Taste of Vengeance

by Kristi Belcamino

  When she arrived, there was a large black car with dark windows parked out front. She reached for the gun in her glove box and tucked it in her waistband. The other pistol was already in her bag, so she unzipped it as she warily stepped outside of the Porsche.

  The driver’s window rolled down.

  It was Robert Maxim.

  A flash of lightning raced across her peripheral vision and thunder roared in her ears. She shook off the hallucination. Then apprehension trickled down her spine. Was Maxim bringing news of something bad from Joyful Justice. What if something had happened to Mulberry? Or Dan? Or Anita?

  But his slow smile relieved her of that fear at the same time it irritated her.

  “I happened to be in the area and thought I’d see if you had time for dinner?”

  Sydney looked at him incredulously. They were not friends.

  They’d been through hell and back together—most recently on a mission in Syria, but they were not friends. Especially not friends who had dinner together.

  He saw the look on her face and exhaled.

  “I have some information you might find useful.”

  Sydney acknowledged his words with a nod and continued toward the door of her cottage, unlocking it and crouching to greet Blue.

  Maxim was at her side. “May I?”

  Sydney shrugged and he came inside.

  An hour later, when Maxim left, Sydney laced up her running shoes and took Blue for a run on the beach. As she did, she thought about the information Maxim had given her. Sky Enterprises was working on a technology that could change the future of mankind. Maxim didn’t have all the details but vague rumors on the shadowy dark web hinted at a mind-shattering possibility: That if Thornwell and Zimmer succeeded in obtaining funding for their creation, there would be no such thing as death.

  Even Maxim agreed that it didn’t make any sense and was most likely hyperbole, but he’d wanted her to know.

  But all Sydney could think about during her run was the fucking injustice of something like this being invented after she’d lost the only person that mattered—her brother, James.

  14

  Boom Box

  October 2004

  “Haven’t you ever done this before?”

  The naked girl in his dorm room bed watched him struggle with the condom.

  He could feel his face grown warm at her words. Thank God, the only light in the room was from the candle near the bed. He was mostly in shadows over by the dresser where he’d retrieved an old condom package out of a drawer.

  She was in his Physics class. She was actually quite smart. He’d been surprised she’d said yes when he offered to tutor her. But then again, this year, he was sort of a fucking rock star on his Berkeley campus. He’d developed a reputation as the guy with the best supply of feel good pills. He’d been dealing Ecstasy for the last six months after he hacked into his main competitor’s computer and got the dude arrested by tipping police off on his next big drop.

  As soon as he picked her up, she’d tugged down her mini skirt and grinned. “Hope this is an okay outfit for you to ‘tutor’ me in.” She’d laughed and made quote marks around the word tutor.

  He’d taken her to Thai food on Telegraph Avenue and then told her he had booze back in his dorm. She was game.

  “I’ve got some X,” he said.

  “I don’t do pills,” she’d said.

  Now that was a problem. She was supposed to be his next guinea pig. He’d planned to hand her a pill, passing it off as X. Now he’d have to dose her drink. The form of the love pills he’d developed were soluble. He’d perfected the combination now. It had taken three long years in the chem lab, working secretly while other students slept, but now he finally had the combination right—a potent cocktail of MDMA, oxytocin, SSRI’s and a refined LSD mixed with pheromones that triggered serotonin levels that made people, well, fall in love. Or at least find him irresistible. Because right now all the pills contained his pheromones. Eventually, the pills would be custom made and people would have the pills tailor made with their own pheromones. It was his greatest invention yet.

  It would solve problems such as loveless marriages and bolster arranged marriages. The best part of all was that the pill needed to be taken daily to remain effective. It was a built in, never-ending market. The demand for the pill would never go away.

  He knew if he could patent the drug, it would surpass the monetary success he was having as an underground hacker and X dealer. Soon, he would be so rich that he’d have a dozen naked girls falling all over him at once, begging to be the one to put the condom on him.

  He’d pulled the orange juice out of the mini frig and told her to relax on his bed while he made her a drink. But she wasn’t good at listening. Instead, she put his Nirvana CD in his boom box and danced around him as he made the drink. Several times, he tried to reach for the small ceramic dish that held the love pills, but every time he started to do so, she was at his side.

  Go fucking lay down on the bed like I told you.

  But she wanted to gyrate against his ass instead. He eyed the pills and realized that he’d have to bring another girl home to be his guinea pig. This one wasn’t cooperating. He needed to try it out on a girl soon. At least he’d get a fuck out of the deal.

  The first girl he’d given it to last summer at Burning Man had gone into cardiac arrest.

  Thank God, he’d been able to flee her tent and was miles away before her body was found the next morning.

  After some heavy petting, the girl demanded he put on a condom. He had to get out of bed and search for one in his dresser, but was struggling to get it on.

  The girl in his bed held up a hand in front of her and examined her fingernails. “You almost done?” she asked without looking his way.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s just this one is defective or something.”

  Why didn’t she get up off her lazy ass and help!

  “Oh.” She rolled over and grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the nightstand. Lighting one using the flame of the candle, she glanced over at the dark corner where he stood with narrowed eyes. “I’m getting a little bored over here.”

  I’m going to fuck your brains out, bitch.

  As she said this, the condom he’d been struggling to fit over his penis tore.

  “Motherfucker.” His voice was low. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists together at his sides. He could feel the rage building.

  “That’s it,” the girl said, hopping out of bed and tugging on her dress. “I got a final tomorrow. We can try this another time.” She grabbed her bag and brushed by him on the way to the door. He started to reach for her, but realized that the dozens of other students in this dorm hall might not be understanding of the noises they would hear if he forced her to stay.

  The girl left, slamming the door behind her He stood there for a few seconds, filled with fury and humiliation.

  He wanted to kill her. Murder her with his bare hands. But first he would fuck her.

  This would never happen to Damien. Damien would know how to put on a condom. Damien wouldn’t live in a stupid dorm room.

  Damien would live in a place where screams could not be heard.

  15

  Health Freak

  Sultry jazz filtered out the open windows of Damien’s house. From the front, the steel and glass structure looked like a fairly small rambler—a one story squat modern home, but I knew from my drive up to his house that the home terraced down the hillside another four levels overlooking the Pacific.

  My dog and I stood in front of the gray steel door, my hand raised in mid-air.

  Django looked up at me expectantly as if urging me to get it over with and knock. Although I’d felt comfortable around Damien in his office, something about him and his house sent tremors of nervousness through me. I told myself I was being foolish and knocked.

  Damien opened the door with a wide grin. He leaned over and kissed both of my cheeks, sending a small ripple of desire
through me as I got a whiff of his man scent and cologne. He wore faded jeans, a white linen shirt partly unbuttoned to reveal a slice of his chest, and white sneakers. His hair was smoothed back and he had a tiny bit of stubble on his cheeks and chin. This was Damien on his day off. I liked it.

  Before saying a word, he crouched in front of Django and offered him the back of his hand to smell. Django sniffed it and then licked it.

  “You’re in,” I said.

  “Phew,” he said, standing. “If a girl’s dog doesn’t like you, you’re sunk.”

  “Sounds like you have some experience with that,” I said, following him into the house.

  “Not as much as you might think.”

  “Which one? With girls or with dogs that don’t like you.”

  “Both.”

  He led me into the large living area and then paused.

  “I’m going to go get Snuffles and have them meet here. More neutral territory than the backyard, I would think.”

  “Makes sense to me,” I said, automatically, but then immediately thought, who named their dog Snuffles? I guess a grown man with enough self-confidence not to give a fuck what anybody else thought. I liked that.

  I wandered over to the fireplace mantle to examine a few silver-framed photos. One was of Damien on a sail boat, tanned and smiling. Another was of him at the top of a mountain slope, his ski goggles pushed up on his head. A third was of him at the base of the Eiffel Tower. The fourth was of him and Richard Zimmer on a red carpet in Cannes, both dressed in tuxedos with women at their sides.

  “Seems sort of vain to you?” His voice startled me.

  I shrugged. What could I say? Yes, you’re too old for the selfie generation?

  I turned in time to see Django meet Snuffles. The blur of wagging tails reassured me.

  “Looks like they’re already friends,” I said.

  After a suitable amount of sniffing, Snuffles scurried off to grab a ragged chew toy and brought it to Django. With some small, playful growling, they each tugged on one end.

  Damien handed me a glass. “Fresh orange juice. I just made it before you got here.”

  “Thanks.”

  He sprawled on a big white leather couch. I sat across from him, feeling awkward.

  “I’m a little bit of a health freak,” he said.

  “What? Because you make fresh orange juice that makes you a tree hugger?”

  “I don’t really drink. I don’t smoke weed. I drink a goddamn green smoothie every morning for breakfast, sleep eight hours a night, and workout for two hours a day.”

  I bit my tongue. He was pretty much the opposite of me.

  But he misread my silence.

  “So, about the pictures,” he began.

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Uh, yeah?” I finally said. “Sure. What’s the story there?”

  “Those are the culmination—the proof—of years of visualization and dreaming.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “When Rich and I were nerdy high school kids, none of the girls were interested in us. They all wanted to date the popular jocks.”

  “That’s so cliché.”

  “Maybe. But true.”

  “We spent our entire senior year holed up in Richard’s garage learning how to hack and code. At one point, I came across a book about what successful people do and discovered visualization. So, every morning I woke up and visualized where I was going to be when I was an adult and how I was going to be. I wrote detailed images of this life in a special notebook. Every day.

  “I still do this. I keep a notebook that contains details of my life. It’s not really a journal because it also has quotes I love and motivational passages. I have it with me at all times. In early modern Europe, they called these types of journals ‘Commonplace Books.’”

  “Cool,” I said.

  “For years, I wrote down and visualized different scenarios. One was snow skiing—tearing up the slopes. See, my family couldn’t afford for me to learn to ski so it seemed something out of my reach for most of my life. The other was owning my own sailboat and sailing through the Panama Canal …”

  “And one was visiting the Eiffel Tower in Paris?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you really envision the red carpet at Cannes?”

  “Hell, yes,” he said, laughing. “In fact, I funded a friend’s movie with the caveat that I could walk the red carpet at Cannes.”

  “With a gorgeous woman on your arm.”

  “Yes. Goes with the territory.”

  That made me stop. I had to ask.

  “Why are you single, Mr. Damien Thornwell?”

  He ran his finger around the rim of his empty juice glass. “Good question.”

  I finished my juice, eyeing him over the top of the glass.

  “I could name a thousand reasons, but honestly, it probably boils down to me being too selfish.”

  I didn’t respond. After a few seconds, he filled the silence.

  “The crowd I run with, the people I do business with and socialize with—which ultimately are the same—we sort of feel like we make our own rules in this world.”

  I frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Have you always been an heiress?”

  His question sent prickles of annoyance through me. The word reminded me of dipshits who carried poodles under their arms.

  “My parents didn’t spoil me. I never really knew how much money they had until they died.”

  “Aha,” he leaned back as if that explained everything. “So, we really aren’t that different. It’s just that to me, having this sort of money, and let’s face it, power, is what I’ve always wanted. Call me a selfish bastard, but I made this happen and because of it, I do what I want, when I want, how I want. It’s something I’ve earned.”

  That pinprick of distaste was there again. At the same time, his honesty was disarming and refreshing. Django came and sat at my feet and I scratched behind his ears. Snuffles hopped up on the couch by Damien. He drew the dog onto his lap and stroked his belly.

  “In Silicon Valley, we don’t really play by societal rules. We shun traditions. don’t believe in societal norms. We believe in overturning paradigms.”

  “Like what?” I leaned forward.

  “Well, you asked why I was still single, right?” He laughed. I didn’t see what was funny about that. “Those of us who are married, well, let’s just say, the marriage contract doesn’t specify monogamy. Many of us believe that monogamy is an outdated notion to control us. We think marriage is an archaic institution formulated to keep people in line. A relic from Puritan times.”

  I thought of my parent’s marriage. I thought of my mom’s strong faith. These were two things I admired most about my family. I believed in monogamy, even if I didn’t want to. I liked Damien all right and the chemistry between us was undeniable, but we were coming from two different planets.

  Standing, I stretched. “We’re just going to have to agree to disagree on that one. Where’s that food you talked about? My stomach is grumbling.”

  He laughed. “I love a girl with appetites.”

  Appetites. Not appetite.

  I shot him a look. He knew exactly what he was doing. It would be tough to resist him, but I was up to the challenge.

  16

  Hindsight

  There was something she was missing and Sydney wasn’t sure what it was.

  After her run on the beach, she showered and dressed and headed to Pacific Heights.

  This time she knew to pull back the ivy and ring the doorbell at the mansion.

  This time when Cyril opened the door, he seemed disheveled.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Sydney said. “I was in the area. I was hoping to look in Alaia’s room again.”

  He left her and Blue alone again.

  This time Sydney went straight to the stack of books near the bed.

  Although it hadn’t registered at the time, with hindsi
ght, she’d realized that one of the spines was thin. It wasn’t a real book. It was a day planner.

  Now, she plucked the book out of the stack and flipped through it to the week Alaia disappeared.

  The Brazil trip was on the calendar. And the day after she returned was the appointment that Sydney had been looking for.

  Slipping the day planner into her own bag, she and Blue hopped in the Porsche and toward the city’s financial district.

  The high-powered criminal attorney wasn’t in, but Sydney left her card with the secretary.

  17

  True Love Forever

  Despite the rocky start, my day with Damien and our dogs had been one of the best days I’d had since Bobby’s murder.

  The conversation was easy and Damien was funny. I found myself laughing more than I had in months. It was relaxing to be around him. He was smart and cultured and sophisticated. Just my speed. We’d spent every night together after that for a week straight. We talked politics, cooking shows, indie films, and Impressionist art. But mostly we had mind-shattering sex.

  A few times, the dark shadow of Bobby’s memory had crossed my mind, but I’d pushed it back down. It was obvious that nobody could ever live up to Bobby. By dying, he’d achieved a state of perfection. I knew it. Might as well just accept it.

  He’d be my true love forever.

  But that didn’t mean I was dead.

  As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Damien was growing on me. Besides his freewheeling views about monogamy, I was having a hard time finding anything wrong with him. He said he was selfish, but I also eavesdropped as he took two phone calls from people who apparently needed his help. In one, from Richard Zimmer, he argued with Zimmer to give someone a break about something. I couldn’t hear Zimmer’s side, but did hear his voice raise and saw the neck muscle in Damien’s neck bulge as he told Zimmer to do as he said. No questions asked. The other call was about paying rent for someone else. He’d said, “Hopefully, she can get on her feet again. For now, just call off the sheriff’s office. We’ll pay the rent.”