Sweet Vengeance
Iron Ladies
Danielle Norman
Contents
From Danielle
Prologue
1. Sunday
2. Bo
3. Sunday
4. Sunday
5. Sunday
6. Bo
7. Sunday
8. Sunday
9. Bo
10. Sunday
11. Bo
12. Sunday
13. Bo
14. Sunday
15. Bo
16. Sunday
17. Sunday
18. Sunday
19. Sunday
20. Bo
21. Sunday
22. Sunday
23. Sunday
24. Bo
25. Sunday
Epilogue
Meet Danielle
Lets Socialize
Enough
Stetson
Getting Even
Book ‘em Sadie
Danielle’s Books
Acknowledgments
Reviews are Important
Hey, don’t forget to leave a review when you’re done reading.
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***
To Sonnie and Rusty,
I used frothy helmet in a book— BOOM!
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
~Mary Howitt
Copyright © 2019 by Danielle Norman
and F Squared, LLP
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission from either the author and or the above named publisher of this book with the exception for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction.
The name Danielle Norman® is a registered Trademark.
The name Iron Orchids™ is on file with the United States Trademark and Patent Office.
Prologue
Sunday
Nine years ago . . .
Most people couldn't tell you who Sunday Prescott was, let alone what she looked like, but they could tell you what type of computer she used. Like most days, Sunday sat outside the University of Central Florida student union hiding from the world. Every now and then she would peer up above her large seventeen-inch Mac laptop just long enough to scan the area and then quickly duck back down. Sunday let out a deep breath, because behind her monitor was where she felt safe. Safe from judgment, safe from ridicule, safe from prying eyes.
In grade school, she had been the exact same way, always finding security in not standing out. She learned early on that when she was invisible to people she was also inconsequential, which meant they had no problem talking around her and sharing their juiciest gossip, which she loved. While she didn't spread the information, she did live vicariously through it. She imagined herself being the wild child, the prom queen, the cheerleader.
So, when her professor asked her, the only freshman in the Differential Equation class, to tutor Cal Alpin, a senior and starting running back for the UCF Knights, she was stunned. Sunday had harbored a secret crush on the guy who had sat next to her but had never said more than, hey.
When Cal asked her out, he wanted to thank her for going above and beyond since she didn't just tutor him, she corrected his answers as well, Sunday knew it was all worth the effort. After all, because of her, he'd stay on the team, keep his scholarship, and stay at UCF.
That Friday night, Sunday had decked herself out and then sat on the couch to wait for him. She waited . . . and waited. Two hours after Cal was supposed to pick her up, Sunday headed back to her room and changed into her pajamas.
He had stood her up.
The next day, instead of going to Differential Equation, she worked on her homework for her Constitutional Law class. It wasn't due for another five weeks, but doing any kind of work helped to ease the guilt Sunday had for skipping her lecture. She just couldn't stomach the thought of Cal laughing at her naivety. Plus, her dorm was closer to the dean's office than the lecture hall, and she had a meeting with him at eleven.
She had ten minutes to make it to the dean's office, and she made it there with time to spare. After she signed in, she took a seat and pulled a heavy textbook from her backpack. She strummed her fingers on the armrest as she read, only glancing up when the door opened. It was several girls from one of her classes.
The girls never sat, they just leaned against the wall and giggled. They paid no attention to Sunday sitting there.
The girls silenced. Dean Simmons must have just walked out of his office.
"Meghan, what are you doing here?" Dean Simmons asked.
"I had a quick question, you have a second?"
"I have an appointment." His words didn't hold any of the annoyance one would expect to hear when an unscheduled student dropped in.
"Oh, we're the only ones out here," Meghan announced without ever once looking toward her.
Sunday mentally coached herself to say something, but by the time she had opened her mouth, Dean Simmons had forgotten all about Sunday's appointment.
"Good, then I have time for you ladies. What can I do for you?" Sunday heard the sound of the door close, and she groaned. She wasn't pissed at Meghan--no, she was pissed at herself for not saying anything. Speaking up for herself had always been Sunday's weak spot, but she could still hear her parents saying, "Don't rock the boat, Sunday, just go with the flow."
Sunday always went with the flow.
By her junior year, though, she was ready to leave. She'd finally reached a breaking point, and instead of rocking the boat, she was going to jump ship entirely. The invisibility shtick was getting old. She had been standing in line in front of the campus security office for over six hours for a fucking parking pass. They had announced last week that they had thirty-four spots in the garage that they were going to be given on a first come, first served basis. So, Sunday drove across town at two o'clock in the morning and landed the sixteenth spot in line.
By eight o'clock, she had to pee, her coffee was long gone, and the line was crazy. So, when several girls joined the group in front of Sunday, it took every ounce of self-restraint that Sunday had not to snap and throw her empty mug at Meghan's head.
"We're here," the girl said. "Thanks for getting in line for us."
Thank goodness the people behind Sunday started bitching. "Oh, chill," Meghan snapped and started counting. She included herself and her three counterparts who had butted in line in her count, but it was obvious to everyone watchin
g that her count hadn't included Sunday. "See, we can all get a pass."
"Aren't you going to say something?" a girl asked from right being Sunday.
She just shrugged and tucked her chin down.
"Yo, Bitch, get the fuck out of the line. You just cut off a lot of people!” the girl shouted at Meghan.
"Calm your tits, I counted you in my number," Meghan said dismissively.
"I don't give a fuck. You haven't been here for hours when others have been. You didn't include this girl who has been here longer than even I have. Now, get your ass out of line or I will remove it."
"I love you, Adeline," someone from behind Sunday whispered.
"Meghan, you know that I don't put up with you or any of your I-share-a-brain friends." Sunday glanced over and watched the sleek woman, who was close to six feet tall. Her hair was tied back in an elegant ponytail, and her jeans were artfully ripped. Sunday was in awe and intimidated.
"Whatever. Come on, let's go." Meghan tapped the arms of her friends. "Aren't you coming, Bo?" Meghan had her hands on her hips and waited.
"Umm, no. I got here at two this morning and have been waiting. I didn't ask you to jump the line," Bo replied. Sunday giggled--like actually giggled, and the woman behind her grinned and held out a hand.
"I'm Adeline, by the way."
"Hi, I'm Sunday."
"Are you always so soft-spoken?"
Sunday shrugged.
"You should hang out with her, Addy, maybe you could learn a thing or two," another girl, who was equally as attractive as Adeline, said.
"Bite me," Adeline retorted. They laughed. "Hey, we will get back in our spots as we get close, do you mind if we just talk to her until then?" Adeline asked the people who were in line behind them.
"You're fine. You are part of the thirty-four, so I don't care, it's those who weren't but were trying to cut who I have a problem with," a guy answered as a woman pushed through the glass door and started to hand out bright-pink parking vouchers.
"This is your voucher, you need to fill this out to claim your parking permit. This is your voucher, you need to fill this out to claim your parking permit," she said the same line over and over as she walked down the line and passed out thirty-four of them before disappearing back into the building.
"Yes.” A girl standing farther back in line fist pumped after she'd been handed the last ticket.
"You all got vouchers, right?" Adeline checked with the two girls standing with her.
"Yep, got them." They waved their evidence.
"Sunday, this is Melanie and Olivia. Mel and Livi, this is my new friend Sunday." Adeline made the introductions and then relaxed, taking her place next to Sunday as though they were old friends. "I've seen you around campus, what's your major?"
"Cyber and digital forensics. Don't say anything, nerdy, right?"
"No, it's fucking genius," Adeline declared. "You and Melanie both are into forensics."
"Psychology," Melanie said before Sunday could ask.
"What about you?" Sunday asked of Adeline.
"Criminal justice, I want to be a private investigator."
"And you?" Sunday asked Olivia.
"I'm with Addy, criminal justice, but I have no idea what I want to do with it."
The four women moved forward with the line, and when it was almost their turn, Adeline turned her smile on Sunday. "After this we're going to breakfast at Keke's, want to come?"
Sunday had never had girlfriends, and had never been asked anywhere unless her parents had been invited. She'd have to miss a class, but . . . screw it. "I'd love to, thank you."
Sunday
Seven years later . . .
"He could eat cookies in my bed anytime." The soft voice came from behind a quad monitor stack. "Oh, and by the way, I just changed my name to Cookie." Sunday Prescott wiped the corner of her mouth to make sure she wasn't drooling.
Her three best friends laughed as they sat at their desks. Since their office was an open-floor plan they were used to her monologues as she read over the latest Hollywood gossip. It was her daily guilty pleasure, and she loved flipping through the different sites to see what was being said and who was taking up the headlines of page six. "Why can't we get a case like this?" Sunday asked, not really expecting an answer as she moved on to the next headline. Her friends had learned not to get too invested in the news because, by the time they were ready to ask questions, Sunday was reading something else. "Don't you worry about that, Duchess, we'll come to you. If he's like his daddy, we'll nail his ass. Don't let him hurt you or those babies."
"Sunday," Adeline Morgan snapped.
"What?"
"Close that shit. I have no clue why you read that stuff."
"And I have no clue why you don't. You know that whole saying about walk a mile in someone else's shoes? Well, I'm reading a mile, and believe me, I'm happy right where I am."
"You do realize that most of those stories are fake, right? Those sites spread lies and shit about people and create drama and tension for the sole purpose of sewing doubt within their subjects' relationships, which usually causes something that had been solid to unravel." Melanie waved her finger to emphasize unraveling. "How many times can you read that your man is having an affair before you start believing it? Then when the couple splits, the gossip site is all, "See, we told you this was going to happen! You heard it here first."
"I could never be married to someone famous," Olivia said. "I'd be in prison for either shooting the lying journalist or my cheating man. I just don't have the temperament for it."
Sunday stood and looked around the monitors, a sardonic smile on her lips. "You think? And here I thought you were so mild-mannered." Sunday winked to let Olivia know that she was totally joking. The gesture was unnecessary because anyone who knew Sunday would know the girl didn't have a cruel bone in her body.
"Hey, while we have Sunday's head up from her wall of gossip sites, our client will be here in about thirty minutes." Melanie, the ever-professional one, slid each of the women a thin stack of papers. "Her name is Traci Camden, co-owner of Camden Financial."
"Shit, she and her husband are always in the paper like some picture perfect couple," Adeline whispered. "By all accounts, the Camdens are happily married billionaires." Adeline stuck one finger in her mouth as if she was gagging. "Smoke and mirrors, guarantee it."
Sunday cleared her throat, interjecting, "The fuck you say?"
"Gee, Sunday, with a mouth like that you should be a preschool teacher," Adeline teased.
"I just wish y'all would make up your minds. First you say that the media makes everyone look bad and rips relationships apart, but now Adeline is saying they make a horrid couple look good. Y'all are seriously fucked up."
"Can we go back to that billion dollars? Someone explain to me how one accrues a billion dollars. I mean, seriously, that's a lot of whack. We're talking ten digits, right?" Olivia flipped her fingers up one at a time so she could count. "Yep, ten digits."
"It's his worth, not what he has in the bank," Adeline stated. "So, we're talking about the value of his properties, business value, investment portfolios, and liquid assets. A lot of time, these asshats have a net worth of a billion and a debt of almost a billion. Crazy mother fuckers, if you ask me. Who wants that kind of debt?"
Sunday closed the gossip rag sites and began a basic search for Kai and Traci Camden to see if she could find anything that would hint as to why Mrs. Camden would suddenly be in need of their services.
She opened four screens and set one scanning the three major credit sites, one to scanning popular credit card companies, and the last two to searching bank records. She wanted to know where the Camdens had been spending money, and if Kai was buying jewelry, flowers, or renting hotel rooms, all of which could indicate a mistress or two.
Please don't let it be a mistress, Sunday silently wished.
The subtle sound of her hard drives working made her smile. Bright sunlight shone through the floor-to
-ceiling windows, and from where she sat, Sunday could just see the farthest most city line of Orlando on the horizon. If she were to stand, she would be able to look down onto the whole city and watch the traffic on Orange Avenue.
Sunday's screens slowly locked onto visuals, and she clicked on the third monitor before grinning. "Hey, come look," she hollered for the others to join her. "Looks like someone just paid a hefty sum to MassLife."
"They do life insurance, right?" Olivia asked. "Do they do anything else?"
"Nope."
"He travels a lot and has recently been shopping at La Perla." Adeline pointed to a product line.
"Maybe Traci bought that," Melanie said.
Adeline raised one brow. She thought the worst of all men--well, all men except for Riley, her fiancé. "No woman who has been married for thirty-something years shops at La Perla. Have you ever worn their stuff? It is uncomfortable. Sexy as fuck, but it's meant to be left on the bedroom floor. I can tell you right now that Riley and I have been together for a year, and I've already stopped La Perla. A giant red bow gets the same results."
"Okay, okay. What about the travel?" Sunday asked.
Sunday skimmed the documents her programs had grabbed, but there was nothing to indicate that either Mr. or Mrs. Camden had been traveling.
Sweet Vengeance: Ladies (Iron Orchids Book 14) Page 1
