Masterful 3 (An Erotic Dark Romance)

by Jesse Joren

  "You're too smart for your own good, Eva. That's why I got myself an insurance policy."

  My phone pinged. Then again. And again.

  It was a series of pictures showing me, naked in every possible way. They had been taken right in this room. I was bent over a chair, stretched across the bed, captured from every possible angle.

  "Don't you look sexy?" He sounded like he meant it. "You go to the police and these might turn up at a bad time. Like at college."

  The very idea made me feel sick. No matter what might still be in my bloodstream, I wasn't going to tell. I knew it, and so did he.

  He was handsome and well-liked, a campus persona. He could have any girl he wanted. Who would believe me if I told a story like this, blood test or not?

  "Why, Brody? What did I ever do you –"

  Then he started to talk, and that's when I heard the Brody that my brother warned me about. He hated Michael, and Carolyn because they had "made him look bad." Doing this to me was his idea of poetic justice.

  "We're even now," he said. "It's over, unless you can't keep your mouth shut."

  Then he hung up on me.

  It was like a nightmare when you can't wake up. I made myself go to the bathroom. I dropped the water glass in the sink, and pieces went everywhere. Throwing up didn't make me feel better.

  How could I ever have thought I loved him?

  Coming out of the bathroom, I stepped on a piece of glass that bounced out of the sink. It cut my arch, so deep that it left a scar.

  But then something weird happened. I put my foot in the tub to wash it, and seeing the blood trickling down the drain calmed me down. It hurt like hell, but it was also like pain was flowing out too.

  The bleeding stopped after a few minutes, and I cleaned myself up and went home. Brody said it would be our secret, as long as I never told.

  I did a good job of never telling.

  Cutting myself became a dark charm. It hurt every time I did it, but it made that awful memory go way.

  I did a good job of never telling about that, either.

  --

  For a long time I was afraid those pictures would show up. I'd always been around a size fourteen, but I was in good shape. That summer I was afraid to leave the house, and weight started piling on.

  Everything inside of me felt trapped. I applied last-minute to the University of Georgia and got accepted. All I wanted was a school that I'd never mentioned to Brody.

  When I came to Atlanta, I got the receptionist job at St. Clair. Stella wasn't around much then, school was easy, and Natalie and I were already fast friends.

  That was when I discovered sex chats. After Brody it seemed better not to get too close to anyone. It also opened up the world of bondage, and I was drawn to it. Online was anonymous and safe, with no pictures that might haunt me.

  One night I met this crazy guy named Hex. I think you already know his story pretty well. When I was with him, which was almost every night, it felt like maybe, just maybe, life could be good again.

  My phone rang one Saturday afternoon. It was Michael, and there was so much wind noise on the line that he was almost yelling.

  "Where are you?" I remember asking.

  "Climbing up in North Carolina with Rory. We're starting down in a minute. I just got a call from Carolyn."

  "You probably get a call from Carolyn ten times a day."

  "She told me that Brody has disappeared. The cops in Tuscaloosa busted these guys who were drugging girls and taking pictures. Carolyn was questioned, and she saw some of them."

  The wind died for a minute. That's when I heard how angry he was.

  "She said one of the girls looked like you, Eva. I told her she was crazy. You've never been down there, right?"

  I didn't say anything.

  "Can you hear me, Eva?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me you've never been near that place."

  I didn't say anything for a long time. When I finally did, I told him he should swing by Atlanta on the way home so we could talk.

  Then he started cussing. Really cussing. He asked if Brody hurt me.

  He was perched on some mountain, maybe still swaying from his ropes. I didn't want him hearing this story. Not now.

  "Come by Atlanta. I'll make supper for you."

  There was a moment when it got really quiet on the other end. No Michael, no wind, nothing.

  "You're goddamned right I'm coming there," he said finally. "Then I'm going to find Brody and beat the living shit out of him."

  "Don't think about it now. Call me when you're on the way."

  He said something else, but the wind blew it away. I heard "love" at least once, then the connection broke.

  For the rest of the afternoon I paced my apartment. I should have said something. Now those pictures were going to come back in the worst possible way.

  Several hours later my phone rang, but it wasn't Michael. It was Rory, one of his climbing buddies. He was a great guy who liked to tease, but now he was crying.

  Michael fell during descent. He was gone, and it was all my fault.

  Chapter Thirty

  The only sound was the quiet hum of the engine, an occasional breath of wind. Inside the circle of Hex's arms, I had poured out the poison that had curdled for so long. My face was wet with tears.

  Very gently he eased me back in my seat. There was a deliberateness about him that was hard to place.

  "I couldn't understand how you could be so strong and so vulnerable at the same time," he said. "I get it now."

  He caressed my face, and any worries I had about disgusting him with my revelation evaporated. The love in that touch brought a lump to my throat.

  "There are things you need to hear," he said, "and I want you to listen and not interrupt."

  He settled back in his seat.

  "You may find this hard to believe, but sometimes I've snooped into the details of your life."

  I gave him a watery smile.

  "You know that I checked out some basics about you on the first night we met. When you signed off that night two years later, that's when I decided the gloves were off. How much do you know about Michael's accident?"

  "The police report said a key knot in his ropes failed and led to the fall." Even saying those words made me hurt.

  "Sometimes the police are better than people think," Hex said. "They'll try to shelter the bereaved if they can. It's time you knew the full truth."

  "What truth?"

  "Knot failure was a kind way of saying there was no knot. Michael wasn't using ropes. He was free climbing on that sheer cliff. Very thrilling, and very risky, even for experienced climbers."

  "How can you possibly know that?"

  "Because I read the interview with his friend, Rory Adams. What did he tell you about it?"

  "Pretty much what the police report said."

  "In the statement he admitted that they'd been free-climbing all day, even though the conditions were wet. Michael had already slipped once, but he insisted that they go all the way to the top."

  Michael was smart and athletic, but he was also an adrenaline junkie. How many times had I heard him screech out of the driveway, or seen him climbing to the thin branches at the tops of trees that would barely support his weight?

  My voice was low. "You know my phone call about the pictures distracted him."

  "Or maybe some loose rock fell in his face. Or maybe the wind blew dirt into his eyes. There were a thousand maybes on that cliff that day."

  "There was another thing," he added. "Both of them had been drinking. Not much, but maybe just enough to make him react a half-second too slow. You don't get many second chances up there."

  "But that call might have –"

  Hex took my hands and squeezed them hard enough to hurt.

  "Maybe it was just his time to go," he said. "From what you've told me about him, he would hate to know that you're torturing yourself like this. Consider this his message to you, through me. Let
it go, and move on."

  Tears stung my eyes again. Michael had been so brave and smart and perfect, but he was also headstrong and a thrill-seeker. Maybe it all caught up to him on that steep, remote hillside.

  Once I had thought I had nothing to live for. Looking into Hex's steady gray gaze told me that I had been wrong about that too.

  "You're not disgusted by the Brody thing?" I asked.

  "I am, but not with you. Michael was right. That son-of-a-bitch needs a good old-fashioned beating."

  "You'd have to find him first. He skipped town before they could arrest him. No one knows where he is."

  "Is that right? Wow, I guess no one will ever find him now, if the Alabama police had no luck."

  His ironic tone made me suspicious. "I don't want you beating him up."

  "Trust me, I have no desire to touch him. Good riddance."

  He gathered me into his arms again.

  "There might be a little something left at the restaurant if we hurry," he said, nuzzling against my throat. "Maybe even some possum gravy."

  He was grinning when we pulled away from the overlook and back onto the road. I held his hand tightly in mine. I was looking forward to a lunch that – for the first time in a long, long time – wouldn't come with a heaping side order of guilt.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When we got back to Atlanta that evening, Hex drove straight to a private airstrip near Hartsfield. A small jet was waiting for us, sleek and purring like a kitten. La Cerise was stenciled onto the side in red script.

  "The Cherry?" I asked under my breath as the pilot made his way down the stairs.

  "In honor of our online life," Hex said, taking my hand. "Eva, this is Marco."

  Marco was tall and rangy, with curling black hair and sharp blue eyes. He shook my hand and looked at me with a hint of flirtatiousness.

  "Nice to meet you, Eva. Stephen has good taste in more than planes, I see."

  The inside of the jet was a dream of dark, polished teak and creamy leather seats. There were seats for about fifteen people, and down a short hallway I saw the glimmer of what looked like a stainless steel kitchen.

  "There's a bedroom and bath further back," Hex explained as he settled me into a window seat.

  "I'm surprised you're not up front telling Marco how to fly the plane."

  "I could if I had to," he agreed, stealing a sip of the mint tea he'd poured for me. "Let's hope it doesn’t come to that."

  In only a few minutes we were roaring down the runway, and Atlanta fell behind us as we jetted to the northeast. It wasn't long before I saw a glow that Hex said was the start of the Eastern seaboard.

  The view was spectacular, but it wasn't because of the fairyland of lights. Hex was hard not to look at, sitting cool and casual in the deep leather seat across from me.

  I'd always wanted to visit Paris. Even my wildest fantasies, I'd never imagined it would be aboard a private jet with a man like Hex.

  Especially not for the reason we were making this trip.

  He pulled out something I recognized as The Book of Eva, Volume 2. A page was turned down, and he opened the book to that spot.

  "Read it to me," he said. "I want to make sure you fully understand what's going to happen when we get to Paris."

  My cheeks burned, but I bent over the book. Once I had admitted to Hex that this was the fantasy we should act out next, I had read this passage over and over again.

  Reading out loud and under that silvery gaze was something different than reading alone. Phrases of what I'd shared rose up with heat from the pages.

  I want to be auctioned as a slave for a night. Treated like an object. Stripped naked and made to walk in front of others. Bought like property. Used all night with no limits. Whatever you want.

  My voice was breathless when I finished. I risked a glance at Hex, and he was looking at me without expression.

  "Again," he said.

  My voice was more steady the second time around. Even so, a sweet, stinging ache began to accumulate between my thighs.

  He took the book from my hand, closing it and setting it aside. "Do you have any doubts that you'll be safe?" he asked.

  "I'd still be sitting in Atlanta if I didn't think that was the case." I took a gulp of cool mint tea to beat back the flames inside of me.

  "In the movies, I'd be plying you with lobster and lots of exotic drinks," he said. "That's a recipe for a hangover. Let's save that for Paris."

  He went to the kitchen and returned with a tray. It was loaded with pita bread, hummus, grilled chicken, tomatoes, olives, a bowl of tabbouleh, and something that looked like herbed yogurt. A bottle of Dom Perignon and two glasses were tucked under his arm.

  "The ban on booze didn't last long," I said.

  "I'm not a complete barbarian," he said, handing me a glass.

  "You look like a Viking sometimes."

  "Probably." He popped the cork and poured. "Even though the last name is Dante, there's Nordic blood on both sides of the family."

  The champagne was cool and slightly sweet. I sipped it, opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

  He paused. "What?"

  "I almost started grilling you before you had a chance to eat."

  Hex had several smiles. This was the one I liked best, the mischievous one that gave his eyes a silvery sparkle.

  "You remembered my offer," he said.

  "Did you think I'd forget?"

  "I'm surprised you restrained yourself this long," he said. "I can eat and answer questions at the same time. What do you want to know?"

  "Everything."

  That made him laugh as he took a bite of pita bread.

  "That might be too much for one flight, but grill at will."

  It seemed almost too good to be true. After so many mysteries and secrets, he looked relaxed and ready to tell me anything.

  We'll see about that.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "Maybe tell me about how you grew up," I suggested. "Start at the beginning and all that?"

  "I was born. You see, Eva, when a girl and guy really like each other, they do special things, and nine months later—"

  I threw an olive at him. "Not that far back."

  He grinned and ate the olive.

  "I grew up in western North Carolina, right in the Smoky Mountains. My parents and my brother Killen, who you already heard about, lived near Sapphire. It's a dot on the map, but the kind of place with pretty views and not much drama."

  "Unless you happen to be named Rosine." My own words startled me. Where had that come from?

  Hex nodded. "I guess there's one in every town. That whole mess with her and my brother was when I began to grow up."

  "Not that I was an angel," he added. "I made a lot of trouble, and people sort of knew it was me, even if no one had any proof."

  "I can't see you screeching around in an old pickup truck and throwing beer cans out of the window."

  "That wasn't my brand of trouble. I've always liked figuring out secrets. If that happened to be school records or security codes – well, it wasn't my fault if they made it so easy."

  He lowered his head. "There was one really terrible thing I did when I was fourteen."

  "What was that?"

  "I rigged an electronic bingo game."

  "Seriously?"

  "My grandmother had the worst luck I ever saw. She played every weekend and never won a damn thing. That week there was this spa basket that she really wanted. She said she had a feeling that her luck was about to change."

  "And did it?"

  "Oddly enough, yes. She won the basket and never even opened it. She treated it like a trophy."

  "That doesn't sound like such a bad crime."

  "I had no sense of scale. She won every prize that night. People were already starting to give me the side-eye when weird things happened. She was never able to play bingo there again."

  "So then you got a full scholarship and became a cyber security specialis
t."

  Hex smiled. "I never went to college, but I've broken into a lot of their systems. Why do you look so shocked?"

  "I figured you had about fifteen degrees hiding in a drawer somewhere."

  "Degrees are fine for careers in the real world. I always felt like I wouldn't have a job like that. I just didn't know what it would be."

  I spread myself a fresh piece of pita with hummus and took a drink of champagne.

  "And what did that end up being?"

  "You'd be a terrible interrogator," Hex remarked. "You're not subtle at all."

  "I'm not the one who's all cloak-and-dagger. So if it wasn't college, where did you go?"

  "You know the French Foreign Legion?"

  "I've heard of it," I said. "Sort of a very tough, semi-secret military full of badasses?"

  "A lot of the French don't see them as anything but troublemakers. It was a good place to get started and see the world, plus I got French citizenship after five years."

  "So the French Foreign Legion needs guys who can break the Internet?"

  "Word spreads about who's good at what. There was one guy, Soli, who could make explosives out of anything. Another one could fly planes into tight places like he had bat sonar."

  "Let's call him up and see if he can co-pilot us to Paris," I joked.

  Hex grinned and took a bite of his sandwich. "Who do you think is up in the cockpit?"

  "You mean Marco –"

  "There's a reason he works for me sometimes. He's not just a great pilot. He has the rare ability to keep his mouth shut."

  "And what was your specialty?"

  "Information and secrets. The kind other people had trouble finding."

  Somehow, that all fit. It explained his secrecy, that cool air of knowing more about what was happening below the surface.

  "I'm not prying into your finances," I began, "but –"

  "How does a poor boy with no college make a pile of cash?"

  "Something like that."

  "While I was in service, I started getting side jobs. Setting up security systems, that sort of thing. I was in Saudi Arabia when there were whispers about a confidential job with a client who might be willing to pay a lot more than usual."

  "Through mutual contacts, he arranged a meeting with me. It turns out the someone was a ridiculously wealthy businessman whose daughter had been kidnapped."