve to wipe the ring of sweat from the speaker and then placed it at her ear.
“Hello? Who is this?”
Jo's high-pitched voice was clear and crisp on the other end. “Is this working? I sure hope so, because it is so freaking cold out here. And this is the last time I let you rope me into one of your games. I told you I could just pay with my credit card. This room can't be more than fifty bucks a night, it's not like we're in Boston.”
While she spoke, Harper let a range of expressions play out across her face. Confusion. Realization. Horror. Anger. And finally, hurt.
“Slow down,” Harper said, her voice choked with emotion. “Who... No, that's not... Put Patrick on the phone, now.” She paused, giving herself time to rev up the waterworks. Within seconds, her eyes were welling with tears. “Patrick, how could you? No. No. Just stop. I don't want to... No. I can't believe this. How could you do this? And on the day of my mom's funeral?”
She could hear Ian's voice in the background. “Wow, she is really selling this.”
“I know,” Jo said. “I dunno why she bothered getting a degree. She should have just went to Hollywood. She could be in a soap or something. I bet she's making herself cry.”
“I can't deal with this right now. I'm at a motel in Lynchburg. I'm exhausted and now I definitely can't drive. My credit card is being declined. Can you just give me the number for my other card?”
As she spoke, Harper walked away from the desk as far as the cord would allow. She made a show of lowering her voice and trying to speak covertly, while still talking just loud enough for the clerk to hear. If she had stood at the counter and had such a deeply personal conversation, Reggie probably wouldn't have caught on, but she couldn't afford to skimp on the fine details.
“You, what? Patrick, this is my credit card. You asshole! Mom was right about you all along.” She let her voice crack. “I want your things out of the apartment by the time I get back to town.”
Jo snickered. “If I took all of my things out of our apartment, you'd basically be left with a moldy espresso maker and that old bottle of hairspray that you keep saying you're going to get a new nozzle for.”
“It's my name on the lease,” Harper said. “I'm serious, I want you out. And don't you dare think about taking Paisley. She's my dog, not yours.”
“As if. You hate dogs.”
That was patently untrue. Harper loved dogs, she just hated the concept of pets.
“No. No. No. I'm done. I'm hanging up now. Don't ever call me again.”
She brought the phone down from her ear and put her hand over the speaker. Standing with her back to Reggie for a moment, she pretended to compose herself. When she turned, she had wiped the tears from her face, but she knew that her cheeks would still be stained with mascara and that her eyes would be red and puffy. If she were Reggie, well, she wouldn't have fallen for the act in a second, but she would have particularly balked at the mascara stains. No woman wore non-waterproof mascara to a funeral, which was where she said she been.
Thankfully, there were few people in the world that would notice such a fine detail. Reggie, like most people, was a slave to a series of habits so banal that most of his life was on autopilot. The small details of his life might change from day to day. Now and again something major would happen that would change everything for a bit, and then he would either resume his previous habits or adopt a new set of habits. He would forever be going through the motions, only seeing far enough ahead to take the next step, not realizing that he was walking in a circle.
Harper was an artist.
She didn't like the term “con artist,” because it had a negative connotation. She didn't hurt people, not unless they deserved it. She simply reimagined her reality and invited others to join in her narrative. There was no such thing as the perfect lie. If a person was shrewd enough, there were always little details they could pick up on. Lies always left behind crumbs.
Reggie didn't want to be lied to. He wanted to hear a story. He wanted to be led from his loop, if only for a little while, and engage in Harper's fantasy. A fantasy in which he could save the day of a beautiful woman.
“I'm so sorry,” she said, punctuating the sentence with a sniffle. “I don't know what to say. I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life.”
“No, I'm sorry,” Reggie said, taking the phone from her rigid hand. He placed it back on its mount. “Is there anyone else you can call? You have family in the area?”
She started to pull out her phone. “Yeah, let me call my mo—” She froze and squeezed her eyes shut, allowing a small whine to escape her. “Sorry. It's only been two days since...” She gave a mirthless laugh. “I still have her text message thread on my phone. I was literally at her wake and I went to take out my phone to text her. How stupid is that?”
The dead mom card was a particularly dirty play, and it was one she used often. Given that her mom was actually dead, she'd never harbored any guilt or worried about bad juju.
Not that she believed in juju.
Reggie produced a tissue from somewhere behind his desk. Only as Harper was wiping her face did she realize it was a McDonald's napkin.
“My aunt died a few years ago,” Reggie blurted. “Not to say that my aunt dying is anything like losing a mom. Uh, wow. Sorry. You must think I'm a douche now.”
Harper reached across the desk to pat his freckled hand. It was cool and clammy. “My mom always used to tell me that there's no measurement for grief. I'm sorry for your loss, and I apologize for dumping all of this on you tonight. I guess if my world's gonna fall apart, it's better it all crumbles at once, right?”
He bobbed his head, clearly wanting to say something, but not knowing the right words.
“Well, I have to get some sleep,” she said, retracting her hand. “Will I get towed if I sleep in the parking lot?”
On reflex, he grabbed her hand. Instantly, he thought better of it and released her, blushing with renewed intensity. “Sorry, I just mean to say wait. Here.”
He turned and grabbed one of the copper keys that hung behind the counter. He smiled at her, his shoulders rolling with masculine confidence. For a brief moment, he wasn't an awkward, gangly, young man who sucked at talking to girls and probably played too many video games. He had fully invested into Harper's story, and she had made him a hero.
“It's not the greatest room, but I cleaned it myself. Stay here tonight. Just have the key back by nine. The owner comes in at ten. It'll give me time to clean it up and avoid any questions.”
Harper let out a fresh wave of tears and bent over the counter to hug him, making certain to push her chest into his. She'd gotten what she'd come for, she could give him a little something more in return.
“Sorry,” she said as she pulled back. “I'm a hugger.”
/>
“It's fine,” he said, laughing it off while his Adam's apple bobbed.
“I promise, I'll leave the room cleaner than I found it.” She looked down, and then up through her lashes at him. “I can't thank you enough. If it weren't for you, I might have ended this day thinking that the whole world is full of assholes.”
A few minutes later, she was exiting the lobby, a burst of cool night air hitting her in the face. The motel was located in the foothills of The Blue Ridge Mountains, and she could smell the scents of the autumn forest on the breeze. Fresh air, pine trees, and dry soil. She paused for a few seconds to take it all in, ignoring the hissing whispers of her friends.
Ian and Jo were hiding on the far side of Ian's gray Camry. Harper had no clue why. She made her way across the dimly lit parking lot, giving them the thumbs up as she went. Ian met her halfway, giving her a high-five and flashing his trademark smile, which was a marvel of modern dentistry. No one but a politician should have teeth that brilliantly white and perfectly spaced.
“Did you get a room with two beds?” Ian asked.
“Doubt it,” Harper said, tossing him the key as she passed him. “Beggars can't be choosers.”
She pulled Jo into a hug and kissed the top of her head. Jo pretended to be annoyed..
Having been party to Harper's antics for nearly a decade, Jo had long since passed the point of being impressed, at least not on the surface. With her chronic anxiety, she probably lived in constant fear that they would get found out that she'd end up in some sort of fraudster's prison. Yet, every time Harper said, “I'll handle this, you just play along,” Jo issued only a perfunctory complaint and then fell in line. Deep down, Jo was a sucker for the thrill of it, she just lacked the initiative and the confidence to pull off plays of her own.