“Lean on the guys, if you need to,” he reminds me. “Especially Chad. He’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Stop worrying. I’ve got this,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
“Be good.” He kisses me hard, yanking me against him, before releasing me and stalking out the room.
I flop down on my bed, sighing in relief.
One month of freedom from blowjobs, punishing kisses, and faking it.
I silently fist pump the air.
Jane’s gentle sobs yank me out of my euphoric mood, and I push up on my elbows as my brother enters my bedroom, cradling his crying fiancée under his arm.
Poor Jane. Not seeing Drew for a month is akin to chopping off a vital limb. Those two are tied at the hip, so this will be hard for her. I hop up, giving my brother a one-armed hug because Jane refuses to relinquish her hold on him. “I’ll look after her,” I promise as I kiss Drew’s cheek.
“I know you will,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “And look after yourself too. I want daily updates.”
I nod, prying my friend out of his arms. Drew kisses her one final time, whispering in her ear, and then he leaves, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration, and concern, palpable.
“Shush, babe,” I say, hugging my friend. “He’s not going forever. He’ll be back before you know it.”
“You can say it. I know,” she whimpers, swiping at the hot tears coursing down her face.
I frown. “Say what?”
“That I’m pathetic.” She laughs a little, perching on the edge of my bed, her long blonde hair falling in straight lines around her face.
I drop beside her. “Don’t do that. Don’t put yourself down. You love him, and you’ll miss him. There’s no shame in that.”
“Do you think there are girls at the camp?” Her pale blue eyes glisten with more unshed tears.
I shake my head. “It’s a male-only training camp.” Although, I’m sure there is female staff at the facility, and they probably bring in hookers and strippers for those who want to fuck, like Trent, but I won’t share my theories with Jane because it’d upset her. “Why do you ask?”
She looks at me like I’ve grown ten heads. “Drew’s used to sex on the regular, and we’ve never been apart this long before. What if he’s tempted?”
“Firstly, eww. Secondly, my brother worships the ground you walk on and he’s never cheated on you, so why would he start now?”
Doesn’t she understand she holds all the power?
Drew’s in love with her, and I honestly don’t think he’d jeopardize what they have. And, for reasons I haven’t worked out yet, Daddy Dearest needs this alliance with the Fords. He does nothing without an agenda, and he wouldn’t marry Drew off unless he’s getting something valuable from it. Drew craves our father’s approval in a way I’ve never understood, so he won’t do anything to mess up his relationship. I’m certain.
“I know he wouldn’t purposely cheat on me.” She worries her lip between her teeth. “I’m probably being stupid. It just bugs me we don’t know what goes on there. What if it’s a more elaborate version of your dad’s sex dungeon and that’s why they claim they can’t tell us anything?”
I’d love to laugh in her face, but it’s not inconceivable. I’ve never thought that’s what goes on there, but who’s saying she’s wrong?
“Maybe it is,” I say, shrugging. “But we’ll never know, so the best thing you can do is put that thought out of your mind and focus on the fact my brother loves you deeply. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”
“You’re right,” she says, perking up. “And there are plenty of ways to keep our sex life alive even if we aren’t sharing the same airspace.”
I nudge her in the ribs, and she falls off the side of the bed, grumbling. “You deserve it,” I murmur. “Unless you want me to puke my guts up, please stop mentioning my brother’s sex life.”
She giggles, crawling back up onto the bed, and we watch some TV before she leaves, arranging to meet for lunch in town tomorrow.
I take a shower, dress in my pajamas, and pop my head into the corridor, telling Louis I’m beat and I’m going to watch some TV and crash.
His eyes linger on my braless chest for a moment too long, and I see some things haven’t changed.
You think he’d have learned by now.
His penchant for fucking younger girls is the reason I get to sneak off when it suits me while he’s on shift.
I noticed he was a perv and set the whole thing up. Invited a couple of girls from the inner circle over for a sleepover one night, arranging it so both girls made their interest clear. Louis isn’t that old. Mid-to late twenties, I guess, and he’s handsome if you’re into guys with cropped hair, a six-pack, and little between the ears. I picked two girls who dig older dudes, knowing they’d be into it and up for the challenge.
Honestly, it was like feeding candy to an innocent kid.
Even easier than I predicted.
Louis was so busy screwing them he didn’t notice me taking photos from my hiding place in the closet. Now, I dangle those shots over his head whenever I need to. Both girls were under the age of consent, so not only would he lose his job, but he’d also go to jail. He hates my guts now, but I couldn’t care less once he turns a blind eye when I need him to.
Louis is a sleazebucket, and I don’t feel bad for setting him up because he deserves it, but I hated blackmailing Oscar.
Oscar is the nicer of my two assigned bodyguards. He’s in his forties, married with two kids, and he’s a devout family man. This job means everything to him because of the health and educational benefits, and he won’t jeopardize that.
So, I know he’ll never divulge details of the night of my aunt’s funeral when I snuck out, only returning in the early hours of the morning.
He doesn’t know where I went.
That I was on the verge of throwing my life away until a hot stranger rescued me. Or that I gave him my precious virginity.
But he knows losing track of me for six hours is a sackable offense, which is why I have him by the balls now.
I don’t feel good about it, but I do what I have to.
After locking my bedroom door from the inside, and turning the TV up loud, I shed my pajamas in favor of black skinny jeans, a black tank, and a light black hoodie. I lace my sneakers, smooth my hair back into a ponytail, and pull the hood up over my head before disappearing into the secret tunnel behind my wall.
I discovered the tunnel by pure accident fourteen months ago. I’d lashed out at the wall in a fit of rage after a vicious argument with Daddy, pressing a hidden lever in the process and watching, with tears drying on my cheeks, as the wood paneling retracted, revealing a set of steep stairs.
I pad down the stairs now, the pathway ahead of me automatically lighting up when my foot hits the bottom step. The panel slides shut behind me, and I walk with purpose upon the granite floor.
I was intrigued when I first made the discovery because I was expecting a dusty, damp, decrepit old tunnel with cobwebs, mold, and crumbling walls—because our house dates back to the eighteenth century—but it was immediately obvious this tunnel was a more modern addition with the clean stone walls, granite floor, automatic lighting, and electronic locking mechanisms.
Our lavish mansion has been in the Manning family for generations, passed down to Mom after her father died when we were kids. Mom’s only other surviving relative was her sister, Genevieve, but she’d shunned the family business once she graduated from college, taking her trust fund and moving to Alabama where she ran her own chain of florist shops until she passed five months ago.
Responsibility for upholding the Manning family tradition thus fell to Mom.
Like me, I know she had little choice.
Her marriage to my father was unusual because his family wasn’t of the same standing. Mom died when I was seven, so I never got the full story from her, and I’ve spent years wondering why my grandfather chose M
ichael Hearst for her husband. I know their marriage wasn’t a happy one, and I still remember hearing my mother’s screams as that bastard beat her, but there are so many questions left unanswered.
Like who built this tunnel and why?
Aunt Genevieve confided some stuff in me from her deathbed. Relaying her belief that my father orchestrated the car accident that claimed my mother’s life.
She urged me to leave.
To get out.
Terrified the same fate lies in store for me.
Her theories, and her death, sent me running into the sea that night, and I’m ashamed to admit that even to myself, because she didn’t confide in me to end my life.
She did it to save me.
And if I’d killed myself that night, I would’ve made a mockery of her trust.
I bend down in front of the door, prying the loose stone free of the wall, and retrieve the box I stashed there. I punch in the code on the digital pad, and the lid springs free. Removing the burner cell, I tap out a text to Xavier confirming I’ll be at the rendezvous point in twenty minutes. Zipping the cell in the pocket of my hoodie, I grab some cash and my gun, checking the safety’s on, tuck it in the band of my pants, and head out into the dark night.
CHAPTER FIVE
After a pleasant lunch with Jane the following day, I return to the house, cussing under my breath when I spot the familiar silver and black cars parked out front.
Trent’s father drives the Majestic S70—Manning Motor’s most popular car with obnoxious, wealthy pricks who have more money than sense—while Charlie’s father insists on driving a silver Bentley, much to my father’s disgust. I get a secret thrill out of his disobedience, and I love that he challenges the traditions in several ways. Don’t get me wrong, Charles revers the old traditions, but he’s always seeking ways of modernizing the legacy, and if it was up to him, most of the ancient archaic rules would be abandoned.
I sigh as I approach the house, hoping their plans haven’t changed. I presumed the fathers would’ve left for Parkhurst by now, and I was looking forward to not seeing Daddy Dearest for a few days. Having the house to myself is only an illusion of freedom, but I take the wins where I can get them.
I step foot in the marble lobby, quietly closing the heavy mahogany door behind me. I set out toward Father’s study with my stiletto heels tap-tapping off the floor as I walk, deep in thought.
I have the means to escape now, thanks to the large chunk of change Aunt Genevieve left me on the sly. I have cash stashed in a few different places, but most of the millions she left me is safely hidden in an offshore account she opened in my name.
And, thanks to Xavier’s connections, I have a fake ID and other necessary paperwork securely stowed in my box in the tunnel.
But I’m not naïve enough to think I could vanish without a trace. I believe my father arranged my mother’s death because she was attempting to flee and she planned on taking Drew and me with her. I have vague recollections of her telling me we were moving to a new house shortly before she died.
I know if I vanished, my father would pull out all the stops to find me. I refuse to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, so I need ammunition. I need something to hold over my father to force him to let me go, so I avail of every opportunity to snoop.
The fact the fathers are still here means something has happened, and I want to know what.
I stop in front of the large gold-encrusted mirror to reapply my lip gloss and run a comb through my hair. Then I run my hands down over my form-fitting red dress, checking my reflection carefully, ensuring I look ladylike and refined.
Father won’t let me step foot around town unless I’m dressed the part, and I long since gave up rebelling against it.
I have bigger battles to pick.
Pleased with my appearance, I rap firmly on his study door, not waiting for an invitation before stepping foot inside.
All three men tip their heads up as I walk into the room. Charles Barron, Senior smiles warmly at me. Daddy scowls, and Christian Montgomery, my future father-in-law, undresses me with his eyes in a way that never ceases to send chills all over my body. Fucking sleazeball.
“What have I told you about barging in here?” Father barks, swirling the amber-colored liquid in the glass in his hand.
“I knocked.” I flutter my eyelashes, wearing my most innocent expression.
“What do you want, Abigail?” He sighs.
“I wanted to remind you of my ballet recital next Friday. Will you be home in time?”
My father leans forward in his chair, glaring at me. “I’ll be there. Have I ever missed one?”
No. But it’s not like you’re there because you want to cheer me on or you’re proud of me. You’re there because it’s what’s expected. “Okay. Have a good trip, Father.” I nod at Charlie’s and Trent’s fathers. “Mr. Barron. Mr. Montgomery.”
As I exit the room, I leave the door slightly ajar, not enough you’d notice but enough for me to eavesdrop.
“She grows more like Olivia with every passing day,” Barron says.
“Don’t remind me,” my father growls.
“My son is a lucky man,” Montgomery adds.
“We need to conclude this business and be on our way,” my father says.
“We can use this to our advantage,” Barron says. “They’ve come to us. They’re on our turf. We can control how this plays out.”
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” my father says.
“It’s deliberate,” Montgomery agrees. “Can she handle this?”
“She’s tougher than she looks.”
“All females are weak, especially the pretty ones,” the jackass Montgomery replies.
“It will be a good test,” Barron suggests.
“Perhaps,” my father supplies. “But either way, there’s no choice. If things turn ugly, our sons will clean up the mess when they return.”
“So, it’s agreed,” Barron says. “We won’t intervene.”
“For now,” Montgomery adds.
The scraping of chairs alerts me to the impending danger, and I slip off my heels and race down the corridor in my bare feet, heading toward the bedrooms.
I’m contorting my arms awkwardly, struggling to pull the zipper on my dress down my back when my door bursts open unexpectedly.
Panic presses down on my chest like a heavy weight as I come face to face with my future father-in-law. Oscar stands in the doorframe behind him, doing little to hide his anger. “Do you mind?” Christian Montgomery says, pushing my bodyguard back and slamming the door in his face.
“Why are you here?” I stand up straight, planting my hands on my hips, refusing to be intimidated.
“I wanted to remind you you belong to my son.” He walks behind me, brushing my hair to one side, his fingers clutching onto my zipper without invitation. Goose bumps prickle my skin, and a chill creeps up my spine. His warm breath blows across the nape of my neck, and bile floods my mouth. It takes enormous effort not to physically tremble. Or puke.
“I haven’t forgotten.” I wish I could, but it’s shoved in my face too often to ever forget.
“Stay away from Marshall, Lauder, and Hunt,” he adds, sliding the zipper down in slow motion.
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’ve never given Trent any reason to doubt my loyalty, and I don’t intend to start now.”
I jerk when his fingers brush along the bare skin of my back, frantically trying to get a leash on my panic.
Trent’s father has always looked at me in inappropriate ways.
Said things that could be misconstrued.
But he’s never touched me—until now.
I step forward, needing to get away from him, but his arm slides around my stomach, clasping my elbow firmly, trapping both my arms as he hauls me back against his chest. Nausea travels up my throat when I feel the evidence of his arousal pressing into me from behind. “Those three will try to get to us through you,” he says, w
ay too close to my ear. His free hand travels up my body, cupping my boob.
“Take your hands off me!” I attempt to wriggle out of his hold, but he tightens his grip on my elbow, digging his fingers into my skin in a way I know will leave marks.
“This belongs to my son.” He fondles my boob, and my stomach churns sourly.
And me.
I hear the unspoken words, elevating my panic to all new coronary-inducing territory. His hand leaves my breast, moving southward, and I squeeze my eyes shut as he cups my pussy through my dress. “As does this virgin cunt. See it remains that way.”
Rubbing his nose against my neck, he inhales. “You smell every bit as delicious as your mother.” He licks a line up my neck, and a lone tear trickles out of the corner of one eye as new horrors rise to the surface. “I wonder if you taste and feel like she did,” he whispers in my ear, rubbing his hand back and forth across my crotch.
“Get your hands off me. Your son won’t be happy when I tell him about this.” I hate how my voice quakes, but terror has taken control of my body.
“You won’t breathe a word to Trent,” my father says, strolling into the room like there’s nothing unusual in finding his teenage daughter being manhandled by his best friend. Oscar’s head is down, his shoulders slumped, at his position in the hallway, and I know he wants to intervene. “You won’t do anything to risk your wedding or this family, because you won’t like the consequences.” Looking bored, he ignores me, eyeballing his friend. “We’re leaving.”
I almost collapse in relief when Christian releases me, stumbling away from him and swiping at my errant tears so he doesn’t notice. “Remember what I said,” he warns, blatantly adjusting the hard-on in his pants. “Stay away from those assholes. That’s an order.”
“And do nothing to bring the elite into disrepute,” my father adds. “Prove yourself capable, and we can discuss giving you more responsibility.”
I lift my chin and plant a confident expression on my face. “I will handle it, Father.”
Without further words, they both leave the room, and I wait thirty seconds before slumping to the ground, silent tears rolling down my face.
Cruel Intentions Page 5
