DECEIT (B723)

by Hazel Grace

  “What if Emmy told him that he wasn’t the father and they fought?”

  “Still doesn’t mean he’s…I mean, yeah, he’d be the reason she was upset but…I dunno, man.”

  “Something’s off, Ky. It doesn’t feel right.” He gives me a remorseful stare and adjusts his weight.

  “You’re just looking for another outcome, brother. Nothing is going to bring her back. There’s no one to blame. It was an accident. Even if it wasn’t, Lucien would’ve said something.”

  I ignore him because he’s wrong. “We could look up the street cameras and shit.”

  Kyson hits me with an exasperated look. “Dude…alright, if it’ll get it out of your system.” He frowns. “But leave Mills alone.”

  “Fuck you,” I reply slowly. “And, no. I’ll hire an outside source.”

  “Why he’d want to know. Everyone would.”

  “I’m not asking him.” Kyson’s eyes constrict. “Do you want me to kill him?”

  “I’ll ask,” he replies off a sigh. “And get what we need.” I steal another look at the baby in his arms. “It’s Alaric.”

  I nod, already know that. I need another drink, but I want to take off from this party more. I’ve already experienced too much shit for the day.

  “You wanna hold him?”

  “No, I’ve already held one.”

  Kyson chuckles, deep in his chest as if he’s amused by my discomfort. “Don’t tell me you’re going to treat them differently.”

  “I’m not going to treat them anyway because I’m not going to associate with the little betrayal spawns.”

  “And that’s their fault?”

  I wave a dismissive hand in the air. “I’m out. I’ve had enough family for the day.”

  “You’re not ditching,” Kyson counters, kicking me with his foot. “Cake, then we’ll ask Mills together. If he doesn’t agree at least you can be useful and threaten him so more. I’ll allow that as a loophole.”

  “Ky—“ My lips smirk in a sinister lift. “—you know better than to order me around. I’m taking off.”

  “Fine.” He lets his one word settle with the hidden message of him not moving this silent investigation any further than this shitty conversation.

  Kyson has always had this aggravating way of getting me to agree to something. The asshole should’ve been a lawyer or car salesman with the way he leaves an open-ended issue still lingering over your head.

  He knows what I want and will make me come to terms with how it’s going to go down and for how much.

  With me not killing Mills and with my pride shoved up my ass.

  I’ve breached all levels of patience and the lines that have been crossed. Alexander showed up at Marty’s birthday party, and that’s all Mills had to tell me to push aside all the petty and mind-eating ideas I wanted to evoke on him.

  He’s too close to my family.

  He’s getting too fucking pushy and I’m going to just kill him now before he can do anything else.

  It’ll rouse a problem of what to do with his body or what I have to create to make his sudden death look like an accident, but I’ll take care of it later.

  Alexander is dead tonight.

  Dressed in all black, I already have a key card for his penthouse from stopping by and staying with him on nights when he got off work late. But the beeping sound when I hovered it over his door would tip him off that someone was coming inside, and I’m looking for the element of surprise.

  So I use my cute but significant magnet in my hand. It’ll demagnetize and jack up the mechanisms in the lock, so I won’t need to do anything but quietly turn the knob.

  My heart is racing so quickly in my chest that it’s in my ears. I wait two breaths before attempting to open it.

  I think of how cold his eyes were when he stalked towards with his knife. How he didn’t care that he was about to finish me off with our unborn children inside of my belly.

  It sends an unwanted chill of goosebumps up my arms, but I ignore them as I twist the metal knob and pad through the threshold.

  Inside, the living space is pitch black besides the city lights that sweep into horizontal lines through his kitchen. Thankfully, I’ve been in this place over a hundred times so I can navigate his coffee table and where his rug starts on the floor.

  The room still holds the scent of citrus, and I’m about five or six steps in is when my whole body freezes in suspense.

  I can smell him.

  The leather and nutmeg mixed with cigarettes.

  Bishop.

  Slowly, I train my eyes to search in the dark to make sure he’s not already seated somewhere. Watching me like he did back in that Pittsburgh hotel when I brought back Armageddon.

  My mind sprints in all sorts of directions—why is he here, is he fucking insane, and how the hell do I get him out?

  Then where is he, or did he leave already?

  I’m practically stuck in my spot for several reasons because searching Alexander’s space will only result in him possibly running into me or vice versa.

  You might as well expose yourself. If you kill Alexander, the game is over.

  Or he’ll throw the biggest bitch fit and tip my ex off that someone is in his place.

  My brain tells me to retreat and try again later, but my heart, it lunges for him. It wants to be selfish and be recognized by the man I married.

  The one I never divorced.

  The one who didn’t get away but wanted to be kept within his own safety of emotions and thoughts where nothing and no one could hurt him.

  Except I did hurt him.

  I pretended to be dead, and only then did I see a speck of true feelings leave that man’s body.

  I have to go.

  Slowly, I double back my steps, and that’s when I hear the elevator ping outside the hall.

  Thank fuck I took the stairs.

  Remembering the small closet behind me, I find my forced hiding spot. The front door opens a moment later, then the knob jingles, and I hear Alexander’s muttered fuck.

  Keys are thrown on the side table, lights seep underneath the door I’m in. His dress shoes hit the hardwood floors, clearly on a mission to confront the person who may still be in his home.

  It’s bold. Him being alone and not knowing what awaits him.

  But then again, psycho.

  “The fuck are you doing in my house?” my ex seizes out. “I have security outside and inside this—“

  “I’m here to get answers to my fucking questions,” Bishop carps out in his deliciously deep octave.

  The fridge opens, and I hear Alexander say, “Then schedule an appointment. Now you’re going to go to jail for breaking and entering.”

  “I’ll break your hand before you dial the last one, so sit before I start smashing shit.”

  I don’t hear anything but silence for a moment as I press my ear to the door before my ex speaks next.

  “What do you want?”

  “Emmy wasn’t in a car accident, was she?”

  “I don’t know,” he replies flatly. “I wasn’t with her, but that’s what I was told.”

  “So, who’s covering her death? For a boyfriend, you sure looked okay at her funeral.”

  “I should be asking you the same question. Your little gang may have killed her. But I wouldn’t know since she had a closed casket.”

  “Which is funny because there was no car accident,” Bishop reiterates. “Which makes me believe you did something.”

  What the fuck?

  He got smart and pulled a me on me. He must’ve had someone pull video footage, but how would he learn where to even look because the place doesn’t exist.

  Unless he’s calling a bluff.

  “Why me?” Alexander presses.

  “Because she would’ve had to come in for an emergency to give birth to those twins. So if she didn’t have any blunt trauma from a supposed car accident…I’m voting that you did it.”

  “I didn’t—“

&n
bsp; “Where’s her fucking car?”

  “I don’t—“ One of Alexander’s stools at his kitchen island scrapes loudly against the floors, and I know Bishop is beginning to lose his temper. The fact that he hasn’t hurt Alexander yet amazes me.

  “You know more than what you’re telling me,” Bishop growls out so lowly that I think that’s what he said.

  If Alexander comes clean, he’s dead.

  If Alexander lies…he’s still dead in Bishop’s eyes.

  I may have lost my chance to kill my ex for reasons my husband doesn’t even know about.

  I’m on the verge of losing not only my temper but the promise I made to the boys when I said I wouldn’t kill the man in front of me without cause.

  Without them.

  The argument is that if we know Alexander did more than what he’s claiming—besides fake being sad at his girlfriend’s death—we’d do it together.

  And all I can think of is slitting his throat right now or plummeting him into this floor for touching the woman I love and even believing for a second that he could have her.

  Alexander stares at me through a scowl with his perfectly pressed suit and blue tie.

  He fucks with the black sleeves of his jacket as though this conversation is boring, and he can’t be bothered with it.

  He sure is taking all this well for someone who claims to have wanted to be with her.

  And for a man with so much money, he could’ve done his own investigating unless he’s that fucking dumb or behind this whole ordeal.

  I’m voting for the latter.

  “Think all you want,” he conveys over the rim of his water bottle. “I’m not the one to blame for your friend’s death. She was my girlfriend, shouldn’t I be the one freaking out?”

  “And why aren’t you?” I perk a brow in challenge to which I’m responded to with a placid expression from him.

  I was in fucking love with this woman, ready to burn anyone to the ground that might have hurt her, and he’s standing here drinking water like it’s another night with an uninvited guest.

  “I was told by a medical professional that she died in a car accident. If you want her car, it’s more than likely in the junkyard.”

  It’s not.

  Mills checked when he looked into security cameras and the ones that are on top of traffic lights. There is not one shred of evidence that shows Emmy was involved in an accident on any of the routes Em takes, which leaves this ass clown in front of me.

  I didn’t think Alexander was going to bluntly tell me anything. I have at least sixty more pounds on him, a few inches, and just the glare I’m sending him could possibly make him shit his rich pants if I focused on putting it on full force.

  However, I’m not so high above hitting the man who touched what was mine even though she fucked me over in the long run.

  Maybe it’ll help with some sort of closure.

  Maybe it’ll just make my knuckles sore and nothing else.

  “You need to get out of my house,” Alexander commands, yanking his phone out of his slacks. “Emmy is dead, and that’s—“ My arm shoots out, hitting the fruit bowl in the middle of his kitchen island as I send it flying across the pristine kitchen.

  “You fought, didn’t you?” I press, rounding the granite island. “Did you touch her?”

  “And why would I do that? I bought us a new house and—“

  “That doesn’t mean shit. Your money wouldn’t have bought Emmy, so you either have the humor of a clown or…” I don’t want to talk about his dick or sex life. I’m not going there. “Where were you the night she gave birth?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Make it my business.” I try to loosen my clenched jaw, but all I want to do is shove that water bottle down his throat.

  She’s gone, and nothing is going to bring her back, I know that.

  I hate that.

  I have to live without her for the rest of my life and I’m not sure I can.

  “Listen,” Alexander says, trying for a calm and rational approach to the conversation. “I was at the office. I got the call from the hospital. I rushed over, I didn’t even get to go inside the operating room because…I guess things weren’t going so good.”

  “And you didn’t even try to barge in there like a man in love would do.” I slowly begin to shake my head back and forth. Taunting him and the things he didn’t do, not that he may have been able to save her, but his actions got us to this point.

  I can feel it.

  “Stay the fuck away from the kids,” I growl out, fists balled at my sides. “Or I’ll rip your damn arms off, and you won’t be holding any in the near future.”

  “They’re fucking mine,” he carps out, taking a dangerous step in my direction. “And I will get custody of them. So save your next threat. I’ll bury your little buddy in legal fees because someone is tampering with evidence.”

  “Or someone just won’t accept that his girlfriend screwed another dude behind your back.”

  “Fuck you and get the hell out.” He points in the way of the door, but I don’t listen to the gesture.

  Instead, I grip his wrist and twist, getting him to drop the water and bow down in pain.

  He swings with his free hand and connects with my thigh, but it only causes me to put more pressure on his hand, bending it back to which he howls.

  “You’re fucking dead,” he yells out through his teeth.

  I lean over, not giving a shit if he lunges up and knocks into my chin with the back of his skull. It’ll only add onto more of my wanting to eliminate him, right here, right now and I’ll explain to the boys later. “Not if I get to you first.”

  The front door bangs open, hitting something glass and sending it crashing to the floor. It hints that someone obviously came in with some force and it’s not help for me.

  Pivoting, I’m met with a burly dude and a mustache. His dark eyes narrow as my arm cocks back to have an introduction with his face.

  He stumbles, revealing the other two men that have come in to kick me out.

  “I want him dead,” Alexander commands haughty behind me, which only gets me to thrust my elbow back to connect with his nose.

  He lets out a yelp, and I’m ramming into one guy’s stomach with my shoulder while the other has his hands on my shirt to go for the ride.

  We crash into a wall, allowing me the opportunity to get one good punch on the dude’s cheek before I’m hurled backward by one of his cronies.

  I’m quick to right myself, catching five knuckles to the jaw before my fist flies into the same dude’s face, sending him away when the other two begin to lunge for me.

  I’m able to dodge one, but the other gets a right hand across my face. I seize his suit then thrust my forehead into his, not feeling the pain because of the surge of adrenaline coursing through my body.

  And because I’ve done it over a million times.

  The click of a hammer fills the space and I locate the taller one rushing me with it.

  Dumbass.

  He could’ve shot me and got this over with.

  I swing at his kidneys. My knee comes up next, hearing a crunch of a bone-breaking before I’m pried away by my waist.

  My heel comes up to slam into the guy’s shin, but he doesn’t let go, so I whip around and out of his grasp, cold-cocking him with my clenched hand on the way before swinging with my left.

  Things were going fine.

  I had everything in the bag.

  But the blackness that promptly surrounds me…that came out of nowhere.

  I shoot all of them—with tranquilizers.

  With the ruckus all solely focused on each other, I took the chance of peeking around the closet door and crawling out. Thankfully, a couch was the perfect cover, and my aim is spectacular.

  I took Alexander out first because I’m a petty ass bitch. Then Bishop because he’s so observant, and if men began dropping like flies around him, he’d be looking around for why.

>   With a call to Mills and maybe thirty minutes before they all start waking up, we were able to pull Bishop out. We threw him in a maid cart, took the elevator, then the employee back exit, and out to Mills’s backseat he went. I’m not built to help carry his two hundred plus ass, and Mills isn’t Superman either, no matter what he says.

  And I may or may not have caressed Bishop’s scruff along his face, called him an idiot for showing up here, and gave him a chaste kiss to his lips before my best friend arrived.

  While waiting for Mills, I bugged Alexander’s home, then I noticed the phone poking out of Alexander's suit jacket after I kicked him in the thigh.

  It wasn't the iPhone that was always attached to his ass but a burner phone. I'm sure to bug that one too.

  Coming back to hide in the closet was too risky now and, with his men who would wake up pissed off, my main focus was making sure that Bishop made it home okay.

  And offing Alexander in a peaceful slumber wasn’t my idea of a kill anyway. I wanted him to see my face—alive and somewhat well—when he took his last breath.

  “What story am I supposed to give now?” Mills asks me over the phone as he drives home, and I do the same. “Did he get hit when you hit him?”

  Shit, that would’ve been pretty genius.

  “Unfortunately, no,” I reply. “We could always say he was stabbed with something when you busted in. Hopefully, he won’t spend too much time thinking about it.”

  Mills scoffs. “And how did I know he was there?”

  “Mills,” I chide. “Are you telling me you’ve never come up with a make-believe story in your life?”

  “My grandma taught me never to lie. And I don’t like doing it to people that are close to me.”

  AKA like you.

  “I know.” I rub my temple with my free hand. “We’re almost done.”

  “That court case is in two weeks. Did you figure out how you were going to get into the lab?”

  Let me catch you up real quick on that. Alexander paid extra to have the DNA results not inputted into the county’s computer system in fear of someone—AKA me—tampering with it.

  Smart move.

  Just a pain in the ass for moi.

  “He’ll be dead by then,” I convey. “And even if he’s not and I am, just—“