by S. M. Soto
“You would know, wouldn’t you?” I accuse, glaring up at him. I know I’m playing with fire by broaching the subject, but I don’t care. I want him to pay.
Zach smiles darkly, and he drops to his haunches, smugly leaning into me. I jerk away, bracing myself against the tree, wishing it would just swallow me whole. His arm jerks out, latching onto my bicep, and his grip on me tightens to the point of pain. “Big words coming from you.”
“I know you guys did it.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t know shit. Keep running that fucking mouth, and you’re going to wish it was you who died at the fucking rock, understand me?”
He shoves my body back against the bark, knocking the air out of my lungs in the process. Then he’s gone, storming through the woods with the rest of them, without so much as a backward glance.
The photograph trembles in my hand, so I set it down on the desk, trying to shake off the memory. That was the last straw for me. I hated giving up on my sister like that, but I knew if I continued to pursue them, I would end up on the same path as Madison. And chances were, on that path, I’d find the same fate she did. Death.
But now … now things are different. I’m not afraid of death. I’ll come at these guys with everything I have. I’m not afraid of them anymore.
I stuff the photograph back into the drawer and try to put everything back in its original place before leaving. I head straight for the bedroom to gather my stuff because I need to go back to my suite and think. I need to write, put these thoughts down on paper, and try to connect the dots.
Madison’s death was the catalyst. It was the beginning of the end for me, that was all I was sure of anymore.
My fingers are flying across the keyboard, and the words in Sans Serif font quickly follow, filling the screen with words. More and more words. My phone suddenly vibrates on the end table, and without even looking, I know who it is. I haven’t heard from him other than the note he left.
I’ve chalked it up to him being busy. It’s also given me enough time to think and regroup. Now more than ever, I need to embed myself into his life. It’s a precarious enterprise, being around the rest of the guys, but I need to find out what they’re hiding. Even if it’s just a simple dinner with all of them, or another night at the club where they’re all bound to be. If Baz won’t take the plunge and have me meet his friends, then I will.
Whatever it takes.
Saving my work, I clench my hands into fists, then stretch my fingers out for a much-needed break. I’ve been at it for the past three hours. Once I have everything shut down, I finally reach for my phone.
My heart skids to an abrupt halt when I read his message.
There’s no way?
It can’t be.
It can’t be this easy.
Baz: I have to attend a gala tonight, and I’m in need of a plus one.
I type out a quick response.
Mackenzie: None of your other girl “friends” were available on such short notice?
Baz: Funny.
Mackenzie: As fun as that sounds, I don’t have anything to wear to an event like that.
Baz: That’s already been taken care of. Just give me the OK.
There’s no guarantee his friends will be there, but I’m not willing to pass up the opportunity. What better way to gain his trust? Things are going a lot better between us than I originally expected if he’s already asking me to attend an event with him. After everything I read up on Baz, I didn’t take him for the type to move this fast. I thought for sure I’d have to jump through more hoops, but apparently, that’s not the case, and I can’t say I’m upset with the turn of events.
Without my consent, the butterflies take flight in my stomach, roaring with a vengeful force. I place a trembling hand over my stomach and close my eyes.
“We can do this. We’ve got this. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Madison. I promise.”
Even though she’s gone and has been for years, I swear I hear her affirmation.
“One step at a time. He’s eating out of the palm of your hand. Keep him there.”
Mackenzie: OK.
Everything that happens afterward is a whirlwind. Baz calls to tell me Dan and a few others will be coming up to the penthouse. He tells me I can expect a stylist, a hair stylist, and a makeup artist. It’s just like Baz to go out of his way to bring these people here to doll me up when I just could’ve used the resort’s spa.
After shutting everything down in my suite, I head up, and Dan strides into the penthouse with his signature no-nonsense look. Ever the professional, he barks off orders, much as I expect Baz would if he were here. Each person sets their station up pretty quickly. The nail techs set up in the living room. One goes straight to work on my hands, the other on my feet, and then a third woman reclines the chair back, so she has access to my face, where she goes to town plucking and threading my brows.
“Oh, honey, just look at these roots.” A gorgeous, pixie looking woman clicks her tongue down at me as she toys with my hair. Subconsciously, I shrink on the chair, chiding myself for not touching up my roots as often as I should while I’ve been here. I knew changing my outward appearance was going to be tough, but had I known keeping up with the charade was going to be this difficult, I would’ve said to hell with it.
When Baz said he’d handle it, I had no idea this was what he meant. I just thought there would be a dress waiting, and I’d slip into it before he got here. It appears this gala is a lot more glamorous than I thought. Maybe that’s why he waited until the last minute to ask me to go. Maybe he knew if I had any clue all this would’ve happened, I would’ve politely declined.
After what feels like hours of being colored, primped, and primed, the stylist, an Asian man with a septum piercing and an eccentric personality, rolls over a rack of gorgeous gowns. With my hair and makeup done, I stand awkwardly as he appraises me. His brows are drawn in, and he walks around me several times, making humming noises with each pass.
I shift awkwardly on my feet and look down at myself. It’s the curves. It’s obvious I’m not a size zero like a model. Instead, I’m more of a JLO or a Kardashian. My backside is always the issue. But I’ve learned to embrace them—the curves—and I won’t let his little noises of disdain tear me down.
Finally, he comes to a halt in front of me, his eyes lingering on my hips. I tighten the sash of the robe around my waist, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his gaze.
“Perfect!” He claps his hands and pivots. The hangers scrape along the metal rack as he pushes dresses aside. He pauses to glance back at me, then resumes his search. When he finds what he’s looking for, he hoots.
“I have been dying to dress someone in this, and Mama, let me tell you something. These curves, mixed with this dress? A complete knockout.”
The gown he pulls off the rack is beautiful. It’s a nude, off-the-shoulder, jewel-embellished gown with a short train. I shoot a wary glance at the stylist, worried the material of the dress might be too see-through for a gala, but he urges me on.
“This is Ralph & Russo couture, honey. If you don’t wear this, I will.”
Much to my surprise, the dress isn’t as see-through as I thought. The nude seaming meshes perfectly with my skin tone, creating the illusion that I’m completely nude underneath.
Since the top is completely see-through, save for the jewels, the stylist sticks nude-colored pasties over my nipples. The diamonds and mesh lining are a theme throughout the dress, and in the mirror, it’s hard to deny how incredible it looks on me. The slit on the left side of my leg starts tapering open just beneath my hip and the dress flares out to the right side into a train. The thin gold strap at the top of my shoulder tapers down, across my chest, and off the other shoulder asymmetrically.
The stylist—Wren, I learn is his name—uses a brush and squirts gold, glittery liquid on top of the bristles, then rubs it all over my upper body and legs.
“Christ. You look like a golden godd
ess. I think this is my best work yet.”
He guides me toward the floor-length mirror, and my eyes widen as I take in my reflection. With the gold strappy heels, I really do look like a golden goddess.
“This dress is insane,” I whisper, making Wren laugh.
“Tell me about it. The only person who has worn the exact replica has been Alessandra Ambrosio at the Oscars After Party in 2018. She wore it so well, not many stylists or women want to wear it out of fear they won’t do it justice, but honey, you’re giving that woman a run for her money.”
I roll my eyes and fight the smirk itching to spread across my face. “Stop flattering me, Wren.”
“He’s not.”
At the sound of the deep, masculine voice, both Wren and I whirl toward the doorway, and my breath catches at the sight of Baz. He’s leaning up against the doorframe, watching me with a gaze that pins me in place. His eyes are literally on fire, blazing a scorching trail across my flesh as he takes in the dress.
He’s captivating and magnificent.
If I thought the man only looked good wearing those three-piece suits, I was wrong because Baz King in a tux is like water after days trapped in the desert. With his blue and pewter gaze, he steals the breath straight from my lungs. His tux fits him better than clothing has any right to fit a person. The way it clings to his hard, formidable body, he’s the vision of sophistication and casual with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
He looks suave yet oddly more severe than he does when he wears the suits. His normally sex-mussed tresses are slicked back. A dark rogue strand hangs across his forehead, and fuck me, but I want to jump his bones.
He’s sex on legs.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Bonjoc.” Baz dismisses Wren, his gaze still burning into me. Other than the subtle tic in his jaw, he hasn’t reacted to how I look. Wren pats me on the ass, looking me up and down one last time.
“Please make sure the pap devour you in this dress.”
When he leaves, the air grows thick with tension. My breasts instantly feel heavy in the dress, and I thank my lucky stars for the nude pasties and the jewels stitched to the mesh, hiding my erect nipples.
Slowly and predatorily, Baz pushes off the wall, striding toward me. He stops a few inches before me, his gaze doing a slow perusal of my body.
“Do you like the …?” My words trail off, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, as Baz steps into me. Deftly, he lifts a curled strand of my hair and gently tucks it behind my ear, letting his finger graze the shell, completely taking my breath away. The roughened pad of his finger trails down the column of my neck before delicately tracing the flesh over my collarbone. An audible gasp escapes my lips, and a shudder wracks through my oversensitive body as gooseflesh covers every inch of my skin. Like two magnets, a negative and a positive snapping together, our gazes clash, and I find myself getting lost in the layers of blues swirling there.
The normally taut lines and the coldness that’s always in his eyes aren’t present right now. Baz stares down at me as though he’s an open book, begging me to turn the pages and get lost in him. His hand possessively slides around the base of my neck, and my lips part on instinct when he swoops down and takes my mouth with his. His lips work mine with finesse, devouring me whole. They’re soft yet firm in his intent as he parts my lips with them to stroke his tongue over mine. His hands slide down my waist, over the diamonds and other embellishments on the dress. They settle on my ass, and he curls the pads in, cupping his fingers around my cheeks and squeezing my backside like his life depends on it. A hungry groan vibrates in his chest, and I find myself trying to climb him, anything to feel him inside me.
Luckily, he has enough sense to stop it before we ruin the past few hours of hard work. Seeming to get ahold of himself, Baz takes a step back, and I’ve yet to regain the ability to open my eyes. He’s rendered me completely speechless after that.
“I take it you like the dress?” I pant.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at my face. I thought for sure his smoldering gaze would be aimed at my body in the dress.
“I like more than the dress,” he murmurs, wiping his lips with his thumb to remove all traces of my lip gloss. I want to pout. I want to kiss him and mark him all over again, but before I can, he takes my hand in his to lead the way out of his penthouse.
In Baz’s entertainment room, Wren hands me a clutch that matches the dress, and I slip my phone inside.
“Everything is in there. Makeup touch-ups. The lip gloss. More pasties. You fucking name it, sister.”
I laugh, and unable to help myself, I pull him in for a hug. “Thank you. I don’t know how you worked this miracle, but thank you.”
When we pull back, he winks at me, then looks over my shoulder at Baz. “It wasn’t all that hard.”
When I glance back at Baz, he’s watching me with an odd expression on his face. For once, it’s not that damned blank stare, but it might as well be. It’s a look I’ve never seen on him before, and I can’t pin it down. If I’m not mistaken, he looks taken aback by my reaction to the stylist. Are conversing and hugging the hired help really so looked down upon?
I try to control my nerves as Baz leads the way out of the resort. The few people standing around the lobby stop and stare, their whispers trailing our way. I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking. Can they see just how in over my head I am standing here next to Baz?
“They may not be able to, but I do.”
I push her voice out of my head, not willing to let her psych me out before the night has even begun.
A Bentley Mulsanne pulls up to the curb, and I try to remain impassive. Back in New York with the girls, I’ve seen stuff like this. I know this is how the rich roll, but after a whole day of being pampered and dressed like royalty, it’s getting harder and harder to process. Baz lets me slide in the back first, and surprisingly, he holds my dress, so I can get inside seamlessly. As soon as he takes the seat right next to me, the door slams behind him. Dan gets into the front seat, and in no time at all, we’re moving.
“Thank you, for all of this,” I say, gesturing to my body in the dress. “I don’t think I’ve ever been plucked and waxed the way I have today.” I laugh, and Baz smirks. A softness enters his eyes as he watches me. “What’s the charity gala for? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s the Heart for Heart Foundation for orphaned and foster children.”
My brows jump into my hairline, and I pointedly look down at my dress. “Is this appropriate for that?”
“These events are hardly for the cause; they’re more for the show. As long as you come in with a check big enough to make everyone happy, they couldn’t care less. The women take it to the extreme by making the event more about them than the children.”
“Is that why you had me go through hours of primping?” I tease.
He shrugs noncommittally. “The women in this world can be vultures.”
My heart trips over itself at his words; even though he didn’t necessarily say it, he was looking out for me. This was his way of making sure I looked the part and wouldn’t be torn apart by the attendees.
I ask more questions about the event, and Baz seems happy to answer, giving me details and the know-whos. The car rolls to a slow stop, and when I glance out the tinted windows, there are flashes and a black carpet instead of a red one. The Beverly Hilton is jam-packed with limos, extended Rolls Royces, and Bentleys like ours, and the paparazzi lurk on every corner. The last time I’d ever been to anything this big was the club opening.
With one final glance at me, Baz gently brushes a stray lock of hair off my face and leans in. “I haven’t said it, but you look beautiful.”
He’s already sliding out before I have a chance to reply. He bends, reaching his hand out to me, palm up, and I suck in a sharp, stabilizing breath.
I can do this.
We can do this.
I can do this.
Placing my palm in his, he helps
me out, and I’m careful to remain modest in the dress. The second my heeled foot touches the ground, the flashes go off. Shouts and questions are yelled from almost every direction.
“Mr. King, who’s the mystery woman?”
“Mr. King, have you finally found the one?”
“Miss, how long have you been seeing each other?”
“Miss, who are you wearing tonight?”
I don’t have a chance to answer any of the questions because Baz is already leading me down the black carpet, his face back to that blank mask. As the cameras’ flashes blind us, I realize this is the face he gives the media. The one he gives everyone else. It’s like a switch has flipped from the warm gazes he’s been giving me to this flat, hard expression.
As I’m feeling completely overwhelmed by the chaos, it takes me a while to get ahold of myself and actually pay attention to my surroundings. Women, couples, they’re all dressed to the nines, and as I glance down at myself, I’m so fucking relieved Baz went all out for me the way he did.
My hand is clammy in his, and every time I try to wriggle free to wipe the sweat somewhere on my dress, his grip tightens. I heave a sigh. There’s no point.
On the way inside the Beverly Hilton, we stop for conversations with a handful of people. Sometimes Baz introduces me; other times, he doesn’t. I try not to let it bother me.
Keeping the amazement off my face is an impossible feat as I take in the ballroom. It’s beautifully decorated and prestigious looking with hordes of impeccably dressed people milling about. There’s a stage with a glass podium, and children of all ages and ethnicities sit at the tables nearest to it.
I mean, sure, I’ve done stuff like this with Kat and Vera but never on this scale. It’s always been party events, not galas or anything remotely similar.
