HARD Series Box Set: Bad boys with powers

by Chloe Fischer

  He pressed the intercom again.

  “Tatiana,” he intoned.

  Xave sat back, slipping a long hand over the piece of paper sitting in naked view before him. Mr. Rogers had not seen it as his eyes were fixated on the interior door, waiting for the voluptuous Russian to throw open the door in dramatic fashion.

  It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, Xave thought wryly as Tatiana finally appeared to bring him inside.

  As they disappeared, he folded the piece of paper where he had written the card information and slipped it into his wallet. It had been a long while since he had gotten his hands on a platinum card.

  While the clients were well off enough to afford five hundred dollars an hour with one of Lady Katrine’s girls, they were hardly billionaires.

  The fates are smiling on me today, Xave thought. He needed a new laptop after all.

  It was an ingenious scheme, really.

  If, by some miraculous fluke, one of the men had learned who pilfered his credit card number, no one would come forward. How could they and save face? The eye of scrutiny would be harsh for these men, if their coworkers and families learned of their little sessions. Not to mention that the police were not apt to take a man frequenting a dungeon overly seriously.

  Xave had yet to be caught mishandling the cards but he was not concerned. He was Xavier Sinclair; he was untouchable.

  It was a knowledge he had acquired long ago, a piece of information which had empowered him from a young age.

  Xave had spent his childhood bouncing from one foster home to another. He had been dumped on the system when he was only a kid, and his earlier memories were vague.

  His mother had been a dark-haired beauty with soulful eyes and a long string of suitors who visited night after night.

  It was not until Xavier was in his teens did he realize that his mother was a street walker with a heroin addiction.

  He had been wrenched from her tender loving care when he was found wandering the streets of Harlem one night in February with no shoes or shirt, malnourished and filthy at the tender age of nine.

  Xavier had not been able to provide Child Protective Services with any information about his biological father and thus had been thrown into the foster care establishment, never to be loved again.

  No one wanted a potential problem child from a neglectful home. He wasn’t cute and young after all. He looked like trouble with his penetrating eyes and apparently sullen disposition.

  Thrust from foster home to foster home, state to state, a hard shell grew around Xave, one which shielded him well.

  With each move, Xave felt a piece of his innocence die and a burning desire for vengeance began to grow inside him.

  The problem was, Xavier did not know with whom he was angry.

  It could have been the greedy foster parents who only took him in for a paycheck but barely acknowledged him but to scream or slap at the boy for some triviality.

  Perhaps he was furious at his mother, a lost soul who had not been ready for life, let alone motherhood.

  Sometimes, he would conjure the image of a father but whether it was someone he had known or someone he had concocted in his imagination, he could not be sure.

  Maybe he was angry with the illusion of a man who should have protected and cared for him, instead of leaving him to die with a drug addled woman.

  Xave did not know for certain but he knew the rage was there and it was real, mounting in him like a fiery beast ready to erupt from his soul.

  It was no surprise to anyone that Xave grew darker with age, always wearing black, listening to heart blackening music.

  Any sign of precociousness he had once shown was deeply buried in the internal scars he carried with him.

  At eighteen, Xave was released from foster care in Arizona with a sealed juvenile record for theft.

  But by then he had learned to be more careful, determined never to be caught again and without looking back he set out to become the master of his own life. Vowing never to be dependent on the system again. Shortly after, he met a wealthy widow named Anne.

  At first, Xave had believed that Anne was the mother he had always been seeking with her nurturing nature and desire to dote on him.

  He naively believed that he was finally leaning toward happiness in the security of Anne’s care and for a while, he was certain that a life of crime and instability was behind him.

  She bought him anything he wanted, providing him with an allowance and spoiled him in ways he had only seen in movies.

  His benefactor encouraged him to pursue his love for art, supporting him in a way he had always desired.

  Xave had never known such good treatment, but it seemed that no sooner had he permitted himself to let go of his wariness, it became clear that Anne was no different than any of the other adults he had known in his life.

  Her cruel streak surfaced three months after she had moved him into her lavish home in Scottsdale.

  He had missed several phone calls from her when he was out drawing in the desert. His reception had been spotty and when he arrived home, Xave was met with a frying pan to the skull. There had been no prior warning of Anne’s propensity for violence, nor had Xave believed the sweet, nurturing woman could be capable of such a horrific act.

  When he had finally regained consciousness, he found himself in the storm cellar. He remained locked in there for three days without food or water.

  He believed that she had left him there to die. He waited for his life to end. The whole time he berated himself, furious that he had let his guard down. How many lessons would it take to learn that nobody really cared about him?

  When Anne finally came for him at the end of the third day, Xave had been down, but his spirit was not broken. Anne had found the wrong underdog to abuse and within a week, the boy she had believed she had scared into submission, silently drained the accounts he could access of hers and headed back to New York.

  It was a move he had been yearning for all his years of being shifted around like a used couch that no one wanted but no one wanted to take to the dump either.

  When he arrived at Penn Station, he suddenly felt empty. The anticipation had been anticlimactic.

  He had so been looking forward to returning home, yet New York was not home. If it had once been, it no longer was and suddenly Xavier was lost.

  The realization only compounded his anger and he went on a two-week bender.

  After sobering up, Xave finally admitted to himself that he could not depend on anyone. He was alone in the world with no one to dig him out of his pain.

  It was a dismal realization for a teenager but it had served him well over the years.

  The front door opened again and another man walked inside, this one much more nervous than Mr. Rogers had been.

  A newbie, Xavier guessed, eyeing him with interest, but there was something vaguely familiar about the elegant black man.

  Maybe he wasn’t a newbie. Maybe he had been there in the past after all.

  He wore a diamond studded Rolex and a four thousand-dollar Armani suit.

  He’s just come from the airport, Xavier realized, offering the stranger a tight smile.

  “You have an appointment?” he asked coldly, ensuring that the newcomer remained tense.

  He nodded quickly and cleared his throat.

  “Yes…with Sasha.”

  Xave waited impatiently.

  “Your name?” he demanded in exasperation.

  “Oh, uh…” he seemed reluctant to give it but something in Xave’s stare must have encouraged him.

  “Clark Jameson.”

  Xavier extended his hand for payment and pressed the intercom, turning his head to look dead into the camera deliberately.

  Mr. Jameson quickly handed him a Visa card and Xavier noted the name, swallowing his pleasure quickly as he realized from where he knew the man.

  Ah yes. NBA star, Clark Jameson. Welcome.

  He made no comment of course, again closing his eyes
tightly as the renowned superstar stared at him. Even basketball stars had their right to an illusion of privacy at Lady Katrine’s, after all.

  As Xave opened his lids, he noted the basketball player’s frozen expression and he picked up a pen, jotting down the information as Mr. Jameson watched on, uncomprehendingly.

  In seconds, the client stepped back from the desk, his card in hand and the dungeon manager signalled Sasha to come out.

  Two platinum cards in one day. The gods really do love me, Xave thought as Sasha led Mr. Jameson away.

  Xave was too busy planning his weekend to notice Sasha’s almost desperate stare.

  I will get a new Mac and maybe a new bike. It’s been a while since I rode. I could use the exercise.

  The key was to not push his luck, after all. He had managed to stay off the radar since his teens by design, not chance. If he overspent on the stolen cards, he was sure to get caught and no prosecutor would hesitate to put him in jail.

  But do people with platinum credit cards really check their statements? Probably not. But he still had to be careful.

  If he had learned anything early on, it was that greed would be his demise.

  Anyway, he had a gift which ensured that he wouldn’t get caught.

  Feeling satisfied, Xavier opened eBay and began searching for his new purchases. He wouldn’t be so dumb as to buy them from Lady Katrine’s but there was no harm in looking while he had down time.

  Later, he would just go to an internet café and order stuff to his post office box downtown.

  No sooner had he typed his desire into the search engine did the inner door fly open again. He did have to raise his head. Xave could already tell it was Sasha. She was the worst of the drama queen crew.

  “Xave?”

  He did not bother to look up, continuing to scroll through the items on the desktop. If it was important enough, she would call out to him again.

  “Xave?”

  There was a tremor in her voice that he hadn’t initially heard and his head jerked up, opening his mouth to respond. The words died on his lips.

  “Xave?” she sobbed again, her hands trembling. Her black corset was slick and wet, red streaks painting her body.

  Blood had spattered her olive face and caught in her hair.

  Xave sprung from the chair.

  “What the hell happened?” he growled, rushing toward the front door. He locked it, spinning back to look at her.

  “What did you do?” he demanded, drawing near her. “Answer me! What the hell did you do?”

  She shook her head and tears fell onto her cheeks, mixing with the lines of crimson.

  “I think I killed him,” she gasped. “I think he’s dead.”

  “Who?” he choked, a sick feeling consuming his intestines. “Who’s dead?”

  “My client, Clark.”

  Chapter Two

  A hazy light poured through the red curtains, catching the wisps of smoke flowing from the dragon head incense holder.

  She stared deeply into his eyes, her stunning purple irises wide and intense. Her eyes were surrounded by thick, dark lashes, and outlined with a heavily dramatic streak of liner. She gnawed on the fullness of her lower lip.

  A single wisp of silken chestnut hair fell over her flawless face as it knit in concentration.

  Gasping, her hand flew to her chest, fingering the evil eye talisman around her slender throat and she nodded with grim assertion.

  “Oh, there is a darkness surrounding you, Alvin, there is no doubt. You are in grave danger!” she told him in her throaty voice, breathing shakily, manicured nails closing around the pendant as if hoping to ward off the darkness she predicted.

  He stared at her with huge, terrified eyes, through his owl-like glasses.

  “Why?” he gasped, glancing from her scared violet eyes toward his outstretched palms secured within hers. “What the hell else can happen? Why do the gods hate me so much?”

  Danica sighed and shook her head woefully.

  “I fear it is a curse,” she murmured. “It would explain much of your suffering. Let me see if I can conjure an image of the spellcaster.”

  Danica closed her long lashes and inhaled deeply.

  “Ah yes! Someone with blonde hair and blue eyes. A fair witch but a witch nonetheless. She walks among us without disclosing her true nature.”

  Alvin’s face registered understanding instantly.

  “Cindy! That bitch! I knew there was something wrong with her! I’ve always known it! I warned Rob about her!”

  “She will not stop until she has destroyed you entirely, Alvin. She is a vindictive woman and filled with greed.”

  The chubby man nodded vehemently.

  “She is! She wants me out of the picture so that my brother gets my parents’ entire inheritance.”

  “Ah…” Danica exhaled slowly. “Yes, I fear she may succeed, Alvin. I am very sorry. The darkness is too strong, the hold…”

  She trailed off, lowering her stunningly purple eyes.

  “No!” Alvin cried, wrenching his hands away. “There must be something you can do! You are the best psychic I have ever known, Danica. You have a gift and if anyone can stop her from bleeding me, it’s you!”

  The brunette beauty rose from the chair, shaking her head.

  “Alvin, the forces at play here are far too dangerous. Not only would I personally upset the demon spirits, I could put you in further harm’s way.”

  Alvin shook his head miserably.

  “Of course,” he murmured. “I could never ask you to endanger yourself for me.”

  He was on the verge of tears and Danica exhaled slowly and loudly.

  “Alvin, there is one hope for you but I cannot guarantee anything.”

  His eyes bulged.

  “What is it? I will try anything, Danica! Anything at all!”

  She held up a beautifully manicured hand.

  “There is a root which grows in the jungles of Africa, a plant which has very powerful healing qualities. It was used in the very early days of vodou to stave off evil when used in proper concoctions. I know some of these spell reversals, but again – “

  “Get it! Get some and do some of that voodoo shit!” Alvin begged. “Please, Danica! If you won’t help me, who will? I am at your mercy!”

  She stared at him pityingly.

  “It is not so simple, Alvin. And it’s vodou! Not voodoo. Vodou is a much more powerful discipline. The root itself is very difficult to find and if I were to find some, it is more expensive than pure French perfume. I could not afford to buy it, ship it – “

  “Money” Alvin almost screamed. “You’re worried about money? Get it! Find it and remove this damned curse from my head!”

  “But Alvin, it is very – “

  “Just do it! I don’t care how much it costs. Just bill me for it.”

  He grunted and spun to leave but suddenly stopped in his tracks.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, averting his gaze. “I am under a lot of stress right now.”

  “I understand,” she told him softly. “Please know I will do everything I can to release you from your troubles, Alvin. Go in peace now.”

  She watched as Alvin fled the house, leaning up against the wall to fold her arms over her chest, shaking her head sympathetically.

  “Good God, I thought he would never leave,” Twila laughed, throwing back the beaded curtain and stepping into the front room. “What was he going on about now?”

  “Sister-in-law again. I think he has a hard on for her. She’s all he ever talks about.”

  “I kind of feel sorry for him, you know? He’s pathetic,” Twila commented. “Like, I’m shocked he hasn’t killed himself by now.”

  “Shh!” Danica snapped. “What a terrible thing to say, Twila!”

  Her roommate had the decency to look contrite but only until the smaller woman finished her thought.

  “We haven’t even tapped into his savings account yet. He can’t kill himself yet. We
have work to do.”

  Danica turned away.

  “I have to take these damned colored contacts out of my eyes. They’re burning my retinas. I mean, how do these idiots not know that real people don’t have purple eyes?” she muttered, blinking against the smoky incense. “It’s like they want to be played for fools, you know?”

  But her roommate didn’t seem to hear her as she drew closer to the posterior of the house.

  “Hey, look who it is,” Twila said, pointing out the front window.

  Danica followed her hand and cocked her head to the side.

  “Him again?”

  “I wonder why he always stops and stares at the house,” Twila said. “He makes me nervous.”

  “Not me,” Danica replied. “Not in the least.”

  She had seen the darkly clad stranger several times over the past few weeks, pausing to stare at the house she shared with Twila.

  At first, she had dismissed him as a curious passerby; she had seen many in the six months since she and Twila had set up shop on the sleepy street.

  Soon, however, it became apparent that something continued to drive the man there, as if guided by an unseen hand.

  “Check the security footage and get a clear picture of him,” she instructed Twila as the man ambled away. “I want to know who he is.”

  “He gives me the creeps,” Twila grumbled. “I’m going to confront him the next time he comes by.”

  “No!”

  The order was louder than Danica had intended but there was something about the man which intrigued her.

  “No,” she said again, turning to face her roommate. “He might be a mark after all.”

  She didn’t believe it but she needed to ensure Twila did not approach him.

  Despite her fraudulent claims of psychic ability and sorcery, Danica did possess a well-honed sixth sense about people, something which had served her well over the years.

  She had not always been a drifter, but years of abuse had turned her from a scared girl into a street-wise woman.

  No, Danica could see there was something special about this man, something that she needed to explore.

  “I’ll check the cameras,” Twila sighed, her reluctance clear but Danica dismissed it.

  Twila was the tech intelligence behind their operation. The two had been working together for the better part of a decade.