by Laura Lee
LAURA LEE
WICKED LIARS ©2020 Laura Lee
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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
ALSO AVAILABLE BY LAURA LEE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
JAZZ
It’s funny the things you think of when you’re dying. Like, I wonder what kind of birthday cake Ainsley got? I was hoping for chocolate, maybe with a raspberry filling... although, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Or... it’d be really cool if I was walking on the beach right now, feeling the ocean tickle my toes as the waves crash against the shore. I bet some local going out for a jog will find my body. Haven’t you ever noticed that? Runners always find the dead bodies. I can see the headlines now:
Teenager Stabbed to Death in Quaint, Mountain Town
It’ll shake up this community temporarily, but before you know it, I’ll just be that poor girl who died by the water’s edge. Goosebumps scatter across my flesh as a chill courses through my body. Damn, it’s cold up here. Of course, the one time I actually wear a dress, I get stuck out in the wilderness.
What really pisses me off—and yes, I have every right to be pissed as I lie here bleeding out—is that I can’t stop thinking about the fact the people responsible for this will get away with it. They’ll graduate high school, go off to college, eventually get married and pop out pretentious little babies, never looking back. Never knowing what it’s like to have consequences for their actions. These people will always live in a world where you can solve any problem, get away with any vile act, by throwing a little money around.
My body sinks into the ground, the smell of mud and copper assaulting my senses. I really should get help, but moving isn’t exactly an option. Screaming isn’t one either—I’ve already tried that, and all I have to show for it is a raw throat. My head lolls to the side, eyes falling to the glassy surface of the lake as the fingers on my non-broken hand flutter over my abdomen, unsuccessfully trying to staunch the flow of sticky blood.
As I stare unblinkingly at the full moon reflecting off the lake’s surface, I realize the irony of my situation. I’m no stranger to violence—I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by it. When you’re impoverished, or craving your next fix, you’d be surprised what people will do when desperation sinks in. That’s why my mother taught me to be vigilant, to take precautions. I took her lessons to heart and managed to survive over seventeen years without incident.
It fucking figures that when I actually do become a victim of violence, it’s in a place drenched in wealth.
I suppose that’s what I get for trusting a liar.
CHAPTER ONE
JAZZ
“Here we are.” My social worker, Davina, shifts her rusty old Ford Focus into park.
I stare out the windshield at the sprawling mansion before me. “Wow, you weren’t shitting me when you said he was rich, huh?”
Davina’s brown eyes light up in amusement. “You might want to watch the language around your father, Jazz.”
“Don’t call him that,” I snap.
She gives me a sympathetic look. “Honey, I know this is hard, but—”
I scoff. “You think?”
Davina is undeterred by my interruption. “Jazz. Listen. I know you miss your mom. Any girl in your situation would. But I’d hate to see you screw up an opportunity like this because you have something against rich people.”
“I don’t have anything against rich people,” I argue. “I have something against a man who can obviously afford child support but would rather pretend his kid didn’t exist.”
“Who said he was pretending?” she challenges. “He claims he genuinely had no knowledge of your existence until your mother approached him shortly before her death.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe it. Whenever I asked my mom about him, she was always so cryptic. She said he wasn’t a good man, that we were better off without him, and that’s all I needed to know. Why in the hell would she go to him after almost eighteen years? Why didn’t he ask to meet me right away when she did supposedly inform him that he has a kid?”
“Jazz, I can’t speak for your mom, but I can assure you we checked him out.” Davina sighs. “He’s an upstanding citizen and successful businessman. Philanthropic, even. He didn’t hesitate for one second when we contacted him. Charles Callahan is offering to give you a better life than anything you’ve ever known. You’ll have opportunities you’ve never had before. If you don’t care about yourself, think about your sister and how much you could improve her life with access to resources like this.”
“Just because we were poor doesn’t mean we had a bad life. I always felt like anything would be okay as long as we had each other.”
She gestures to the giant house in front of us. “I know that, honey, and I respect it. Your mom was a rock star for making the best out of a crappy situation. But she’s gone and you and I both know your sister is not in the most ideal place right now.”
Damn it. She’s right. My seven-year-old sister, Belle, and I have different fathers. Hers has been in and out of her life since birth. He only seemed interested in being a parent when it was convenient for him. He agreed to take full custody of Belle when the state contacted him though and with their limited funding, they practically threw her at him.
He may not have a criminal record, but the man can’t hold down a job to save his life and he’s a raging alcoholic. Davina knows I want to fight for at least partial custody when I become a legal adult, so I can have a bigger say in how she’s raised.
The problem with that is, realistically, no judge will just hand over a child to an eighteen-year-old with no home or job. Plus, there’s bound to be exorbitant legal expenses that I need to consider. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I’m going to make it happen. I know without a doubt, my mom would want this.
I squeeze my eyes shut briefly to ward off the tears. God, will this overwhelming sadness
ever wane? It’s only been a month since my mom died but it hurts just as bad—if not worse—than it did when that police officer showed up at my door. There’s this constant weight on my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
Davina pats my shoulder. “I know it’ll be an adjustment, but you’ll be okay in time. We haven’t known each other long, but I know you’re strong and you’re smart. You can get really far in life on those two things alone.” Davina nods to the front door. “Now, go on. They’re waiting for you.”
“Why couldn’t he pick me up from the group home? You know that’s not giving him any brownie points, right?”
“Sweetie, we’ve been through this. Your father is out of town on business, but he’s scheduled to return tonight. The house manager is there to welcome you on his behalf.” As if on cue, the wooden double doors open and a woman wearing a black dress with her hair in a severe bun steps out onto the covered porch. “There she is now.”
The house manager. That’s right. What the hell does a house manager do anyway? I get out of the car, pulling my duffle bag from the back seat. Before I shut the door, I lean down to say goodbye. “Wish me luck.”
Davina smiles. “I don’t think you’ll need it, honey, but good luck. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
I step back and close the door. “See ya.”
I watch as Davina pulls through the circular driveway before heading back the way we came. A throat clearing draws my attention away from the black car fading in the distance.
“Miss Jasmine, I’ll take that bag for you.”
I hitch my duffle higher on my shoulder and turn around to address the woman. “Please call me Jazz, and no thank you. I can carry it just fine.”
Deep wrinkles form around her mouth as she frowns. “If you insist. Please, follow me, Miss Jasmine. We’ve been expecting you.”
“It’s Jazz,” I mumble, irritated she so blatantly ignored my request.
It’s painfully obvious how out of my element I am the second I step foot onto the polished golden floors. A double staircase stands before me, attached to a wide balcony with intricately carved iron balusters. The ceilings are the highest I’ve ever seen and the furniture is sparse but expensive looking. I look down at my worn denim and second-hand Chucks. The contrast between them and the marble beneath my feet is laughable.
“Right this way,” the woman says, interrupting my musings.
I follow her up the stairs and down a seemingly endless corridor to the right. I briefly wonder if I should be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in case I need to make a quick exit.
“Your room is right do—”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She gives me a stern look over her shoulder before continuing her trek to wherever we’re going. “You may call me Ms. Williams.”
“And what do you do here, Ms. Williams?”
We finally—finally—stop at a door near the end of the hallway.
Ms. Williams turns the knob and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “I’m the house manager. I ensure everything is running smoothly according to Mr. Callahan’s specifications.”
Vague much?
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What exactly does that mean?”
She gives me a haughty look. “You’ll learn soon enough, young lady. For now, let’s just say that all staff members report to me. They are my eyes and ears around the estate. Nothing happens without my knowledge, which I then report to Mr. Callahan.”
Message received loud and clear.
There are spies everywhere.
If I had to guess, I’d say my sperm donor is a control freak.
Ms. Williams clears her throat. “Now, as I was saying, this area of the house is reserved for you and Miss Peyton. You each have a bedroom with a built-in ensuite, then a shared game room—which also doubles as a small theater room—and a guest bathroom. I’ll take you on a formal tour after dinner and you can see the rest. You’ll have free rein over all common areas and guest rooms, but you are not permitted to enter the north wing unless invited. That’s where Mr. and Mrs. Callahan reside.”
Jesus Christ, who needs their own personal wing? This damn bedroom alone is bigger than my old apartment.
“Who the hell is Peyton?”
The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth deepen when she frowns. “Young lady, foul language will not be tolerated. It makes you sound like a hoodlum—I suggest you correct that immediately.”
Oh, bitch, you just wait and see how much of a hoodlum I can be.
She continues, completely ignoring my glare. “As for Miss Peyton... she is your stepsister.”
Wait a second... I have a stepsister? Why didn’t Davina tell me that?
“How old is she?”
“She’s seventeen, just like you. You’ll both be starting your senior year at Windsor Academy the day after tomorrow.”
“Wait... what?”
She ignores my question. “Your father will answer all of your questions at dinner—six o’clock sharp. Now, I have other matters to attend to. I suggest you freshen up and dress in something more appropriate.” Ms. Williams looks me over from head to toe. “You’re a Callahan now. You’re expected to look and act like one. But don’t worry; you’ll find that your closet is fully stocked, so you’ll have plenty of garments to choose from.” She waves her hand in a circle. “A stylist is coming tomorrow morning to take care of that awful hair.”
With that, she turns on her heels and leaves the room.
“What’s wrong with my hair?” I yell as she closes the door behind her.
Who the hell does that woman think she is? What gives her the right to speak to me like that? I finger a lock of my long, dark hair, watching as the purple streaks shine in the sun. I love my hair. My mom loved my hair—she said it fit my personality. Why would I want to change it?
I’m doing this for Belle, I remind myself. I sigh and decide that I might as well explore a little while I’m stuck here. First up is the closet, which is as ginormous and as ridiculous as I’d expected. Hundreds of items hang from the rack with a wall of shoes that must cost more than my mom made in a year. In the center of the room, there’s a built-in dresser filled with neatly folded jeans, pajamas, and frilly lingerie. Holy shit, can you say stalker? Not that I don’t appreciate pretty things, but the fact that whoever bought this stuff knew all my sizes, down to my 34-B cup boobs, creeps me out.
“So, you’re the charity case,” a snooty voice says from behind me.
I startle before turning around to find a preppy-looking girl glaring at me. She’s pretty—really pretty—and about my age. Her waist-length hair is so blonde, it’s almost white, in stark contrast with her overly spray-tanned skin. She’s dressed in a khaki skirt that hits mid-thigh with a light pink cardigan set and an honest-to-God set of pearls. As I’m taking her in, I see her lips curl in disgust as she does the same to me. This must be my new stepsister.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Ever hear of a thing called knocking?”
She does the same, pushing up her giant tits. Jeez, those suckers have to be fake. She’s tiny, other than the overinflated balloons hanging off her chest.
“I did knock. You didn’t answer.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Yet you decided to invite yourself in anyway? What do you want, Peyton?”
Her glossy pink lips turn up in the corners. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
“Unfortunately. Your bitchy reputation precedes you.”
I know that was a bit harsh considering I just met her, but I’ve always considered myself a good judge of character. This chick is the textbook definition of a mean girl.
Her blue eyes narrow as she flips her hair over her shoulder. “Good. Your life will be much easier if you understand how things work around here.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “Oh, yeah? What specifically are you referring to?”
Peyton straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. “That you’re only here because D
addy didn’t want to tarnish his image by having a bastard child floating around. I’m his real daughter, in every way that matters. And when we get to Windsor, this is my year to rule. You’ll keep your ghetto ass out of my way and you’ll stay far away from my boyfriend, Kingston Davenport.”
I smirk. “Insecure much?”
She scoffs. “Hardly.”
“Then why are you warning me to stay away from your boyfriend?” I stick out my lower lip. “Aw, honey, are you threatened by me?”
Peyton curls her fists. “Listen, trash. You have nothing on me. Kingston wouldn’t touch you even if his life depended on it. Sure, Bentley might let you suck him off—because let’s face it, he’d let practically anyone suck his dick—but the minute he blew his load, he’d toss you to the side, because you’re beneath us. You don’t belong. The faster you get that through your tiny little brain, the better. Trust me when I say you don’t want to fuck with me.”
I smile, wondering what Daddy Dearest would think if he heard his little princess going off about blow jobs and dropping F-bombs. And who the fuck is this Bentley guy? My expression must make Peyton nervous because she starts shifting on her feet.
“No, you listen.” She retreats with every step I take forward. “I grew up in the projects, bitch. Ever hear of a thing called street smarts? You can’t imagine the things I’ve seen or what I’ve learned how to do. The unsavory people I know. If anyone should be worried around here, it’s you.”
I’ve learned how to defend myself when necessary, but I’m bluffing for the most part. I’ve lived my life trying to avoid trouble whenever possible, but Peyton doesn’t need to know that. I have a feeling if I don’t stand my ground with this chick from the start, she’ll trample all over me.
I fight the urge to cover my ears when she stomps her foot and lets out a shrill scream. “Just stay away from me.”
Her long hair slaps me in the face as she turns and marches out my door.
“Gladly,” I mutter.
Wow. Welcome to the family, Jazz.
I MANAGE TO FIND THE dining room right before the clock turns six. I may be early, but I’m still the last one to arrive. I’m also the only one who doesn’t look like they’re attending a posh luncheon at a country club. I didn’t bother changing my clothes which I suspected would push the control freak’s buttons.