by Leo, Cassia
King
A Power Players Novel
Cassia Leo
Gloss Publishing LLC
KING
by Cassia Leo
cassialeo.com
Copyright © 2019 by Cassia Leo.
First Edition. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Cassia Leo.
Photography by Rafa Catala.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
1. King
2. Izzy
3. King
4. King
5. Izzy
6. King
7. Izzy
8. King
9. Izzy
10. King
11. Izzy
12. King
13. Izzy
14. King
15. King
16. Izzy
17. Izzy
18. King
19. King
20. Izzy
21. King
22. Izzy
23. King
Preview of Knox
Preview of Unmasked
Also by Cassia Leo
About the Author
For Mom.
1 King
Present Day
Do you know why you’re here?
This question is probably the most common way to start a police interrogation. Usually, a law enforcement officer will ask the suspect — or interviewee, as is my case — if they know why they’re sitting in a tiny interrogation room in this particular police station.
The room is quite plain, with white or gray walls, a cold steel table, and a few plastic chairs with steel legs. The legs on the suspect’s chair are usually slightly uneven. The temperature in the room is often a few degrees above or below comfortable, and the only sound is the hum of the air being forced through the vents. At least, until they ask that first question.
“Do you know why you’re here?” the overweight detective asks in his smooth country drawl.
He looks to be about mid-fifties, thick around the middle, but soft shoulders and legs too skinny for the rest of his body. Detective Harry Sooner of the Burke County Sheriff’s Criminal Investigations Department — or CID — is playing the part of Good Cop today. I look forward to seeing who CID sends in to play Bad Cop.
“Yes, sir,” I reply politely.
He flashes me a soft smile. “That’s right. You were in the service for five years. I don’t get too many polite people in this room.”
He wants me to laugh and get comfortable with him. I’m not falling for that. Instead, I flash him a tight smile as if to say, “Can we please move on?”
Picking up on my vibe, Sooner continues. “Why do you think you’re here today, Kingston? Can I call you Kingston, or do you prefer Mr. Jameson? Or maybe you go by something else?”
I try not to laugh at his blatant attempt to figure out how many names I use. Truthfully, I sometimes forget myself. The number of aliases I use has gone up lately. But I maintain my composure.
“King will do. Thanks for asking,” I reply, leaning back in my plastic chair.
He nods. “King it is. So why do you think you’re here today, King?”
I’m silent for a moment as I take a slow breath to maintain my poker face. “Izzy Lake.”
“Isabel Lake,” Sooner corrects me. “I’m assuming you are aware that Isabel is missing?”
This is a make-or-break question. Answer wrong and I might not make it out of this station today.
“That’s what I was told.”
“Who told you that?”
I look him in the eye for a second before I reply. “The police officer who brought me in. I don’t remember what his name was.”
I do remember. It was Officer Rasmussen, but I’ll keep that information tucked away in case I need it later.
Sooner presses his lips into a thin line, but he manages to hide his disappointment in his fellow officer as he continues in an even tone. “Did the officer mention anything else to you?”
I shake my head. “He said you guys wanted to talk to me about the disappearance of Isabel Lake. I asked if I was under arrest, and he said, ‘No.’ Am I being considered a person of interest in this case?”
“That’s a good question, King,” Officer Good Guy replies. “Unfortunately, it’s one I cannot answer at this stage. But we’ll have more information soon. And I promise we’ll keep you in the loop.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “So you’re saying you don’t know if I should get a lawyer? But you’ll let me know when it’s time to get one?” I can’t help but chuckle now.
Sooner looks taken aback by my cynicism. “Do you think you need a lawyer?”
“I think you think I need a lawyer, but I think you’re wrong.”
He looks confused now. “Wait, so… Do you want a lawyer or not? I’m not sure I understood that.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine for now, thanks. Let’s chat.”
Sooner heaves a deep sigh, exhaling slowly as he attempts to get his bearings. “Okay, back to Isabel Lake.”
“Izzy, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“She prefers Izzy,” I correct him, my stomach tightening into a ball as I recall the first time she heard me call her by her preferred name.
He doesn’t appear particularly amused by my attempt to set him right. “Okay, back to Izzy,” he continues. “Can you recall, when was the last time you saw her?”
I think about the last time I saw Izzy Lake. I think about the wood dust and gunpowder in the air… the blood on my hands… the ache in my chest.
“Yes, sir. The last time I saw her was when we went hunting a few days ago,” I reply, trying not to smile. “It was her first time out, but she took down a good-sized beaver.”
2 Izzy
June 10th
Tiff told me this would be easy. She didn't tell me someone would end up dead.
I should have left forty minutes ago when the jerk entered the room and ordered me to, “Stand your scrawny ass in the corner and don’t say a word until I come out of that bathroom.”
I had half a mind to make a snide comment about the burn scars covering the left side of his face and ear, or at least remind him I wasn’t his bitch to order around. I stopped myself when I realized I kind of am his bitch. At least, I was his bitch.
From eight p.m. tonight until eight a.m. tomorrow morning, I was supposed to be this guy’s “companion.”
Prostitution isn’t legal in Clark County, Nevada, which is where Las Vegas is located. But a little more than an hour’s drive outside of Vegas is one of Nevada’s most popular, and weirdest brothels: Area 69, a brothel with an alien twist. They actually have a menu with different packages and a la carte items for clients to choose from to design their ultimate alien abduction experience.
For $1,500, the Beam Me Up package includes a striptease and lap dance followed by either a hand-job or blowjob.
For $2,500, the UFO Exploration package includes everything in the Beam Me Up package plus vaginal penetration.
For $5,000, the Area 69 Full Investigation package includes the UFO Exploration package plus a full body massage, anal probing, and one kink from the a la carte kink menu, which includes stuff like light spanking, light bondage, and strap-ons.
I told my best friend Tiffany that I would only agree to be an alien prostitute if I didn’t have to provide my real name. She hooked me up with someone who got me a fake ID a
nd social security number. According to Danny Hefner — the owner of Area 69 who is totally not related to Hugh Hefner — I’m Brianna Everly, a twenty-two-year-old recent college grad looking for a quick way to pay down the debt I owe my bookie, Sallie Mae.
It’s all true, except my real name is Izzy Lake; Isabel Lake if you’re not a friend, or you’re a student loan debt collector. And this jerk — who, according to his intake form, paid $10,000 to spend the night with me and wants to be called “Daddy” — is not my friend.
Now, I'm staring mouth agape as I stand in the doorway of the private bathroom of my suite at Area 69. Eight feet away from me, slumped over on the pink toilet, is a dollar-store Chris Pratt. He has sandy-brown hair and twenty-five extra pounds, concentrated mostly in his round, cherub-like face and fat gut protruding from a white T-shirt and light-blue boxers.
Apart from his bluish-gray skin, the shiny burn scars on the left side of his face, and the congealed yellow vomit in the corner of his mouth, he isn’t bad looking. If he lost a few pounds and tempered his woman-hating hostility, he probably wouldn’t need to pay for sex.
A piece of elastic tubing is tied around his left bicep, and a sticky, half-dried stream of blood oozes from the crook of his elbow, down his forearm, collecting in a four-inch-wide glistening red puddle on the linoleum floor. A spent hypodermic needle lies on the floor just below his dangling right hand.
Instinctively, I glance at the wall directly in front of the man. Sure enough, I see the characteristic blood spatter. It often happens when an intravenous drug user is sloppy with their injection technique, hence the pool of blood on the floor.
I’m familiar with this bloodstain pattern because I spent years cleaning it off the walls in our bathroom at home…when I used to live at home.
The reason I’m in this garish pink suite at Area 69 is that my mom kicked me out. And my best friend Tiffany’s new boyfriend wants me to pay half their rent just to sleep on their Goodwill couch. That’s never going to happen. I’m not going to pay $700 a month for a sore back and daily stomach-curdling remarks from her creepy boyfriend.
I cover my mouth and nose as I stare at the guy on the toilet. Normally, seeing an addict slumped over after a fix would not alarm me. Nodding off immediately after a large dose is just another day in the life of a heroin junkie. But this guy didn't nod off. This guy is dead. And it’s not only his gray skin that’s a dead giveaway.
Death has an odor.
The warm, coppery fragrance of fresh blood can trigger flashbacks for people who’ve survived gruesome assaults. But the odor of death, that vaguely acidic and sickly sweet smell, sticks to the inside of your nostrils and embeds itself in your memory.
My father died of a heroin overdose eleven years ago, but I remember the day I found him in the garage, slumped over in the driver’s seat of his truck as if it were yesterday because I’ll never forget the smell.
I should call Danny Hefner’s suite, or the receptionist at the front desk, to report this unfortunate event before the stench intensifies. But the curious thing lying on the bathroom floor stops me.
The silver hard-shell suitcase the guy brought into the suite with him is open, and I’m staring at stacks of what appears to be at least a couple hundred thousand dollars cash. On top of the money lies a plastic bag filled with unopened hypodermic needles and mini Ziploc baggies of black tar heroin.
Glancing at the guy’s face, my stomach clenches as the congealed vomit in the corner of his mouth is dislodged. A yellow chunk mixed in with some saliva dribbles down his cheek and disappears inside his ear canal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to picture my father’s mottled gray skin as I decide what to do.
I can leave the drugs in the bathroom — incontrovertible evidence of what killed this guy — and walk out of Area 69 with the suitcase. My Ford F-150 is parked near the back exit.
It’s a Monday night. This place isn’t exactly hopping with sexually repressed husbands tonight. I already have a fake ID, and this junkie paid for me until eight a.m. That’s eleven and a half hours from now. By then, I could be in New Mexico…assuming I don’t stop to sleep.
What am I thinking? I can’t steal hundreds of thousands of dollars from a dead stranger. This man has a family.
Oh, God. A family… What if this is mob money?
If I steal this much money from a crime syndicate, there’s no turning back. I’ll have to leave my entire life behind. No more contact with any of my friends or family for the rest of my life. For a few hundred thousand dollars?
No. I can’t leave everything behind. I have to stay in Vegas and help my mom get clean, even if she did kick me out on my ass like yesterday’s trash. It’s the drugs that have turned her against me. She wasn’t like this before Dad died.
I open my eyes and stare at the suitcase.
I can’t force my mother to get clean. She has to decide to do that herself.
A soft sob escapes my lips and reverberates against my hands as I keep my mouth covered.
I’ve been waiting for my mom to clean up her act since I was fifteen. Seven years of lies, evictions, and harassment from her creepy boyfriends and she’s no closer to getting sober than I am to paying off my student loans.
I’m tired of waiting for her to take rehab seriously.
I’m tired of making excuses for her, explaining to people how my father’s death destroyed her emotionally.
I’m tired of flaking out on my plans with friends so I can stay home to make sure she doesn’t overdose.
I’m tired of spending half my paycheck on student loan debt for a degree I never got because I had to quit college and get a job so my mom wouldn’t get evicted again…only to have her kick me out the moment I lost my waitressing job.
I’m so tired of living this sad semblance of a life.
Before I can stop myself, I grab the bag of drugs off the pile of money and toss it onto the bathroom counter. I zip up the silver hard-shell suitcase and attempt to lift it, quickly realizing it’s too heavy.
“Shit,” I whisper, turning away from the dead guy to stare at the wall as I think.
If I have to make a run for it, this suitcase will be an anchor. I don’t want to use the telescoping handle to roll it out of here.
The blonde in the suite next to mine, Millie, has a strict rule of no overnight clients. If she hears someone moving in the hallway, she’ll definitely come out to chat. Unfortunately, I have no choice. I’m not strong enough to carry something this heavy to my truck.
I crouch down to grab the telescoping handle, making a mental note to start lifting weights tomorrow.
But the moment my fingers curl around the black plastic handle, a loud buzzing noise behind me makes me jump to my feet. I yelp as I bang my forehead on the corner of the towel rack.
Spinning around toward the sound, I see a black iPhone on the counter next to a Zippo lighter. I’m still rubbing the developing knot on my head when it vibrates again.
My heart jackhammers against my chest and the pulsing ache in my forehead makes it difficult to concentrate. I should ignore the phone, but it could be time sensitive information. What if it’s someone at the front desk saying they’re on their way here with his credit card?
No, that’s not how it works. The front desk holds onto the credit card until the end of the session, to make sure the client doesn’t leave without paying.
Ignore it, Izzy. Nothing good can come from touching this guy’s phone.
I let out a deep sigh as I tear off a piece of toilet paper from the roll. As I do this, I notice a tattoo on the upper part of the guy’s right arm. The intricate artwork depicts curtained shreds of skin. Behind the ribbons of tattered flesh is an eagle perched atop a globe. Above the eagle are the letters USMC. Below the globe, it reads, Est. 1775.
My father had a similar United States Marine Corps tattoo on his right arm, minus the gruesome torn flesh. I force myself to look at the guy’s face, this man who possibly survived a war in an
other country only to lose the war in his mind. This could be my father if he’d turned to drugs in his twenties instead of his thirties.
I ignore the ache in my head and the tears in my eyes as I use the toilet paper to grab the phone off the counter. Glancing at the screen, I see two message notifications from someone named King. But when I swipe my finger across the message preview, the phone gives a tiny vibration, and the following words flash on the screen: Face ID not recognized.
I gasp as I realize his phone just scanned my face. Is that information stored on the phone?
Fuck.
I shake my head as I realize there’s nothing I can do about that. Unless…
I point the screen at the guy’s face and turn it back to me just in time to see: Face ID not recognized. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and try not to vomit as I use the toilet paper to lift the guy’s eyelids as I point the screen at his face again.
The phone unlocks and opens up the text message conversation I’d swiped my finger across.
King
Today 4:02 PM
It’s done.
Today 8:07 PM
ETA?
Today 8:39 PM
If you don’t text me your ETA, I’ll have to tell your dad you bailed.
Considering the amount of money in this man’s possession, that last message seems less like the words of a concerned friend and more like a thinly veiled threat.
