Twisted Lies 2

by Sedona Venez

  Rocco slammed Ben’s head in the water. Eventually, the water stilled. He was under, but he’d stopped struggling. When he was pulled up, he didn’t gasp for air. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he dropped to the floor. He didn’t move.

  Ram pulled off his gloves while looking over at Max and Rocco. “Bury him somewhere he won’t be found and then clean this place and get rid of all the evidence.”

  They both nodded.

  I pulled out my cell, quickly swiping my finger across it. “Kevin, pull up everything you can on UF-Star and Pomtonic International.”

  “Will do,” Kevin responded before disconnecting.

  “I have a feeling once Bigsby finds out we’re digging into UF-Star and Pomtonic International, he’ll be more than happy to shove Jeff out of hiding and put him right on our doorstep.” I looked over at Ram while grabbing my jacket. “Let’s go. We have lots of work to do.”

  THREE

  SINTHIA

  My eyes snapped open to the sound of my cell phone ringing. Grumbling, I rolled over to grab it off the nightstand. “Yes?” I answered.

  “Sinthia Michaels?” the man drawled.

  Groaning, I gingerly sat up in bed, putting my cell on speaker. “Yes?”

  “My name is Kevin Rawley. I’ve been calling you for days.” Kevin’s voice was annoyed.

  I swung my legs over the bed and leaned forward, putting my elbows on my knees and clutching my head. I was exhausted from working on my collection late into the night.

  “I left you several voice messages and sent multiple emails.”

  I could hear the exasperation in his voice.

  “And?” I snapped.

  “I work for Core McKay. I’m his accountant, and by virtue of your contract with him, I’m now yours, too.”

  Sighing, I sat up before scrubbing my hands over my face. “How can I help you, Kevin?” I stood and decided to get a cup of coffee before taking a nice cold shower.

  “Why the fuck do I deal with this shit?” he muttered under his breath. “Like I said on all the messages I left for you, I need access to your business records—more specifically, your invoices.”

  “No,” I responded bluntly while putting on my silk kimono and going downstairs. “If McKay wants my records, tell him to man up, call me, and demand them,” I countered.

  I stepped into my gourmet kitchen, pressed the button on the espresso machine, and placed a cup beneath the brew head to capture the wonderful stream of black liquid gold.

  I was chilled to the bone at the thought of how many things had gone wrong in the last couple months. I had gone from being the sole proprietor of a thriving fashion business—one that had been ready to go live in a matter of months with my highly anticipated Sin Michaels women’s wear collection in luxury goods department stores—to none of the retailers willing to return my calls. Moreover, the most frustrating part of it all was Core McKay, the gorgeous but major asshole, now owned ninety-seven percent of my business. Either I had some pretty fucked-up karma or fate was just playing a bad joke on me. Either way, I was royally screwed.

  “You know what you’re doing doesn’t make sense,” Kevin stated flatly.

  “I’m still the designer, and he won’t make a damn dime if I decide to sit on my ass and do nothing.” When sufficient coffee flowed into the cup, I lifted it to my lips and took a small sip, savoring a much-needed awakening.

  It wasn’t about playing games. It was about respect. I wasn’t going to stand for McKay sending his minions every time he wanted something from me. And I didn’t give a shit that he now owned ninety-seven percent of my business. I wasn’t about to bend down and grab my fucking ankles every time the king of bullshit bellowed from his damn throne.

  “Ms. Michaels, he’s going to get what he wants. Fuck it. Let’s be blunt. He already has what he wants—ninety-seven percent of your business.”

  “A valid point. However, I won’t be treated like a prison yard bitch.”

  When he chuckled, I jumped.

  “I love your spirit. I truly do, but I’m sure you can’t be happy that all your retailers have pulled out of the deal to distribute your collection.”

  My body tightened in tension. “No, I’m not.”

  “And your bills? How are they being paid?” Kevin asked acerbically.

  I put down my cup and crossed my arms, staring at my unfinished Sin Michaels collection, which was hanging on racks in parts of my four-thousand-square-foot townhouse. I sighed heavily. There was no working around the missing custom fabric I’d ordered. I had no hope in hell of getting it until I paid the overdue bill, which should have been cleared days ago.

  “They’re not,” I muttered.

  I didn’t feel good about dodging calls from Nia, the president of the fabric distribution company. Moving around some of my assets to make the payment would get the bill paid, but it would also leave me living off of next to nothing until my collection hit the high-end retail stores. In theory, that would have worked if they all hadn’t pulled out of their agreements to carry my line.

  “Play this smart, Ms. Michaels. I’ve seen the newspaper article that touted you as the next big fashion maven. Don’t let your pride dictate your future.”

  With an aggrieved sigh, I pulled out my notepad. “What’s your email address?”

  He reeled off his address. I jotted it down before saying, “Check your email in five minutes. I’ll send you a link giving you access to all my online business documents and then a separate email with the password.” I paused. “Look, I have a massive five-figure bill for custom fabric I ordered. I’m in a real jam, and I can’t finish my collection without it. If you could just handle that first, it would be helpful.”

  “All payments have to be approved by Mr. McKay, so I’d advise you to give him a call,” Kevin stated.

  “Why can’t you just deal with it?”

  “Because I’m just the accountant. He’s the boss. So you need to call him.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “No thinking. Just do it. Let me give you his number,” he grumbled.

  I rolled my eyes heavenward.

  “Sinthia, I’m trying to help.”

  “Go.”

  Kevin gave me McKay’s number and I took it down.

  “And, Sinthia, stop fucking around. Just call him.” He hung up.

  “It was nice talking to you too, Kevin,” I replied sarcastically, slamming my cell onto the counter.

  ***

  Hours later, after sketching until my fingers hurt, I’d had enough of being cooped up in the house. I had a couple of hours to burn before heading over to my scheduled appointment at my friend Francisco “Cisco” Rodriguez’s upscale boutique. It was just enough time to partake in some much-needed window-shopping.

  Stuffing my cell into my pocket, I grabbed my handbag and stepped out of my townhouse, sighing as the fresh air caressed my face. I loved this time of year. It was right after Labor Day, but the air was still sultry with summer temperatures refusing to quietly go away to make room for fall.

  Glancing around my tree-lined neighborhood only a few steps from Central Park, I ran down the stairs before skidding to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I shivered from the eerie feeling of being watched.

  The more I tried to ignore the feeling, the more creeped out I became. Paranoid, my eyes darted around as I expected to see my stalker, Jaxon, emerging from the shadows. But there was nothing, only harried New Yorkers hurrying home after work.

  “I’m totally losing it,” I mumbled.

  Deciding to walk instead of taking a cab, I quickened my steps, pushing my way through the Manhattan foot traffic. I loved the energy of New York City. I could meander for hours, but today, I had things to do.

  Grabbing a cup of coffee from the coffee cart, I sipped on it while strolling through the heavy pedestrian gridlock. Finally, I arrived at one of my favorite upscale department stores.

  I was giddy when I stepped through the double brass do
ors, which kept out the hustle of Manhattan, leaving customers to shop in peace. Like a kid in a candy store, I practically skipped past the chic cosmetic counters. Some people would go to yoga class to relax. My vices were grandiose department stores. I loved to stroll through them, imagining the day my collection would be prettily featured for women to drool over and buy. Even though I had clients to see today, I needed this—just a little me time to dream.

  My heart raced with excitement as I wandered through the store, stopping occasionally to touch a garment that caught my eye, before heading to my destination—couture heaven. Riding up the escalator, I arrived at my goal, the prime high traffic spot on the floor where another trendy designer’s clothing line was presented like delicious eye candy.

  “Someday,” I whispered.

  I was so close yet so far. My collection was almost finished, but with my horrible luck, I would be standing at the door, looking in with no entry allowed. The only person who had the power to give me access was Core McKay. One little call—that was what he wanted. Then my business could resume. He would give me the rest of the money. It was stupid and illogical not to swallow my pride and call him, but I knew the call would be a precursor to a slippery slope.

  Core McKay had thrown down the gauntlet. He was in control, and he wanted me to submit. Just the thought of rolling over in obedience left a bad taste in my mouth.

  I was jolted out of my thoughts by the cold drawl of a woman saying, “Still dreaming, huh?”

  I recognized the voice. My body tightened. It had been years since I heard her hateful icy voice.

  Pivoting on my heels, I turned around to see the one woman I’d never wanted to see again—my narcissistic, alcoholic mother.

  “Hello, Grace.”

  As usual, not one strand of Grace’s blond hair was out of place in her tight bun. Her hourglass figure—large chest, small waist, slender thighs—was encased in skintight designer jeans and an expensive-looking silk blouse that showed way too much cleavage. In essence, she looked like a woman desperately trying to look young. It was an epic fail.

  “Sin,” Grace bit out, wobbling forward.

  I scrunched up my nose when I smelled the alcohol seeping from her pores. Grace was drunk, which was nothing new. I’d spent my entire childhood suffering under her drunken tirades and mood swings.

  The woman who had given birth to me was still beautiful on the outside, but from the derisive twisted sneer of her lips as she looked me up and down with distaste, she was still a hateful, ugly mess inside.

  Grace’s frosty blue eyes zeroed in on my body. “I see you’re still working on losing those last few stubborn pounds.” She smiled. “A personal trainer should fix that right up.”

  In other words, Grace thought I looked fat.

  I smiled coolly. I was far from fat. I was curvy. But from experience, I knew this was Grace’s desperate attempt to chip away at my self-esteem to feed her insatiable ego.

  That shit wasn’t happening.

  When I was a teenager, I would wilt at her digs about my weight. I would run to the bathroom and purge all my food, punishing myself for not being a size six like her. But not anymore. Now I was a confident woman who’d worked years to heal myself after a lifetime of emotional and mental abuse by Grace. There was no fucking way she could break me.

  I looked back at her with just as much venom. Then I nodded to the multiple shopping bags she had clutched in her hands. “And I see you’re still living a life of champagne dreams on a beer budget,” I said disdainfully.

  Grace’s face hardened.

  I smirked. I’d heard through the gossip hags that Grace’s teahouse was nearly bankrupt, and she’d been looking for husband number two to keep her in the lifestyle she thought she deserved.

  “I’m doing well, you disrespectful wench. Can’t say the same for you. After all, you’re standing here, lusting after things you obviously can’t afford.”

  I made a face. The woman didn’t know shit about me.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” said a man with a slightly hoarse-sounding deep voice.

  I looked up to see him smiling down at me. I stared right back with just as much appreciation. Dude was hot as hell. He wasn’t too manicured or metrosexual. He was well-groomed with that I’m-not-trying-too-hard look.

  Jesus.

  “Hello,” he said.

  He was looking at me, but it was Grace who purred, “Hello.” Immediately standing straight while dropping her bags, she ran her pale fingers over her blond hair.

  His eyes skated across her with disinterest before returning to rest on me with warmth. A nasty frown crossed Grace’s face. For the first time in my life, I noticed the jealous gleam in her eyes. She was looking at me all Silence of the Lambs-like, as if she wanted to rip off my skin and wear it like some fucking fur coat.

  He smiled wider. “Sinthia Michaels?”

  I turned to face him. “Yes?” I answered.

  He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nathaniel Butler, merchandising manager for women’s clothing. Lily Sanchez reports to me.”

  I remembered Lily—the energetic buyer from this Fifth Avenue luxury goods department store—had gushed about her hot boss. Well, I could see why.

  I shook his hand before saying, “Nice to meet you, Nathaniel. How’s Lily?”

  I was distracted when Nathaniel turned our handshake into a half-handshake and half-caress thing before I had the wits to pull my hand away. Disgust was clear on Grace’s face as she absorbed our exchange.

  He shook his head. “Hell to work with since your deal fell through.”

  I smiled, knowing Lily’s headstrong personality. She’d probably staged a one-woman protest. After all, she was the one who’d pushed for my deal from day one. When Lily had walked into Cisco’s boutique and instantly fallen in love with my couture clothing he sold in his store, she’d changed my life forever. In the blink of an eye, at twenty-three years old, I’d moved from fledgling darling of the fashion world to having several luxury goods buyers clamoring to carry my edgy Sin Michaels women’s wear line in their stores. But when the stores mysteriously backed away from my deal, Lily had been just as pissed and puzzled as I was.

  “At least I have one person who still believes in my collection,” I responded.

  He smiled. “Two. I wouldn’t have backed her idea of bringing your collection to our store if I didn’t believe in you.” He touched my shoulder. “But all of that is water under the bridge now that your deal is back on the table.”

  My mouth fell open. “What?”

  Nathaniel continued. “It was unfortunate you missed the great conference call we had this morning, but your new business partner, Core McKay, explained you had a meeting conflict.” He smiled. “He smoothed over all of the management’s concerns over the viability of carrying your collection in our store, and he assured us your clothing line will be delivered on time. It’s a relief to be once again doing business with you, Sinthia.”

  My fists balled up by my sides. “I’m confused. There was a conference call about my business and my collection this morning?” I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “And your store has agreed to carry my collection again?” I was excited yet pissed about the new predicament.

  He looked uncomfortable as he cleared his throat. “Yes. We’re back onboard with carrying your collection.” He frowned. “Mr. McKay didn’t inform you?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Confusion clouded his gaze before it disappeared. “Wait, I get it. He did say you’d be dealing strictly with the creative end of the business and he’d be handling all the business decisions.”

  What in the world is going on?

  My mouth compressed into a thin line. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I misspoke.” He looked at his watch. “Anyway, I’m late for a meeting. It was nice seeing you, Ms. Michaels.”

  He rushed away, leaving me staring at his back.

  Grace leaned in with a spiteful mask. “So… having bus
iness problems? I’m hiring a hostess at my teahouse. You could always apply.”

  Her tone ignited my temper.

  “You can’t afford me,” I delivered between drawn together teeth. “However, I heard your teahouse is about to be shut down, so you should worry about your own damn self.” I smiled coldly. “I think management is taking applications for clerks upstairs. Run along now and apply.”

  I flipped my hair and walked away with a smile on my face, swaying my hips even though anger was burning in the pit of my stomach.

  How dare McKay just take over my business as if he owned it!

  I couldn’t even see past the rage to the rational side of what he’d done. He’d smoothed things over with at least one retailer. All I could focus on was he hadn’t had the respect to tell me about the conference call and his high-handed move of telling the retailer that he was now the decision-maker. This would not do.

  I stepped out of the store and ran smack into the middle of a throng of pushy New Yorkers when my cell rang. I dug it out of my pocket and immediately recognized the number.

  “Hi, Nia,” I greeted while navigating my way to Cisco’s boutique.

  “Hi, Sin,” Nia responded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. It’s about the shipment of the custom fabric you ordered.”

  “I apologize, but things have been hectic lately.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Any delay in shipment of the expensive custom prints I’d ordered from Nia’s factory in Asia meant the fabric wouldn’t arrive in time, halting my whole collection. “I’ll get the money by the end of the week. Look, I—”

  Nia cut me off. “Sin, what are you talking about? The bill was just paid by your partner, Core McKay. Since it’s such a big order, I just wanted to confirm the delivery date so you’d be available to receive it.”

  I skidded to a stop. A man bumped into me from behind, and he shot me an annoyed glare while grumbling for me to move the hell out of the way. I shot him the bird before walking over to the edge of the sidewalk near a parking meter.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Nia?”

  Nia cleared her throat. “I spoke to Mr. McKay personally, and he made the payment on your order.”