Circle of Death

by Colleen Masters

  “I’m Devlin Vile,” he tells me, his voice full and sure.

  Jackpot.

  “Hi Devlin,” I purr, letting down my guard just an inch, “I’m Logan. Logan Farrah.”

  “Well Logan,” Devlin goes on, closing the careful space I’ve put between us, “Welcome to The Club. I bet you’re ready for a taste of the action out here. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t go to bed hungry. Trust me, I know how to fill a girl up.”

  “Oh, I bet you do,” I return.

  Little does he know, of course, that my presence here is the furthest thing from a stumble. I’m a woman on a mission. A mission that has everything to do with him, as it turns out. But as I breathe in his intoxicating presence—the towering form, the searing gaze, the smoky, spicy scent of him—I decide that as long as I’m here, I may as well have a little bit of fun. All work and no play has never done anyone any good, right?

  Is it possible that this Devlin Vile could be as dangerous as they say he is? Only one way to find out, I muse to myself, and take a step toward him.

  Chapter Two

  Boston, Massachusetts

  One month earlier...

  The sound of a sarcastic catcall tears my attention away from the full length mirror. I turn to see my roommate Emma leaning against the doorframe, grinning at my current getup.

  “Hey, sexy mama,” she teases, “Can I get some of that?”

  I frown at my reflection, all decked out in its unflattering cap and gown. I’ve been trying to convince myself that the whole costume isn’t really that terrible...but to no avail. I look like a giant green Easter Peep that someone’s run through the microwave.

  “You’re so lucky you don’t have to sit through graduation,” I sigh, flicking my cap’s tattered tassel away from my face, “Maybe I can hire a body double to go for me or something? Surely there’s a section on Craigslist for that.”

  “Or you could just skip the whole thing like a sensible human being,” Emma shrugs, tucking her short blonde hair behind her ears.

  “I wish,” I grumble, sinking onto my narrow bed in the starchy, sweaty robe. “My parents would never speak to me again if I didn’t show up.”

  “Last time I checked,” Emma says, raising a fair eyebrow, “They forfeited their right to this graduation nonsense when they reneged on paying for your education because your major didn’t suit them.”

  She does have a point. By all rights, I should have no qualms about ditching graduation despite my parents’ desires. I’m the one who financed my degree through a half dozen scholarships (and about 50K in student loan debt, of course). My mom and dad always told me when I was growing up that they’d be more than happy to pay for my college education, provided that I studied something “practical” like medicine or law. But when I decided to major in marketing and communications instead, their offer of financial assistance was snatched away right quick.

  “Why would we pay for a degree that’s just going to leave you jobless and living in our basement?” my mother had scoffed at the time.

  And much to my chagrin, she seems to have had a valid argument. I’m graduating from college at the end of the week, and I’ve spent the better part of the past year sending out resume after resume to every media and publishing outlet in the country. In that time, I’ve had exactly four lackluster interviews and zero job offers. I’m about to step into the real world with a boatload of debt, no job, and a rather fatalistic attitude about my prospects. Just like my mother predicted way back when.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Emma sighs, sitting down next to me on the bed. I watch as she tucks her slender legs beneath her, nimble as a kitten. I’ve always been slightly covetous of my best friend’s tiny frame. I’m a relatively tall young woman, 5’ 9” to be exact, and was an early bloomer, as far as curves as concerned. I’ve come to love my fuller, voluptuous figure, but I never heard the end of it from my mom when I was growing up. She was born in Japan, and always boasted a super-slender figure. My older sister, Juliet, inherited her body type, but I took after my English-born father. You can’t pick your parents, and you certainly can’t pick what you get from them out of the genetic grab bag.

  “At least you’re graduating at the top of your program,” Emma points out, “I don’t even think they bother to rank us in the Fine Arts department, but if they did I certainly wouldn’t want to know about it.”

  “That’s true,” I allow, “I did kind of kick this degree’s ass, huh?”

  “I’ll say!” Emma smiles, “You even managed to snag a minor in psych like some kind of academic superhero.”

  “To be fair,” I point out, “My psych classes were mostly introductory. And all we did for the most part was fill out weird personality quizzes and try to psychoanalyze our parents.”

  “No wonder you had such an easy time of it. Think about all the material you have there,” Emma smirks.

  “Ha, ha,” I say, shrugging out of my ridiculous green gown, “You’re a regular laugh riot, Emma Sanders.”

  “I’m here all week,” she mugs, laying out across my bed. “Aren’t you glad you’re going to be stuck with me for the foreseeable future?”

  “I really am though,” I tell her sincerely.

  Emma and I have been living together since sophomore year of undergrad, when we were randomly assigned to the same dorm room. You’d think there wouldn’t be much for us to talk about—she’s an abstract painter, I’m an aspiring media type. But in a school overrun with Greek life and hardcore athletics, we were lucky to find each other. We stuck together for the rest of our undergraduate careers, and just found a tiny two-bedroom apartment to share after graduation. Emma’s already snagged a job as an artist’s assistant here in Boston, and while I haven’t been so lucky job-wise, I’m determined not to move back home with my parents. I don’t care if I have to sling coffee, or walk dogs, or babysit some horrible rich kids. I’m going to make it work.

  “Come on,” Emma says, rolling onto her feet, “It’s already three minutes past five. I need a drink.”

  “Yeah, OK,” I agree, gathering my long black hair into a bun and securing it with my signature hair sticks—the only thing passed down to me from my mother, besides raging social anxiety. “I could really use one, after today.”

  Emma skirts off to find her purse as I drop into my desk chair, absentmindedly checking my social media pages and favorite blogs. Not much to see on Facebook and whatnot, as per usual. I don’t exactly have a large group of friends. Or any group of friends, for that matter. There’s Emma, sure, and some people from my study groups and classes, but not many people that I’d consider honest-to-god friends, despite what Facebook might call them. But to be honest, my lack of close friends makes perfect sense.

  It’s sometimes said that sisters are built-in best friends, and for me and my sister Juliet, this was absolutely true. At least, it was when we were little. She’s two years older than me, and I absolutely idolized her when we were growing up. Juliet was always leading me off on epic adventures and insanely fun antics. Whether we were staging full-scale Spice Girls musicals in our shared bedroom, teaching each other how to do cartwheels in the backyard, or breaking into my mom’s makeup case for surreptitious (and poorly executed) makeovers, there was never a dull moment with Juliet around.

  But as we grew older, that adventurous spirit turned rebellious. My mother was a strict taskmaster, and my father let her rule over the household—and us girls—with an iron fist. She and Juliet butted heads ceaselessly from the time my sister hit her teenage years. And the harder my mom tried to hold on, the more desperate Juliet grew to fly away. By the time she was seventeen, Juliet was totally out of control. Partying every night, drinking and smoking, sleeping around—engaging in every bit of destructive behavior imaginable. I begged her to be careful, to take care of herself. I loved her more than anyone on Earth, but my love wasn’t enough to make her stay.

  The day she turned eighteen, Juliet ran off. She’d fallen i
n with a local biker gang, a really hardcore group of guys. She left us a note saying that she’d decided to join up with them as some sort of groupie, and that we shouldn’t come looking for her. She was a legal adult, and too damn stubborn to reconsider, so my parents had no choice but to let her go.

  I was devastated by her abandonment, and resolved to never be anything like her. I dove headfirst into my studies, my writing, and did my best to put her out of mind. But no matter how well I did in school, how many prizes I won, how many colleges I got into, no accomplishment was good enough to dispel the ghost of my departed sister from my parents’ hearts. It wasn’t until I went away to school that I finally felt free of her lingering, stifling presence.

  But as much as I hate to admit it, I’m still feeling the impact of what Juliet did. Because of her betrayal, I keep my heart safely locked away. I’m immediately suspicious of anyone who wants to be my friend, and insanely selective about the guys I’ll even consider dating. I can’t stand the thought of coming to love someone, the way I loved Juliet, and having them leave me behind. I’ve sworn never to let myself get hurt like that again, and so far I’ve managed just fine. I may not be the most popular girl in school, or have the most notches in my bedpost, but at least I’m seldom vulnerable to heartbreak.

  Of course, being safe from heartbreak means being safe from love, too...but that’s a conundrum to tackle another day.

  I’m just about to close my laptop when a new email pops into my inbox with a ding. I glance at the message, expecting some junky advertisement for penis enlargement or the like. But the email’s subject line makes my heart skip a beat.

  Interview Request from Advance Media, Re: Logan Farrah

  “Holy shit,” I whisper, hastily opening the message. I sent my resume to the media giant Advance on a wishful whim a few months ago. Could they seriously be reaching out to little ol’ me about an interview? I read the email with bated breath.

  Dear Ms. Farrah,

  We have received your resume and are very impressed with your scholastic record and achievements. If you are available, we would like to schedule an interview with you in the coming days. One of our popular media outlets is currently seeking editorial contributors. We think you would be a wonderful fit for the online publication, FootSolider. If you are interested, please let us know so that we can forward your information to FootSoldier’s managing editor. We look forward to hearing from you—

  I can’t even read the last few lines of text—my vision is swimming with excited glee. I let out a squeal of joy, leaping out of my chair and dancing ecstatically around my dorm room. In a flash, Emma is right back in my doorway, staring perplexedly at me as I jump and jive all over the place.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asks, befuddled by my outburst.

  “I just got an email from Advance Media!” I cry, clasping Emma by the shoulders.

  “Okay...?” she replies. Emma is not exactly the most plugged-in person on the planet.

  “They own, like, every blog and online publication on the East Coast. At least the ones that are worth reading,” I babble on. “There’s an opening at one site, FootSolider, and they want me to come in for an interview!”

  Emma may not have any interest in blogs, but even she recognizes the word “interview”.

  “Logan, that’s wonderful!” she cries, throwing her arms around me, “I knew something was going to come through for you. You’re too brilliant not to get snatched up.”

  “Well, I haven’t been snatched up yet,” I laugh, “But I’ve been reading FootSoldier for years. I really dig their aesthetic, and I think my writing style is right up their alley.”

  “In other words, they’d be crazy not to hire you,” Emma grins.

  “I’m definitely a good fit for the job,” I allow.

  “Ugh. That modesty thing is going to be the death of you,” Emma laughs, releasing me from her bear hug. “This calls for a celebratory drink!”

  “Weren’t we already going out for a drink?” I ask.

  “Well yeah,” she shrugs, “But isn’t it nicer to be justified in it?!”

  “I’ll say,” I laugh, grabbing my purse and trailing Emma out the door.

  We step out into the warm May evening, arms linked. My body feels weightless as we make our way through the streets of Boston. It’s like I can breathe freely for the first time in months. Finally, I’ve got a lead on a job that might actually pan out, a job I’d kill to have. Maybe I won’t have to crash land into post-graduate life after all.

  Chapter Three

  The powers that be at Advance Media waste no time, that’s for sure. Mere hours after I respond to their first email, they schedule me for a meeting with FootSolider’s managing editor, Elliot Simmons, to take place the very next day. My stomach does a triple axel when I read my appointment time, and I hardly sleep a wink that night. I know that I have to walk into FootSoldier’s Boston offices with all the confidence I can muster, but I can’t help but be nervous. There’s so much riding on this interview going well, far more than I’d care to admit. But while I’m busy worrying about the impending meeting, the fitful night passes. Time to rise and—hopefully—shine.

  “You’re going to kill it,” Emma assures me that morning, thrusting a cup of coffee into my hands. I raise the mug gratefully to my lips, running through all the typical interview questions in my head.

  What are my strengths and weaknesses? Where do I see myself in five years? What made me apply to Advance Media in particular?

  The only problem is, my answers seem pretty thin all of a sudden.

  I’m great at stonewalling affection and terrible at emotional availability. Hopefully not sleeping on a bean bag chair in my parent’s basement. Because I really really really need a job please just hire me.

  Yeah. This thing should go great.

  I run my fingers through my artfully tousled hair. FootSoldier is an edgy, ballsy publication. Its stories are always one step ahead of public opinion and awareness. The writers who do well there are mostly millennial and slightly hipster, but also often female, which is a huge deal for any popular site. I tried to dress accordingly, in black skinny jeans, a white slouchy tee, and charcoal cardigan. And of course, a swipe of my favorite red lipstick—the one thing I never leave home without. I’ll just have to hope that I blend in with the natives.

  “OK. Time to face the music,” I say, plunking my drained coffee mug in the sink.

  “That’s the spirit. I think,” Emma replies, giving me a swift hug. “Don’t come back here until you’ve got yourself a nice, cushy job.”

  “But no pressure, right?” I mutter, setting off to face the day.

  By the time I arrive at the interview, my mind is racing a mile a minute. I’ve made the mistake of pinning too much on this one interview. I can’t psych myself out like this—if I do, it’s game over. Standing outside the unassuming refurbished warehouse that serves as the FootSolider offices, I force myself to pause and take a breath. You can do this, I coach myself. Remember, they called you in for a reason.

  With my nerves as in check as they’re likely to get, I push open the heavy metal door and ride an industrial-looking elevator to the top floor of the warehouse. When the doors slide open again, I step out into the single coolest office I’ve ever set eyes on. The entire floor has been gutted and repurposed as an open workspace. Unfinished surfaces like exposed brick and untreated wood lend the place an edgy vibe, but the state-of-the-art laptops lined up along the community desk are anything but dated.

  Even more impressive are the dozen people toiling away at those laptops. Each FootSoldier staff member is young, attractive, and hip as can be. I doubt if a single one of them is older than thirty. And even more remarkable is the fact that all but three of them are women who appear to be around my age. I knew that FootSoldier was a forward-thinking publication, but I had no idea their business practices were so progressive.

  “You must be Logan,” says a voice from over my shoulder.
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  I turn around to find a tall, svelte woman standing behind me. She’s rocking an impeccably tailored blazer, wavy ombre hair, and thick-rimmed black glasses.

  “That’s me,” I reply, tucking my portfolio under one arm and extending my free hand. “I’m here for an interview with Elliot Simmons.”

  “Well, what luck,” the woman smiles, giving my outstretched hand a firm shake, “I happen to be Elliot Simmons.”

  “You’re...?” I begin, before I can stop myself.

  “A chick. Yeah,” Elliot laughs, “Relax, you’re not the first person who’s come in here expecting to see a dude behind the editor’s desk. It’s a symptom of the sick times we live in, my friend. I don’t hold people’s socially-conditioned sexism against them.”

  “Oh. Well. Cool,” I say lamely, hoping that my embarrassment hasn’t painted my cheeks fire engine red.

  “Let’s get cracking, shall we?” Elliot says, leading me into her office, a glass-walled cube apart from the group workspace.

  I settle into a chair before Elliot’s sleek, midcentury modern desk. She’s got three computer screens arranged around her workspace, each one crowded with articles-in-progress, news sites, and complex lines of code. Elliot must be one fiercely competent editor to keep track of all this, or else a computer genius. She sinks down into her plush leather chair and gives me a long, hard once-over. I lift my chin, bracing myself for the grilling she’s surely about to give me. But instead of firing off her first round of questions, she just nods.

  “I like what you’re about, Logan,” Elliot says thoughtfully.

  Again, her words take me by surprise. “Oh, thanks,” I reply, at a loss. Maybe my outfit’s doing more work than I would have guessed?

  “I’m not a huge fan of the standard interview,” she goes on, “I prefer a more research-oriented approach to hiring.”