by Katie May
Finally, I would like to thank my readers. You guys have been incredible. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you guys taking a chance on me. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Katie May has always loved writing. An avid reader herself, you can almost always find her with her nose in a book or scribbling away in her notepad. Currently, she has five books published, all reverse harem under this pen name. She resides in West Michigan with her family. If you would like to stay updated on exclusive teasers, POVS, and updates on her novels, join her Reader’s Group - Katie’s Gang!
FIRST CHAPTER OF DARKNESS WE CRAVE!
Mr. Fuckadoodledoo-picklesucker-buttlicker was leering at me. Again. I mentally tallied the number of times I caught his penetrating eyes turned in my direction over the last hour. Fifty-two. He had eye raped me fifty-two times in a span of sixty minutes.
Stiffening in my seat, I attempted to pay attention to my father across from me and ignore Mr. Buttlicker. D.O.D. - Dear Old Dad - had his peppered hair trimmed so it cascaded neatly to his shoulders. He wore a gray suit that seemed to accentuate the blue in his eyes. Some might've considered him a handsome man once, if they found ice-cold asshole statues handsome. Seriously, the man was a dick. He even put Buttlicker to shame in the whole creeper-asshole department.
We had arrived at the restaurant only a few minutes earlier, traveling immediately from the conference room to the elegant restaurant in the basement of the resort. The only word adequate to describe such a room was golden. I know, not the most eloquent description, but a golden sheen seemed to paint everything, from the intricately carved wood work to the golden flowers canvasing the wall. It was almost nauseating.
"I appreciate you taking the time to meet with us," D.O.D. said, for probably the billionth time that evening. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Buttlicker had as much choice in the matter as I did - needless to say, none at all.
"It's always a pleasure doing business with you," Buttlicker responded stiffly. His tone suggested, though, that he found it anything but pleasurable. Daddy tended to evoke fear in his clients.
"What looks good?" D.O.D. asked, scanning the menu.
And cue...
"I can think of one thing." Buttlicker's gaze flickered appreciatively over my body, and I resisted the urge to shiver. He made me feel naked, despite the fact I purposefully wore a modest black number with a pearl necklace strung tightly across my neck. The guy also seemed to be forgetting the fact that he was thirty-some years older than my own age of seventeen.
A reminder, my friends, pedophilia is a punishable offense.
My mother made a sound as if she heard Buttlicker's comment and found it as repulsive as I had...wait, no. She was just ogling our waiter's backside while simultaneously touching Mr. Dickhead's - aka our head of security's - knee underneath the table. Like seriously? Did the woman not realize I sat directly beside her, clearly able to see her hand trailing upwards towards no-no land. Dear Lord. The woman was going to be the death of me.
As I thought this, Buttlicker gave me a smile that he must've thought was seductive but came across as more of a constipated grimace.
Correction. He was going to be the death of me.
The waiter, that my mother so shamelessly gaped at, stopped at our table, and my mouth nearly fell from its hinges.
The guy was gorgeous. Like ridiculously gorgeous. His ash blond hair was disheveled, as if he had run his hand through it one too many times. His eyes, a vibrant off-set blue that seemed to heighten an already arresting face, sparkled as if he was the only one privy to an inside joke. Even his cheekbones - oh sweet baby Jesus, those cheek bones - were chiseled and rose high on his face.
And. He. Had. Dimples.
My one weakness.
"Good afternoon. My name is Asher, and I'll be taking care of you this evening."
"Is that a promise?" My mother batted her eyelashes at him, and I felt my own eyes widen in horror.
"Dammit, mother," I hissed. If it was possible, and I didn't think it was, D.O.D.'s expression darkened further. If he hated one thing, it was the attention his wife gave other males. Of course, D.O.D. made an exception for Dickhead the guard, but that could've been because he was banging him too.
I touched my pearl necklace, a reminder of what I could gain with a little blackmail.
If only it could rid me of such nuisances, say the Buttlicker licking his buttlicking lips beside me.
I wanted to apologize to the waiter for my mother's crude, though unsurprising, behavior. However, I knew the gesture would be futile. D.O.D. was not only the owner of this ostentatious restaurant, but the entire resort. And a few other not-so-legal enterprises that I probably shouldn't mention.
Gorgeous kept his smile pleasant though his eyes dimmed marginally. He looked embarrassed by my mother's outburst, but how could he not? She basically implied that he was a prostitute to hire, despite the fact that he could only be a year or two older than myself.
"I'd like the chicken alfredo," I said quickly. A pathetic attempt, I'll admit, to ease the awkward tension, but it seemed to have the desired effect. D.O.D. let out a breath I hadn't realized he had been holding, and mother's face contorted into a scowl. She really didn't like it when I interrupted her flirt sessions, as she so liked to call them. Gorgeous's eyes flickered to me, his relief obvious.
And then they stayed there.
I knew he what held his gaze. It was the same thing that everybody else saw, the same thing I saw when I looked into the mirror. A girl that was almost ethereal in beauty with brown, curly hair and a porcelain-like face. Bright red lips and a cute, button nose. And my eyes - a color that seemed to be a mixture of violet and blue, like the light at the crack of dawn where the sun had yet to set and the moon had yet to disappear completely.
Did nobody see how haunted these eyes were? How my lips were constantly turned down into a frown? How the makeup was barely able to conceal the bruises marring the perfect skin?
Did anybody care?
Asher continued to stare at me, a blond brow lifting slightly. His mouth opened before snapping closed again. I couldn't understand the expression on his face.
Buttlicker also must've noticed the attention the waiter gave me, for he rested his hand possessively on my knee. I winced, shifting away from the man who made me squeamish. One reprimanding stare from my father had me cowering and leaning closer towards Buttlicker.
It was a choice between two evils. With Buttlicker, I knew that I would survive whatever he had in store for me. With my father, I could never be too sure.
Gorgeous' gaze hardened as he surveyed my father and then Buttlicker, but he didn't comment. Smart move.
"And what can I get you?" Asher asked sharply, turning towards the slimy man still gripping my knee as if his life depended on it. Yup. That was going to leave a nasty bruise there.
Great. Another one added to the inventory.
Mental me could barely contain her eye roll.
"Did you say something?" Buttlicker asked, turning his attention from Asher to me. This time I did roll my eyes, both physically and mentally (if there's such thing as rolling your eyes mentally. I'm not exactly sure, but I pictured myself rolling my eyes inside my mind. Does that count?)
"I didn't say anything," I huffed, glaring a hole at my menu. I had a tendency to speak my mind. Literally. Therapist 1 called it a defense mechanism for my traumatic childhood - whatever the hell that means. Therapist 2 said it was a way for me to express myself. Therapist 3 just chuckled and called me an idiot (I don't believe Therapist 3 was an actual therapist), but Therapist 4 admitted that it was not uncommon for trauma patients, when facing isolation, to find comfort in their own thoughts. Thus, my inner monologues and rumblings often turned into outer monologues and rumblings. You can imagine how embarrassing it can be at times, especially with my tendency to create nicknames.
Asher continued taking orders around the table, and I
half expected my mother to make a smartass comment along the lines of "I'll have you for supper" or something dumb like that. I was pleasantly surprised when she only made a passing comment about having "the Asher special for dessert". That was real progress for my mother.
I wonder if his last name is Gorgeous? Then I wouldn't feel as creepy calling him Gorgeous. Asher Gorgeous. Hmmm. Fitting.
It took me a moment to realize that all eyes were on me, including the stunning waiter who directed his blinding smile at me.
I tried to recall what I had just thought, and obviously said, and my cheeks flamed with the realization of what transpired.
"Shit."
Kill me now.
"Tempting," D.O.D. said, taking a sip of his water. His expression was as severe as his eyes. I had the distinct feeling that he wasn't joking. Great. Just what I wanted.
"So, about those Red Sox?" I interjected quickly. Though, in the middle of winter, I doubted that baseball had started up again. Sports. Sports were always a good topic of conversation with men. Asher, moving from our table to the next, smirked at me. He had no doubt heard my comment and found it amusing. What can I say? I have that effect on people.
Conversation, thankfully, steered away from the whole me-dying-of-mortification-thing and Red Sox to more work-related material. Taxes and employees and the whole stimulating shebang. They didn't talk about any of their, for back of better term, illegal enterprises, though not that I blamed them. I wondered how that conversation would go.
"I was wondering, how much you have been selling those illegal guns for?"
"The same amount as I have been selling my coke." Or pot. Or marijuana. Or whatever the hell they were up to these days.
D.O.D. had insisted that I take part in the business.
"You're no longer a little girl," he had told me sternly. "You have to start training to take over the family business."
I snorted. Family business made me think of a sweet, loving family that laughed as they fixed their shop and then came home to meals around the dinner table. I'm pretty sure that most family businesses didn't involve over a hundred shell companies, connections with the mafia, and a date with the drug lord of Mexico. Running the "family business" sounded about as appealing to me as stabbing my eye repeatedly with a rusted spoon would've been. Needless to say, it wasn't appealing.
Still, I behaved like the good girl, the good daughter, that my parents wanted me to be. It wasn't so much to please them as it was to protect myself. When I was good, when I listened and obeyed, they had no reason to punish me.
No reason to send people like Buttlicker to my room.
The mere thought made me tremble as if I had been electrocuted. My hand absently pulled at my sweater sleeves until they covered my hands.
It wasn't long before our meal came, though it was a different waiter from the one earlier that delivered it. Great. The one guy that I actually found attractive, my family had to go and scare him away.
I shouldn't have been surprised. The longest relationship I had...well, that lasted approximately two days. In kindergarten.
You see, I had a little problem (yes, even more of a problem than talking to myself). It involved people. And it involved my lack of talking to them. To some, I came across as a complete and utter bitch. To be completely honest, I kind of was. I didn't have friends; I had minions and wannabes that followed me around like lost puppies. I was the girl that every boy wanted, and every girl wanted to be. The socialite constantly stalked by paparazzi with a slew of hookups in her wake. The trendsetter, the beauty queen, the diva.
I was everything but myself.
It was almost as if I was a player in a video game, but I was being controlled by a monkey on acid. I ran into walls, tripped over air, and ninety-nine percent of the time looked completely lost and oblivious. I often wondered if my life was just a big joke and God and the angels sat up in heaven laughing at me.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Look at this mistake. You see? This is what a human shouldn't be.
It was super empowering.
"How is everything tasting?" Asher reappeared at our table, breaking me from my depressing reverie. His eyes flickered briefly over the other occupants before coming to rest on me. He offered me a crooked smile.
"It's delicious, thank you," I responded, chasing down a bite of my alfredo with a cup of water.
"It's acceptable. The meat's a little dry, however. I would like to speak to the cook about that." D.O.D.'s eyes narrowed. Of course, my dad couldn't go one freaking minute without acting like a complete asshole. And you wonder why I have no friends?
Asher visibly stiffened, but he managed another serene smile.
"Of course. I'll go get him for you right away."
I wanted to tell him that it wasn't necessary, that I understood the restaurant was packed and taking away the head chef in the middle of the dinner-rush was beyond idiotic, but I kept my mouth shut. I tried to convey with my eyes how sorry I was for, well, everything.
Something in my expression must've distracted him, because one second he was staring at me, and the next he was lurching forward. The plate of food he was carrying shattered on the floor, food flying through the air to land in Buttlicker's lap. Dickhead immediately jumped to his feet, surveying Asher as if he was a potential threat.
I felt my body grow cold.
It was obviously an accident, but I knew my father and the people he surrounded himself with. The best-case scenario would be the waiter getting a good old firing. The worst...
Thinking quickly, I threw back my head and let out a lilting laugh. Every eye at the table immediately turned to stare at me. The usual chatter in the restaurant diminished around us until all I could hear was Asher's pounding heart as he picked himself up behind me.
D.O.D. pinched the bridge of his nose.
"What the hell are you laughing at?"
I smoothed my expression into one of icy impassiveness. I called it my bitch face, one that I reserved only for meetings like these. It was a part that I had long since perfected. Bitch me was almost like an extension of my hand.
"I didn't appreciate the way the waiter was ogling me," I said flippantly, scowling at Asher. He blinked at me, momentarily speechless. "So, I taught him a little lesson about respect." I tossed my hair over my shoulder for effect. I had seen girls do it in movies, so I figured why the hell not?
You got this, Adelaide. You're a bad bitch.
D.O.D.'s hands tightened around his cup until I could see his blue veins protruding from his alabaster skin.
"You tripped him."
It wasn't a question.
"I just wanted to teach him some respect, daddy dearest. Isn't that what you always told me?" Yeah, so maybe now I was being a sarcastic bitch instead of just a mean bitch, but I couldn't help it. He always seemed to bring out the worst in me. Maybe I just figured that whatever punishment he dished out wouldn't change no matter how bad I was. I could murder someone, and it would be just as bad as if I were to cuss at the dinner table.
Not as if I had ever murdered someone before, mind you.
For a moment I thought he was going to yell at me in front of the entire restaurant. I even feared that he would throw his cup at me. Glass was a pain to get out of my skin and hair. After what felt like an eternity, he released a breath while simultaneously releasing the cup. I felt like I could breathe again.
"We will discuss this tonight," he said stoutly, turning back towards his meal. His eyes promised pain. Lots and lots of pain. Buttlicker, beside me, grinned like the deviant I knew him to be.
"If you don't mind me asking, Sir, but I would be more than willing help you administer punishment."
My fork clattered against my plate, and my mouth dropped open.
God no. Please no. Not again. No. No. No.
"I believe we could come to an agreement," D.O.D. said with a tiny smile. "If you, of course, agree to my original proposition."
Once again, the conversation turned back towards buildi
ngs and real-estate and all that other fun stuff. I, however, felt as if I couldn't breathe. My body felt cold, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over my head. It was a numb type of cold. Painful, almost, but dulling as the seconds dragged on.
I noticed that Asher hadn't moved from where he stood behind me, food covering his white shirt. Nobody paid him any mind as the conversation veered towards contracts - not even my mother was staring at him any longer - but I could feel his eyes caressing my back. I tried my hardest to ignore him, tried my hardest to face forward, but the urge to turn around was almost unbearable. Finally, I couldn't resist any longer.
His eyes were anguished when they met mine. His thick, ebony lashes feathered against his cheekbones. Just as suddenly, the expression was swept away by a tidal wave of anger. His gaze turned towards my father, who seemed utterly oblivious to the penetrating gaze searing his skin.
I recognized that look. It was the same look I have both given and received. That look promised pain and revenge.
It was also a look that made me, almost innately, hopeful.
FIRST CHAPTER OF GANGS AND GHOSTS!
The house was...nice.
Not the most eloquent description, but there were no other words I could think to use. An immense structure with protruding rocks created the entryway, and the flower garden had row after row of carefully planted perennials. I personally believed the house was trying too hard. The grass was green, manicured to perfection, and glinting with morning dew. A white-picket fence separated the building from its neighbors.
I glanced up at the house in dismay - and then glanced down the road at the dozens of other identical houses. Did the builders not believe in individuality?
One hand carrying a cardboard box and the other a garbage bag, I walked up the surprisingly steep staircase.
“What do you think?” Dad asked eagerly, fumbling to put the key into the lock. I chose, rather wisely, not to answer him. He was proud of this place but, despite its monotonous beauty, it was no home.
Only one year, I told myself. One more year until I could go back.