Taste of Vengeance

by Kristi Belcamino

  2

  Losing Control

  March 2001

  He squeezed more lotion onto his palm. His hand worked his cock in a frenzy. The image on his computer screen had sent him into a tizzy. It’d been easy to gain access to her computer.

  Stupid bitch didn’t know that the small round camera perched on top of her monitor allowed him a full peep show to her entire life. He’d given her the camera, that was affixed to the top of her monitor, and helped her install it, saying she would then be able to speak to her foreign exchange student friend in France. She’d been wary but grateful. Her computer rested on her dresser and gave him a full view of her room. It was also right in front of her mirror.

  Right now, that meant a front-row seat of her spectacular tits as she jiggled them in her palms, looking at herself in the mirror and making faces. She practiced seductive poses. It sent him into a frenzy. His slippery hand moved faster, sliding up and down until his eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

  She was out of his league. He knew this. But he still could have her. At least online. And one day, when he was rich and powerful, he’d have women like her every single day.

  He’d just finished wiping himself when his door swung open. His mother stood in the doorway holding a sledge hammer. She’d knocked the doorknob right off the door. He pushed his headphones down around his neck.

  Scrambling, he tried to hide himself, but his pants were open wide, and his cock stood at attention. His mother’s eyes went to the computer screen before him, but he’d instantly clicked a button so the screen showed a video game. Hiding the picture of Lila Grant had been more important than hiding his erect penis.

  “Oh, my God. What are you doing?” His mom was horrified. The look on her face. It was if she’d just walked into a bloody murder scene. She stood there in the doorway, sweaty and panting.

  “What’s it look like?” he said.

  “This is what you do all day in here? You … you play with yourself?”

  “It’s called masturbation. It’s natural.”

  “There is nothing natural about it.” Her voice rose in a shriek. “I have been calling you to dinner, pounding, screaming at you to unlock the door, for the past thirty minutes.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’re lucky I don’t take this hammer to all of your precious equipment.” Her voice was shrill.

  He stood, fury surging through him. He felt his face grow hot and his wrath building, rising. He was losing control. He started toward his mother, arm outstretched, finger pointing at her, his entire body shaking with rage.

  “Get out. Get out. Get out.” With each reiteration of the phrase, his voice grew lower. The white calmness of his emotion made his mother’s eyes grow wide. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead it opened and closed like a guppy sucking for air. But she didn’t budge.

  He’d stood and walked over to her, grabbing her by the neck. He put his face close to hers. The year he’d turned sixteen was also the year he’d grown as tall as her. He drew close and hissed the words, spittle flying onto her cheeks. “You won’t touch anything in here.” He waited. Her eyes grew wide. “In fact, if you ever step foot in this room again, I will wait until you are asleep, and I will take your sledge hammer to your skull. Do you understand?”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  “Leave. Now.”

  She backed out of the room.

  The door swung closed behind her. A small circle of light shone where the doorknob had once been.

  For a few seconds, he allowed the anger to fill his limbs. He’d use that rage as fuel to create something the world had never seen before. To make him so powerful that he’d never again live in a room where he couldn’t bar the door. One day, he and Damien would rule the world. They would have every woman they wanted begging to suck their cocks. It was just a matter of time. It would start here—in this room. This tiny garage space he’d converted to a hacker’s paradise was where it would all begin.

  3

  Cuddle Puddle

  As Sydney read on, Alaia’s journal pointed in one direction and it wasn’t to the effeminate manservant, Cyril.

  The journal entries told of a world of sex parties where the Silicon Valley crowd did most of its business.

  According to Alaia’s journal, there were two types of parties hosted by the founders–the creators of the billion-dollar tech companies and the venture capitalists—known as the V.C.’s.

  One type of party was strictly for the “tech elite”—the first investors, the heavy hitters, the deal makers. It was the other type that Alaia talked about the most—the parties with more women than men. The “hot ticket” private parties. If you were a woman in tech invited to one of these parties you might as well move back to the Midwest.

  Because you couldn’t win.

  If you attended a party, you were considered a slut and not taken seriously. Not going meant you’d be shunned in Silicon Valley’s close-knit community.

  According to Alaia, the latter type party often had a theme. Sometimes it was pure sex, where drugs and alcohol were banned to promote safe behavior. At those, attendees would peel off into bedrooms either as a pair or a group. Sometime the parties were strictly about getting high, where everyone would sit around and take MDMA, called Molly, or other drugs. But most often it was a combination of the two.

  But Alaia knew none of this when a woman from Zimmer’s office called her. “There’s this party—invite only—and Rich wanted me to invite you.”

  Well, if Richard Zimmer wanted her there, Alaia thought she should probably go. The last meeting she’d had with him, she’d caught him leering at her under his hooded eyes. But he’d said he was very interested in investing in her idea. He’d just have to talk Damien Thornwell, his partner, into it.

  Alaia knew she had to show at the party. It wasn’t an invite—it was a summons.

  But the then woman who had issued the invite had hinted at something else. “The party has a theme—bondage,” she’d said.

  “Oh, fun,” Alaia had said, thinking it was like a costume party.

  But now at the party, it didn’t take long for her to realize that couples were disappearing from the main room. Zimmer had a huge great room that was filled with candles and strewn with velvet pillows and fluffy blankets. Because there wasn’t any furniture, people had no choice but to lounge on the pillows on the floor, Alaia wrote. Soon, hands wandered. The man and woman on each side of her—an older married couple in their late thirties—began stroking her thighs, her hair, and her arms.

  At that point, she was sleepy lazy and high from the Molly someone had handed her. The caresses felt good. At the same time, her brain screamed that this wasn’t cool. The married couple was sure to resent her and punish her for this the next day when everyone was stone cold sober. Plus, she fully wasn’t into women. She’d tried sleeping with her roommate in college for kicks, and they’d both decided that bisexuality wasn’t for them.

  This couple had sort of grossed her out, too. I mean, maybe the woman was a little old for the leather thigh-high boots and mini skirt. She was thin, but her outfit revealed flabby and wrinkly skin.

  Alaia tried to brush off the couple, but then the man had pulled her down and began kissing her. She fought to get away, but found the wife pressing on top of her from above. When she finally broke free, she jumped up and ran away, breathing heavy and shaking. Nobody even looked up.

  As she walked past, one woman stopped her.

  “Do you want to join our cuddle puddle?”

  Alaia was confused and then looked to where the woman pointed. Five people were on the floor entwined, stroking and kissing one another.

  Shaking her head, Alaia kept walking. That’s when she saw Richard Zimmer standing in the shadows, watching. He slowly raised his crystal tumbler to her and then turned on his heel, looking back to make sure she knew she should follow him, Alaia wrote.

  Sydney could guess what happened next but she kept reading
.

  But as Sydney read on, she realized that Alaia had refused to sleep with Zimmer. She’d taken one look at the bedroom where he’d led her and left the party.

  “Bravo,” Sydney said and flipped forward in the notebook.

  “It’s bullshit,” Alaia wrote. “I’m going to secretly record everything and expose these people. They can’t do this. I’ll sell it all to the tabloids, or better yet, get on Oprah and then get a book deal. I’ve tried, but I’m not cut out to run a business. My dad is wrong. I will never be like him. I tried. I really did. I have a solid business plan. Solid enough that Damien Thornwell and Richard Zimmer expressed interest. I know they really think it’s a good plan and don’t just want to fuck me. But unfortunately, the sex seems to go with the whole deal. And the drugs.”

  On the next page, Alaia seemed to have changed her mind.

  “Zimmer wants to meet,” she wrote. “Says he owes me an apology. Damn right he does. And that he has a check made out to me. For three million dollars. He’s going to give it to me on our trip to Rio. He said he can’t live with himself unless I go. Damien even called and insisted I let them make it up to me with the all-expenses paid trip. They said it’s the chance of a lifetime to see the city the way they know it.”

  Sydney stared at the words.

  She’d been waiting for the Rio connection.

  The folder Sydney had been given on Alaia had contained a cryptic text the woman had sent. It had been the last time she’d ever been heard from. It said: “Rio. Pied-à-terre. Love pills. Notebook.”

  Quickly flipping the page of the woman’s journal, Sydney looked for more information on the Rio trip, but there were only blank pages.

  In her heart, she knew the answers lay in Rio, but right now she’d stick to her strongest lead—the two men Alaia was last seen with.

  Grabbing her phone, she texted Thornwell.

  “It’s Sydney Rye. I’m in the city. Ready to take you up on your offer to show me around.”

  Within ten minutes she had a party invite for that night.

  When she mentioned she was worried about leaving Blue alone in the rental cottage at the beach, Thornwell responded immediately, “Bring him. My dog would love the company.”

  Perfect.

  4

  Like it Rough

  San Mateo County, California

  He closed the distance between us, snaking through the crowd effortlessly. Bodies parted, jeweled women smiled longingly at him, tuxedoed men nodded respectfully. Candles flickered as he strode past. He left a wake of gawkers in his intensity to get to me.

  His eyes locked onto mine. He wasn’t terribly good looking. It was more that he exuded something irresistible. Confidence. Swagger. A presence like none I’d ever felt.

  “Gia?” Dante’s voice at my side came to me as if it was underwater. I barely registered the words from my best friend as the man grew closer, eyes trained on me.

  Something in the man’s scrutiny was both exciting and dangerous.

  Damien. That was what Dante had said before the blood thrumming in my ears drowned him out. His name was Damien. Another goddamn “D” person. I attracted them as if I possessed a magnetic charge. What was up with that?

  At first, I’d been delighted that he’d singled me out before I’d barely stepped foot into the party, but the closer he got, the more alarmed I became. I didn’t believe in fate—or destiny, or, soul mates, for fuck’s sake—but I couldn’t deny that something life-changing was happening.

  The thought sent a rush of adrenaline and fear pulsing through me. My smile faded.

  He was still twenty feet away when my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in.

  I turned and fled.

  I heard Dante calling after me, but I didn’t even pause.

  I searched for the front door, having difficulty navigating through the sprawling house.

  As I tried to find the exit, I took a wrong turn in the candlelit hallways. I didn’t see a man step out of a dark doorway until I nearly collided with him. I was about to apologize, when he grabbed my wrists in a vice-like grip. “You like it rough?”

  An icy chill ran through me at his touch. I wrenched myself out of his grip easily, but he stepped forward, pushing me toward the open doorway. “You are the most spankable woman in this town.”

  For a split second, I pondered how that sentence could possibly be considered a turn-on but forgot about it as my knee met his crotch. He doubled over and groaned just as a group of women rounded the corner.

  “Which way is the front door?” I asked the women, taking them in. One woman wore thigh-high boots, a corset, and held a black leather whip by her side.

  The other woman, wearing a studded collar, pointed wordlessly toward the other end of the hall. I raced to the front door, eager to get the hell out of this city and back to my-own-brand-of-weird San Francisco neighborhood.

  It was only when I’d reached my Ferrari parked in the driveway near the other luxury cars, that I dared to take a breath. Once I was inside my car with my door firmly shut, I looked back at the house. A dark figure stood at the top of the stairs.

  I gunned my engine and left a patch of rubber on the cobblestoned driveway. I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror until his silhouette became a pinprick. He never moved.

  5

  Doppelganger

  Sydney Rye watched the dark-haired woman pause in the doorway of the party.

  For a second, Sydney was taken aback. But then she realized she was wrong. It was not Alaia. But the brunette was the spitting image of the missing woman.

  It was only when the woman turned to her companion, an attractive man with black hair and olive skin, that Sydney realized it was definitely a different person.

  This woman had black eyes, not green like Alaia. She was also taller. The description of Alaia pegged her at five-foot-two. This woman was several inches taller than that. And while they were both curvy, this woman seemed a little less buxom than Alaia’s photo revealed.

  However, before she had a chance to think about it more, the woman turned and fled. Sydney’s eyes searched the room. Damien Thornwell was heading toward the doorway where the woman had once stood.

  It took Thornwell a few seconds to make his way through the crowd. He brushed past people, including the woman’s companion, and disappeared out the door of the living room.

  Sydney was tempted to follow, but knew that would seem suspicious, especially since Richard Zimmer had just taken her drink order and was making his way across the room, holding her tequila gimlet aloft.

  Her best bet in finding out information on Alaia would be to stick close to Zimmer.

  The night was young.

  6

  Star Struck

  “You suck.”

  Dante didn’t usually deign to use vulgar words like that. He must be really angry.

  “That’s not fair.” I was huddled on the floor of my loft, my back pressed against the wall of mirrors I used for my Budo training. My beautiful dress was crumpled around me, my bare feet tucked under me. I’d tossed my stilettos across the loft. One had landed on the kitchen counter. The other slid under my bed.

  Django’s head was nuzzled in my lap. I tried to calm myself by petting him. I stroked his furry ears until his eyes rolled back, showing the whites.

  “And on top of it all, you left me stranded,” Dante said.

  “I called a car to come get you. The LUX. The really nice one.”

  “That’s not the point.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. He stood looking around my place, trying to find fault. But I’d been keeping it spotless lately.

  “Dante. I couldn’t deal. I just couldn’t.”

  “What’s going on? You’ve never had this type of social anxiety or whatever it is.” His voice was so gentle it brought tears to my eyes.

  “It’s not that.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “It was him.”

  “Just because he’s famous? That’s absurd. You never cared
about stuff like that before. Now, suddenly, when investors want to throw money at you, you are star struck.”

  “He’s famous?”

  “Hello? He’s building the first apartment complex to orbit the moon.”

  “Oh crap. That guy?”

  “That guy? Dante said rolling his eyes. “Wait…you really didn’t know that?”

  “Obviously not.”

  Django got up and headed for the door to the roof. He put one large paw on the lever and the door opened. The jingle of his dog tags and the soft thud of his bulk going up the stairs were the only sounds for a few seconds.

  “I thought you just didn’t recognize him. I thought as soon as I said his name you’d know exactly who he was.”

  “Wrong.” I knew I was being a bitch. I reached for my bag and extracted my silver cigarette case. I stood and headed for the door to the roof. Dante followed me up.

  I plopped onto a cushy chaise lounge and pulled a cashmere blanket up around me. The fog had rolled in and it was fucking freezing on the roof, but I didn’t smoke indoors anymore.

  Dante surprised me by grabbing one of my cigarettes and lighting it. I bit back a smart-ass comment.

  “What’s your problem, Gia?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice was quiet. Now, in the safety of my own space, my behavior seemed ridiculous.

  “I had a lot of explaining to do to our hosts.”

  I winced. “I’m sorry, Dante. I’m just a fuck up.”

  “Quit using that as an excuse to be a flake.” His voice was hard. It was possibly the cruelest thing he’d ever said to me. Well, besides the time he said his husband’s murder was my fault. Tears pricked my eyes.