Fallen Heirs : A Dark High School Bully Romance (Windsor Academy Book 3)

by Laura Lee

  “How does Madeline know so much? I wouldn’t think they’d entrust her with sensitive information like that.”

  “The feds asked the same question, which is when she demanded immunity before giving them anything else.”

  “Why?”

  John clears his throat. “Because apparently, Madeline has been actively helping them recruit young women for many years.”

  “Oh, shit," I mutter. "Why doesn’t that surprise me? What do we do now?"

  “Hang back for now. Madeline gave them an address to an old warehouse in Van Nuys. She claims she was just there last week and that a group of about a dozen young women are currently undergoing seasoning. The feds are going to see if it checks out, and we’ll know where to go from there.”

  “Is it normal for the FBI to share so much information with a contractor?”

  “Not at all.” John clears his throat. “But Rafe knows the more information we have, the more we can help, and he trusts me to decide what should and should not be shared. For him, the rewards far outweigh any possible consequences in this situation. Let’s just say you’re not the only one with a personal stake in this.”

  Huh.

  “So, you’ll get back to me soon?”

  “I’ll get back to you soon,” John confirms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  JAZZ

  “You’re doing great, Jasmine. When the light turns green, go ahead and take the northbound ramp up ahead.”

  I glance at Evan, my driving instructor, out of the corner of my eye. “But, that’s an on-ramp to the freeway!”

  “Exactly. I think you’ve proven you can handle the surface streets well enough. Let’s see how well you do with merging into traffic on the interstate.”

  Okay, here we go.

  I turn on my signal and pull into the right lane leading to the on-ramp.

  “Good,” Evan says. “Now, hold steady on the accelerator and make sure you check your blind spot before merging left.”

  I swear my pulse is racing a mile a minute, but I manage to follow his instructions without clipping someone’s side panel. Of course, the freeway is packed; this is Los Angeles, after all.

  “Now what?”

  I see him fiddling with his phone out of my peripheral. “Oh... uh... this is good. Just stay in this lane and watch your speed. Be on the lookout for cars in front of you suddenly hitting their brakes. We’ll go down for a few miles and then pull off.”

  “Okay.”

  I check my rearview and side mirrors periodically but mainly focus on the road ahead. I get a little heavy-footed on the brakes, causing Evan to jerk forward in his seat a few times, but he’s too busy playing on his phone to bitch about it. What the heck is going on with this guy? The few other times we’ve gone out, he’s been really attentive and helpful. Today, he seems distracted.

  My instructor points to the green sign up ahead. “In one mile, take that exit and keep to the right. We’re going to switch, and I’ll drive us back.”

  “What? Why? Am I not doing okay?”

  “You’re doing just fine, Jasmine.” Evan’s thumbs fly over his phone screen again before he finally tucks it away in his jacket pocket. “Traffic is getting pretty thick, so I want to take over.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Well, that’s a bummer, but I guess I see his point. Even if the freeway is jam-packed with vehicles in LA, people are still speeding down the asphalt like they’re auditioning for a new Fast & Furious movie. I successfully make it back onto the surface streets without crashing into anything and follow Evan’s instructions through an industrial area. There’s hardly any traffic here—I’m guessing that’s because it’s Saturday and the surrounding businesses aren’t open on weekends.

  “Go ahead and pull against that curb.”

  I steer the car over toward the curb and manage to park less than a foot away from it, which is actually pretty impressive for me. For some reason, I can’t judge the distance between tires and curbs. Don’t even get me started on parallel parking.

  “Good job, Jasmine. Go ahead and leave the keys in the ignition and step out of the vehicle.”

  I undo my seat belt and get out of the car. I make my way to the passenger side, where Evan is kneeling on the sidewalk, tying his shoe.

  “Sorry, give me just a sec to tie this, and we’ll get out of here.”

  “No problem.”

  I lift the door handle, and I’m just about to swing it open when I feel a sharp prick on my neck.

  I slam my hand over the spot. “What the hell?”

  Did I just get stung by a bee? I turn around, and that’s when I see my driving instructor throw a syringe to the ground.

  “I’m really sorry, Jasmine, but it had to be done.”

  “What had to be—” I stumble backward when a wave of dizziness washes over me. “Whoa.”

  Holy shit, did he just drug me? The last thing I see before blacking out is Evan coming at me with some rope in his hands.

  ***

  The first thing I notice is rocking—a rhythmic, bobbing motion of sorts. Then, there’s the burning ache in my arms. I try to move, but my wrists are tied together above my head.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I’m lying on something soft. A mattress, I think. I wiggle my fingers and find that my hands are bound with a soft rope. It almost feels like satin, but it’s thick. I give an experimental tug, but it’s useless. These things aren’t going anywhere. Whoever tied them knows how to tie a sturdy knot. Crippling anxiety seizes me when I remember how I got into this predicament. My driving instructor obviously drugged me with something, but why? Goddammit! How do I keep ending up in these situations?

  Get it together, Jazz. Okay, take deep breaths and focus. Try to figure out where you are. Damn it, it’s no use. I can’t see shit. My eyes are open, but it’s pitch black in here. The whirring of an engine causes steady vibrations to rattle around me. When my brain connects that with the rocking motion, it finally hits me.

  I’m on a boat.

  “Fuck,” I mumble to myself.

  “Don’t worry, Jasmine. There will be plenty of time for that,” a deep voice purrs. “Sooner, rather than later, since we’re almost ready to set sail.”

  I frantically search the darkness. My eyes must be adjusting because I can see a man’s silhouette in the area where that arrogant voice came from.

  “You.”

  I blink a few times when the light flickers on and quickly look around. I’m surrounded by dark wood and neutral colors. Plush fabrics and expensive-looking fixtures. The front wall is made of curved windows, but they’re covered in heavy jacquard drapes at the moment—blackout, I’m guessing based on their effectiveness. By the sheer the size of this room, I’d say we’re in the master suite. My eyes make their way over to the posh sitting area where Preston Davenport is lounging, looking incredibly smug.

  “Yes. Me.” I flinch when Preston stands and begins walking toward me. “Were you expecting someone else? My son, perhaps?”

  God, I hope enough time has passed for Kingston to know I’m missing. I subconsciously try reaching for my locket, but the headboard I’m tied to shoots that idea down real fast.

  “Where is Kingston?”

  “How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”

  Preston takes a seat at the edge of the bed, smirking when I scoot as far away as I can. I flinch when he circles his fingers around my ankle and strokes the exposed patch of skin between my jeans and low-cut socks. I have no idea where my shoes went, but I send a silent prayer to all the gods that I’m still dressed.

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you want with me, asshole? How did I get here?”

  Preston tightens his grip on my leg, so much so, I know I’m going to have a ring of bruises there. “You certainly are a mouthy one, aren’t you? I see my son hasn’t cured you of that yet.” He tsks. “Shame. Although I can’t say, I won’t enjoy breaking you.”

  The captivating eyes I love so muc
h on my boyfriend stare back at me with lust-fueled malevolence. But instead of the warmth and love I usually feel when I’m on the receiving end of those beautiful hazels, I’m cold. Ice cold. The intent behind this sick bastard’s gaze as he’s leisurely roaming my body is crystal clear. He wants to hurt me and violate me, and he’s going to enjoy every second of my agony. Too bad for him, I’m going to do my damnedest not to give him the satisfaction.

  Preston stands up again and holds his arms out. “What do you think of your new accommodations? You’re my first guest on this particular yacht. We’re about to set sail on her maiden voyage.”

  This jackass acts like he didn’t just kidnap me or tie me to a bed against my will.

  I snort. “Last I checked, you’re not supposed to drug or kidnap your guests.”

  Preston leans against the built-in cabinet beside him. “Yes, that was unfortunate. But my son never seems to leave your side—boy is like a dog with a bone—so I had to take the opportunity while I could.”

  “By paying off my driving instructor?”

  His salt-n-pepper hair brushes his forehead as he inclines his head. “You’re smart, just like your mother was.”

  “Don’t talk about my mom,” I seethe. “You have no right to even think about her.”

  Preston releases a hearty laugh. “See, now that’s where you’re wrong. I have every right to think about her.”

  I scoff. “Oh, yeah? And why’s that?”

  “Because she was supposed to be mine, but my asshole business partner had to go and knock her up!”

  My eyes widen in surprise, from the words and the fact that this ordinarily poised man is yelling.

  Preston straightens his spine and smiles. “You didn’t know that, did you? How much did your mother tell you about me? About your father?”

  I know he doesn’t deserve an answer, but I also know the truth will be a massive blow to his ego, so I feel compelled to reply.

  My lips turn up in the corners. “She said absolutely nothing about you. I didn’t know you existed until after I moved in with my sperm donor.”

  I swear the vein on his forehead looks like it’s about to blow. “Liar!”

  Damn. Mr. Calm and Collected has definitely left the building. Or the boat, rather.

  “Nope.” I smack my lips together, popping the P.

  Before I can even blink, pain ricochets through my face as he slaps me. My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes. Shit, my cheek feels like it’s on fire. I yank at my restraints, instinctively wanting to cup my burning cheek, but I’m reminded once again that I’m tied to a headboard.

  “Watch your mouth!” Preston starts pacing back and forth in front of the bed. “You may look almost exactly like her, but you sure as hell don’t act like her. Mahalia was much more cooperative.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I knew there was something special about your mother from the start. Unfortunately, that bitch I was married to at the time refused to have live-in staff. I thought maybe when I knocked her up, she’d change her tune—especially when she found out we were having twins—but she had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Letting Mahalia go wasn’t an option, so Charles agreed to take her into his house. Then, the prick got her pregnant within the first month and decided to keep her to himself. I should’ve never married Jennifer. Look what I got out of it: two ungrateful brats who are sitting on a big pile of what should’ve been my money. If only I hadn’t had that foolish itch to produce an heir.”

  I’m suddenly glad Kingston isn’t here right now to hear his father spewing vitriol.

  I raise my brows. “So, my mother and father were in a relationship at some point?”

  This man is psycho, no doubt, and I know it’s only a matter of time before he’s done with the talking portion of whatever he has planned. But you can bet your ass I’m going to glean as much information as possible while he’s so chatty. Plus, the longer I can keep him talking, the longer Kingston has to find me.

  Preston glares at me. “No, they weren’t in a relationship, but she wasn’t treated like the others. Mahalia’s situation was... unprecedented. She was afforded certain... privileges, provided she cooperate. And oh, how she did cooperate. For a while, at least.”

  I ignore the comment about my mom’s cooperation. I don’t need to hear him say he forced himself on her to know that’s what happened. If there was ever any doubt before, that’s long gone.

  “What others?”

  A wicked grin stretches across his face. “If you don’t figure out how to quickly fall in line, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  The words Preston said to Madeline in that video suddenly race through my head.

  I bet you’d get off on watching the new girls go through seasoning. When they’re screaming and crying and begging for mercy... girls get taken against their will over and over and over again... beaten and starved and drugged every time they fight...

  I choke back bile. “Why am I here? What are you planning to do to me?”

  “I plan on getting what’s long overdue. I’m tired of people trying to take what’s mine. First Charles, then that meathead who couldn’t listen to simple instructions. Even my own son, who I thought I could depend on to be my successor, fucked up. He had to go and fall in love with you. He tried to deny it, and he put on a pretty good show, but I know him better than he thinks I do. I was perfectly fine with letting him play with you for a while, but I will not let him keep you. I knew it was time to make my move once it became obvious that’s exactly what he intended on doing.”

  Jesus, this guy is unhinged.

  “What exactly do you think is ‘long overdue’?”

  “Patience, beautiful Jasmine. First, I have a surprise for you.”

  Preston gets a maniacal look on his face before disappearing into what I assume is a bathroom. I stretch my neck to see as he returns, pulling something behind him. Oh, shit. Not something. Someone. Crazy Pants here is dragging my severely beaten sperm donor through the doorway, leaving a trail of smeared blood across the polished floor. Charles’ face is so swollen, I hardly recognize him. At first, I think he’s unconscious, but then a pained groan escapes his lips as Preston stops and drops Charles’ upper body back to the floor.

  “What the fuck?”

  I don’t realize I said that out loud until Preston responds.

  “You see, Jasmine. It’s time you learn the truth about how your mother really died. Consider it my gesture of goodwill in exchange for your future deference.” Charles groans even louder this time when Preston kicks him in the ribs. “Go on, Charles. Tell Jasmine how you’re responsible for Mahalia’s death.”

  I’ll say it again: What. The. Fuck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  JAZZ

  “What?!”

  Preston rolls his eyes when Charles still doesn’t produce any intelligible sounds. “Oh, fine. I guess I’ll tell her since you’re indisposed.”

  “What’s there to tell? My mom got caught in the middle of a drive-by while she was waiting for the bus.”

  He nods. “Yes, that disgustingly crime-ridden area you lived in was quite convenient to make it look like an accident, wasn’t it? But let me ask you this: Did the police ever mention any gang involvement? Or did you just assume?”

  I don’t like where he’s going with this.

  “Drive-bys happen all the time in LA. Why would I think any differently?”

  “And that’s exactly why it was such a perfect cover-up!” Preston points his finger at me. “You see... when in reality, after many years living in freedom—per the agreement your father made behind my back because the sonuvabitch loved her in his own twisted way—Mahalia decided to pay Charles a visit.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  He grins. “That’s what makes this whole thing so great. Her maternal instincts apparently won out over her self-preservation. And that ultimately led to her demise.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t get it.�
�

  “Mahalia got the idea in her head that she could extort money from Charles.” He laughs. “Quite frankly, I think she’d been away for so long, she forgot who she was dealing with. Anyway... you see, her oldest daughter—that’d be you—was getting ready to start her senior year of high school. Poor Mahalia only wanted what was best for her child, who was highly intelligent, but had no hopes of going to college without a full scholarship.”

  No.

  “Ah... I can see by your face that you know I’m speaking the truth. Shall I continue?”

  I nod, too choked up to form words.

  “As I was saying... she was broke, which should come as no surprise. She was living paycheck-to-paycheck in the fifteen years before her little impromptu visit, which means no college savings for you. Well, in those fifteen years, Mahalia evidently grew some balls, because she would’ve never dared to try something like this back when I knew her.

  “She told your father”—he nudges Charles with his foot—“that if he didn’t agree to fund your college education, she would go to the police and tell them everything she knew about our... less than legal activities. Daddy Dearest agreed to her demands, provided she sign off on a paternity affidavit. He called it his insurance policy in case she decided to go to the authorities anyway.”

  Okay, this is the part that never made sense to me, and I have a feeling I’m about to get my answer.

  “Why would he want to claim me? I would’ve never known who he was. Who any of you were.”

  “Because Mahalia signed her death warrant the moment she showed up at his door. Charles told her if she ever came back, or attempted to contact either one of us, it’d cost her her life. Neither he nor I had any indication as to how much information she had shared with you. So... in order to keep an eye on you, Charles had to gain custody of you following your mother’s fatal accident. And imagine my pleasant surprise when you show up, a nearly identical version of the woman who slipped through my clutches. It’s like the fates were granting me a second chance to make things right.”