Mr. Red

by Tessa Layne

  Mr. Red

  Tessa Layne

  Contents

  The Bad Boys Have Arrived

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Tessa’s Newsletter

  Also by Tessa Layne

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2019 by Tessa Layne

  Paperback Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-11-1

  EPUB Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-10-4

  Cover Art by Melissa Gill Designs

  Published by Shady Layne Media

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any form or in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of copious amounts of wine, long walks, and the author’s overactive imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  They say redemption comes from unexpected places…

  * * *

  But when you’ve been an asshole your entire life, there’s only punishment for the things you've done. So when Alison comes sweeping into my life half-dressed, wielding a frying pan, and threatening to brain me, begging for mercy is the last thing on my mind.

  * * *

  I never knew how much a dirty, filthy mouth pushed my buttons until her sweet lips touched my body. Until her sexy curves drove me wild with every roll of her hips. But Karma is a b*@ch, and when my reckoning comes, I could lose everything- including the woman I can’t live without.

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  Chapter One

  Nico

  “I’m sorry man, it looks like you’re broke.” My accountant, Brett drops his gaze, and picks at an invisible speck of dust on his desk. “Dead broke.”

  It takes a minute for the words to sink in before my head explodes. “What the fuck do you mean I’m dead broke?” All the blood has rushed up to my head, leaving my fingers and my feet numb. I flex both just to make sure I’m not having an out of body experience.

  “I mean, before you signed the divorce papers, it looks like Veronica emptied every single one of your joint accounts.”

  I slam both my hands on the desk and lean forward. Brett flinches, but at least has the balls to meet my angry glare. “Then you better start figuring out a way to get it the fuck back,” I growl, trying my best to keep my field of vision clear. “You’re an accountant for chrissake.”

  “Who you pay to do your taxes, not babysit your millions,” he snaps irritably.

  I think back to dinner, to the stilted conversation between me and Brett and his wife, Maggie - the glances I caught them exchanging, the thinly veiled hints from Maggie that I’ve overstayed my welcome… a sick feeling comes over me. “How long have you known?”

  The guilty grimace he makes gives it all away.

  “How long have you known?” I repeat, anger simmering.

  “Ah… ah… just a few days,” he says quietly, face turning a ruddy shade of pink. “I-I wanted to be sure before I… just in case…” his voice trails off.

  “Just in case what?” I grit, the picture becoming clearer with each moment that passes. “Just in case you could eke out a little bit more blood from the turnip? Just in case you could line your pockets just a little bit longer?” God how could I have been so naive? “Fuck, Brett, we were college roommates.” But not friends. Clearly, not friends. Stupid me.

  “It’s not like that,” he sputters.

  “Oh? Then tell me, how is it?” I’m so sick of this. Of the fake friends, of the betrayal, of nothing seeming like it is. A dark voice sounds in my head. Karma, Nico. Karma. It’s right, the voice. My house of cards has been slowly tumbling to the ground, starting with dad locking me and my brothers out of our trust fund, then Veronica kicking me out, and ultimately getting knocked up by Senator Fucking Whelan, Hollywood producer-turned-politician, then demanding a quickie divorce. I push down a cynical laugh. Ironic, that when money’s involved, a five-year marriage takes only days to dissolve. And now this. She’s well and truly screwed me. Hit me where I was most vulnerable. Just like you did to Jason, the voice points out. Times ten. Fucking karma, indeed. “Why the fuck have I been paying you, Brett? You were supposed to look out for shit like this.”

  His face is the color of a beet now. “I know, I know, it’s just-”

  “That you were more interested in taking my money than actually working.” I point out, seeing the situation clearly now, for the first time. “So all that talk about friendship, about your house being my house, about how we go way back- it was all bullshit wasn’t it?”

  His mouth opens then shuts.

  I slam my hands on the desk and rise. “Wasn’t it?” For once, I want one of these money-grubbing assholes to just fucking be honest with their motives.

  Brett opens his hands. “I’m sorry, man. I really am.”

  Sure he is. I shake my head and push off from the desk, mind already spinning options for what’s next like a Rolodex. “Tell Maggie I said thanks for the hospitality.”

  “Do you have another place lined up?” The fact that he doesn’t even bother to disguise the eagerness in his voice, is like a nail in the coffin to our ‘friendship’.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Like I would tell him otherwise, or worse, beg. I pause at the door, hand on the jam. “And Brett?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re fired.” I head down the hall, past the man cave, where I’ve been sleeping on the couch for the past seven weeks, past Maggie hiding in the kitchen, to the front hall where my backpack and leather jacket hang in the corner. I haven’t worn the thing since college because Veronica hated it. So when she unceremoniously kicked me out, I took perverse pleasure in grabbing it from the closet, wheeling my Ducati out of the garage, and kicking up a rooster tail of gravel as I sped off.

  There’s no need for a dramatic exit here. I’m done, and I just want to move the fuck on. The cool salty dew of the marine layer hits my face as I slip out the front door. Fitting, that it never cleared today. There won’t be a riding off into the sunset moment for me, only disappearing into the fog. Also fitting.

  I take one last look around the fancy Carmel Highlands neighborhood, with its gracious houses tucked between redwoods and rocky crags, overlooking the bay like tiny fiefdoms surveying their land. The whole reason Brett and his family live here is because of me. Gall burns the back of my throat. And how many others in the neighborhood are just like him? Siphoning money from the uber-wealthy to line their pockets, all in the name of business? The whole thing disgusts me. But what disgusts me more, is the unwitting role I played in all of it. Foolishly believing that my wealth secured loyalty, friendship to those I bestowed it upon.

  I quickly check my phone. Weeks ago, when Veronica surprised me with divorce papers and let th
e tabloids inform me that she was pregnant again, this time with Senator Whelan’s child, my brother Declan offered up his vineyard on Mt. Veeder. But I couldn’t. At least not then. I’m the oldest of the three of us, and while it may only be by six minutes, I was the one groomed to lead, I’m the responsible one. And asking anyone for help, especially one of my brothers, would be admitting failure. But there’s no use denying it anymore. I’m exactly that. Spectacularly. And it’s either take my brother up on his offer, or camp on the beach.

  I don’t bother to text him to confirm I’m on my way. I already know it’s unoccupied, except for a skeleton crew of day laborers working to rebuild the 1800’s era farmhouse - I checked out the property weeks ago, just in case. I strap into my helmet and sling a leg over the bike, a part of me settling with the low purr of the engine beneath me. Tendrils of fog undulate and close in around me as I ride away - and the once billionaire prince, now fallen from his pedestal, is swallowed by the coming night.

  Thanks to Friday night traffic, it’s well after midnight when I roll to a stop, exhaustion pinching the space between my shoulder blades. I just fucking want to sleep. Okay, and drink. I could use a bottle of Scotch. Or bourbon. Or anything strong enough to make me pass out and forget the fucking mess I’ve made of my life. I cut the engine and gaze skyward. Declan scored big with this place, the air is clear and crisp, and even with the light pollution from Napa and Sonoma, and the city to the south, you can still see the stars. I didn’t bother to ask him if it was planted, but you’d have to work hard to produce a shitty bottle of wine in conditions like this. The farmhouse, destroyed by fires a year ago, stands lonely and forlorn in the moonlight, lending a gothic feel to the place. To my right stands a double-wide trailer, most likely the foreman’s office. Easy enough to crash there until morning when I can get my bearings.

  I loop my helmet over the handlebars and hop off the bike, taking a moment to stretch before I approach the trailer. The tension across my shoulders relaxes a bit when the door quietly swings open. I flip a switch by the door and blink at the harsh overhead light. “Fancy digs,” I mutter as I step into the room and drop my backpack. A desk with a laptop stands in the corner, but the rest of the space is… homey. A large leather sectional and a low modern coffee table take up most of the space. The kitchen is well equipped, and a round table with four chairs is nestled into the bay window. But what has my attention is the bottle of grappa and two small glasses at its center. It figures that Dec would have hired someone with wine knowledge. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree for any of us, even though we try.

  I drop into a chair and pull over the bottle and a glass. I’d rather not drink alone- misery loves company. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I need to drink away this day, this week, this summer from fucking hell. I pour a full glass and salute the empty space. “To karma,” I murmur quietly, then down the contents in one swallow. The burn brings tears to my eyes, but I don’t care. There will be time later to contemplate the finer points of this particular bottle, but right now, I want release. I pour another full glass and drain it.

  The pleasant buzz hits after the fourth glass, and I let out a deep sigh. Exhaustion overtakes me, and I can barely lift my hand. I pour a final glass for good measure. This should allow me to sleep into next week, at least. And maybe when I wake up I’ll realize it’s all been some kind of a dark, twisted nightmare.

  If only I was so lucky.

  Chapter Two

  Nico

  The first thing to hit me as I regain consciousness, is the constant stabbing just above my left eye. I groan and shift, only to be hit with the second realization - that my hands and feet are bound. I blink and wince, trying to sweep the grappa induced cobwebs from my mind. I try moving my hands and feet again. Definitely bound. My heart pounds heavily against my sternum. This is a nightmare, right? My subconscious is punishing me, right? I swallow and with extreme effort, focus my eyes, suddenly aware I’m not alone. I sit up with a mind-stabbing jolt. “What in the hell? Who are you?” I croak at the scantily clad and clearly furious creature in front of me.

  “Who in the hell are you?” she bristles, holding something head-level that takes me a minute to register as a cast-iron fry pan. “You drank my grappa,” she accuses.

  “So I did.”

  “You’re trespassing.”

  I hold up my bound wrists, squinting, because it’s too fucking bright in here. “So I am.” Jesus, who in the hell is this woman? The foreman? With supreme effort I focus my eyes, and nearly choke on my own spit as the woman comes into focus. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to be tied up by a woman wearing some kind of big, fat rag curlers and a facial mask. The pale mask only serves to accentuate eyes so dark they’re nearly black. And clearly pissed as hell. I swallow as my eyes drift lower. Scantily clad doesn’t even begin to describe the sheer sleeping… thing she’s wearing. So sheer, her dusky nipples and full, soft breasts call out to me like sirens. My breath catches somewhere in my chest. Her figure is lush, soft and curvy. The kind of body that begs to be squeezed and caressed. The kind of body you could lose yourself in, the kind of body that can take all of you. The polar opposite of Veronica. And God strike me dead for being a perv, but as I stare, my cock thickens, arousal pooling deep in my balls for the first time in months. Maybe even years.

  “Hey. Eyes up here,” she snaps.

  Her voice pulls me out of my grappa-induced musings, and I make things ten times worse when I grin up at her. “Sorry, darlin’. It’s not every day I’m held captive at my brother’s place by a raving half-dressed lunatic in a facial mask and curlers.”

  She sucks in a surprised breath. “I am not a lunatic.”

  “So you do this kind of thing frequently then? Does Declan know you’re here?”

  “I’m calling the cops.”

  I lift my wrists again. “No need, sweetheart. Really. I swear I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “How do I know?”

  “Well, for starters,” I pull on the duct tape, my wrist nearly coming free. “I suggest you don’t turn to a life of crime anytime soon. I could have busted out of your restraints five minutes ago.”

  Her eyes widen and she worries at her lower lip. “Why didn’t you?”

  I let out an empty laugh. “Because I’m too fucking tired, and my head hurts.”

  “Because you stole my grappa.”

  “Look, honey, if that’s what’s got your undies in a twist-” I drop my gaze to her hem, which is at eye level. “Are you even wearing undies?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry. She’s not, and I can see the barest hint of plump pussylips flirting with the folds of her… whatever you call it. Fuck. It’s the hottest thing I’ve seen since, ever. I shift uncomfortably, because in spite of the grappa, my cock is starving for something, anything besides my hand in the shower.

  She lets out a squeak and lowers the pan, a dusky flush creeping across her chest. “I work for Declan,” she grits indignantly. “But you still haven’t told me who you are.”

  I drop my head- it takes too much effort to be upright at the moment, and I study her through half-lidded eyes. What kind of game is she playing here? She’s looking at me like she knows me. Really knows me. But I swear I’ve never seen her before in my life. I don’t recognize her voice, or her body. And I’m pretty sure, once the err… creative face covering is removed, I’m not going to recognize her face either. “I think you know who I am.” I don’t have the energy to be coy.

  She lets out a sigh. “You’re Nicholas Case, aren’t you?”

  “Nico.” I raise my wrists again. “I’d shake your hand…” I shrug.

  “Why are you here? Declan didn’t mention anything about visitors.”

  The stabbing above my left eye starts again. “He invited me here weeks ago. Ask him.” I crack open an eye, immediately drawn to dark buds puckered tight and pushing through the sheer fabric, teasing me with how untouchable they are. They might as well be eyeing me through a glass wa
ll. I force myself back to neutral territory. “So you’re the foreman? Very progressive of Dec.”

  She makes that squeaky noise deep in her throat again. “Hardly. I’m the winemaker.”

  That makes me sit up, albeit too fast, as my head angrily reminds me. “Wait. Dec’s making wine?” Sonofagun. He’s never shown the faintest interest.

  “No. I’m making wine. That’s why he hired me. That’s why-” She shakes her head. “Why’m I telling you this?”

  I flash her a mischievous grin. “Because I’m the kind of guy women love to confide in.” Not. So not. If anything, I was the kind of guy mothers forbid their daughters to date. But maybe I’m about to turn over a new leaf.

  She’s not buying it. She scoffs. “Good to know you’re still a bullshitter,” she retorts with a huff.

  “Wait. Do we know each other?”

  She freezes, but it’s so fucking hard to read her with that thing covering her face, I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “No,” she says firmly with a shake of her head. “The papers have said all anyone needs to know about you.”

  Truth. My brothers and I have been fodder for both the society pages and the gossip rags since we were probably sixteen. But she’d only know that if she’s from here. “What did you say your name was?”