Cruel Intentions

by Davis, Siobhan

  “Take the weekend to think about it,” Sawyer says, closing his laptop and folding up the sheet of paper as my cell pings in my purse.

  I remove it, smothering a groan as Trent’s name flashes on the screen. An idea comes to me, and I answer the call before I change my mind. “Hey, baby,” I purr. “I miss you so badly.”

  Initial silence greets me down the line. “Abby, is that you?” Trent asks, confusion clear in his tone.

  And I get it.

  I’m more likely to hurl insults than offer words of endearment.

  “I’m at Lauder’s party,” I continue, ignoring his question. “It’s lame ass.”

  Jackson grins, hauling me against his body in a fast move I hadn’t anticipated. “I can rectify that, baby,” he taunts in a seductive voice, loud enough for Trent to hear. “You only have to ask, and I’ll show you a night to remember.” He squeezes my ass, and I push him away, flipping him the bird while Trent shouts into the phone.

  “Baby, he’s being an ass on purpose. Relax, I only have eyes for you.” I stare at Cam as I lie to my fiancé. “No one else even comes close to measuring up. No one else sets my body on fire like you do.” It’s a wonder I don’t choke on the treacherous words. But they have the desired effect, and I watch Cam storm out of the room with a smug smile on my face.

  Jackson shakes his head, whispering, “You never learn,” before he follows Cam back to the party.

  “I’m leaving,” I tell Trent. “I’ll call you back.” I hang up before he can protest.

  “I’ll escort you outside,” Sawyer says as I slip my cell back in my purse.

  “You mean make sure I go home.” I watch him lock the laptop in the top drawer of the desk. “It’s not like I was planning on breaking into your office or planting a hidden camera in your bedroom,” I add in a harsher tone.

  “If you’re expecting me to apologize,” he says, placing his hand on my lower back and ushering me outside while he locks the door, “you’ll be waiting forever. I don’t do sorry.”

  “Wow. I pity the woman who ends up with you.”

  He shrugs, wordlessly guiding me down the stairs and out through the front door of the house.

  “Give me your cell,” I say, stopping just outside the entrance, with my palm out. He arches a brow, and I roll my eyes. “I’m adding my number, and then I’ll message myself, so I have yours. That way, I can text you if I think of anything over the weekend.” He places the cell in my palm, and I take my sweet ass time adding my deets before sending a quick text to myself. My cell pings in my purse, and I smile as I hand it back. “All done.”

  “Goodnight, Abigail.” He spins on his heel, pausing in the doorway. “And a word to the wise.” His eyes penetrate mine like laser beams. “Don’t push him. Just do as he says, and you’ll have an easier time.”

  What is he up to? Why would he care whether or not I have an easy time of it? “Noted.” I tilt my chin up and walk away, heading toward my car. He watches me climb inside before disappearing from sight. I sit behind the wheel, not starting the engine, calling Trent back immediately.

  “What the actual fuck is going on?!” he roars. “Wentworth sent me a recording from lunch. Why the fuck would you do something like that?”

  “You know why!” I hiss. “If I don’t comply, he’ll release the video of Jane.”

  “So let him!” he snaps. “She’s not your responsibility.”

  “She’s my best friend, and I won’t feed her to the sharks! If I have to kneel at his feet every day until I bring them down, I’ll do it to protect her.”

  “I’m going to fucking kill that fucking bastard with my bare hands for disrespecting you like that.”

  Funny thing is, Trent’s done equally disrespectful things to me, but it’s okay if he’s the one humiliating me.

  “Rochelle put him up to it,” I snap. “So, add her to your kill list. Although, by the time I’m through with her, she’ll probably be begging you to end her suffering.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “To teach that bitch a life lesson once and for all. And to reel the defectors back into our net. I’ll have the inner circle on our side by the time you return, and you can dole out the punishment.”

  His dark chuckle raises goose bumps on my arms, and not the good kind. “This is why we’re perfect for one another. Things will be different when I get home.”

  I’ll believe it when I see it. “I need to go. I want to sneak back into the house and do some snooping.”

  “Fuck, babe, you’re like my every wet dream rolled into one. I’m hard as a brick. FaceTime me when you get home. I need to see you naked.”

  In your dreams, douche. “I’ll call you later,” I lie, ending the convo. I kick my heels off in favor of my ballet flats, hook my bag crossways over my body, and get out of the car.

  Creeping around the back of the house, I stick close to the walls and slip inside through an unlocked side door, emerging in the laundry room. The only way out is through the kitchen, and I open the door a smidgeon, surveying the lay of the land, grateful none of the new elite are in sight.

  Keeping my chin up, I walk through the room like I belong there, and no one pays me a lick of attention. Avoiding the room where everyone is dancing, I take a back hallway I didn’t see earlier because it seems to be quieter.

  I’m halfway down the long hall when moans and groans accost my ears, and I halt, wondering if I should go back and risk going up the main stairs.

  I flatten my back to the wall and inch closer to the noise. It’s coming from the next room, and the door is slightly ajar, allowing the obvious sounds of fucking to trickle out into the hallway. If I was a betting woman, I’d put money on Jackson being in that room. But it’s clear from the multitude of sounds that there’s more than one couple inside. With blood thrumming in my ears, I take a risk and sneak a peek, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

  The room is awash with naked bodies engaged in all kinds of sexual acts. I’m no prude. I’ve heard Drew and Jane going at it plenty of times, seen couples fucking at parties before, heard tales of Trent’s escapades, read my fair share of erotica, and even watched the occasional porno with my fiancé, but I’ve seen nothing like this before, in the flesh, and I’m in a weird state of shocked arousal.

  I don’t have a complete view from this angle, but I can see enough.

  Threesomes.

  Foursomes.

  Guy on guy.

  Girl on girl.

  Everyone is too into it to even notice me gawking.

  Then my eyes land on Jackson, and all the blood drains from my face.

  He’s butt naked, fucking an equally naked Rochelle from behind, fondling her massive tits and grunting as he thrusts into her hard. With his free hand, he’s fingering a girl who’s lying flat on her back on the floor with her legs spread wide, knees folded outward. I recognize her as one of Rochelle’s crew. She’s one of the girls who was with her in the bathroom the day I broke her wrist.

  But it’s not Jackson who has me seething.

  Cam is sitting on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned, showing off his ripped body and the impressive ink on his chest. His legs are spread apart, jeans pooled at his ankles, eyes closed, with one hand on the back of Rochelle’s head as she sucks his dick.

  He isn’t making a sound, and the only muscle he’s moving is the one between his thighs as he rams his cock into her mouth, holding her head firmly in place, forcing her to take all of him.

  Stabbing pains perforate my heart, like a thousand pinpricks impaling me, and a messy lump of emotion clogs my throat as I watch her blow him while Jackson fucks her from behind.

  I look away, gritting my teeth, swallowing back bile mixed with envy. I force myself to move, pushing one foot in front of the other, trying to erase the images of what I’ve just witnessed from my mind.

  Hurt and anger comingle in my veins, and it’s a lethal combination. My fists clench as I walk with more urgency, needing to create distance betwe
en me and that room. I sequester my jumbled emotions in a box, locking it away to analyze later while I focus on the task at hand. I’m even more determined now I’m bringing them all to their knees.

  Screw Camden Marshall.

  Damn him to hell and back.

  I follow the hallway to the end, coming to a set of back stairs the staff must use. I climb quietly and quickly, materializing at the other end of the upper hallway.

  It’s quiet up here, but I’m still careful as I check each door. There are five on either side of the hallway. Most are guest bedrooms. One is the room we were just in. Three other doors are locked, and I don’t need to be a genius to figure out these are the guys’ personal bedrooms.

  I remove my kit from my bag and expertly pick the lock, glancing left and right before I creep into the first room. Switching on my flashlight, I inspect the surroundings with my mouth hanging open.

  It looks like a garbage disposal threw up in here.

  The bed is unmade, clothes are strewn everywhere, and empty pizza boxes compete with crumpled soda cans and discarded beer bottles for precious floor space. My nostrils twitch at the icky smell in the air, and I fight the urge to fling the windows open and air out the place.

  This room is a pigsty, and I smirk as I instantly recognize Jackson’s handiwork. No wonder he always looks like he just dragged himself out of bed and grabbed his wrinkled uniform from the floor.

  I gingerly sidestep the crap on the carpeted floor, making my way to his desk.

  Plaques and awards are haphazardly displayed on the overhead shelf, alongside pictures of him with celebrities, confirming Jackson is both a skilled driver and well connected. It’s not surprising, given who his father is, but I thought he was more into underground racing based on the research Xavier discovered.

  I pull out the drawers, inspecting the contents, but there’s nothing of interest.

  Next, I examine his bedside table, my stomach souring at the sight of his sex toys stash and the various empty condom wrappers. A large box of Durex is half empty, and flashes of the scene from downstairs flit across my retinas until I shut that shitshow down. Angrily slamming the drawer shut, I jump as my heart thumps, conscious I might have just given the game away. I wait a couple minutes, my blood pressure calming down when no one bursts into the room.

  I shine my flashlight on the only items on top of his table: two framed photos.

  In the first one, Jackson is in a padded jumpsuit, leaning against the side of a race car, grinning wickedly with his arms around an older man I recognize as his father. The second picture is him with a girl who looks like the spitting image of him. His sister, I presume. The one he mentioned was murdered. I snap a quick pic of it and then fight my way out of his room, carefully closing it behind me.

  I know I’ve hit pay dirt when I slip into the next room, spotting Cam’s black leather jacket hanging off the back of a chair. This room is much neater than I was expecting; although, after Jackson’s mess of a room, that wouldn’t be difficult.

  A black, silk comforter and matching pillows adorn the large king-sized bed. Two glossy black tables on either side of the bed yield no major surprises. The requisite box of condoms is unopened, but I can’t tell if that’s a good sign or not.

  I move over to the seated area, flipping through the stack of magazines and papers on the coffee table. A large wall-mounted TV occupies prime real estate in front of the wide black leather couch. A gaming station, controllers, and other gaming paraphernalia are neatly stacked on a unit underneath the TV. Posters line the surrounding walls, showing Cam is a fan of MMA and motorcycles.

  I open and shut the drawers in his desk, rooting through papers on his shelves, shocked to find neatly written and labeled study notes. His laptop is protected by a password, which isn’t of much use, but I snap a pic of the sticker underneath with device details in the hope Xavier might hack into it at some point.

  A photo on the middle shelf claims my attention, and I take a pic as I examine it.

  Cam, Jackson, and Sawyer are identifiable in the center of the pic. None of them are as tall or as built as they are now, and judging from the baby faces they’re all sporting, it’s at least a few years old, which raises alarm bells because Xavier’s research indicated they’ve only known each other a couple of years, which clearly isn’t the case.

  I glance at the other three guys in the picture, wondering who they are. They are all dark with similar features, but none of them are familiar. One of the guys looks older, but the other two look younger.

  A sketchpad on the desk claims my attention next, and my mouth hangs open as I flip through the pages. Most of the drawings are of a beautiful dark-haired older woman. Some are landscapes. Some are inanimate objects, like the remarkably detailed drawing of beer bottles in a bucket of ice on top of a table.

  Some are of me.

  My heart swells in my chest as my eyes skim over the drawing of me in his bed. I’m lying on my stomach with the covers draped at my waist. My back is bare, and my hair fans out all around me. My expression is peaceful, and my lips are arranged in a contented smile, even in sleep. I’d no idea he’d drawn me that night, and my heart pounds with unnamed emotion.

  The sketch of me in the sea in my silk robe with water swirling around my legs, and my arms wrapped tight around my body, induces a level of intense pain I haven’t felt since that night. You can’t see my face, because it’s drawn from behind, but the sense of hopelessness, of desperation and suffering seeps from the page, and a solitary tear trickles out of my eye.

  My heart hurts as I remember how desolate I was that night. If Cam hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t coaxed me out of the water, I shudder to think what might’ve happened. My mind was in a dark place that night, and I’d lost all my strength.

  Camden Marshall is the biggest thorn in my side, but I will never forget what he did for me that night.

  I examine the last drawing of me, on stage in my leotard, and the pain in my chest eases. I run the tip of my finger over every line he’s drawn, and I’m blown away by the attention to detail. He’s captured me mid-dance, on pointed toes, with my arms curved upward, displaying every emotion on my face. I know he didn’t have this pad with him the evening they gate-crashed my rehearsal, so he’s drawn this from memory. I stare at it for another few minutes, marveling at how he sees me, and I know I’ve caught a glimpse into his soul.

  He might outwardly hate me, but something inside him is drawn to me in the same way I’m drawn to him.

  He sees me. He really sees me in a way few people do.

  He’s exceptionally talented, and he has a true gift for capturing the human form. I close the pad, putting it back in position as I perform one final scan over his desk. My eyes fall on a silver box tucked in against the wall, and a flash of red silk instantly claims my focus. I lift the lid, all softer emotions disappearing as I discover my stolen underwear. My blood boils, and just like that, I’m back to hating him.

  I shove the panties into my purse, closing the lid on the box and replacing it where it was. I know the time will come when he discovers they’re missing, and he pieces things together, but I don’t care.

  I’ve no idea what he planned to do with them, but I’m claiming this one small victory.

  I like him finding out I’ve been in his room without his permission.

  Let’s see how he likes the invasion of privacy.

  I’m only sorry I don’t have a hidden camera of my own in my little spy kit, or I’d totally turn the tables on him. I make a mental note to ask Xavier if he can pick some up for me for future use.

  Before I leave, I rummage around his closet, and I stumble across a bag on the floor shoved into the corner. I shine the flashlight on it as I lower the zip, my eyes widening as I take in the blood-stained jeans and a wad of cash tied with an elastic band. I don’t want to touch it, and risk leaving my fingerprints, so I can’t count how much is there, but it looks like at least a few thousand dollars.

 
; The discovery does little to calm my nerves as a multitude of explanations swarms my mind. Whatever he’s mixed up in, it’s dangerous, and I decide it’s time to cut and run.

  I’m opening the door, just about to slip out of Cam’s room, when footsteps approach, forcing me to duck my head back inside. I leave a teeny tiny gap open so I can determine who it is, praying it’s not Cam and Rochelle taking the party to a more private setting.

  With my heart thundering in my chest, I try to work out if I’ve enough time to hide in the closet, but it’s too late. The footsteps stop outside the room across the way—the office we were in earlier. A long shadow falls across Cam’s door, and I hold my breath.

  “I’ve told him,” Sawyer grits out. “What the hell else do you want me to do?!” I can’t determine if he’s with someone I can’t see yet or talking on the phone.

  “He knows,” he says after a few silent beats, and I deduce he’s talking on his cell because I’m only hearing one side of the conversation. “It’s weird,” he continues. “He’s weird with her. About her.” He sighs, and the wall rattles as he leans back against it. “He’s obsessed, and that’s driving his behavior not what we’ve told him. He’s veering off plan, and the longer this goes on, the more of a loose cannon he becomes.”

  He pushes off the wall and I watch as he inserts the key in the office door. “Well, you fucking try then,” he hisses down the line before disappearing into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  I wait a couple of minutes, ensuring the coast is clear, before I sneak out into the hallway, slowly shutting Cam’s door so I make no noise.

  Deciding to forgo snooping in Sawyer’s room, because it’s too risky, and he’s the least likely to leave anything lying around for me to find, I tiptoe quietly toward the stairs.

  I’m on the third step when the office door swings open behind me and Sawyer steps out into the hallway. “I’ll call you back,” he says, and I silently curse under my breath.

  Shit. Crap. Fuck.

  “You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing Abigail?”