Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  Copyright © 2014 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design: © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Photo: © Merydolla

  Editor: Madison Seidler, www.madisonseidler.com

  Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com

  Chapter 1: Charlotte

  Chapter 2: Simon

  Chapter 3: Charlie

  Chapter 4: Simon

  Chapter 5: Charlie

  Chapter 6: Charlie

  Chapter 7: Simon

  Chapter 8: Charlie

  Chapter 9: Charlie

  Chapter 10: Simon

  Chapter 11: Charlie

  Chapter 12: Charlie

  Chapter 13: Simon

  Chapter 14: Charlie

  Chapter 15: Charlie

  Chapter 16: Simon

  Chapter 17: Charlie

  Chapter 18: Charlie

  Chapter 19: Charlie

  Chapter 20: Simon

  Chapter 21: Charlie

  Chapter 22: Simon

  Chapter 23: Charlie

  Chapter 24: Charlie

  Chapter 25: Simon

  Chapter 26: Charlie

  Chapter 27: Simon

  Chapter 28: Charlie

  Chapter 29: Charlie

  Chapter 30: Simon

  Chapter 31: Charlie

  Chapter 32: Charlie

  Chapter 33: Simon

  Chapter 34: Charlie

  Chapter 35: Simon

  Chapter 36: Charlie

  Chapter 37: Simon

  Chapter 38: Charlie

  Chapter 39: Simon

  Chapter 40: Charlie

  Chapter 41: Simon

  Chapter 42: Charlie

  Chapter 43: Charlie

  Chapter 44: Simon

  Chapter 45: Charlie

  Chapter 46: Simon

  Epilogue: Charlie

  Acknowledgments

  I stepped off the witness stand feeling like I’d been skinned and gutted, my insides laid out for public viewing. I refused to meet my father’s piercing aqua stare—the same one I saw every time I looked in the mirror. Instead, I focused on the sleeves of his navy pinstripe Armani suit jacket and his gaudy diamond cufflinks winking in the buzzing fluorescent light of the courtroom. My father was a general, flanked by his army of thousand dollar an hour defense attorneys. Not that they could save him. The disgust on the jurors’ faces spoke louder than any convoluted defense they could mount. I slipped through the swinging wooden gate and glanced at my mother, sitting primly, ankles crossed and hands folded, in her favorite Chanel suit and tasteful gold jewelry. Lisette Agoston was the quintessential picture of a woman standing by her man. She expected me to take the seat next to her. The seat I’d vacated hours before, hands sweating and stomach churning, to give my testimony and endure the brutal cross-examination. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit down and be the supportive, naïve daughter anymore. So I kept walking. I didn’t look at the gawking members of the press or the scornful sneers of the victims. I pushed open the heavy, carved wooden door and took my first deep breath of air that wasn’t laced with lies.

  I was done.

  With them.

  With this life.

  With all of it.

  It had all been a meticulously constructed fairy tale, and I’d been too blind and trusting to see through the façade. I was done. Burning shame swamped me. The Assistant U.S. Attorney’s words rang in my ears:

  How does it feel to realize your privileged life has been paid for with other people’s dreams?

  The objection came too late to prevent the cutting words. But no objection could erase the fact that he was right. My life had been paid for with money diverted from the hard-earned savings of tens of thousands of innocent victims. Move over Bernie Madoff. Alistair Agoston figured out a better way. Exponentially more complex and devastating, because the moment the scheme started to topple, $125 billion disappeared into thin air. Or hundreds of offshore accounts. No one was really sure. My father refused to admit anything, but the dozens of charges leveled by the Securities and Exchange Commission and the Department of Justice would ensure he spent the rest of his life in federal prison.

  And after the cross I’d just been subjected to, it was clear the Assistant U.S. Attorney thought I should be joining him in an orange jumpsuit. If trusting your father was a crime, he’d be right about that, too.

  I exited the courthouse, running down the marble stairs through the gauntlet of shouting reporters, dodging the microphones and cameras they shoved in my face.

  “Charlotte, did you know—”

  “Charlotte, where’s the money?”

  “Charlotte, are you being charged? Did you cut a deal?”

  They battered me with questions until I dove into a waiting cab and slammed the door.

  “East 60th and 3rd, please.” My plan was simple: have the cabbie drop me off a couple blocks away from home and sneak into the service entrance of our building without being seen or recognized. My strawberry blonde hair—heavy on the strawberry—was too distinctive. That would be the first thing to go as soon as I got out of this town. I clutched my purse to my chest. My future, a one-way ticket to Atlanta, where I could disappear to my final destination, was tucked inside. I was flying coach for the first time in my life—a fact I wasn’t proud of. I bundled my hair into a low bun and fished a giant pair of sunglasses and a scarf out of my purse. Somewhat disguised, I kept my head down until the car slowed to a stop. Tossing some bills at the cabbie, I slid out of the taxi.

  The service elevator trundled its way up fifty-one floors, stopping at the penthouse. My hand shook as I typed in the code required to enter. Pushing the door open, I stepped into the cavernous, ultra-modern space that was my family’s Manhattan home. After the inevitable guilty verdict came down, it’d become the property of the federal government along with the rest of the meager assets that the FBI had managed to find and freeze. To finance my escape, I’d cashed in $20,000 worth of savings bonds I’d found tucked into my First Communion bible. I tried not to dwell on the irony of my salvation being found in the good book.

  My one bag was already packed, but a casual observer would never know I had taken anything from my walk-in closet. The racks of designer suits and couture my mother insisted I wear were untouched. The shelves of Manolos and Louboutins were intact. They had no place in my future. I’d never put on another suit and walk into Agoston Investments, or any other reputable company. Never apply to Wharton and get my MBA. I’d naively thought I could somehow atone for the sins of my father by throwing myself into charity work. Put my newly earned finance degree to work for a good cause. I’d been laughed out of every organization I’d visited over the last two months. No one wanted me. And I couldn’t blame them. I wouldn’t trust anyone with my last name either.

  After the last rejection, I’d come to a decision: I would never use my degree for my own benefit. Ever. I didn’t deserve it. I might have earned it myself, but how could I profit from it with good conscience? Along with that decision came a stark realization: I had no future in this city, where I’d forever be wat
ched under a cloud of suspicion. So I started planning my escape.

  I stripped out of my black Saint Laurent wool blazer and V-neck dress and hung them up in their appropriate places. I pulled on a pair of black skinny jeans, an American Apparel tank and hoody, and the contraband pair of black Chucks I’d kept hidden in the bottom of my closet. This was the new me. This was the me who would never set foot in this penthouse again. After I dressed, I left my cell phone on the dresser, hefted a black duffle bag over my shoulder, and headed through the kitchen to the staff entrance. It seemed fitting. Come in the front door one way and leave out the back a different person.

  Juanita, the housekeeper who had been part of my life for all of my twenty-two years, blocked the doorway. She looked pointedly at my attire and the duffle. “And where do you think you’re going, hmmm?”

  “Somewhere else.” As much as I wanted to tell her where, I couldn’t. I wanted her to have plausible deniability.

  She wrapped me in her soft, familiar arms and hugged me. Lisette Agoston didn’t hug. And she would cringe to see me hugging the help. For the daughter of a plumber from upstate New York, she’d had no problem becoming a classist bitch.

  “You can’t run from this, sweetheart.”

  I drew back, loathing releasing her for what might be the last time, and met her kind brown eyes. “I know. But I can try.”

  I took a sealed envelope from the pocket of my duffle and held it out. “Could you make sure my mother gets this?”

  She gave me a sad smile. I threw myself into her arms one more time. I kissed her papery cheek and blinked back the gathering tears. “Thank you. For … everything.”

  She stepped back, and her chapped hands cupped my face. “Charlotte, just because you are your father’s daughter does not make you like him.”

  I nodded. Because she would argue with me until the end of time to prove her point. But she was wrong about this one. I was my father’s daughter. His blood. Raised in his image to follow in his footsteps. If he was capable of that kind of evil, what was I capable of? I never wanted to find out. I kissed her cheek one more time and opened the door, leaving behind the only life I’d ever known.

  One year later.

  New Orleans, Louisiana.

  “Getting Mandy’s name tattooed on your ass is the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had. And that’s saying something.” A metallic ding sounded, and a rush of cold air hit me as Nate and I followed Derek into Voodoo Ink, hoping to hell I could talk him out of it. Not only would I be the worst best man in the history of the planet, but Mandy would have my ass. There was no way this wouldn’t end up being my fault.

  Flash drawings papered the black walls. Tiny pinpricks of light twinkled in the ceiling, which was swirled with white, red, and black paint. They looked like a million stars in an apocalyptic sky. The place was creepy, but it had a phenomenal reputation.

  “She’s gonna fuckin’ love it, man. I know my woman,” Derek said, his words slurring. I shrugged, hoping this place would refuse to tattoo his drunken ass.

  A petite woman dressed in skinny jeans and a tight white tank top strolled out from a hallway to stand behind the counter. Her hair hung in waves that stopped midway down her back. The tangles of black were interspersed with sections dyed deep red and purple. Tattoos started at her shoulders and continued down to her wrists. Some were words, others intricate black and gray drawings. Even more were brilliantly colored, swirling designs. She narrowed her eyes, sizing us up. I pictured us from her perspective: three guys, dressed in jeans and partially unbuttoned dress shirts—courtesy of the strippers we’d barely escaped. We probably looked like douchebags. And one of us wanted his ass tattooed. Yeah. Total fucking douchebags.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” She tilted her head and watched as Derek stumbled into one of the waiting room chairs. I yanked him back and steadied him.

  “I want a tattoo right here.” Derek slapped the right side of his ass. “Of my bride’s name.” The woman tilted her head the other direction.

  “What about that seems like a good idea to you?” she asked.

  “She’ll fuckin’ love it.”

  She pursed her lips. “Doubtful.” She looked at me for the first time. “Bachelor party?”

  I nodded, tongue gone thick. Her aqua eyes speared me. I’d never seen eyes that color. Her features were delicate, with high cheekbones and a slightly turned-up nose. Her dark and vibrant hair seemed at odds with her creamy, pale skin. The combination of the hair, eyes, and tattoos was striking, more intoxicating than the dozen or so drinks I’d already consumed. She was the polar opposite of the perfectly coifed and manicured women my parents pushed at me. She was … I couldn’t think of a word that didn’t sound stupid, even in my head.

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you. We have a strict ‘no dumb fucking idea’ tattoo policy for drunk people.”

  “Come on … don’t be like that,” Derek said.

  Nate added, “You’re like two blocks off Bourbon. You gotta tattoo drunk people all the time.”

  She pointed to the sign on the wall. It read: NOLA To Do List: 1. Get tattoo. 2. Get wasted.

  “We’re sticklers. Come back tomorrow after you’re done puking. If you still want your future wife’s name on your ass, Delilah or Con will be happy to do it. Have a good night.” She faked a smile and nodded to the door. We’d been dismissed.

  Derek whined, but followed as Nate led him outside. My feet were rooted to the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor. Even through the haze of alcohol, one thought stuck out: I couldn’t leave without getting her name.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  Her narrowed gaze landed on me, and she started to turn away. No. I couldn’t let her leave without finding out her name. It might’ve been a drunken compulsion, but it was a compulsion all the same. I reached across the counter and grabbed her wrist. She froze.

  “We have a problem here, Lee?” A tall blond man dressed in a faded Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and ripped jeans, tattooed from neck to wrists, sauntered out of the back room. He stopped next to Lee and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into him. The gesture was so possessive that even my drunk ass couldn’t miss it. I dropped her wrist.

  “No problem. Just wanted to know her name.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Under the ink, he was still the punk who’d gotten expelled from our prep school for hot-boxing the athletic director’s office. If I recalled correctly, he’d ended up in military school after that stunt. Constantine Leahy. Well, fuck.

  “It’s fine, Con. I’m good. He was just leaving.” A second dismissal. And it blew.

  Con looked at me, his eyes not giving anything away. He glanced down to the tattoo on the inside of my forearm. “We touch up work for vets for free. Come on back anytime—before you start tipping ‘em back.” He jerked a chin toward the sign. I stared at his hand curling around her waist. It was too familiar to be an act. They looked like a perfect couple. All ink and fuck you attitudes.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” I turned and walked away. I told myself it was for the best. She wasn’t for me. But those eyes…

  “Was the caveman act really necessary?” I asked Con, my boss, friend, and sometimes fuck buddy, as I stepped out of his hold.

  “You can’t tell me he wasn’t trying to pick you up and take you home.”

  “Maybe I wanted him to.” Our arrangement was completely open. The only rule: if you were with someone else, you had to get tested before we got together again. Well, I guess it was really my rule for Con. I hadn’t yet needed to get tested, but he regularly went home with other women. I felt no jealousy. I used Con to feel close to someone occasionally, and it didn’t hurt that he was a stellar lay. He was the only guy who’d touched me in more than a casual way since I’d left New York. I shoved the thought of home to the back of my brain. After all, it wasn’t home any more. I’d gone days without thinking about my old life. It was a game I played. How long could I go without remembering
? I was getting better at it. Sex, booze, and tattoos helped. Although, I was a little light on the sex portion of the equation lately; it’d been over two months since I’d been with Con.

  “Yeah, right. He wasn’t exactly your type.”

  “Really?” I pointed at the door. “Did you see the same guy I did? Because he was every woman’s type.” Tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair styled in that artfully messy way, a little stubble on his jaw, and flashing hazel eyes. The military ink on the inside of his corded forearm was pretty hot too.

  “A little straight-edge for you, Lee. Trust me. Plus, you shouldn’t even be thinking about leaving here with some guy you just met. I thought you were smarter than that.” Con frowned down at me.

  I winced, feeling guilty, and knowing he was right. In my quest to lie as little as possible about my past, I let people assume whatever they wanted about my motives for keeping a low profile. Con’s assumption: I was running from an abusive boyfriend. Some days I wished that was the truth, and then I wanted to kick my own ass for feeling sorry for myself and thinking my messed up situation was anywhere near as bad as a battered woman’s. Besides, I didn’t deserve pity. Even from myself.

  I looked at the clock. “You care if I head out? I’m working an early shift tomorrow.”

  He smoothed my hair back from my face. “You work too damn hard. I wish you’d just let me…” His statement trailed off when I looked away. It was a conversation we’d had too many times to count. “Get your mutt, and get out of here, Lee.” Con was the only person who called me Lee. He claimed I was too sexy to call by a guy’s name. Whatever. Thankfully, given what he assumed to be my situation, he paid me under the table and had never asked to see my ID. So I’d let him call me whatever the hell he wanted.

  I grinned. “Thanks, boss.” I whistled shrilly, and he clamped his hands over his ears.

  “Jesus, fuck. Was that necessary?”

  “That’s for cock-blocking me.”

  Con rolled his eyes as my brindle mutt trotted out of the back room. His head came up past the counter, and he stood thirty inches tall at his haunches. Huck and I had arrived in New Orleans on the same day one year earlier, or so I’d been told. I’d met him on my third day in the Crescent City. He was the newest resident of the Humane Society of New Orleans, and I was their newest volunteer. I took one look at the thirty pounds of roly-poly bear-cub-looking pup and begged Harriet, my honorary grandmother and landlord, if she’d allow a pet. She’d agreed. When I’d learned that he’d been found floating down the Mississippi on a pile of plywood and old tires, I’d realized that he was my very own Huckleberry Finn. Fast forward one year, and another 130 pounds, and Huck and I were inseparable. The best I could figure, he was a cross between an English Mastiff and a Great Dane. I wasn’t sure what other combination would produce such a monster. He was my baby, my guardian, and an irreplaceable part of the new family I’d built. Unfortunately, my volunteering had been curtailed by my crazy work schedule.