by Britney King
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Speak of the Devil
Speak of the Devil: A Psychological Thriller
Britney King
WWW.BRITNEYKING.COM
Copyright
SPEAK OF THE DEVIL is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact http://britneyking.com/contact/
Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
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Hot Banana Press
Cover Design by Britney King LLC
Cover Image by Nathan Dumlao
Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Service
Proofread by Proofreading by the Page
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Copyright © 2018 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.
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First Edition: 2018
ISBN 13: 978-1722300982
ISBN 10: 1722300981
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britneyking.com
For my mother—who said after watching my children for a few days over the summer, so this book could come to fruition, that it had better be dedicated to her.
Thanks, Mom.
Contents
Speak of the Devil
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
A note from Britney
Also by Britney King
Sneak Peek: Water Under The Bridge
Water Under The Bridge
Chapter One
Speak of the Devil
Britney King
Prologue
Sometimes people do bad things for good reasons. If there’s a message in any of this, surely that’s it. I am aware—suddenly hyperaware—those reasons will probably result in the unthinkable. So I guess whatever my intentions were at the start, they hardly matter anymore.
He isn’t supposed to be here. But then, neither am I.
Now the only thing that separates us is a wall, and if I don’t do what he wants, he’s going to wind up on the wrong side of it. I’ve made a lot of mistakes but letting that happen won’t be one of them. I suppose the only thing left to do now is minimize the damage and save what can be saved.
This is why my heart is racing; this is why a grapefruit-sized lump has formed in my throat, and while my breath is slow and steady, my knees wobble just enough to let me know they aren’t sure about my decision either. But when you’re summoned in this manner, it doesn’t matter whether you’re sure.
If I don’t come out, the text told me he’s coming in.
It matters not whether I want to comply—that choice was taken away long ago. If you asked me to pinpoint when exactly, even if you held a knife to my throat and demanded I tell you, I’m not sure I could. Maybe it happened slowly. Maybe it happened all at once. Who’s to say?
He’ll want me to feel remorse. I hardly feel anything at all. Controlling your emotions isn’t so hard when you’ve been trained not to have any. You’d be surprised how natural it becomes to override them entirely. The mind is a powerful thing. The body less so, when it comes right down to it. This is apparent in the way my palm coats the door handle with sweat. Nerves equip humans to survive; they can’t be overwritten like the mind, only managed.
I take a deep breath, roll my neck, and pull the door open quietly—not too much, just enough for me to slide through.
As I take one last glance at the past and step into the future, I consider what I’ll lead with. Surely not pleasantries. An apology?
It’s probably too late for that.
Sorry isn’t going to cut it.
I could ask how he found me, but I already know. Instalook.
I guess what they say is true: dopamine and serotonin, if mixed with other things, make you sloppy. My mistake. I’ve been afforded a lot of privileges in my position, but stupidity isn’t one of them.
Somewhere along the way, I slipped up, and now the option to run—the option to keep running—is clearly no longer on the table.
Life can change on a dime. He told me that the first time we met.
I didn’t believe it back then. At least not in the way he meant it. I wasn’t the only one. No one believed it. Why would they? It was easier to walk around with our false sense of security and our blanketed smiles, our veiled truths and half-hearted lies.
But now he’s here. Now I’m passing from one room to another, and now he’s standing in front of me. Now his eyes are lingering in places I wish they wouldn’t, and now I am probably about to die.
“Well, well. Look at you.”
My throat constricts at the sound of his voice, the familiarity in it causes bile to rise, washing that grapefruit-sized lump away.
He steps forward, reaches forward, and touches my hair. “Huh.” He smiles. “It’s different…”
It’s not the only thing. Everything is different. He made sure of that. They all did. Yet, in all that training, they seem to have left out one very important piece. They didn’t tell me how to plant my feet or how to force myself to stay put when every fiber of my being was telling me to jet. Therein lies the problem.
Even now, I’m surveying my surroundings in search of a way out. To anyone else, in any other circumstance, it would appear that we’re in someone’s rich grandmother’s living room, but it’s un-lived in—a stage set, down to the bowl of lilies on the coffee table. Another hotel room that’s made to look like home but isn’t.
I gather the only way out is through. I hated it when he said that.
“Fancy place,” he tells me, letting my hair slip from his fingertips. “You always did have an eye for that sort of thing, didn’t you?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I take a step back and trail my hand down my forearm. Anchoring. It gets his attention. A show of skin touched just the right way can do that.
“You look…happy.”
He used to be a good liar.
Or maybe I was just a good believer. Either way, we’re not those things anymore. I’m not well—I’m a mess. Half-dressed, I reek of sex and lust and greed. If only those were the worst of my sins.
This is why he’s moving closer, and this is why I’m squeezing my eyes shut. Whoever said it’s better to see these things coming has never experienced the kind of cruelty this man is capable of.
I brace myself for the inevitable. “Surprising…I have to say.”
My eyes flutter open. Toying with me is his specialty.
“You’re full of surprises lately, aren’t you?”
I shrug. I don’t know why he’s surprised. This is what he wanted. I’ve proven him right. This not only makes me gloriously wrong—it means he’s won. I became soft. I became predictable. There are consequences for this, I realize, and his presence puts me on notice. I’m going to pay.
When he takes my chin in his hand and forces me to look him in the eye, what I see is a warning. What have you to say for yourself?
I don’t have an answer, and even if I did, excuses are forbidden.
It’s best for me, for everyone involved, if I keep my mouth shut. Maybe I can’t save myself. But this isn’t about me.
People say words don’t matter. Sometimes words are all you have. I should know; I am bound by them.
When I turn away from him, he expects that I’m going to talk. He waits patiently as I take three steps forward.
I count each one as I slide the gun from my robe.
I turn and point it at him.
My hands tremble. No one warns you this will happen. But why would they? This isn’t what they train you for.
I steady my aim.
He isn’t smiling when he steps toward me, but he isn’t frightened either. Just another problem to deal with. Just another lover’s quarrel. That’s what he’s thinking as he places his hand over the muzzle. That’s how much he trusts me. That’s how weak he thinks I am.
Finally, he flashes that signature smile. It’s his tell. He thinks he’s in control.
I pull the trigger.
At first, nothing happens.
Then something does.
Chapter One
Vanessa
Before
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This isn’t the kind of place you rent by the hour. He has the room until noon tomorrow. A real waste, if you ask me. Not that I spend too much time thinking about things like that. That kind of thinking will drive a person mad. Me? I’m in and I’m out. That’s how this works. In and out, being both literal and metaphorical, all things considered.
He has me for the hour. Fifty-seven minutes remain on the clock. I’m supposed to ask questions, but he’s already told me what I need to know, and the rest will hardly take that long.
“Ah, yeah…” he sighs. “You know I have a thing for the crazy ones.”
I didn’t know, but he pushes my head lower regardless.
“They’re always the best in the sack,” he says, and I get it. What he really means is he prefers his women with their self-esteem so far in the shitter they’ll turn themselves inside out to please him. It’s the dog and pony show he craves. And when he can’t find it easily or when the chase stops being fun, he’s willing to pay for it. That’s where I come in.
The thing about crazy is that it’s great until it isn’t. He has no idea how far crazy can take things. Not really.
Whatever. If crazy is what he wants then crazy is what he’ll get.
It goes quicker that way.
In any case, blow jobs are pretty standard.
You’d be amazed at all of the things you can work out in your head in the time it takes to pull off crazy.
Things like the location of his wallet, his phone, the right angle to position yourself so as not to obstruct the camera he doesn’t know about. Things like not breaking the fourth wall no matter how much you really, really want to.
He twists his fingers in my hair, shoulder length and brown. For now. He moans. I look up at him, my eyes wide and restless. “You’re so big,” I say. That’s who I am for this occasion.
He meets my eye but only for a moment. “You’re good,” he tells me before throwing his head back and settling in.
His phone is on the nightstand, the hidden camera opposite the bed. That’s how good I am. That’s where my eyes go. His are closed, for the record. Not that it matters.
I scale back. Fumble a little. If I’m too proficient, he might become a regular, and I’ve already decided. I didn’t like the look of him the moment he opened the door.
Chapter Two
Elliot
The sun also shines on the wicked. Seneca said that. Well, it’s not shining in here, that’s for sure. It is a great thing to know the season for speech and the season for silence. Maybe he said that, too. At the moment, I can’t recall.
“How’s it feel to be the man?” my dinner guest inquires.
He doesn’t even have to open his mouth for me to realize this was a bad idea. But that doesn’t stop him from doing it anyway.
I glance around the restaurant. I don’t love much, but, I love this place. It feels different with him in it. I wanted the home field advantage. It wouldn’t have mattered. “It’s not a done deal yet,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” he slurs. “I hear you—not counting your chickens before they hatch and all…I get it. Need I remind you again? This deal is going to make you a very rich man.”
“I’m already a rich man, Foster. What you mean is that it’s going to make you rich.”
His eyes shine, wicked little brown things that they are. He lifts his glass in salute. I’d guess his blood alcohol level surpassed the legal limit a drink and a half ago. “That it is, my friend.”
I’m not touching that one. The first invention made by humans was language; the second was lying. Nathan isn’t my friend. He’s my attorney.
He fills the silence by ordering another round. My watch reads 10:48 p.m. Nathan stretches dramatically. “This is going to change your life.”
He says it as if I don’t already know.
“Just one more,” he urges, when he sees me glancing at the time. “To celebrate.”
I’m not celebrating. But, for reasons I can’t understand, other than not wanting to be alone with so much on my mind, I indulge him. It helps that there’s a beautiful blonde seated at the bar. A welcome distraction, said Nathan when he first noticed my attention on her.
“You want that,” he assures me now. Maybe it’s meant to be a question. It sounds like a statement. “Just imagine. Once you sign, with that kind of net worth, you can have anything you want.”
“So I’ve heard.”
He holds my gaze and then goes for the jugular. “You know, you really oughta think about living it up, Parker. Enjoy being single for a while.”
Even slightly inebriated, he’s a good enough salesman to refer to me by my surname, just as I’d done with him, to breed familiarity. “No thanks.”
He rattles the ice in his glass. “Why not? You could be fun if you worked at it, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think,” I tell him and leave it at that. My business is only his business where this project is concerned.
He nods toward the woman at the bar. “I bet she thinks so.”
“I’m not interested in what she thinks.”
“Come on, now. Don’t be a poor sport.”
“I am, however, interested in what you think about this,” I say, my pointer finger on the contract. It’s resting on line fifty-six, specifically. An intentional shift of focus. You can bet he’s billing me for this hour, and I don’t intend to spend it on meaningless chitchat.
The man on piano catches my attention. He’s begun playing a song I don’t recognize. I bought the apartment twenty-eight floors up specifically because of this restaurant. Because of that piano. Because it’s quiet in here for a place so crowded.
“You really like this place, Parker, no?” He’s good at reading people, Nath
an is. It’s his job.
I nod.
He keeps talking. “It reminds me of the bar in the 80s sitcom Cheers, only fancier. Right?”
I don’t answer. No one here knows anyone’s name. Not really.
“Elliot?”
Talking. Always talking. That’s Nathan Foster for you.
When I look over he’s squinting at the contract. “I think it’s fine,” he concludes. He leans forward so much that the tip of his nose is very nearly touching the paperwork. The restaurant is dimly lit, but still, he’s overdoing it. “Given their new offer, I think a few concessions are to be expected.”
I focus hard on the melody. “I see.”
I don’t see. No one in his or her right mind would sign an agreement giving away that much control.
My attorney shuffles in his seat. “But, hey, if you want me to speak with their counsel, I will.”
“I think that would be a good idea. It’s a gray area, for sure…”
“Every businessman likes gray areas, Parker.”
“I’m not a businessman. I’m a chemist.”