Mr. Ruin

by Maya Hughes

  Mr. Ruin

  Maya Hughes

  Copyright © 2017 by Maya Hughes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Contents

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  Introduction

  1. RACHEL

  2. KILLIAN

  3. RACHEL

  4. KILLIAN

  5. RACHEL

  6. KILLIAN

  7. KILLIAN

  8. RACHEL

  9. KILLIAN

  10. RACHEL

  11. KILLIAN

  12. KILLIAN

  13. KILLIAN

  14. KILLIAN

  15. KILLIAN

  16. RACHEL

  17. RACHEL

  18. KILLIAN

  19. RACHEL

  20. RACHEL

  21. KILLIAN

  22. RACHEL

  23. KILLIAN

  24. RACHEL

  25. KILLIAN

  26. RACHEL

  27. RACHEL

  28. KILLIAN

  29. KILLIAN

  30. RACHEL

  31. KILLIAN

  32. RACHEL

  33. RACHEL

  34. RACHEL

  35. KILLIAN

  36. KILLIAN

  37. EPILOGUE

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  Acknowledgments

  Connect with Maya

  Sneak Peek at Mr. Control

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12 - Seven Years Later

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Also by Maya Hughes

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  Things can fall apart, or threaten to, for many reasons, and then there’s got to be a leap of faith. Ultimately, when you’re at the edge, you have to go forward or backward; if you go forward, you have to jump together.

  Yo-Yo Ma

  1

  RACHEL

  My bag smacked against my back as I took a breather, leaning against the railing in the musty stairwell, balancing the box on my hip. Peeling paint chips flaked off onto my blazer. After almost a year, I still couldn’t climb these steps without stopping. The five flights of stairs to my apartment always seemed so much harder than running on the treadmill. I also wasn’t trudging up the stairs with a box that weighed as much as a kindergartener when I worked out at the gym. Maybe I should incorporate that into my workout. A sweat-stache formed on my upper lip. Gorgeous.

  Breather over, I trudged my way onto the landing in front of my door and let the box drop. The contents shook and rattled. At this point I didn’t care if I opened the flaps to a box filled with broken glass. I’d told my mom to stop sending these things. The shipping costs alone made me want to cry.

  The door flew open as I touched my fingers to the electronic keypad lock. Dahlia backed out of the apartment and bumped right into me, making me trip over the box and nearly knocking me back down the stairs. My arms flailed and she grabbed onto my shirt, pulling me forward, her light brown eyes twinkling in amusement.

  “Hey, Rach, sorry about that,” she said, righting me. Sweat poured off me and a trickle slid down my back. She glanced down at the box on the floor. “Do you need some help?” she asked, plucking the box off the floor and maneuvering it into the door of our apartment like it weighed nothing. Weakling status reconfirmed.

  “Thanks,” I said, wiping my forehead and plopping down on the couch. My bag and other crap sprawled out on the floor in front of me. I didn’t even care, I’d get it later or never, whichever.

  “What did they send this time?” she asked, rubbing her hands together, practically salivating over the box. Her high messy bun of black hair bounced on top of her head. My parents were known for their slightly unorthodox care packages, which were always over the top. The price tag on each delivery was like a gut punch.

  I stopped looking up the prices after the first five. I loved my parents and I was happy my mom was thinking of me, but their definition of what I absolutely needed would make most people think they belonged in an upscale mental hospital. It wasn’t like New York didn’t have toilet paper, candles, or vitamins.

  No matter how many times I told her I didn’t need more candles or bathrobes, the boxes kept showing up. It was the third box this month. It was the fifteenth. I kept telling my mom not to squirrel things away for me and to include them in the silent auctions she had all the time. The contents of this box could probably keep a food bank fully stocked for a week. All she had to do was keep them and add them to one of the charity events she always had coming up.

  I donated what I could, after Dahlia had her pick of course. She rummaged through the box, making small sounds of appreciation as she pulled the stuff out and looked each item up on her phone.

  Something in a beautifully wrapped tin can. Might be a string of pearls, espresso breath mints, or Russian caviar. Who knew? Certainly, not the two of us, hence the online scavenger hunt to figure out what the hell my mom packed away for me.

  Even with my protests about my mom’s not sending the gifts and donating instead, when Dahlia pulled out the red soled sky high heels, I whipped to attention. Must have. Must wear. So pretty. I sprung to my feet, launched myself across the room, and plucked them from Dahlia’s hands. She’d gotten the last two pairs when she opened the boxes while I was in the bathroom. These puppies were mine.

  “Mine,” I said, clutching them to my chest. “I told you, the next pair were mine.”

  “You also said, I got first dibs on whatever came out of the box as long as I unpacked it,” she said, making her piles of keep and donate. Shoes that cost more than my portion of the rent weren’t on my list of necessities, but even I couldn’t turn these down. It was ridiculous how much I liked them because I’d never wear them out. They weren’t practical. At all. But oh so pretty.

  I slid them on, the cool smooth interior hugging my feet. They fit like a glove. I looked down, twisting and turning my feet to admire their beauty. The outside was encrusted with shiny, sparkly clear crystals. I couldn’t wait to do dishes in these. It would make me feel so glamorous.

  “Spoilsport,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You’re not even going to give them the proper fresh air they deserve,” she said, heading to the door.

  “Because they are completely impractical. No one can wear them out without breaking an ankle,” I said, admiring my new shoes. The setting sunlight caught them at the right angle and little sparkles danced along the kitchen cabinets and the floor. My own disco ball.

  “Says you,” she said, pointing down to her feet. The
last pair of red soles were on her feet. They had a funky rainbow crystal pattern on them. Had she been wearing those the whole time? I’d given up trying to figure out how she did it. The six-inch heels suited her style perfectly. Her ripped skinny jeans that showed off just enough skin, topped off by a ripped gray sweatshirt that showed off her shoulder and hot pink lacy bra underneath. No wonder the tattoo parlor was always booked solid. That and the fact that she was one of the most celebrated tattoo artists on the East Coast.

  “I’ll be late, my last client doesn’t come in until one am,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “I thought your last client was always at eleven,” I said, still admiring my new shoes. What was it about heels that made feet and calves look so pretty?

  “Money talks,” she said, rubbing her fingers together. “He offered triple my rate to stay later and have a completely empty shop. I was more than happy to help him out. Plus, it’s not like I’m not up anyway. Instead of coming home to tuck you in,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “I’ll be making some extra cash. Don’t wait up and maybe, just maybe, do something I would do tonight.” She hustled out the door in those heels like she was wearing sneakers.

  She sucked sometimes. She made cool look so effortless, while I made awkward look like hard work. I held onto the counter to make sure I didn’t face plant in the kitchen as my ankles wobbled. I was going to roll my ankle and I wasn’t even moving.

  I unpacked the rest of the box, scrutinizing some of the more out-there items my mom had packed. Even for her. I don’t think you’re supposed to put anything like that inside, even if it had mystical vagina enhancing powers, but thanks for the nice egg Christmas tree ornament, Mom. I whipped out my phone and tapped on her name.

  Me: Thanks for the box Mom, but I told you I have everything I need.

  Mom: Sweetie, those were some things left over from the gala and a few other things I picked up. I didn’t want you to miss out since you wouldn’t come home to attend.

  Me: I have work. I told you. I can’t fly back for every one of your events or I’d never actually be at work.

  Mom: When are you going to come home? We miss you.

  Me: I’ll be home for Christmas. Mom, please, next time use the stuff you’re going to send me for the next auction you have.

  Mom: Even the shoes…

  I hesitated. Damn. She knew me too well!

  Mom: That’s what I thought. Love you!

  My parents were the most loving, caring, out of touch people you’d ever meet. It still amazed me I hadn’t turned out like one of the horrible shits I went to school with growing up. That was probably part of the reason why. It didn’t matter who your parents were when you didn’t fit in with ‘the crowd’. And I didn’t want to belong. Not to that group. I saw who they are and stayed far, far away.

  I checked my email for the twentieth time that hour, responding to every message the minute they came in. Rhys Thayer took a big chance taking me on as his assistant and I didn’t want to screw it up. I looked around my apartment, at all the knick knacks I’d picked up at flea markets, copper, coral, and navy accents everywhere. I’d spent hours finding the right pieces. Stripping, sanding, and painting took up a lot of time to make sure everything flowed together. Dahlia griped that it was too pink, but even she came home with a candle or a picture frame every so often to help fill things out.

  A frame I’d put up recently was taken at the Mermaid Street Fair over the summer. I’m laughing and she’s got her tongue out, pointing at a naked mermaid tattoo one of her clients was showing off. It seemed like half the city was covered in her ink. It was so strange that her skin was pristine. I’d put the detail and artistry of her work up against any painter. She had a skill and amazing talent. Not that she was getting that needle anywhere near me, no matter how much she tried.

  I pulled the quilt off the back of the navy couch I’d found online. Someone was going to throw the perfectly fine thing away. I tucked the quilt around me. The days were getting shorter and colder. I loved this time of year. It meant I got to bust out the long coats and cute boots. I sat my mug on our coffee table made from shipping pallets and smiled. It was just like I dreamed. From the peonies on the kitchen counter to the distressed mirror hanging right beside the door. Everything was finally coming together.

  As I got in bed, I plugged in my phone and checked it one last time. I loved my life now. I loved my job and my apartment and my roommate. I was like a sitcom character living life in the big city, but having everything I dreamed of didn’t do what I thought it would. I was on my own now, making my own way. Why did I still feel so off balance? So alone. Rolling over, I picked up my phone again, the special notification sounds for Mr. Thayer going off every so often. He didn’t sleep much. I scrolled through my emails to finalize a few more things. Just a couple more and then I’d go to bed. Definitely, just a few more…

  2

  KILLIAN

  I slid my shoes on without glancing up. Her eyes watching my every move. The sheets rustled as she moved around, sitting up in bed. I stood, fastening my belt. I checked to make sure I had my wallet and hadn’t left anything behind and headed to the door.

  “Killian,” she whined, grabbing onto my hand. It was Katherine or Karen. Something with a K or was it a C? Not like it mattered. She batted her big thick lashes at me. Her red mask, long since forgotten on the floor. “Don’t you want to stay a bit longer?” She let the sheet fall lower, exposing her pert tits. They looked good. I could appreciate them, but I’d already fucked her, hell, fucked them. I wasn’t interested in another round.

  Frankie, the owner of the club and one of my best friends, hated it when I used the room like my own personal hotel room and not the sex play room she built this place to be, but sex was sex, right? The club had certain rules and I was bending them, but not enough for Frankie to ban me for more than a few weeks.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, pulling my hand from her grip. I fastened my cufflinks, pushing the cold metal through the tailored cuffs, and grabbed my coat off the hook by the door. “You can get dressed now.”

  “That’s it?” she said, sounding pissed. “You don’t want to go back to your apartment?”

  “That’s it,” I said, snapping the green band on my wrist. “Open for fucking doesn’t mean I want to be here all night. I have shit to do,” I looked her up and down, “and I’m done with you. So, you’re going to have to leave my room.” It was harsh. But it was better to get this shit over with. I didn’t want to leave her in my private room in the club. That was how I’d ended up repaying Frankie for damages a couple of years ago when a hookup lost it after I left her to get dressed.

  Don’t draw it out, don’t lead them on. I always made sure I was upfront with whatever woman I was with. I didn’t need someone showing up with her head full of expectations and the club provided the perfect place for that. At least it did when you didn’t end up with someone who thought this was a matchmaking service. It wasn’t.

  She hurriedly got dressed and flipped me the bird as she stormed out of my private room. This was why I never brought a woman back to my place. I didn’t need to deal with the hassle, or them knowing where I lived. I’d tried that initially. They thought that coming back to my place meant they were something other than a convenient fuck.

  At least here, I could leave whenever I wanted. If I brought a woman to my place, she’d angle for ways to stay and then I’d have to kick her out. I really didn’t enjoy having my business spread out everywhere for everyone to see, so I preferred to be discreet. I closed the door behind me and felt the thud as something hit the solid wood behind me. Sounded like she was pissed. Too bad, I might have given her another go in a year or so.

  The thumping of music from the main club area vibrated through me. I wouldn’t be able to go through there, since I had my clothes on. I’d slipped in the backdoor to skirt around that little rule, and catching Kristy or Karen or whoever she was on my way to the back office was a bonus I hadn�
�t counted on. She was a good lay, but nothing to write home about.

  Fake tits, fake teeth, a regular appointment with a plastic surgeon that made her face the same one I’d seen hundreds of times before. This would make things awkward if she approached me later. I’d make a note for Frankie to make sure her name and club profile were sent to me, so I could avoid running into her again.

  I rapped on the office door, my knuckles smarting from the metal spikes that covered it. It was one way to ensure you didn’t get many visitors. A blast of blaring trance music hit me as Frankie threw the door open and glared at me.

  “What did I tell you about wearing clothes in my club, Killian?” she asked, sliding out of the way, so I could come inside.

  “Pot, meet kettle,” I said. Frankie was decked out in sweats with a fresh face.

  “What? I’m the boss, I can wear what I want. I’m not even supposed to be working tonight,” she said, glancing at the screens behind her, which she always shut off when I was inside to maintain her members’ privacy. A wall filled with almost every angle of the public areas of the club. I glanced down at her feet and quirked my eyebrow at her floppy bunny slippers.

  “Have you ever walked around in six-inch platform heels? It’s a bitch on your feet. These are comfortable. It’s bad enough I have to wear all this shit.” She gestured to her work clothes, which consisted of leather and lace on the hook by the door. “At least my feet will be comfortable,” she said, sliding into her chair and swirling around to the massive wall of screens in front of her. Every inch of the club was completely covered in cameras. It meant everyone stayed safe and Frankie got her voyeur fix. Her security team had complete access to all these cameras as well, but she was a bit of a control freak. Ha. Even I could laugh at the irony there. Not like I wasn’t.