Sex, Lies & Lace (Sex and Lies Book 4)

by Kris Calvert

  SEX, LIES & LACE

  Sex and Lies Book Four

  A Moonlight and Magnolias Novel

  Kris Calvert

  © Copyright 2016 Kris Calvert

  Kindle Edition

  Excerpt from Lead Me From Temptation copyright © 2015 by Kris Calvert. All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material form the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at www.calvertcomm.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover by jim@insigniadesign.com

  Edited by Meg Weglarz and Molly J. Kimbrell

  ISBN: 978-1-943180-06-6

  Calvert Communications, Lexington, KY 40515

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Books by Kris Calvert

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1: King

  2: Reagan

  3: Reagan

  4: King

  5: Reagan

  6: King

  7: King

  8: Reagan

  9: King

  10: Reagan

  11: King

  12: Reagan

  13: Reagan

  14: King

  15: Reagan

  16: Reagan

  17: King

  18: Reagan

  19: King

  20: Reagan

  21: King

  22: Reagan

  23: King

  24: Reagan

  25: King

  26: Reagan

  27: Reagan

  28: King

  29: Reagan

  30: King

  Coming Soon: Sex, Lies & Bourbon

  Excerpt from Lead Me From Temptation

  Connect with Kris

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Molly Jenkins Kimbrell for always keeping my pharmaceutical knowledge on the right path and for reading everything—even when it sucks.

  Thank you to the ladies who lunch. Without you I’d just be one crazy woman out there flailing. It’s way more fun when we do it together.

  Thank you to Meg and Molly. You are my favorite grammar Nazis and storyline Ninjas.

  Thank you to Karina Aliyev for schooling me in the beauty of the Russian language.

  Finally, thank you to my adoring husband, Rob and the two greatest accomplishments of my life, Luke and Haley. I love you all, with all my heart.

  Books by Kris Calvert

  Sex, Lies & Sweet Tea – Book One

  Sex, Lies & Lipstick – Book Two

  Sex, Lies & Pearls – Book Three

  Sex, Lies & Pearls – Book Four

  Be Mine – a Valentine’s Day Novella

  Sparks Fly – an Independence Day Novella

  Roses are Wrong, Violets Taboo

  Deliver Me From Evil – 2016

  Sex, Lies & Bourbon – 2016

  Kris Calvert’s Website:

  www.kriscalvert.com

  For Molly.

  Because she’s badass.

  December 24, 2002

  Opening the one eye not swollen shut, my matted eyelashes stretched, finally pulling apart. I gagged. My head pounded, the blood in my brain beating against the temples of my bruised forehead with each rapid beat of my heart. I struggled to move against the restraint, but the ache of each muscle cried out in misery and I realized every part of me was battered—every part of me was broken. The sting of raw skin rubbed against the coarse rope around my bloodied wrists. I thrust my tongue against the filthy rag that gagged me and tasted a mixture of salt from my own perspiration and dried blood from my cracked and bloated lips. The room smelled like death—my death. Between my semi-conscious state and the total blackouts, I estimated thirteen. Thirteen days since I was knocked in the head and pulled into a van along the side of the road. I was walking to the corner gas station from my karate class to get a Slurpee. It was the plan each Thursday night—karate from three to five, Slurpee from the Seven Eleven, then wait for the pickup promptly at five fifteen when he’d pull into the parking lot and give me a thumbs up. It was his way of making sure I was okay and he always expected one in return. Always.

  I stared out the window and watched the snowflakes begin to fall. Melting as soon as they hit the glass pane that separated me from the world, it was at least something to do in between the beatings and the…whatever. It was Christmas and even though I had no idea where I was in relation to home, I could see the lights and decorations twinkling in the distance.

  I watched the falling snow and longed to be with my dad. We’d been inseparable since Mom died three years ago. If he didn’t find me soon, I knew it was my mom I’d be seeing—in heaven.

  There had to be a nationwide search—my dad was a cop—the kind of cop who’d earned the nickname, The Terminator. I knew he had an entire team looking for me. The question was, would I be found before they killed me?

  Tears rolled down my cheeks and the saltiness stung my battered face, reminding me of the night I woke to this nightmare. Stripped naked, the Russian men in black ski masks had tied my wrists and ankles to the dirty bed. They rarely spoke in English, but I knew enough Russian to understand them thanks to my grandma who forced me speak to her only in Russian.

  The first night, their leader, Rodya, kissed me on the forehead saying, Ubit’ devochku. Yeye otets svin’ya. Kill the girl. Her father’s a pig. I spit in his face and he punched me in the cheek, splitting my eye. “YA budu videt’ vas v ad,” he shouted, wiping my spittle from his cheek. I’ll see you in hell.

  When he’d had his way with me, he turned me over to the others to be raped. The more I fought, the more they punched my face and battered my body. By the fourth night, I quit fighting. Each taking their turn, they violated me. Over and over, their sweaty flesh pressed into me—their fat stomachs flapping against my thin frame. I cried at first but now—now I close my mind to it. I’m no longer myself. I no longer exist.

  I always thought I’d lose my virginity on prom night or in the back of an SUV after a field party with a bonfire and the hottest football player at school. I’d even saved it for that guy—someone I didn’t know yet and a moment just like that. I thought of my friends and what they must be doing or what they might think of me, and the reality hit me. I may never see my dad or my friends again. I closed my swollen eyes tightly and tried not to think at all.

  Each time the masked men came to me, I went to a place in my head—a place they couldn’t follow. My captors were slowly killing my body but they weren’t going to break my mind. My dad had taught me to be strong and my two years of karate training had taught me a greater awareness of that inner strength. Dad always said, “Never be a victim, Gip.” It was his pet name for me. I hated it, but I’d give anything to hear him say it to me now. I’d happily sit through one of his many lectures on self-worth or doing the right thing. Instead I was here—gagged, bound, bloodied and bruised.

  One thing was for certain—they wouldn’t keep me alive much longer. My dad didn’t have any money to speak of, so there would be no reason to ask for a ransom and men like this didn’t stay in one place for too long. I’d learned of the ugliness tha
t came with crime from the many dinner table discussions growing up. I’d wondered in the past few days if they knew who my dad was. If they had any idea the wrath that would rain down upon them regardless of whether I lived or died. In the end I knew from what my father had told me, they wouldn’t take me with them. Perps never take the victim along. And they wouldn’t let me go. I was collateral damage at best, a cliché at worst.

  I began to cry silently, each quiet gasp of air a prayer for help. Gagging myself on the dirty bandana that was keeping me silent, I turned my head from the window. Even watching the snowfall was too painful, and for the first time I thought dying might be a blessing. I prayed to leave the world. I prayed for my mom to come and save me if Daddy couldn’t.

  The familiar Sports Center tune was playing loudly in the other room as my captors smoked, cracked jokes and shouted at each other over the ringing volume of the TV. Doing my best to find the untouchable place in my head, I tried to relax my throat. It was the only way I could keep from gagging and breathe through my mouth at the same time. My nose was clogged with snot and blood from the beatings. I knew I was feverish, sweating through the night as I lay sprawled out without a blanket, shivering in the cold drafts of the ramshackle house.

  A frigid breeze swept across my nakedness, pulling me from my own trance and back into the world around me. I turned my head away from the door, not wanting to see the next man who would ogle me, naked, open and tied to the bed. I acted unconscious, hoping whoever was arriving would leave me alone.

  But whom was I kidding? They weren’t going to stop until I was a lifeless carcass ready for a shallow grave.

  When I didn’t hear footsteps, I strained to see what was coming. Blinking to refocus, I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was my father. His eyes glistened with tears and he nodded, placing his finger across his lips. It was my signal to not react—to stay quiet.

  I mustered a relieved smile and felt my chapped lips crack at the corners as I gave him a thumbs up. He could tell I was beaten, but alive. Still silent, I began to sob, my shoulders heaving with each breath I took. And then he was gone.

  “Poshel na khuy!” I jumped at each of the three shots fired, my body straining against the ropes and screamed through the gag in my mouth at the thought of Daddy lying dead in the next room. Suddenly it was quiet. No shouting, no ESPN.

  I did my best to leverage my weight against the painful strain of the ropes, gripping the rough twists in my fingers as three more shots rang out in the silence of the broken down house.

  Dad rushed back through the door, his sweaty face flushed with tears and pure anger. He covered my nakedness with a dirty blanket from the corner of the room. “Sweetheart,” he gasped. Showing emotion he couldn’t control and I’d never seen before, he kept repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  The SWAT team broke down the back door and for a moment it seemed as if a bulldozer was tearing down the house. Dad shouted orders to them while pulling the gag from my mouth. He carefully cut my hands and feet from the bed and I fell into his arms, relieved, devastated and unable to make a coherent sound.

  I barely noticed the men in their full battle gear as they stormed the house. I closed my eyes and felt the strong arms of my father around me as he carried me away from the nightmare.

  The harsh winter took my breath away as it hit my nakedness in a blast of frigid air. I turned my face into Dad’s chest. A gurney outside the house waited for my limp and battered body. He placed me on the white sheet as though I might break and I used what little strength I had left to hold my pinky finger in the air for Dad to grasp with his own.

  The snow floated from the sky like angels sent to bless me and as the wet flakes hit my bloodied cheeks, I gave my dad the only thing I could muster—a nod. By the look on his face I knew he was different—he knew the same of me.

  Only when the gurney lifted into the ambulance did he let go. “I’m right here sweetheart. I’m not leaving you.”

  I gripped the warm blankets between my bloody fingers and pulled them tightly to my chin. Taking a deep breath, my ribs ached and the space around me began to spin. I closed my eyes and welcomed the quiet I’d longed for in my head—the dark serenity of nothingness.

  1

  KING

  Standing off stage, I watched the pretty blonde ask for everyone’s attention. Drug companies knew how to make doctors and members of the press sit up and take notice—they paraded a hot girl on stage in a form-fitting dress that accentuated all of the gifts God gave her and made sure she could recite a few lines. Still, I fiddled with the notecards containing their canned message before tucking them into my suit coat and shoving my hands in my pockets. It was launch day.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my distinct pleasure to introduce to you, someone who’s been instrumental in BioGen’s research of this astonishing breakthrough in drug therapy. He’s long been a proponent for drug research and today in particular, Alzheimer’s research. A consultant for BioGen, he and others like him are to be commended on their tireless efforts to simply make the world a better place.”

  The hot blonde gave me a fleeting glance and a casual smile, making sure I was still stage right and continued. “Please join me in welcoming Dr. Kingston Giles.”

  Pulling my hands from my pockets, I strode toward the stage with confidence as the applause reached a fevered pitch. Public speaking didn’t bother me but I had no intention of staying on the stage longer than I needed to.

  I glanced at the notecards as I slipped them from my breast pocket and took a deep breath. The speech wasn’t supposed to be long, nor was it to be informative. I was only here to be a cheerleader for the company.

  “Good afternoon, everyone.” I paused to take a sip of water from the bottle left at the podium for me and waited for the crowd to settle in. The Atlanta hotel ballroom chosen for the historical occasion was decorated in BioGen’s corporate logo and the new drug name Citoxole loomed large and as far as the eye could see. As per my usual, I scanned the room for anyone and anything that seemed out of place. It was muscle memory—habit.

  “Over the last thirty years, remarkable progress has been made in understanding healthy neurological functions and what goes wrong in an Alzheimer’s brain. Today we can say that we’ve made significant strides in both treatment and prevention of this disease that affects over five million people of all ages. It is the only top ten cause of death in America that cannot be prevented, cured or slowed.”

  I paused, taking inventory of the room. It was filled with the most important men and women in research today. Newspapers, camera crews and investors were hanging on my every word. With a single nod, I continued. “That is until today. Citoxole blocks the activity of the beta-secretase and gamma-secretase enzymes that are the chief components of plaque generation in the brain, preventing the beta-amyloid fragments from clumping, and even aid in clearing it from the brain. In clinical trials, this drug has shown to be our best hope for stopping Alzheimer’s in its tracks. Combined with brain imaging and biomarkers, we are able to identify the disease in its most treatable stages—before symptoms appear.”

  A round of applause erupted from the back of the room and I knew the company public relations people had purposely started the ovation. They were so hell-bent on stirring up press and a positive vibe for the new drug, they’d stop at nothing. Dubbing it the Messiah of all Alzheimer’s drugs, they were ready to save souls. I knew there was a trail that needed to be forged and it wasn’t going to be a smooth journey. The preliminary clinical trials were promising, but there were side effects, and there were adjustments that needed to be made.

  Staring at the final few lines of the prepared speech, I smiled and tucked the cards into my navy pinstriped suit. I’d played a lot of roles in my thirty-three years of life, but I was no one’s puppet. Out in the world and on my own for longer than I cared to remember, I was a lot of things, but I was still a doctor—no matter what.

  “I’ve watched this disease take
its toll on my own patients, friends and my family. This year alone, over seven hundred thousand people over the age of sixty-five will die with Alzheimer’s. It’s predicted that this number will rise to a projected thirteen million if medical breakthroughs are not found. In fact, it is the sixth leading cause of death in the United States.” I paused. I wanted to make sure everyone in the room knew that the disease was beginning to hit epic proportions in our country. Gripping the sides of the podium I looked down to the empty lectern before raising my eyes to the crowd once more. “I am constantly asked about the risk factors of this debilitating disease and here’s the cold, hard truth. Everyone with a brain is at risk. This disease kills more people than breast cancer and prostate cancer combined. In the last fifteen years, deaths from Alzheimer’s have increased by seventy-one percent—seventy-one percent.” It was such a staggering number I felt the need to repeat myself. I scanned the now quiet room. It had taken me only a moment to bring down the rowdy audience to easily hearing plates in the service hallway being stacked for the reception that would take place when I was finished. “Take a look at the person standing to your left.” I watched as the crowd did as they were told. “Now, your right. One of the three of you will develop this disease by the time you are seniors. That means roughly every minute of every day, someone develops this debilitating disease.”

  I looked to the podium again and paused. I wanted to wrap it on a positive note now that I’d gone off script and taken it down the grim statistical road that was the present state. “And the time has come for that to end.”

  Applause erupted throughout the ballroom and I allowed it to escalate to cheers and whistles—no doubt again started by a plant from the marketing team.

  “Please,” I said leaning into the microphone to regain everyone’s attention. “Read carefully through the research materials. There is no magic bullet to cure Alzheimer’s, but we’re damn sure getting closer. Thank you.”