by K. Webster
Everything was perfect in their little world.
Until she delivered me.
I came into this world premature, screaming, and completely unmanageable. My dark hair and almost black eyes mimicked that of my mother’s. It was clear that her past had come back to haunt her. And suddenly, her perfect world had been turned upside down by a child that was clearly a spawn of Satan himself.
Every picture thereafter of my mother had been unhappy. While Willa and Dad grinned innocently for the pictures, Mom and I glared as if the camera had the ability to reveal the wickedness that seemed to saturate our souls.
Three weeks after my second birthday, when Willa was just ten, Mom emerged from her bedroom carrying a pink suitcase Dad had gotten her for Christmas. She calmly pulled the fish sticks out of the oven and divvied them up between her two girls. I’d whined about wanting chicken, not fish, and she simply nodded her head—as if to herself—and told us not to leave the house until Dad got home.
Around six, when our father came home and discovered the “Dear John” note on his dresser in the bedroom, we learned Mom had bailed. At two, I didn’t understand. But at sixteen, I understand clearly.
She hated me and the very fact I reminded her of herself. The black, gloomy world she’d come from. And she couldn’t bear to be reminded of her own father. So she took the easy way out and left all three of us.
Luckily for Willa and me, Dad was a better mom than she could have ever dreamed of being. He loved us more than we deserved and provided for us in every way he could. I adored my Dad. When Willa married Tate four years ago and flew the coup, Dad and I grew even closer.
Everything was fine, until my fifteenth birthday.
Willa and Tate were coming for dinner. Dad had made my favorite, homemade chicken Alfredo pizza. And he’d even let me open my present early. The drawing pads and charcoal pencils, while not expensive, were exactly what I wanted. I wasn’t that good yet, but I loved creating images that seemed to be a reflection of the nefarious soul that lived within me—a piece of my mother that lived on through me. By sketching out those black and white smoky images, I felt as if I were removing parts of her that were so intricately threaded within me.
Life was pretty much perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
Until the exact moment that my world turned upside down.
Twenty-seven Xanax will kill someone if they take them all at once. Especially when they chase them with a fifth of Jack.
I should know.
That lovely concoction killed my father.
I remember pulling the pizza from the oven and hollering for Dad. And Willa had just texted to tell me they were ten minutes away. When he didn’t answer my calls, I found my father blue on the bathroom floor. Apparently, he was done internalizing the pain of our mother leaving him—a pain he hid so well, but it clearly ate him away from the inside. The note was simple and sweet, just like Dad.
My Willa and Rose, I love you and I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to be the father you both deserved.
The doctors tried and failed to save my father.
Just like now.
They’re failing to save my sister.
I’m not sure what I did to deserve losing everyone I loved. For the past year, my sister has tried desperately at the young age of twenty-four to be everyone for me. Father, mother, and big sister.
But my wickedness seems to have poisoned her as well.
It started out as being sick to her stomach. We’d even secretly hoped her and Tate were finally pregnant. But she grew sicker and sicker. My sister, ever the stubborn one, refused to be seen by a doctor.
It’s just a bug, she’d promised.
It’ll pass, she’d said.
Tate and I begged for her to go. It wasn’t until in a twisted repeat of history, I found her lying in her own vomit on the bathroom floor. Her skin as blue as Dad’s was. Thankfully, we managed to get her to the hospital.
Since then, she’s had seven seizures.
Seven in three days.
And the stupid doctor does nothing.
“Hey, sugar,” one of the nurses flirts with someone behind me as she approaches, “he’s with a patient but will be in his office after.”
Some guy walks past me and I catch a whiff of his cologne. Clean and too manly for a boy who looks like he’s still in college. If I weren’t worrying over my sister, I’d be ogling anything and everything from the opposite sex, including this guy that strides past me and then disappears down a corridor to the right. That’s kind of my thing. Gushing over boys. “Boy Crazy” is what Tate and Willa had called me and then laughed about it over dinner one night.
Living with my sister and her husband, my now legal guardians, hasn’t been too bad. Tate works long hours but has always been kind to me. He and Willa had even paid for me to take art classes at the community center after school twice a week.
Again, life had almost been perfect.
Now, I’m waiting for it all to come crashing down on top of me.
If this life takes yet another person I love away, I won’t have anyone left.
A soft click indicates Tate emerging from her hospital room and I lift my gaze to find the red, teary eyes of my brother-in-law.
“Rose…” he chokes out and then pinches the bridge of his nose as a sob wracks through him.
Tears stream down over my cheeks and I shake my head. “No, Tate. Please.”
He opens his arms to me, and I run into them. “I’m sorry, honey. So, so, sorry.”
We cry together for what seems like hours, clutching onto one another.
Tate Cantrell is all I have left in this world.
I wonder how long until he’s gone too…
Chapter 1
Rose
Five years later…
“We need more time, baby. I swear this will work.”
I frown and turn on my pout that always works wonders for my husband. “But I don’t want to be here anymore. I miss you. Do you have any idea what it’s like to suck that disgusting man’s hairy dick?”
A growl rumbles in his throat, and I smile at my reflection in the mirror. My blood red fingernails are holding my phone to my ear as I paint on more mascara with the other hand.
“I hate when you tell me the shit you do, Ro.”
“Well, I hate that you make me do the shit I do, Tay.”
He huffs into the phone again, and I can imagine him pacing our New York City, expensive loft, running his fingers through his blond hair, his bicep bulging as he does it. Tate’s as good looking as they come. Tall, strapping, and a jaw so chiseled it could cut diamonds. There was a time when I had a simple girly crush on my brother-in-law. Once Willa died, that crush evolved into something explosive. I wasn’t even seventeen when he fucked me for the first time on the bed he used to share with my sister.
“Listen,” he says softly, “this won’t last much longer. The dirty bastard is dying. Only a few more days and he’ll keel the fuck over. Then, you’re coming back into my bed where I’ll keep you until we’re both good and sexually satisfied. Once you’ve had enough orgasms to make your pretty little heart happy, then we’ll go spend that asshole’s money. Every goddamned dime.”
My blood boils at the mention of the reason why I’m here. Walter Bach, the sixty-eight year old real estate mogul with a heart condition, has somehow managed to toss enough money to the local judges to get himself out of nine sexual harassment lawsuits, all of which he was no doubt guilty of. One of the girls, and I say girl because she was only sixteen, had ended up taking her life after his crime went unpunished. Walt is a fucking pig. A monster. Someone I will enjoy watching die. Tate and I researched this jerk for months until we figured out how we’d con him right out of his entire fortune, and his life.
I’ve been with good ‘ol Walt for two months and he’s already given me a sleek, silver Mercedes-AMG GT-S with cherry red, leather interior, his Black American Express card, and a 10-carat, marquise-shaped diam
ond engagement ring.
I miss my wedding ring though. The one that belonged to Willa that Tate had redesigned just for me. Of course I couldn’t bring that along for my mission. I never do. All ties to Tate and our life together have to be hidden. Calling him from my cell while in Walter’s house is playing with fire.
“Can I fly out to your office tomorrow while Walt goes out of town for a meeting? We could fuck on your desk like old times and spend the entire weekend together,” I purr breathily into the phone.
He groans. “Jesus, Rose.”
“Please…”
My pleas are cut short when someone bangs on the door.
“Claudia,” Walt booms from the other side, “are you in there?”
“Shit,” I hiss into the phone, “I have to go. Think about what I said. Tomorrow at lunch, baby.”
I don’t wait for his response and hang up the phone. “I’ll be right out, babe. Just freshening up for my soon-to-be husband.” My singsong voice through the door pleases him and he chuckles with delight before heavily padding away from the door.
Quickly, I dress in the sexy, black lingerie I’d bought in hopes of driving Walter crazy. The more I amp him up, the harder it’ll be on his already worn out ticker. Wild sex and partying like we’re both twenty-one, not just me, are sure to be taking its toll on the old fuck.
Once I’m satisfied that I look like a porn star, I slip on my stilettoes and hide my phone in my purse. I exit the bathroom and strut around his massive home until I find him leaned up against his bar, wearing a sly grin.
I suppress the shudder that threatens to ripple through me and instead beam at him. “Do you like this one, baby?”
His hungry eyes devour my scantily clad body before meeting my own seemingly needy gaze. “God, woman, you’re going to kill me.”
If he only knew.
“You like it,” I tease and make my way behind the bar.
He watches me while I make him a Red bull and vodka. I wait for him to suck it down before making another.
“I think,” I tell him almost shyly, which is a fucking farce, “maybe we could get kinky tonight.”
His eyes widen, and I know the look. My words get his cock hard as fuck. “Kinky how?”
“Role play. Bondage. Ass sex. Whatever you’re in the mood for…” I trail off and bat my long lashes at him, almost innocently.
He reaches over and grabs my wrist. “Will you pretend you’re underage again? I like when you do that. Tell me you’re a virgin and call me Daddy.”
I laugh because if I don’t, I might throw up on his ugly face. “You want me to struggle or am I supposed to like it?”
His eyes darken and he scratches at the white scruff along his jaw. “I want you to struggle and beg for your mommy to save you.”
The mention of my bitch mother sours my mood and I frown. “Okay. But let’s get fucked up first, baby.”
I’ve pulled out all the stops.
Gave him the best blow job known to man.
Fingered his ass hole while I sucked on his balls.
Let him do his weird, kinky role playing shit.
And liquored him up well.
It’s time to pull out the big guns.
“Walter, untie me. I have some coke in my purse. God, I orgasm so good on that shit,” I say in a sultry voice and try to look over my shoulder at him.
“You’re insane, woman,” he grunts as he pads out of the room.
I tug at the bindings on my wrists and wish I could wriggle free. Realizing the fat bastard has me secured well, I relax and wait for more of his sick bullshit.
“Who’s Tate?”
The name on Walt’s lips chills my blood. “Untie me, Walt.”
A lamp crashes to the floor and I jump.
“I dialed the number back and some man answers the phone with ‘hey, baby.’ Who the hell else calls you, baby, besides me?” he snarls.
“It’s not what you think. That’s an old friend from high school. Walter he’s gay!” I lie, my voice becoming shrill.
More shit slams to the floor as Walt goes into a rage. “You stupid bitch! You’re playing me. Fucking playing me. My attorney even told me so and I laughed in his goddamned face. I thought you loved me.”
I turn on the waterworks for two reasons: one, I’m caught and that just sucks, and two, I’m trapped on his bed without any way to defend myself.
“P-Please,” I sob. “I swear it’s not what you think.” But it is. It’s worse even.
“Fucking lies. Why don’t we call him back and ask him?”
The sound of the phone ringing on speaker echoes through the bedroom and I start crying. This time when Tate answers, he wisely doesn’t say a word.
“You two fucking me over?” Walter demands.
“Where’s…” Tate says with a growl, “Claudia?”
He doesn’t reveal my real name, thankfully. And thank God he knows exactly where I’m at. But that won’t help me if it takes him twelve hours to get here by plane.
ABOUT THIS STORY:
When justice isn’t being served, sometimes you have to pull on an apron and be the one to serve it up yourself. With a smile of course.
Skip to Track 11
Prologue
Hello, my name is Jake. And I am a serial killer. Before you turn your nose up to my story, know this, I break all the rules. I’m charismatic. I’m handsome. I love to fuck. And I kill.
Who do I kill?
The annoying fuckers.
The evil ones.
The abusive assholes.
The road ragers.
The child predators.
And line cutters. Yes, it might sound extreme, but is incredibly true. Don’t test me. Stay the fuck in your place, asshole.
How do I do it?
However the fuck I please.
Why don’t I get caught?
Because I’m really fucking good at what I do.
Oh, and I’m a cop. So there’s that…
Chapter One
My blood is fucking boiling with rage. The asshole thought he could escape. One doesn’t simply escape from my clutches. Either I let them think they escaped or they leave by means of the sewage drain in my shed. They don’t simply escape. So where the fuck is number forty-eight?
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I mutter under my breath as I tiptoe through my shed, peeking behind barrels. Number forty-seven and forty-six are in two of them. Still cooking. In acid, that is.
Ping.
A tiny sound.
That fucker is here—just hiding really well. I do what I do best. Halting my movement, I close my eyes and listen. My heart slows as I hunt out this asshole. He wouldn’t be here in the first place had I not stumbled upon his ass over on 42nd street. I was passing by the alleyway when I heard grunting. Ever the vigilante, I crept along the deteriorating brick walls to find some loser raping what appeared to be a very young prostitute. She was nearly dead by the time I arrived, because his hands were around her throat choking the life out of her with his dick inside of her limp body.
Prostitutes aren’t my thing.
Evil motherfuckers are.
All it took was one pop over the head with my crowbar and the punk popped out of the girl, hitting the pavement with a nice thud of his head. Her pulse was low but she would live. He, on the other hand, would not.
Ping.
To the left, near the shed door. I don’t think so, Mr. Rapist.
Snapping my eyes open, I prowl silently over to the left and watch the opening from behind another barrel—Number forty-five. Almost done cooking.
ABOUT THIS STORY:
For Natalie Davis, life is a blur. Life is one depressing haze as she attempts to make it through each new day and forget about the last. When she thinks she can’t take any more of the heartache and pain that plagues her daily, a handsome stranger named Henry enters her life in the subway of all places.
With his sudden appearance, Henry brings with him a light—a ligh
t that has never been present before in her life. He paints her black world with every color of the rainbow and she soon finds herself looking forward to their ride on the Green Line to and from work each day. Henry becomes the sun that chases away all of the shadows. Finally, things are looking up for Natalie and she can look forward to a future that might have room for the one thing she’s always avoided.
Love.
In Natalie’s life, however, there’s always a catch. Each time she thinks she’s found happiness, the tragic cycle of her life begins again and she’s back to square one. She wonders if, with Henry though, she’ll finally be able to let her guard down and enjoy being in the moment.
When dark secrets are revealed about her life, Natalie feels herself being drawn into the colorless void she’s always so desperately tried to crawl away from.
Will Henry be there for her in the end, lighting the path, or will she once again be thrust into a despondent place she is far too familiar with?
Alone.
Skip to Track 12
Prologue
Then
Depression.
That’s always their diagnosis.
“How can we help her, Dr. Morris?” Mother questions, always the advocate for my health and overall wellbeing. “The meds the last doctor tried made her…”
Psychotic.
I ignore the thick, unexplainable ache in my chest and tug at a strand of my dark hair, twirling it around my finger. Anything to avoid the concerned eyes of both my mother and the doctor.
“Well,” he sighs. “I’d like to try her on a new antidepressant. This one seems to have less side effects on patients in my opinion. I also want to talk to her. We should schedule weekly sessions.”
The desire to roll my eyes is overwhelming. Just like the last doctor, they want to dope me up with pills and ‘talk’ about what’s making me sad. But what they really mean, is they want to listen to themselves drone on—what they really want is more of my mother’s money. The pain in my chest threatens to rip me in two as I wonder how expensive this amazing breakthrough is going to cost her. She’ll just pick up more shifts at the diner—shifts that already leave bags under her eyes and callouses on her feet.
