Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  To God, thank you for my blessed life, my family, my friends, and my faith. Thank you for everything, for You control all, and You are everything.

  To Mom, thank you for continuing to read everything I write. I appreciate it more than you know. You are an awesome PR manager. I love you.

  To Gram J. for rating me five stars in everything I do.

  To Sadie, ten years wasn’t long enough, then again, I don’t think any amount of time would be. I miss you.

  To Meagan, for never being as crazy as I wrote you in this story, but for always being as supportive. Thank goodness we don’t have a scorecard! Though if we did, I think I’d have more tallies racked up . . .

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sneek peek: Daring

  Prologue

  “Ms. Donetsk, we’d like to begin by thanking you for your time and for allowing us the opportunity to review your application. Your performance has been excellent in your five years of service here. The board is impressed with your work ethic and dedication.”

  So far, so good. I’m getting good eye contact from my manager, and he doesn’t seem nervous, as if he’s about to deny me the promotion. Although, he did butcher my last name, as he always does, despite working with me for the past five years. Every time he says my surname it comes out sounding like, “don’t ask.” I do find it worrisome that the balding HR representative sitting beside him hasn’t set his gaze on me since he shook my hand when I first entered. He keeps glancing in my direction, then looking out the window or examining the generic paintings on the wall. Is that guilt in his eyes?

  Natalie, calm it down! You’ve got the job. You own this job.

  His speech sounds more rehearsed, overdone, and unauthentic the longer it continues. I find my attention drifting, studying Mr. Edmunds’ paisley patterned tie, the straggly hairs that have managed to stay attached to the upper sides of the rep’s head, and the coffee ring stain on the right hand corner of the otherwise pristine desk.

  Mr. Edmunds somehow manages to use the word “coruscating” in a sentence, prompting me to refocus on his words. I nod my head politely, as he continues to detail all of my attributes. Outwardly I’m calm, though my hands are twisting in my lap, because there’s one key word I’ve been waiting for since this meeting started, and I haven’t heard it yet.

  Say congratulations. Come on, just say it. Congratulations. Congratulations.

  I should “have it in the bag,” so to speak, considering my boyfriend works in management. Surely he would have told me if I didn’t get the job. Of course, the last time I talked to Jeff, he wasn’t forthcoming about much of anything. Something is beginning to feel off about the whole thing. Mr. Edmunds is talking too much for this to be an offer. The man likes to talk, but this whole spiel seems too much even for him.

  “However, I’m sorry to inform you that we do not feel this position is the best fit for you at this time. The accounting director position requires a certain level of experience in order to deal with the myriad of complex situations that may arise. The board has elected to hire someone with more managerial and business experience.”

  No. This cannot be happening. Mr. Edmunds just went on for minutes, literally minutes, about how awesome I’ve been in the company. He’s made me out to be even more accomplished than I portrayed in my own résumé, and that’s quite a feat.

  “Mr. Edmunds, no Charles; can I call you Charles? Charles, you’re full of bull. I’ve earned this position. EARNED it. You gave it to Kimber, didn’t you? Yeah, I know she’s the CEO’s son’s latest conquest.”

  I jump to my feet, pushing my chair back as I do so. The HR rep is finally looking at me, though his eyes are less guilty and more scared now. Good.

  “Now, Ms. Donetsk— ”

  “It’s Donetsk. Doyn-yesk. Say it with me, Donetsk.”

  I lean over his monumental, executive desk and spit the pronunciation guide in his face.

  “Now see here!” he yells back.

  The HR rep ducks beneath the desk, giving a glimpse of the top of his shiny dome, while I lean even farther over to get a good grip on Mr. Edmunds’ tie. It’s a hideous tie, and I have an overwhelming desire to strangle him with it. His face bleaches of all color as I sprawl across the top of his desk, wrap my hands twice in the absurd silk of his tie, and tug upwards until his face starts to bulge and redden. The rep beneath the desk begins to whimper and cry, but the icy, fierce, Russian blood running through half my veins has walled off my emotions and the fear of reprisal from the satisfaction of vengeance.

  “Ms. Donetsk. Ms. Donetsk? Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water? Mr. Simmons, please fetch a glass of water.”

  Don’t ask; don’t ask, and I won’t tell, about the day I killed you, and all was well…

  The room slowly comes back into focus, and I do my best deep breathing exercises to attempt to erase the vision of what I want to do from my head.

  The rep, who I now know is named Simmons, stumbles to his feet and off to the corner of the room, where a table with refreshments sits against the wall. He nearly knocks the pitcher of water over in his haste to obey Mr. Edmunds.

  My voice is robotic as I thank the two cowardly, rich men for giving me the opportunity to apply for the job. Thanking someone for rejecting you is a tough pill to swallow, but I do it with poise and a sip of ice-cold water.

  Chapter One

  “Congratulations, Nat! So, with your new promotion, just how rich are you? Are we talking rent a limo and head down to the casino rich, or take a cruise to the Bahamas on the company’s dime rich?”

  “Neither.”

  Meagan is my best friend and roommate, and she has the power to make me smile even when I’m so depressed, disappointed, and angry that I just envisioned killing my boss with his own tie…

  “Come on, don’t be modest. Give me the goods. Like seriously, I expect goodies from all the trips you’ll be taking.”

  Meg is crazy, because even if I had managed to land the promotion, there wouldn’t have been Bahama cruises on the company card in my future. I don’t know how many promotions at Waller Funds I’d have to get to earn that kind of clout. Although, I bet Kimber and Jackson Waller Jr. take frequent vacations.

  “Nat? Nat! What happened?”

  It’s two o’clock on a Friday; I should be in my cubicle fixing accounting book errors and preparing taxes for my clients. Instead, I’m in my Honda Accord listening to my friend’s voice
through the Bluetooth connection on my phone just to stay sane.

  “I didn’t get it.”

  “WHAT?! Aww, how are you?”

  It’s not an easy question to answer. I’m still furious, I’m still feeling homicidal, and I’m confused as to why Jeff didn’t give me a heads up so that I wouldn’t be blindsided.

  “I’m…feeling mixed emotions.”

  “I’ll bet. What did Jeff say?”

  It’s somewhat hard to hear her voice over the hair dryers and chatter in the background. Meg is a great hair dresser; she does my hair every three months at an awesome discount, but I think I’d be upset if she was on the phone the entire time she cut and styled my hair.

  Meagan’s voice has transformed to calm and comforting, exactly what I need right now. She knows that Jeff and I are working through a bit of a rough patch, but we’re close enough that she can ask these kinds of questions without being intrusive. We’ve been friends for a decade now. It still surprises me that I’m old enough to have had a friend for that long, but at moments like these, I’m thankful for it.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him about it yet. But I took off early to have some time to get over this and to talk to Jeff. I needed a break.”

  “Girl, I’ll say! You’ve been putting in so much overtime that I’ve barely seen you for over a month and a half! That’s too long to be without my подрýга!”

  Calm floods my system as I pull into Jeff’s apartment lot and swipe my card to gain access through the main gate at Orchard Lakes apartment complex. Hearing that Russian word from Meagan always makes me feel loved. I don’t really speak any Russian, but when we first became friends, Meagan was always obsessed with the fact that my father is Russian. She insisted that he give us a code word for friend in his native tongue—Meagan was quirky even then. Подрýга, pronounced pa-droog-a, means girlfriend in English, or as Meagan says, “It’s like, hey, gurrrlfriend, but more formal and Russian and stuff.” Personally, I believe that she loves the word so much because it sounds similar to the sound Roger Rabbit makes in that movie when he sees the hot redhead.

  “You totally deserved that promotion. Do you know who got it? Wait—don’t tell me!”

  “Ok,” I agree.

  “It was that skankbutt, Kimber, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it! Oh, she’ll get what’s coming to her, I tell ya. Karma is a you-know-what.”

  I didn’t think I’d feel any desire to laugh so soon after this morning, but the reaction of the beauty salon crowd at Meagan’s use of the phrase skank butt is hilarious, even through the muffling barrier of the phone.

  “Yeah.” It’s hard to choke out the word through my laughter.

  Perfect. There’s a parking spot directly in front of Jeff’s apartment. I’ve been wearing three and a half inch heels for the past two weeks in preparation of being called in to hear about the promotion. My feet are dying, and I don’t think I can bear traipsing through the parking lot today.

  “Look, Meg, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later tonight. I’m going to go talk with Jeff.”

  “Yeah, girl. Don’t forget, I want deets!”

  “Of course, Meg.”

  “Love you, подрýга.”

  This elicits even more heckling from the salon crowd, causing Meg to turn into her Boston tough girl persona. I hear a bit of her rant before the sound abruptly cuts out and call ended flashes across the console screen.

  I use my key at the door and go up the stairs. I know Jeff probably won’t be home yet; I vaguely remember him mentioning some sort of luncheon and meeting with some higher ups, but I can get a head start on planning and preparing something for dinner, maybe even clean up his apartment a little as a surprise. Jeff’s a stickler for neatness, but he struggles to have the time to tidy up when he’s been traveling to supervise major audits. I’ve been telling myself that all the traveling is the reason he’s been distant. He’s back now though, and this weekend should be open for us to reconnect.

  When I open the door, the foyer is just as I expected: chaotic. Coats are lying over the top of the couch, two pairs of dress shoes and a pair of loafers are tossed against the wall, and once I reach the kitchen, I find about three days’ worth of dishes in the left side of the sink.

  I start with the dishes, because it’s my least favorite, and with so much on my mind I don’t have to focus on the task of scrubbing day old lasagna from the striped plates. Orange juice ringed cups, ketchup-globbed plates, and soggy flake filled, cereal bowls endure the same fate. Finally, I spray down the sink and set everything in the dishwasher, because it seems to me that the dishes could stand a good sanitizing.

  Just as I shut the dishwasher door and am about to press the start button, a muffled squeal from upstairs stops me short.

  Is someone else in the apartment?

  Jeff doesn’t have a maid, and from the state of the place, it doesn’t appear as if he’s hired one since I was here last. He doesn’t have roommates, and his parents are from out of town. Who else could be here?

  I grab an umbrella from the sophisticated iron scroll umbrella stand by the front door, just in case it’s a friend over for a visit, and I palm the Uzi knife from the front pocket of my slacks, in case it’s someone more sinister.

  I feel like Rambo as I edge my way up the stairs, avoiding the creaky third step out of habit. My heart is pounding in my chest as I gather my courage outside of the bedroom door. When I grab the knob and turn, I hear the same sound from moments earlier. This time I’m close enough to clearly distinguish that it’s a sound only a woman could make, while the grunt that follows close behind could only come from a man.

  The door slips from my fingers, creeping open to reveal Jeff and a short, busty, blonde woman with smudged red lips.

  “Jeff!”

  “Natalie! What are you doing here?”

  He yanks the sheet over himself, earning another squeal from his bed partner when the move uncovers her in the process.

  Well, we’re far beyond modesty now. I slam the door fully open, satisfied when the retort of the door against the wall causes the unidentified, platinum blonde to squeal again. Her face is covered by the comforter, but the rest of her is scrambling around to conceal herself.

  “How long has this been going on? You sniveling, little—”

  “Now, Natalie, there’s no reason to hash this out like this. We’re all adults. This tantrum is beneath you.”

  “Huh. Well, I would have thought, as an adult, cheating would be beneath you, rather than some bimbo. Clearly, I overestimated you.”

  The girl, who I now recognize as Kimber, is obviously not the brightest bulb in the box; though her hair color is certainly the brightest I’ve ever seen. It takes a full minute of Jeff sputtering and rearranging the sheet into some form of wearable toga for the girl to gasp in indignation at my words.

  “You’ll never work in this town again,” are the words that Jeff finally manages to string together.

  Really? Why did I ever date this loser to begin with? He’s quoting every old western that ever existed, as he stands with his hands propped on his periwinkle blue, sheet covered hips.

  I always did hate those sheets.

  So I do what any other self-respecting woman would do. I rush him, yank the sheet from his grasp and toss it on top of the woman in the bed. Then, while Jeff squawks like a freshly plucked chicken, I take a step back and snap a pic on my phone of the scene in front of me. With Jeff naked and standing in front of the horrified looking girl, it almost appears as if he flashed her.

  “Mess with me and this goes viral. Loyalty is a valued quality in the corporate world. Your cheating tendencies will not be appreciated, Jeffrey. Neither will yours, Kimber. Oh, and congratulations on your new job. Hopefully, you can keep it longer than you kept your dignity.”

  Jeff attempts to chase after me, as Kimber shrieks curses at the both of us from behind him. I don’t want to be included in an expletive laden rant from the woman, especially if I’ll
be lumped in with the despicable man with whom I’ve wasted most of the past year. Why did I ever think it’d be a good idea to date him?

  I’m fuming the entire time I’m storming back down the stairs. A resounding slap echoes behind me, which doesn’t make much sense to me, considering the fact that Kimber knew Jeff and I were together. The only unknowing party in this fiasco of a love triangle was me. But despite the sheer craziness of Kimber slapping Jeff instead of me, I’m glad that at least someone had the presence of mind to hit him.

  I’m almost to the bottom of the stairs before I hear his footsteps behind me; I glance over my shoulder just in time to see his feet get caught in the sheet haphazardly wrapped around his waist. Down the sheet goes once again, this time with Jeff still half wrapped up in it. I slam his front door shut as he rolls down the stairs.

  He’s not even my type! His hair is thinning, if you’re kind, and balding, if you’re honest. He’s timid when he should be brave and outspoken when he should be quiet. Most importantly, he’s a low down, cheating, son of a gun, who didn’t even go through the trouble of finding someone who looks different from his current girlfriend. More infuriating than the fact that Jeff is cheating on me, is that he’s cheating on me with the airbrushed, curvier version of me.

  Kimber has the same light blonde hair, though mine is natural and the barest showing of roots atop her head proclaims hers to be bought. Her eyes are almost the same shade as my Caribbean green, with maybe a bit more blue. Although there is a bit of variance in our skin, because hers is a lovely, golden tan, while mine is more a light peaches and cream. I also have a smattering of light freckles across my nose, while Kimber’s snoz is surgically thin and flawless perfection. For some reason it rankles even more to catch your significant other in bed with someone who looks so similar, yet with noticeable upgrades.

  The nerve! I hope he cracked his head when he finally landed at the bottom of his stairs, and I hope Kimber tramples him when she follows him down. But as much as seeing that collision would thrill me right now, I don’t stay to see it. With my luck, he’ll magically right himself midfall, not suffer a single injury, and then Kimber will jump into his arms so he can tote her down the stairs.