Mr. Sugar: A disturbing psychological thriller with a twist of dark romance

by L. D. Fox

  She glanced down at her phone, got 911 ready to dial, and let out a long, slow breath.

  She fumbled with the door, swiping her tongue over her lips to try and get moisture on them. She lit another cigarette on the way down, walking into a billow of her own smoke as she reluctantly stepped inside the lakehouse.

  Bruce stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips, turning from side to side. When he saw her, he stepped aside and shrugged.

  “I mean, I could clean it up, but it’s going to take a few days. I’d rather you get someone…”

  A buzz drowned out his voice.

  The walls were red. Someone had gone to town on them with a bucket of paint. Not with a brush — there were just crazy splashes all over the place. Footprints — bare — all over the carpet and floor. A bright-red handprint stood out on the deck’s sliding door, blurred where the person had pushed to open it.

  She took a step back, staggering when the heel of her sneaker caught against the door frame. With a cry, she grabbed hold of the frame before she could fall backward on her ass.

  Her fingers peeled reluctantly from the wood when she’d found her balance.

  Bruce hurried up to her, a crease on his brow. Two reflections of her own pale face reared up to her as the man leaned closer to grab her arm.

  “You okay there?”

  “I’m—” She swallowed hard, shaking herself free. “I’m fine.”

  Bruce lifted his hands in mock surrender and then turned back to the room. “Piss someone off?”

  “No.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. Her head spun when she brought her hands in front of her. She touched her thumb to the sticky red circles on her fingertips. “It’s still wet.”

  “Geez — glad we weren’t here when they were.”

  “They?”

  “Prob’ly just some kids. You get them sometimes, out here. Too much time on their hands. Break into rich people’s houses and mess them up just for the heck of it.”

  Bruce cast her a look — invisible behind those glasses — when she didn’t say anything.

  “Hey, look, maybe we should back up here. You get this place cleaned up—”

  She held up a hand, and the man went quiet, hands back on his hips.

  “How’d they get in?” she murmured. “Was the door open?”

  “Nope.”

  “Broken?”

  “Nope.”

  When she turned around, the man had his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Someone you know, maybe?”

  A cold tremor worked its way up her spine. “No one has a key.”

  “You do.”

  “Just me.” She hugged herself hard. “Me and Claire.”

  “Why’d the realtor do this?”

  “I didn’t say that!” She tugged at her cigarette and then stared at the glowing tip for a few seconds. “It wasn’t her. She’s got nothing against me.”

  “Who does?” The man turned slowly, lifting his hands. “I mean, this looks kinda vindictive, doesn’t it?”

  She took a deep drag of her cigarette, glancing at the man through the smoke coiling from its tip. His sunglasses caught a flash of light from the deck when he turned back to her.

  “You thinking of someone?” he asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead,” the man repeated quietly.

  He did another slow circle, a smile gradually growing on his mouth.

  “You sure?” he said with a laugh.

  Nausea twisted her stomach into a fist. She swallowed bile as she ground her cigarette out under her heel and blew out a plume of smoke.

  “You all right there, Angel?” Bruce said, stepping closer. “You’ve gone white as milk.”

  “My name’s Angelica,” she said, but it was a whisper through a mouth that shook.

  “Slip of the tongue,” he said, flicking his hand dismissively.

  His jacket slid up his arm at the motion, baring a small, red smudge.

  Dark. Dry. Flaking.

  Her eyes flashed back to his face. Began hunting over his features.

  He’d said he could only meet her later in the day. That he had a thing. Was that thing splashing paint all over the inside of the lakehouse? Why? Why the hell would—

  “Gosh, where are my manners. Should I take these off?” His voice wasn’t gravelly anymore. It was smooth, perfectly enunciated.

  He reached slowly for his sunglasses, pausing when she let out a low, “No.”

  “No?” he laughed again. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She nodded hard and stepped out of the front door. Her heel kicked against the first step leading out.

  But the truck was still in her way, wasn’t it? She could run… but how far would she get? Luckily — luckily — she’d worn jeans and sneakers today. Maybe it had been the man’s eyes on her legs that day outside Claire’s house, or the thought of how cold it was out here, but she’d decided against a skirt and heels.

  So yeah, she could run.

  But could she run far enough?

  Fast enough?

  63

  Welcome Home

  He caught her when she was almost inside her car. Grabbed her hair. Yanked her out and threw her to the gravel. She screamed and scrambled up, twisting away from his fingers when he turned to catch her.

  She thumped down the stairs, turning and slamming the front door in his face when he came after her. But she couldn’t lock the door without a key and — the last time she checked — Bruce had had the keys.

  Bruce? Who the fuck was she kidding?

  She knew who was out there, briefly separated by an inch-thick piece of pine.

  How the fuck it was impossible, she couldn’t fathom.

  She screamed again when he shoved against the door. It struck her forehead and sent her sprawling onto her back. She slid through a splash of sticky paint, hauling herself up with effort. Her feet skidded when she tried to run, and she ended up on her knees, hands splayed in red.

  Behind her, the door crashed open.

  This time, she didn’t scream. She merely shot forward like a track athlete, arms pumping at her side as she dashed for the sliding door.

  A moment of intense, nauseating deja-vu struck her when she slapped her paint-red hand over the handprint already on the glass. As she smudged it, sliding the door open.

  Then she was outside, and there was nothing between her and the lake except a pine railing.

  But when she folded over the side the railing, barely catching herself short of toppling over, that water could have been ink.

  And she could already feel it sliding down her throat, suffocating her.

  She laughed then, loud and harsh. Laughed at the lake, at herself, at everything.

  Why had she told Drew she couldn’t swim? Because the thought of having to step into those black waters had frightened her more than anything. Because the sight of those inky depths had been the first thing to ever spark fear in her heart.

  She’d been convinced that Drew was her ticket out of the miserable life she’d been leading. That he was her answer to everything. He’d made her believe that. Had wanted her to think that, so she’d fit into his own plans.

  His revenge.

  She spun around, watching as the man sidled out onto the deck. He lifted his hands, showing her his palms. And then he took off his sunglasses.

  “You can stop running now, Angel.” Drew cocked his head at her, trailing his fingers over the bench as he walked closer. “You’re home.”

  64

  Happy Tears

  The front door opened, letting in a chilly gust of wind and the smell of snow. Footsteps came inside, striding purposefully before slowing.

  Angel kept her head down, her fingers buried deep in the thick shag carpeting spread in front of the fire. It was lit; those orange flames made her shiver every time they licked her naked skin.

  A briefcase fell to the floor. She glanced up through her lashes, keeping her head down as
she watched Drew dropping his jacket to the floor.

  He was always messy, out here. He never tidied anything, never picked up after himself.

  Was he like that out there? In the outside world? Or was he the same old Drew she’d first met; meticulous to the point of OCD.

  “What’re we having?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble.

  He smoked too much these days — had, ever since the accident.

  That was what she had to call it when she called it anything. And it was preferable she didn’t speak about it at all.

  The accident.

  Because that’s what it had been, he’d explained. An accident.

  “You can speak, princess. What are we having?”

  “Braised lamb shank and red wine sauce on a bed of polenta.” Her voice was quiet; he didn’t like it when she spoke louder than a murmur.

  “Mmm-mmm!” His tie dropped to the floor.

  The clink of his belt made her shiver, but she covered the gesture by slowly bringing her hair over her shoulders and arranging the perfectly curled tresses over her bare breasts.

  His belt clanked when it hit the floor. He kicked off his shoes, moving silently over the carpet on silk-stockinged feet.

  “Sounds almost as delicious as you look, princess.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “What did you eat today?”

  “Some fruit.”

  “That all? You’re looking a little skinny, Angel. I don’t want you wasting away.”

  “Sorry, Sir.”

  “We’ll have plenty when we’re done. Would you like some wine?”

  “Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.”

  She ducked her head, again watching him from under her lashes as he turned and went into the kitchen. Her heart gave a hard knock, and then she sprang forward, reaching for his briefcase.

  Behind her, a chain clanked. That sound tore through her like a scourge of locusts. She bit hard on her lip, stretching through the pain, her fingers grasping at the air.

  His briefcase was less than an inch from her grasping fingertips, but it could have been on the moon.

  When Drew came back into the living room, she was sitting on her heels where he’d left her. He sank to his knees in front of her, removing his cufflinks and setting them down on the coffee table.

  They had his initials on them; B. S.

  Bruce Sun.

  She’d laughed when he’d told her that his new wife — Wendy or something — had bought them for his birthday. And then he’d slapped her, and she hadn’t laughed at him again. She’d been full of spite and malice back then. Those first few months after he’d trapped her here. But that anger, that rage, had simmered. Had cooled and gone hard and brittle, like glass.

  He brought a wine glass to her lips, lifting her chin so she would drink.

  She swallowed it down — careful not to spill on the rug — until he took the empty glass away. Her head spun a little; she’s last had wine when he was here two weekends ago. During the times he was gone, she wasn’t allowed alcohol.

  He used his thumb to dry her lips, and then his mouth. She responded instantly, sitting up so her body was against his, knowing that her enthusiasm would make him hard. He would be rough and quick — he always was, the night he came home — but tomorrow he would be gentle and loving.

  A tear trickled down her cheek and slipped into her mouth. He pulled away, cupping her face in his hands.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Missed you, is all,” she murmured, forcing her lips into a line.

  “Happy tears?”

  “Happy tears.” She nodded, freeing another pair of them. “Just happy tears.”

  He scooped her into his arms, hugging her hard as he kissed her again. He tasted of cigarettes and chocolate; he’d developed quite a sweet tooth in the time they’d been apart since the accident. It was a taste she savored, one she’d come to love. Especially when it meant he didn’t taste of gin—

  God, she hated the taste of gin.

  She shuddered hard, and his hands slid down to cup her ass. Then they glided into the crease between her legs.

  “You’re not wet,” he said into her ear as he stroked her. “What did I—”

  “You were late,” she said, and then stiffened when she heard the defiance in her voice. “I was, I mean, I did, but you said you’d be here—”

  She flinched when he grabbed her hair and tugged back her hair. He looked deep into her eyes, his a black void as emotionless as his face.

  “I was late,” he conceded with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Angel.”

  He nuzzled the side of her neck, his hands sliding around the front of her body. He cupped her, massaging her as his breath warmed her throat.

  She stared over his shoulder at his briefcase, her hands digging into his shoulder like claws.

  When he’d first put the manacle around her ankle—

  It’s lined with leather, Angel. Feel how soft it is. Isn’t it soft?

  —he’d locked her in with a key. Then he’d shown her a special place in his briefcase where he kept that key. A small pocket. A secret pocket.

  He always left the briefcase there, just out of reach, as if he had a mental circle in his mind of the exact circumference her length of chain allowed her.

  It was uncanny, how this house had been built. She could go into the kitchen. Out onto the deck. Upstairs, to the first room on the right, where she slept. All the way into that en-suite bathroom.

  But she couldn’t reach the front door. Or that small semi-circle of space where Drew put his briefcase when he was home.

  She’d tried to use tongs from the kitchen once. But he’d seen them, the lump under the rug. And he’d taken them away before she’d even had a chance to use them.

  How long before he forgot? How long before he moved it the inch that would let her reach it?

  Now she waited here for him. Naked, so she couldn’t be hiding anything. Demure and perfect.

  His little Angel.

  He thrust deep inside her, wrenching a cry from her. She buried her face in his neck and clung to him to him.

  One day he would come home, and his little Angel wouldn’t be here anymore.

  One day she’d be free.

  His little Angel would be in heaven, and he’d have to find another ankle for his chain. Another to warm his bed and suck his dick and make his food and wait for him to come home. Wait like a lapdog begging for scraps.

  One day… when she found the courage… then she’d be free.

  The End

  Thank You

  Thank you for taking the time to read my novel. I honestly hope you loved the story as much as I loved writing it.

  Would you do me the honor of leaving me a review? Every review helps a new reader discover an indie author, even if it’s just a sentence.

  You can click the link below to view this book on your preferred retailer.

  Mr. Sugar Universal Book Link

  Your Free Gift

  Would you like a free book? Join my mailing list, and you’ll receive a copy of

  “The Fox & the Wolf” - a book written exclusively for my subscribers. Plus, you’ll be the first to hear about new books, exclusive offers, and competitions!

  Click the picture or this link

  Click to Download The Fox & The Wolf

  The Fox Pit Series

  Everyone has a kink, but not everyone can afford to satisfy it.

  When Pearl, a broke stripper, accepts a 100,000 dollar paycheck in exchange for servicing a bunch of billionaires for a month, she thinks she’s struck it lucky. The secluded Fox Pit manor is an architectural masterpiece, and its owners are handsome and wealthy beyond belief.

  But when foxes start disappearing, Pearl discovers she’s just landed herself within the bloody grasp of a serial killer. With certain death looming, she has to get out of the mansion before her contract expires.

  Can she maintain her sanity long enough to make her escape before the killer close
s in?

  Read all three prequels free! Simply click the links below to dive into this sordid journey of lust, money, and power.

  Tormented by the Wolf

  Of Foxes & Wolves

  The Wolf’s Plaything

  Teaser: Fool’s Fold

  Branches and leaves snapped around the twilight-cloaked figure as it raced along an overgrown footpath. The trail led a haphazard route through the thinning forest.

  A path to freedom. An escape route.

  Light glanced off the yellow dress clinging to the woman’s shoulders. Her hair, greasy and bedraggled, flew out behind her as she dodged a tree trunk.

  She’d been on her feet for more than an hour. She was barefoot and not used to running, so her soles were bloodied and torn, her legs numb and aching. It was deep autumn in this part of the country. The chill of approaching night seeped through her flesh and settled into the marrow of her bones.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

  She’d been so careful with her plans. Every step had been calculated, plotted. She wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t thought it would work. Else, she could have stayed there, in that special hell, and let them keep doing those abominable things to her. Things she could never erase from her mind. Things she kept seeing night after night, things now branded into her dreams.

  A root snagged her foot.

  She tumbled to the carpet of dead leaves and crawling things, scrambling up an instant later. Her head swung around by instinct and she caught sight of the shape racing after her.

  She knew him so well that just a silhouette sufficed as identification. A scream throttled her breath. She pushed forward, her legs shrieking at her to stop, that they were about to collapse.

  How long had he been tracking her?

  He’d killed the others, the ones they’d sent away. She knew this because he’d told her. He’d told her while he was washing her hair in the bath and lathering soap on her skin.