Twisted Bitch (Sick and Twisted Book 2)

by Jaci J

  I couldn’t stop myself from visiting her, even though I know she’d kill me. I needed a reminder, a moment with my London, and not the bizarre little monster I created. I wanted the sweet, the soft, the perfect London I remember falling asleep with every night. I just wanted her for a moment.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed next to her, I’m careful not to wake her. I’ve been out of practice, but she doesn’t move when I pick up her glasses and set them on her nightstand. Watching her sleep soundly and so perfectly, it really drives home how bad I fucked up.

  My sensible side, my business side, begs to differ. I did what I had to do. I did what was needed and it was a plan that was already set in motion before she came into the picture. I handled business and I did what was right for my family and myself, but that business side is what ruined everything for us before it even truly had the chance to grow. The day I left her at my apartment, knowing what I was about to do, she was so happy and excited. I convinced myself that she would understand and forgive me for taking away the one thing I knew meant so much to her.

  It wasn’t until she was gone that I tried to see her point of things. I know she had worked hard, and I knew that she wanted to make her Grandfather proud, even when he obviously didn’t give two shits about how she would feel about having to be in business with a criminal like me. I thought she loved me enough to forgive me because she’d already forgiven so much. I let my arrogance and pride take over and shredded the heart of the woman I still love so desperately.

  I stood on the sidewalk that day and told her she was collateral damage. I called her naive, and told her to be a piece of ass who did nothing all day but spend my money. God, just the thought of the things that came out of my mouth that day make me sick to my fucking stomach. Nothing came out right because I was pissed. I needed her to understand, but I knew deep down that she was already gone. That’s not what she wanted and I knew it, but I wasn’t going to give it to her either. She truly wanted to be something, and even now, I’m not willing to give her the what she wants.

  I stay and watch her, wishing I wasn’t the man I was, but be the man she needed me to be. I can’t let her go, no matter how much I have to hurt her, but I will never let her go. She’ll have to come around, and I have to make her.

  This is the side of me that broke her heart and her dreams, and it’s the side I hate with a vengeance. It’s a part of me, however, that will never change.

  ~~~~~

  Since Thursday mornings blow up, there’s been nothing from London. Not nearly as many hateful looks as I expected, no weapons of the office supply variety, and no curses lobbed my way. She wouldn’t even look at me when I would pass her in the hall, except for the occasional sneer. Her door remained closed unless she was coming or going.

  It’s now Sunday and I’m dabbling again. Standing in her bedroom doorway, watching her sleep, I wonder if there are meetings, or some type of support groups for this shit. It’s likely I need counseling and some sort of medication. I’ve thought about going so many times, but fuck it. I may not ever go, but at least I can admit to myself, and myself only, that I have a problem.

  Lying on her stomach, her hair is all over the place, and the blanket is up to her shoulder blades. In these turbulent times, this is the way I like her. She’s not glaring at me, which is nice considering it’s the only facial expression I get from her anymore. I ache to touch and be closer to her, so I guess it’s too bad she hates me so much.

  I don’t linger as long as I’d like to. A message from Pete is pulling me away from London’s sleeping form. I hate to go, but it’s probably for the best. This addiction is only getting worse the longer I linger.

  ~~~~~

  It’s irritating when you’re being ignored, but there’s nothing worse than being ignored and hated at the same time. London ignores me ninety-nine percent of the time, and the other one percent is filled with scowls, middle fingers, slamming doors, and insults.

  “Fuck face,” she mutters as she passes my door. Watching her from behind, I follow the zipper up the back of her black dress that goes all the way up to her neck, and the urge to strangle her becomes unbearable. I want to wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze a little, just to let her know who has control here. London has mastered the fine art of pushing my limits, but she always has. It was just more tolerable when things weren’t this way.

  My thoughts are going wild when she slams her door, making the windows rattle and the black plaque outside her door sag to one side. I’m surprised her door hasn’t fallen off of its hinges, or the windows haven’t shattered. Fuck, if she slams that door again, I’m ripping the motherfucker off of the wall.

  A few hours later, I’m forced to partake in the painful task of informing the little monster that we have a dinner meeting that we need to attend together. The invite landed in my inbox yesterday. I hold off telling her for fear that she’ll staple my balls to my forehead. I had hoped she’d be in a better mood this morning, but her “fuck face” earlier told me she’s not.

  I’m sure me coming to her office will earn me a thumb tack in my seat, but she has to be there, and if I’m being honest, I get a kick out of riling her up. There is something seriously fucking sexy about her crazy ass, and there is something sick about me getting off on it. If only she could see how fucking perfect we are for each other.

  Walking to her door, I send out a small prayer for patience and hope like hell her office equipment is out of reach.

  I quietly open the door and see something I wasn’t expecting to see, but sure the fuck appreciate, nonetheless. That black and white striped dress she was wearing earlier is now bunched up over her hips. That dress was her imaginary death before, and now? Well, fuck, it’s something entirely different.

  A pair of white pants trail halfway up those long, tan legs, stopping just above her knees. Up and down, up and fucking down she hops. If she keeps at it, I might start jacking off right here in the hallway, everyone be damned.

  I stare like a pervert. From thigh to ass is nothing but naked skin that ends at a pair of black lace panties, barely covering her perfectly round ass cheeks. With her dress around her waist and her pants around her legs, she’s struggling, and I’m enjoying it immensely.

  Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

  The thin black straps of her dress sag down her arms, making her plump, round tits, the ones I want to suffocate myself in, are practically spilling out over the top. Jesus Christ. She’s bouncing up and down, hair flying everywhere and I realize I’m enjoying the show so much that I have no fucking clue what she’s doing, but I’m not going to stop her. Tits bouncing and ass jiggling―I think I may have died and gone to heaven.

  Four

  Miss Pants Dance

  London

  Have you ever tried to slide on a pair of pants that were a size to small? It’s impossible. I grabbed the wrong pair this morning because I was in a hurry, and now I’m stuck, fighting to the death with a pair of white, wide legged trousers that refuse to budge an inch.

  Why am I changing? I overheard Mr. Sneaky Bastard talking about a dinner meeting yesterday that he oh so conveniently forgot to mention to me. I have to change because I am grossly underdressed. My soul mission in life right now is to torture Dante daily with sexy, body hugging dresses, but today my plan has backfired. This dress is not appropriate for a nice business dinner so now I’m stuck fighting with a pair of pants that do not fit past my thighs.

  I jump. I wiggle. I squirm and tug, just to try to force myself into them. It’s a delicate dance, and it’s one that I’m close to giving up on.

  With every bounce, my boobs are an inch closer to coming out of my top. It’s not cute. I’m a fucking mess with sweat running down my brow and my artfully swept-up hair is a disaster, hanging chaotically in and around my face and neck. My makeup is sure to look like it’s melting off my face at this point.

  A loud throat clears and I damn near topple over, mid-jump. “Do you need a hand?” Dante asks, looking
amused. I’m going to kill him. Leaning against my office door, his arms are crossed as he smiles encouragingly at me. I should milk this for all I can because he’s seeing something he wants and can’t have anymore, but I don’t have it in me to gloat at the moment.

  “Go away,” I pant. Folded over at the waist, I twist my head and stare at him through my hair, waiting for him to go before I start the dreaded pants dance again.

  “Don’t stop on my account. That was … entertaining,” he groans. His eyes slide appreciatively from my chest to my ass and my skin feels even hotter.

  “I hate you.” Fuck it. He’s not leaving and I’m in no position to move him myself. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it all before.

  “I’m okay with that.” Yeah, I’m sure he is.

  “Have I ever told you how annoying you are?”

  He starts to take a step towards me and I tear the hand from my pants and hold it up to him. I know what he’s up to.

  “Stop right there. Get out of my office,” I say as I point to the door. Shaking his head, he keeps it up and heads for me anyways. Why does he not listen to me?

  “Get out Mr. Marx,” I spit. His step falters for a split second before he continues.

  “You know you test a man’s patience, my little monster.”

  Crouching down in front of me, he looks up at me with his cruel, beautiful eyes of sin. My heart stutters and my hate falters. How is it possible to hate and love this man with the same passion?

  “W-what the hell are you doing?” The rough calluses of his fingers graze my skin as he goes for the waist of my pants. I start to smack away his hands, but he only ignores my attempts.

  “Stop it. Let me fucking help you.” With skillful fingers, he pulls my pants up my thighs and over my ass while I wiggle in with each tug.

  Once they’re on, he crouches down in front of me, trailing his fingers up the three front buttons with his fingers. My heart beats painfully in my chest and my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  “Too bad you didn’t need help with your shoes.” The air in my lungs freezes and my body trembles. I need him gone … now.

  “Dante …” I try frantically to stop him, batting away his hands.

  “Let me do this, London.”

  Fastening each button reverently, he fulfills his self-appointed duties with a sad look in his eyes. In this moment, I just want to reach down and hold him. I miss him terribly. I miss him so fucking much, I almost consider giving in to what I want.

  Standing up at his full height, he tilts his head and looks down approvingly. Smiling softly, he whispers, “For just a moment, I almost forgot that you hate me.”

  ~~~~~

  It’s obvious I’m only here as bait. No one has uttered a single word to me, other than to compliment me while aiming their eyes directly at my chest. Yeah, yeah, I get it. My tits are nice and big. How fucking annoying.

  No one has asked for my input, and no one cares for my opinion. I’m only here as eye candy, which is apparently all they think I am. I’m here to lure and hook―nothing more, nothing less.

  I was optimistic about this meeting, but clearly, that was a misguided thought.

  Staring at my soup, I try to fight back the angry outburst of obscenities that are trying to claw their way out of my mouth. I’m mad, and my fucking feelings are hurt. I’m smart, but would they know that? Of course they wouldn’t. I would expect this treatment from every man at this table, but not from Dante. He knows how important this company is to me and my work in it, yet he’s pretending like I’m nothing more than a pretty face with a nice body. When something regarding work was brought up, he spoke before I could say a word. He didn’t include me in the conversation, not once.

  Suffering through dinner and long-winded, self-absorbed conversations that seem to be more about themselves than about work, I’m close to stabbing myself with my own salad fork. I need to get out of here, but I refrain and settle for a fourth drink instead. I’m feeling dizzy, woozy, and really bitchy.

  “Well, I think we should retire to the bar. Miss DelaCourt?” The only other attractive man at the table, besides Dante, asks. He’s also made no attempt to hide the fact that he’s been eye-fucking me all through dinner.

  Looking up, Dante catches my eye and shakes his head no. Oh, so now he doesn’t want me to be stared at?

  “Sure,” I tell the man while smiling at Dante. They all look at me as nothing more than pussy, so I may as well use it to my advantage, right?

  He takes my hand and helps me up, which I’m grateful for since the room starts to tilt a little, and we make our way to the bar. Once we’re seated, I stiffen at the pass of an unfamiliar hand on my back. My skin breaks out in goosebumps and my stomach churns in the most uncomfortable of ways. Mr. Andrews’ hand starts to travel from my thigh to my back, and down to my thigh again. Leaning into me, he smells of liquor and desperation.

  “You’re very easy on the eyes, beautiful,” he says, reaching up to touch my hair. I should have left when I had the chance.

  “Thanks.” Peeking through my lashes, I look over to Dante, who is standing a few feet away, talking with the other dinner guests. He’s staring a hole right through me, ignoring everyone. He always did love to watch me. Catching my eye, he tips his head in a silent question. I hate him, but if I could crawl inside his jacket and hide right now, I would.

  Stuffing away the urge to wave him over, I turn back to my drink. Fiddling with my straw, Mr. Andrews places a hand over mine.

  “How about we get out of here?” Not gonna happen.

  “She stays,” Dante says.

  “Ah, you don’t mind, Dante,” Mr. Andrews smiles dismissively, brushing him off.

  “She stays here,” He states more harshly, pointing a finger right by his side. Mr. Andrews wants to argue, but Dante already has me out of my seat and onto my feet before he gets the chance.

  A big hand flattens against my lower back, setting my skin on fire. “London, I need a moment,” Dante growls down at me.

  “No.”

  “That wasn’t a question.” Yeah, I know the routine. He doesn’t ask, he tells. I haven’t forgotten how this works with him.

  “Whatever, you bossy fuck,” I mutter. He’s relentless. I’m not getting out of here unless he says whatever he has to say first.

  I’m pushed hastily down the back hall towards the glowing green exit sign. My feet drag as I try to stomp down the hall in protest. No, I don’t want to stay or go with Mr. Andrews, but I also don’t want to stay or go with Dante, either. What I want is to forget I ever met him, but there’s not a chance in hell of that happening if he has his way.

  Swaying side to side, I manage to keep up by a small miracle while Dante ushers me quickly along. I’m having a hell of a time keeping up with his long legs. God, he’s fast.

  Pushing through the back door, he holds it open for me, throwing a hand out for me to go first. Here we go.

  “It’s time for you to go home, London.” Gazing up at his perfectly symmetrical face, slightly crooked nose, pursed lips, and dark, furrowed brows, I can’t stop myself from giggling. He’s delusional. One minute he wants me near, then the next he’s sending me away. He can’t have it both ways. Pick a fucking way, man!

  “It’s time to go fuck yourself, Mr. Marcello,” I giggle. You know he’s really bad about following rules. I distinctly recall telling him to call me Miss DelaCourt, and so far he’s the only one who hasn’t.

  “London, I swear to God―”

  “You swear to God what?” I interrupt him, “That you’re a fucking pig? That you’re a fucking asshole?” Well that made no sense. I don’t know why I even argue with this man.

  “What?” He sputters stupidly. If I wasn’t so tipsy, I’d hit him, but I’m sure I’d only end up hurting myself or falling on my ass.

  “You fucking used me, again. You brought me here to flaunt me around like I’m some stupid bimbo.”

  Leaning against the hallway wall, he swallows roughly and cro
sses his arms defensively. I know that whatever is about to come out of his mouth is something that’ll piss me off. He’s fluent in Pig-ish, after all.

  “London?” He tests, treading lightly.

  “Honesty, asshole,” I demand. Growling, he brutally shoves his hands in his pockets. Now he’s getting testy. Good. I’m looking for a fight.

  “Here is some honesty for your ass,” he spits. Oh, boo. He’s mad, but so am I.

  “Look at those men, London. Do you think they give a shit about what you say, regardless of how relevant it is?” No, probably not, but at the very least he could have warned me. He could have given me an opportunity to participate. He could have engaged in conversation with me. I went in there and tried to make it known that I knew what I was doing, but I was scoffed at, then promptly ignored, by Dante.

  “But why use me? Why not hire a hooker and leave me out of your shit.”

  “Look at you,” he nods down at me. I know exactly what I look like. I see myself in the mirror every day.

  “All they care about are tits and ass, Dante.”

  “True. Your tits and ass are perfect, baby, but they know who you are. What is a perfect body without a beautiful face to go with it?” He runs a finger down my cheek, slow and sweet, and I have to fight the urge to bite the fucker off.

  “What’s a perfect body with a beautiful face without the brains?” He taps a finger on my head. A hooker, that’s what it is.

  “What’s all that without the name attached to it? London, what’s a goddamn man like me without a woman like you next to me?”

  He can’t be serious. Is he saying that I’m nothing without my body, my looks, and my last name to him and everyone else?

  “You’re a fucking low down dirty pig.” I can’t begin to understand how he thinks the shit that comes out of his mouth is okay. I’m sure he believes whatever bullshit he spins up there in his head makes perfect sense, but no matter how he spins it, it’ll never be okay.