Seven

by Amy Marie

  Copyright © 2016 by Amy Marie

  Self-publishing

  AuthorAmyMarie@yahoo.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew Photographer

  Editing by Jacquelyn Ayres

  Formatting by Angel’s Indie Formatting

  This book is dedicated to Karma, because, well, she is a bitch, and I like to be on her good side.

  It’s also dedicated to chocolate. I love chocolate.

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  My skin flinches from the cold tile of the bathroom floor. My neck, aching from the pull of it falling forward in disgust. My stomach is twisted in knots, and my chest is constricted. Black tears fall to my bare legs and I lift my hands to wipe them away, but it’s no use. The flow of them will never stop.

  What the hell have I done?

  From the outside looking in, it may seem like I’m any normal twenty-eight-year-old woman who has her shit together. I have a job that allows me to own my own condo. I pay my bills on time, work out almost every day, and drive a red Mercedes C-Class Coupe. But, looks can be deceiving, and I’m as deceitful as they come. Each and every move I’ve made in my adult life has been meticulously planned out to bring me to where I am today—bent over my boss’s desk at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon.

  “Goddamn it, Embyr,” he grunts behind me, sweating profusely. “You have to stop wearing these fucking skirts to work.”

  He relentlessly pounds into me, his front meeting my ass, and I moan his name out, faking my way through each thrust. “Yes, Patrick. Yes. Pull my hair,” I command. I much prefer the pain of him grasping my tresses. It takes away from being present for another lousy fuck.

  My body will never succumb to him. I won’t allow him the privilege of making me come. I never do. I just moan and scream, allowing him to believe that his amateur screwing can make me fall apart.

  Fucking asshole.

  His head falls to my bare shoulder and I can feel the disgusting slime that is radiating out of his pores. When he grips my hair hard between his fingers, I rear back on him, egging him on, so he can hurry up and get the fuck out of me.

  I push my ass against him harder. The sounds, coming out of his mouth, can be closely described as what, I assume, an elephant sounds like when he finally shoots his load. I call out his name, huffing and puffing, making it seem as though this is the best lay I have ever had.

  When he finally pulls his micro penis out of me and walks to his personal adjoining bathroom, slamming the door behind him, I slip my skirt back over my ass, and rush to his computer. My fingers type rapidly as I bring up his bank website and type in his password to move just a little bit more of his client’s money into the secret Swiss bank account he thought he’d hidden. But, not from me; I’d come across this bad boy months ago.

  The toilet flushes, and my fingers ache as I furiously finish up the transaction and jump away just in time. He walks back into the office, eyeing me as I sweetly sit on the couch along the large glass windows looking out towards the Chicago skyline. His early balding and already graying brown hair makes me sick just to look at him which is why I always make him fuck me from behind. “You can go back to work now,” Patrick says, fidgeting with his belt, dismissing me.

  I don’t get upset like some lovesick girl who wants her married boss to leave his wife.

  No.

  I pick myself up and stride confidently out of the room, smirking to myself at how easily he is played.

  Bypassing my desk, I take the long, bland hallway of Strickland Consulting to the ladies bathroom. After using the toilet, attempting to wipe the stickiness off my thighs, and washing my hands, I take a long look in the mirror.

  Not a hair out of place. That man couldn’t rough up a paper bag.

  I shake my head and pull my lip gloss out of my bra. As I glide the light pink over my lips and rub it in, I can’t help but laugh at how easy this all has been so far.

  He hasn’t recognized me. Not from the moment he interviewed me. It’s amazing how dropping thirty pounds and dying your hair from a mousey-blonde to auburn can fool one of your high school tormentors into allowing you to pull his strings like a tiny, little puppet. It was a constant battle to keep my mouth shut in high school about their hazing; the threat of them ruining my life, altogether, loomed over me. I’ll have them all by the balls soon, and they don’t even know it yet.

  But my lousy fuck of a boss will by the end of the day.

  Patrick Strickland was the ring leader in high school. He controlled the PITCREW, as they so lovingly called themselves. The letters stood for each of their names.

  Patrick.

  Ian.

  Thad.

  Casen.

  Reece.

  Evan.

  Wesley.

  Their sole purpose in high school was to work on the cars that their mommies and daddies paid for, every chance they got. All of them—rich. All of them—good looking. All of them—popular. All of them . . . complete and total assholes.

  Each of the seven could have any girl they wanted in school, and they did, but in their free time, they chose to torture me every day for what they had done . . . what I had done. Using it over my head to keep my mouth shut.

  They knew my mother was mentally unstable and could slit her wrists at any moment. They also knew I would never want my daddy’s career ruined because of his daughter: the “slut.” I spent the rest of my high school career catering to them and their “needs.” Whatever they wanted, I got for them or gave to them. They drained me physically and emotionally.

  But things changed. I’ve changed.

  I was never a sweet girl. I never claimed to be, but someone, somewhere, labeled me as nice with a fucking cherry on top. If they only knew the thoughts that ran through my mind, they would run screaming from their cozy spots on Oblivious Island. A decade ago, they hurt me. A decade later, they will pay.

  I no longer have any family. My mom lived up to the rumors and took her life just a month before I graduated high school, and my father was killed in the line of duty just two months later. I have no friends from back then and, even if I did, I left them all to put myself through a metamorphosis that any butterfly would be jealous of.

  I went on a diet, worked out like a mad woman, dyed my hair and got green colored contacts to hide the old, brown irises. All in the name of retribution. There is no one left that I love who can get hurt if my plot of revenge, on all seven of them, goes wrong. They ruined me. Ruined my body. Ruined my mind. Ruined my life. Now it’s my turn to take from them all that they took from me . . . and more.

  Straightening my shoulders, I walk back toward my desk only to hear the phone alerting me to a new call. I rush over in my three-inch, red heels, sitting down to answer.

  “Stric
kland Consulting. Embyr, speaking. How may I assist you?”

  Embyr.

  Yes, I changed my name, too. No more Annie from Arlington Heights. That doormat is long gone.

  “Embyr, this is Roxie from check in. I thought I should warn you that the police are on their way up.” Her frantic voice comes through the receiver.

  I smirk.

  This is it.

  “Thank you, Rox,” I say calmly, placing the phone in its cradle. I cross one leg over the other, fixing my skirt that has ridden up my thigh. I glance at the elevators, patiently waiting for the end of Patrick’s career.

  I take pleasure in thinking about him bent over in the shower, taking it in the ass from another inmate. For all the times he screwed me over in high school, I don’t feel a shred of remorse over what I’ve done to him.

  The ding of the elevators, arriving at the twenty-third floor, causes me to sit up straight. Four police officers come barreling out, one by one, bypassing me completely, and barging into his office. I hear a small scuffle, and then Patrick yells, “What the fuck is this?”

  “Patrick Strickland?” one of the men in uniform asks.

  A moment later I hear another officer’s voice, “You’re under arrest for theft and misappropriation of funds.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he roars, angrier than I’ve ever heard him before.

  I stifle a chuckle, but quickly stand to my feet, my eyebrows scrunching in fake concern and confusion when they pull a handcuffed Patrick out of his office. “What’s going on?” I ask, my hand going over my heart like the good, little, worried secretary I must play.

  Patrick’s face is red with anger and laced with terror.

  He looks scared.

  So was I, fucker. I was scared every fucking day in high school, wondering what would happen with me next. Well, now it’s his turn.

  “Call my lawyer, Embyr. Call him now!” he yells as they drag him into the elevator. His tone would scare anyone, but not me. I’m made of fucking steel, thanks to him and his cronies.

  I reach for the phone, hitting speed dial number three, and give his lawyer all the information that I have . . .or supposedly have, and hang up. I glance at the clock on the bottom of my computer screen, noting it’s just after four o’clock, and start to gather the few belongings of mine into my bag. I figure he won’t mind if I leave a little early. I’m never coming back here again anyways.

  I set up the answering service for the weekend, (not that I believe Patrick will be back on Monday) and walk with confidence to the elevator, hitting the down button. The doors open and I step in, turning around to take one final look at the office I’ve spent the past six months at.

  Fuck this place.

  I reach the ground floor, ignoring Roxie’s rapid fire questions, and quickly push my way through the revolving doors, letting the cool fall breeze wash over me. I fill my lungs with fresh air and allow it to soothe me. A sense of accomplishment washes over me. The tension I’ve carried in my body, for the past ten years, releasing just a little bit.

  Fucking him over was like a drug. I needed more, and I knew where to get it.

  One PITCREW member down. Six to go.

  Patrick

  Ian

  Thad

  Casen

  Reece

  Evan

  Wesley

  I’m feeling euphoric as I enter Jedi’s Bar, after leaving Strickland Consulting for the last time. No more lousy sex with grotesque looking bosses. I’m sure the police will call me in for questioning but, right now, my focus is on the start of my new mission, and the one particular patron who frequents this establishment will hold. Since my time with Patrick is up, I can give my full attention to the next task. Jedi’s is not only the greatest bar Chicago has to offer but it’s also where my next PITCREW hit list member comes religiously, and the one who I will take most of my time with.

  The place is packed by the time I arrive. Almost every seat is taken except for two lonely stools conveniently located next to each other around the u-shaped bar. I zero in on my destination, hoping no one snatches them up before I do, and adjust my way-too-fucking-short skirt. I navigate through drunken businessmen who attempt to halt my progress and flirt with me. I wave them off and finally make it just in time to claim the seats.

  Laying my black clutch and cell phone on the bar, I look around the expansive space for him. Usually my body can feel his presence, but not now; he hasn’t arrived yet. I tilt my head back to take in the surroundings. I come here often, but the atmosphere intrigues me every time. The bar lies within an old warehouse building, giving it that factory feel. The ceiling is raised three stories, and it has all different sized pipes lining the walls. Even with the large space, it’s still noisy, between the people enjoying a drink after work and the music. “What can I get you, sweetheart?” Damien, the bartender, yells over the noise, earning my attention.

  I smile, reaching into my clutch, and hand over my credit card. “Captain and Coke, please.”

  Damien is smoking hot: medium length blond hair that is pulled back into a ponytail and blue eyes as clear as the ocean. From the stretching of his work shirt, you can clearly see he is definitely well-toned. If I wasn’t here on a mission, I might take him up on his countless offers of fucking me senseless. Lord knows I could use a good dick-induced orgasm.

  Biting my lip, I enjoy the view more than I should. I admire his muscular ass as he bends down to retrieve the Captain Morgan. The stool next to me is pulled out, and I don’t have to look to know who it is. “Are you eye banging Damien, again?” Trinity asks, putting her almost identical clutch down on the bar. I laugh as Damien returns with my drink and a Corona for Trinity. “Damien.” She smiles in greeting, lifting her bottle towards him before taking a sip.

  “Trin.” He smirks back and lightly slaps the bar top. “I’ll keep the tab open for, you two, but that round is on me.”

  “I’d love to be on him,” Trinity comments, lifting an eyebrow. I shake my head at her. She looks around for a moment, points at a vacant table, and tells me she would rather sit in a comfortable booth. I follow closely behind her, absorbing more of the surroundings, while shamelessly looking for him. When we are settled at the table, Trinity goes quiet. Unusual for her, and I watch as she nervously starts to pick at her fingernails. That’s odd.

  “What’s up?” I prod, trying to get her to ask what she wants to ask. Trinity isn’t a shy girl. She isn’t one to hold back when she has something to say, but sometimes her discomfort, over what she needs to talk about, makes her look like a sixteen-year-old about to tell her parents she is pregnant.

  I watch her blue eyes look up at me before she runs her fingers through her short, black hair. “I, ah, heard what happened with Patrick today. Are you ok?”

  I inwardly laugh. That can’t be why she is nervous. I cross one leg over the other, adjusting my skirt. “I’m perfectly fine. He was an asshole; he will get what he deserves.”

  She shakes her head as if in disbelief. “I just can’t believe he was doing that and didn’t think he would get caught.”

  “Well, karma is a bitch,” I respond. She lifts her beer bottle toward me in agreement, and I clink it with my glass.

  To be honest, I don’t think he would have ever been caught doing the small amounts he was doing. The clients he was taking money from would never have noticed. They spend money some of them earned illegally to begin with, and never bother to balance any sort of check book. They were stupid to trust their money with an outsider and not check in on him. I just helped make it more evident. A few hundred here and there wouldn’t be noticeable but tens of thousands would, and it didn’t take long. From the time I found the account Patrick was trying to hide, to his arrest today, was only a few short months.

  “So,” I stare at her, giving the look that she knows I’m being serious. “What is all the fidgeting really about?”

  Her shoulders slump and she falls into the back of the booth. “It�
�s Jade.”

  Ah, Jade. Her sister. The one who can’t fucking stop having babies. Six kids with three fathers. With just the mention of her name, I know I’m not going to like it. I’ve only met her a few times, and I tried to feel sorry for her, but you can’t have unprotected sex all the time and think you won’t get pregnant. None of the father’s are involved in their kids’ lives, but Trinity tells me that at least two of them give her some sort of financial support. Jade also can’t find work. By the time she would pay a sitter for all of the kids, she would owe more than she earned. It’s quite a mess.

  “What about her?”

  She sighs. I can tell she is just as thrilled with the news that she is about to tell me as I am. “She needs help, and has asked me to move in with her.”

  My heart dips a little, and I try to control the emotions that are taking over. Trinity is my roommate but she is also the closest real friend I have ever had. In high school, after junior year, no one wanted to be associated with the girl that had the PITCREW on their radar. I was deemed untouchable, unapproachable, and off limits. Even my best friend, since fourth grade, abandoned me. I don’t blame her. Hell, even I didn’t want to be around me most of the time. High school kids can be cruel, in more ways than one.

  Trinity and I met at the gym, right after I moved to Chicago. We instantly connected over a protein smoothie, and started working out together all the time. When she got a job at an art studio, she left her parents house and moved in with me. I didn’t need a roommate. I didn’t need help with the rent, but I did feel like I needed a friend. She doesn’t know much about my past. She knows not to ask, but I do know that, if she went to my high school, she would have stayed by my side. I’m one hundred percent confident that Trinity would never have let all that shit go on without doing something about it. So, I must know that I won’t lose her friendship even if she is moving out. “Losing a job and a best friend in one day? Wow,” I half-heartedly joke.

  “Em.” She frowns, reaching over to grab my hand. Our fingers interlace, and I’m instantly comforted.

  A laugh escapes between my lips. “Trinity, I’m just kidding,” I tell her, squeezing her fingers. “Family comes first.”