by Ella James
BEAST 1.
An Erotic Fairy Tale
ELLA JAMES
FROM HOLLYWOOD ROYALTY…
At twenty-one years old, third-generation movie star Cal Hammond is on top of the world. He has more money than God and more women than any man could need. But when a night of debauchery ends in tragedy, he forfeits a life of luxury for a ten-year prison sentence at La Rosa, California’s most violent prison.
TO BRUTAL BEAST.
Eight years later, a ruthless man runs La Rosa from the inside. He is known simply as Beast. All the wardens fear him. All the gangs obey him. He speaks to no one but his inner council. What he says is law.
ONLY SHE CAN SAVE HIM.
Annabelle Mitchell’s stepfather is the warden at La Rosa. He deals as dirty as his trustees, and after years of smooth relations with Beast and the gangs he runs, Holt lands on the powerful prisoner’s hit list. That very afternoon, Annabelle pays a surprise visit to her father’s work, hoping to use her new counseling license at a place she thinks she could make a difference. When she catches Beast’s eye, he releases the warden and grabs the girl he recognizes from the worst night of his life. The price for the warden’s betrayal is not death. It’s his precious Belle.
CHAPTER 1
Annabelle
October 2006
In all my life, I’ve never done anything crazy. It’s true, I’m only seventeen, but I’ve had a few occasions. Like when Mom brought home that sleazy guy named Joe, who tried to get into my bed with me. Or when Mom forgot to pay our rent—more than one month in a row—and we got kicked out of the apartment on Rhode Street, and we didn’t even have enough money to go to a motel. We slept in the Trans Am for four days, and I had to brush my teeth without water. And then right after that, my friend Rita gave me a baggie full of pot and told me I could start selling. There’ve been times in my life when I could have done some stupid things—and I didn’t. Because I’m responsible. Because I’m Annabelle.
Tonight, that’s changing.
Tonight, I’m not Annabelle. My fake ID says my name is Belle Hammond, and I’m twenty-one years old. I grin down at the gleaming piece of plastic, cupped like a jewel in my palm. This ID, made by my friend Julian’s older brother, cost me one hundred and fifty dollars. Practically a fortune. I was only able to get it because Holt, my Dad, put three one hundred dollar bills in the ash tray of my new VW Bug—along with a post it note that said, “Never use this ash tray.”
Yeah, that’s right. I got a brand new, super shiny, never-scuffed-up, good-smelling car three days ago, on my seventeenth birthday. Because my Dad is awesome. Even though he doesn’t live with me, and we only see each other sometimes, he loves me. He says I’ve earned a nice car. Why? No reason. Just because I’m me.
I slip the ID back into my denim clutch and step to the window of my room, so I can look down into the apartment complex parking lot and make sure my precious Baby Blue is still in her spot. I’m relieved to find she is, and giddy to behold her beauty from a bird’s eye view. The orangey sunset reflects off her royal blue roof, making her look like she’s been ordained.
She has, kind of.
Tonight, Baby Blue will be my chariot.
I flop down on my bed, hug my pillow to my chest, and pull out the magazine I keep tucked under the sheets. I thumb to page fifteen, where his picture is, and run my eyes over the face I know almost as well as my own.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
Suck in another one.
I hope tonight will be perfect.
I know my plan more than a little crazy, but that’s what being young is all about…right?
*
I leave the apartment at 9:45 and pick up Alexia first. She lives a few blocks from me, in a condo with her older sister, who just so happens to be spending the night with her boyfriend down in Downey.
Alexia saunters off the stairs and into the paved lot wearing butt-tight jeans and a white tube top, her long brown hair bouncing, stick-straight, around her shoulders. She glances covertly left, then right, as if she’s worried one of the neighbors will see her, then slides into the front seat and raises her eyebrows.
“Damn, girl.” She knocks her knuckles on the dash. “I can’t believe this is your ride.”
“I know.” I bite my lips to suppress a grin. “Me either.”
“Baby Blue, our pumpkin carriage on the way to the ball.”
I nod, struggling to keep a proud look off my face.
Alexia doesn’t have a car, and she probably won’t until she’s a lot older. Her sister is a secretary, her mom is dead, and her dad is in La Rosa—the prison where my dad works as a guard.
On the way to Carolina’s house, Alexia tells me about her sister’s latest Match.com disaster, and we make guesses as to what Carolina will be wearing.
Carolina lives with her mom and stepdad and her little sister, Danielle, on the outskirts of La Placita, in a little beige house with a nice, fenced yard. As I pull up to the curb in front of the front walk, Baby Blue’s headlights gleam against the smooth, yellow and red plastic of a Little Tikes car. Carolina’s stepfather manages the night shift at a nearby electronics factory, and her mother can’t sleep without Lunesta, so as long as Danni doesn’t squeal, she’s safe sneaking out. As if on cue, I see a shadow bounce against the left side of the house. Then Carolina is flying through the side yard, trailing what looks like pale pink silk.
She rushes to the passenger’s side door, and Alexia mutters a curse as she fumbles with the lever to make the seat pop forward. Carolina tugs the door open and practically sails over Alexia’s head, into the backseat.
I hear a ripping sound and then “shit!” She bobs up into my rear-view as I pull out onto the street, all curly blonde hair and huge blue eyes. She holds out one arm, confirming that yes, she is wearing a flappy, pale pink dress.
“I tore my sleeve! Does someone have a safety pin?”
“I don’t.”
“I might,” Alexia says.
As the two of them suss that out, I drive to the next neighborhood, where Anya lives. But when I dim my lights and pull up in front of her little gray brick house, I see the red plastic thing on her mailbox sticking up. It’s a signal that her dad is up late drinking, and she won’t be able to sneak out.
I point us toward the interstate that will take us toward Malibu and send some good vibes to Anya. Her dad is an asshole. I hope he leaves her alone tonight. I juice the bug up to eighty miles an hour, pleased with its getup, and listen to Alexia and Carolina talking about all the VIPs we might see tonight.
“Carolina, I hope you give your Dad a big kiss next time you see him.”
She shrugs. “It’s about time he did something cool.”
Yeah…like really cool. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Are you guys sure we won’t get…I don’t know…kicked out?”
Alexia grins, her round face illuminated by the glow of my orange dashboard lights. “I think someone’s gone chicken. That’s you, chica.” She looks pointedly at me. “Did you wax and shave the way I said?”
I smirk, then nod. It feels strange confessing details like that, even to my BFFs.
“You’re too old to be a virgin,” Carolina says, kicking her feet up between the driver and passenger seats. “I just hope he’ll take you.”
“Take her,” Alexia says, “like in the romance novels.”
I’ve got my eyes on the road, but I can feel my cheeks go hot. My hairline prickles with sweat, and for a second, I want to turn right back around and watch Mrs. Doubtfire with Mom and her smart ass boyfriend, Bobby.
“I think you should take him,” Carolina says. She spanks an invisible butt and arches one thin eyebrow. “He’d look good all tied up.”
“Oh yeah. K
inky,” Alexia says.
“Shut up,” I tell them.
I’ve talked a big game with “The Cherry Poppin’ Plan,” but the truth is, I don’t know if I can pull this off—at all. Alexia’s father, Bruce McLeer, a TV producer, got us on the guest list for the party, and I look pretty good in my tight, black dress, but it may not be enough.
He’s Cal Hammond. I’m just me.
*
The party is at the home of Perri Adams, a pretty, blonde nineteen-year-old who stars in Shifting Sands, this melodramatic, scripted TV show about high school seniors living in Bel Air.
On the show, Perri lives in her parents’ home, a massive grey stone up in the Hills, but after the success of Shifting Sands last year, she bought a house of her own in Malibu. It’s a huge, whitewashed two-story, perched on some rocks that jut out over the ocean, nestled in the back of a traffic-laden cul-de-sac.
I inch forward, my sandaled toes pressing gently on the brakes, then stomping as I see a slot between a black SUV and a little Porsche convertible. I put on my blinker, idling while traffic spills around me. Then I throw the bug into reverse and point my bumper into the spot.
When I look behind me to navigate my way in, I feel kind of dizzy. Between all the other traffic and my car, people—mostly girls—stream toward Perri’s beach house. Their dresses flutter and sparkle as they move. The cherries of their cigarettes—or joints—streak through the darkness. I see pale hair whipping in the sea breeze, tanned limbs swinging as they move: an army of ants descending on a yummy morsel. My Dad calls them “star fuckers.” He doesn’t know I’m one of them.
“Annabelle!”
I jump, snapping out of my daydream to find another car—some kind of very flat-looking yellow sports car—vying for the spot I’m backing into.
I cut my car closer to the space, and yellow sports car honks.
Alexia flicks a bird over her shoulder as I struggle to get the Bug into the space. The sports car stays uncomfortably close to me, punishing me for getting the spot that I saw first.
A few seconds later, it whizzes off. A little more maneuvering, a few more beads of sweat along my forehead, a lot of guidance from Alexia and Carolina, and I’m in.
*
Ricardo
It’s going to be a shit night. I can tell early. My publicist, Nicci, wakes me up with a mid-afternoon phone call, in which she says I need to be photographed with Uma. That would be Uma Thornton, my pretend girlfriend, a red-haired model who won’t even blow me because she’s secretly dating another douchey model.
“Don’t tell me you’re too hung over. Give her a buzz.”
I roll my eyes and sprawl back on the custom, king-sized bed nestled at the bow of my yacht, docked at Windjammers on the coast of Santa Monica. “Aye aye, cap’n.”
Almost as soon as I get my achy body settled on the bed, I hear a loud thunk on one of my windows. “What the…?” I reach the window in time to see a gull spiral down toward the water.
“Do I hear the ocean?” Nicci crows. She sounds disingenuously interested—like she always sounds, about everything. “Are you on that behemoth you call a yacht?”
“Mistress of the Seas, baby.”
She fake-laughs. “Dock her and call Uma. Some cunt is saying you’re dating a groupie from the set. Bad for your image. You know?”
I shake my head but tell her, “Yeah.”
“You’ll do it, then? No stalling? Wear something clean this time. I don’t want you stained or torn or wrinkled. Okay, wrinkled would work.”
“I’ll call Uma. What time for the paps?”
“I’ll tell Ronald eight o’clock at the Viceroy.”
I nod. “Eight it is.”
“Bye, babe.”
I hang up and toss my phone onto a couch. Flop back on the bed and shut my eyes. After four years, Nicci knows me well. I am hung over. Last night, I hosted a party here on Mistress, and I got a little carried away with the Cristal.
The party was for my buddy, Guy, who was all hung up on fucking this Moroccan princess type. She came, and then she came, and everyone was happy, but it was goddamned boring from my vantage point.
I drag myself up to get a shower, after which I swear that I’ll call Uma. I’ve got a towel wrapped around my waist, rubbing my hands through my dark, dripping hair, when the phone rings.
I check the screen, praying Nicci wasn’t feeling crazy enough to call Uma’s publicist, Sarah, and have Uma call me.
Nope.
It’s Maria.
I bring it to my ear and smile into the mirror. “Old lady. How’s it going?”
Maria was my nanny when I was a kid. She still works for my parents, looking after my younger sister Bea and running parts of my parents’ estate.
She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a maternal figure, and I’ve gotta admit, I like it when she calls me.
Silence spreads itself out: one second, two—and I can feel my chest get tight.
“Maria? Everything okay?” There it is: that panic in my voice. The sound I fucking hate. I gulp some air into my lungs and try to sound less like a kid. “Maria. Talk to me.”
“Ricky, it’s your father,” she says in Spanish. Her whisper is so soft I can barely hear it. “I found him in the bathroom—with a needle.”
Shit. She means he’s shooting up again.
“He passed out?”
“Yes. I tried calling your mother, but she’s still in Dubai, taking photos for the perfume ad. She doesn’t answer.”
Right. That’s not surprising. “Where is Raymond?” My father’s chief of security is practically worthless, a gambler my father feels he can’t fire because Raymond knows all of his secrets.
“I can’t find him. I looked all over the house. I called his phone two times. I called Dr. Fieldman—but I don’t have time for a message. Your father, he doesn’t look good.”
My stomach tightens. Of course he looks bad. That’s my dad for you. Lifelong addict. General disgrace. Yeah, he had a decent career, but he’s pissed it all away.
“I’ll call Promises. My contact there will send an ambulance.”
“I don’t know,” Maria says. She sounds reluctant. “Your mother tells me there is no money. She says if this happens again, they will lose the house.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve got it.”
That’s my job. To pay for shit.
“I’m sorry, Ricky. You’re a good son. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Maria. He breathing okay? His pulse okay?”
“He seems stable.”
“’Kay, I’m calling now. Have Sam let them in the back gate. They’ll have sirens off, like last time.”
All during dinner at the hotel with Uma, I’m texting with my contact at Promises, giving instructions on what to do with Dad. By the time Uma and I get up and walk out to my Lambo, I’m four million dollars lighter, and Dad has a preliminary treatment plan.
Uma is sitting in the front seat of my car, complaining about her perpetual stomach ache, when Guy calls.
I steer out of the parking lot and lift the phone to my ear.
“Guy.”
“Hey dude. You up for a party?”
I hesitate only a breath before saying, “Why the fuck not?”
I haven’t docked the yacht yet, so I can’t go to my place in the Hills, or my beach house down in Coronado. But for some reason, I find the yacht lonely. Especially at night, when I’m the only non-employee there.
“Where’s the party?”
“Uh…it’s at Perri Adams’ new beach place.”
Perri Adams. Guy knows I’m not her biggest fan. “Miss Morocco’s going, is that it?”
“Could be.” I can hear the bastard’s smiling.
“Royce won’t be your wingman?”
“Yeah, Brody’s coming. But it wouldn’t be a party without you.”
I snicker. Guy is an emotional mofo, never hesitating to share his thoughts and feelings. I glance over at Uma. S
he’s got her hands folded over her stomach, looking out the window, like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Maybe she’d like to go home. I think about that time last year, at an after party. Perri, dancing on my lap, like a fucking hooker, then telling her friends shit about me when I didn’t fuck her. I really don’t want to see her again.
I sigh. “Give me two hours.”
I hang up the phone, and Uma raises her drawn-on brows. “Are we going to a party, Hal?”
“Do you want to?”
She nods shyly.
“You sure your boy won’t care?”
“We broke up.” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a plastic baggie filled with white powder. She holds it up. “You and I, we’ve never really…spent quality time together. I thought tonight we could have lots of fun.”
She opens it, pours some blow into her hand, and leans down over my lap to work my zipper down.
CHAPTER 2
Annabelle
I’ve had a crush on Cal Hammond for forever. I’ve had crap self-esteem almost as long. I don’t know how it happened. I’m not overly fat or ugly. In fact, I’m tall and thin. I wasn’t teased or anything. My mom is half Puerto Rican and my dad—she thinks—was black, so I’ve got mocha skin and curly ringlet hair, and if I’m being completely honest, I know my face would be considered pretty by most people. But I don’t know… I just…don’t like myself. I don’t like to be touched, because it makes me feel nervous. Kissing kind of scares me, because I’m worried that I’ll do it wrong. Alexia has had sex with three different guys, Carolina four, Anya two, and here I am with zero.
As we walk from my car to the house, I’m worried I’m going to pass out. That’s how nervous I am. We follow the flow of foot-traffic over knee-high grass speckled with patches of sand, around a two-story, sea blue home belonging to some unlucky soul, and when we sight Perri’s lit-up, white mansion, reality hits me like a meteor. I don’t think I want to lose my virginity. I don’t want to have sex. Not even with Cal Hammond. Perfect, unattainable Cal Hammond.
