Big Daddy Sinatra: Carly's Cry

by Mallory Monroe

  BIG DADDY SINATRA 4:

  CARLY’S CRY

  BY

  MALLORY MONROE

  Copyright©2016 Mallory Monroe

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  AUSTIN BROOK PUBLISHING

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  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious. Any similarities to anyone living or dead are completely accidental. The specific mention of known places or venues are not meant to be exact replicas of those places, but are purposely embellished or imagined for the story’s sake.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHAT LOOKED LIKE CRAZY met Carly Sinatra as she entered the conference room at Reese Marketing. Her entire staff was there, six consultants in all, and all six were talking at once, answering phones, writing different ideas on the whiteboards all at once. They had so little continuity that it appeared as if they were six people handling six different cases. When, in truth, they were all handling the same case. The case of the former NFL quarterback.

  Carly sat her briefcase on the table in the back of the room and then leaned her butt against the table. She watched her staff talk and write with each attempting to be the one to find the magic answer, when there was no such thing. But Carly let them do their thing. Her adopted father taught her the power of observation and she used it to stunning effect in her role as public relations director. That was why she didn’t speak. She had to first see where they were coming from, she felt, before she could know where she needed to take them.

  Upstairs, in what the employees called the Watch Tower, Trevor Reese and his client, former New England Patriots quarterback Ethan Campbell, were watching too. They were watching a series of closed-circuit monitors of Trevor’s entire operation, but specifically of his conference room. His very chaotic conference room. And Ethan was not impressed.

  “How are they going to help me, Trev?” he asked his long-time publicist. “They’re as shocked as my fans are. And they’re so young! How are these kids going to turn this around?”

  Trevor, sitting behind the desk, calmly sipped more coffee, his large violet eyes dancing with mirth. “Carly will handle it,” he said. “You just watch.”

  Ethan continued to stand behind Trevor’s chair and watch the monitor, but he remained unimpressed. Those young Harvard hotshots never impressed him. Just a bunch of fast-talking nerds with zero common sense. And common sense was what he felt was needed. It didn’t take a genius to know what he’d done and how much trouble he was in, and what he could possibly to do to beat the rap. It took a slickster. Carly Sinatra was a gorgeous girl with a smoking body, a body he had every intention of breaking one of these days. But in Ethan’s eyes, there was nothing slick about her.

  Trevor kept his eyes on Carly. Because he knew her. He knew, as Carly sat in that conference room, she wasn’t interested in being slick. She was interested in solving the problem. That was one of the reasons why he hired her. She was young, but she’d already amassed a reputation as one of the best crisis managers around. She was working out of California but wanted to return to the New England area where she once attended school when one of his head hunters told him about her, and he gladly snatched her up. And brought her to Boston.

  And now seeing her with that innate patience, as her staff continued to chase their tails, made Trevor all the more certain of his choice. Because she never once made her presence known. It was her staff, after talking themselves into exhaustion and writing up all of the whiteboards, who finally bothered to look to her for answers.

  “What are we going to do, boss?” one of her consultants asked. “We’ve come up with every conceivable option, and not one of them are viable. We could all lose our jobs if we don’t get this right! You know how Mr. Reese can be! What are we going to do?”

  “The first thing we will not do,” Carly said calmly, “is panic. That we will not do.” Then she exhaled and sat on the edge of the table. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Most of them found such a request unnecessary. Surely she’d seen the morning news and read the morning newspapers? But they knew Carly. They knew it wasn’t about whether or not she knew what happened, but whether or not she knew that they knew what happened. This was her way of getting their scattered minds back on the same page.

  Murial Roadonsen spoke up. “Ethan Campbell was found in a hotel room with a girl he thought was twenty-one.”

  “But who turned out to be?” Carly asked.

  “Thirteen,” Murial said.

  Carly felt an inward jolt. She even frowned. “How could anybody in their right mind confuse a thirteen year old for a full grown woman? Either he’s dumb as dirt,” she said, “or thinks we are. Which is it?”

  Upstairs, Ethan heard her comment and ran his hands through his hair. “Gotdamn, Trev! She’s worse than the media. I won’t stand a chance with her running my PR!”

  “She’s making valid points,” Ethan responded. “Just shut up and listen.”

  Ethan looked at Trevor with hate in his eyes. One day he was going to put that arrogant asshole in his place. But right now, he needed a powerhouse like Trevor on his side. He therefore shut up, and continued to listen.

  After some of the staff members gave their take on Ethan’s motivation, with most judging Ethan guilty as sin in any event, Carly changed course. They were getting nowhere bashing the client. “Are there any photos?” she asked.

  “Only what her family has released,” Murial said. “There’s been no trial. There hasn’t even been an indictment. But already they’re looking to sue the shit out of Ethan.”

  “Show me what we have,” Carly said.

  The projector came down, covering the whiteboards, and Murial grabbed the remote and pressed the button. The entire staff began commenting, shocked by the view.

  When Carly saw the photos on screen, she wasn’t as shocked as she was disheartened. Those photos were of innocence itself. Those photos were of a sweet, vibrant child who looked even younger than thirteen. And her heart began to pound. And decisively, yet unnoticed by everyone, her small hand began to slowly ball into a fist.

  And she remembered every single one of those nights.

  The hand over her mou
th. That was always the first thing that flashed in her mind. Not the actual act, but the preparation for that act. His big, fat, clammy hand would cover her mouth. She was usually asleep, or pretending to be, when he’d suddenly jolt her with the feel of his hand over her mouth. She would try to scream, but his hand was too big. Her little voice wasn’t even muffled. His hand was so large, it went completely unheard.

  Then he’d put on the duct tape. That was always next. That duct tape! She used to cry when the tape went on, tears would fall so hard that they would trace down her neck, until she realized no one heard her. She wasn’t thirteen, like Ethan’s victim, when it first started. She was nine. It all started just after Jenay and her father divorced. By the time she was thirteen, she was an old pro. By the time she was thirteen, there was no need for the tape because she stopped screaming and crying years before. Hundreds of years before. But he continued to cover her mouth, and tape it, anyway.

  The best of those horrific nights was when it was just him. He’d lift up her gown, open her up, and ram it in. He came quickly, so it didn’t last as long. He was small, so it didn’t hurt as bad.

  At least not the physical pain.

  But most nights it wasn’t him. It was the men who paid him. He got her ready. He covered her mouth and then taped her mouth. He held her down while the men, one after the other one, all musky and sweaty and despicable, did her until she was bleeding. It was usually three a night. Sometimes four. Once she counted eight.

  Each one would begin with a threat to kill her, and her sister, if she ever told a living soul. Then they would do her mercilessly, zip up their pants, and warn her all over again. Don’t tell. Never tell. Some pointed guns at her, some pointed knives at her, some just pointed a finger. Then they’d pay and leave. She never knew how much they paid her father. But she saw them, after each encounter, pay him. And then her father would warn her too. With a gun to her head. Tell no one. Not even Ashley. Not one living soul.

  While he lived, she couldn’t tell. There were too many men. Too many warnings. Too much terror.

  After he died, she wouldn’t tell. There were too many memories of those men. Too many memories of those warnings. Too much shame.

  Carly didn’t realize she had completely shut down until the doors to the conference room opened, and Trevor Reese, their boss, walked in. His presence stopped her staff’s accusatory conversation, and jolted her back in charge.

  The tension in the room escalated as soon as he walked in. Not because he was a bad man that they all feared. It was because he was a powerful man they didn’t really know. Carly had been in his employ for five months, and had assembled her entire team less than three months ago. For her staff, this was their biggest case yet. That was a source of the tension. The fact that Carly had already warned them that they would be summarily dismissed if they didn’t produce results to the big man’s liking and produce them fast, was the main source.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Trevor said in his familiar measured tone.

  “Good morning, Mr. Reese,” the staff said almost in unison.

  “Good morning, sir,” Carly said thereafter.

  But Ethan had no time for niceties. He was already frowning and pointing. “What the fuck are those pictures doing up there?” he asked. “Take’em down! Take’em down right now!”

  Carly’s staff looked at her. She buttered their bread, not him. Carly, still calm as calm could be, Trevor noticed, nodded to Murial. “Turn it off,” she said.

  Murial quickly pressed the button and the screen went dark.

  “That’s better,” Ethan said. “What the fuck is wrong with you people? You work for me!”

  “Actually they work for me,” Trevor said, to the inward delight of the staff. “And speaking of work, Miss Sinatra,” he added, to Carly. “What are we going to do about this little problem my client has?”

  Carly looked at Ethan. He was the only man she’d ever worked for who never came onto her. He was the only man she’d ever worked for who had her complete respect. “We are going to do what we have to do,” she responded.

  “And that is what?” Trevor asked.

  Carly didn’t skip a beat. “Decimate her,” she said.

  Ethan smiled. “Well alright!”

  Trevor, however, continued to stare, unabashedly, at Carly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The jet black Mercedes-Maybach S600 turned onto the dirt road that led into a rough-looking neighborhood, and Jenay Sinatra looked up surprised. She had been studying contract proposals for the Bed and Breakfast she ran, and hadn’t realized where Ashley had driven her. She leaned forward and looked out of the windshield at the neighborhood before them, at the dogs, the broken down cars, the dilapidated houses and trailers. Then she looked at her adopted daughter. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  Ashley Sinatra smiled and jerked her long, weaved hair behind her back. “I just want to check on something.”

  “Ash,” Jenay said like a woman who knew her well. “Check on what?”

  “Nothing, Ma, come on. I need to see something.”

  “See what? And why in an area like this?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “It’s just country back here, that’s all. But this is where he says she lives.”

  “But are you sure this is the right street? Maybe we’re on the wrong street, Ash.”

  “Bobby said this is where he dropped him off. Bronson Avenue. At the blue house on the right hand side of the street, something like the eighth house from the corner, he said. I can only go by what he told me.”

  Jenay shook her head and leaned back. “Of all the girls in Jericho, of all the good, decent girls all around this town, leave it to Beaver to pick some biker chick from the hood. A biker chick that might even wear a hood!”

  Ashley laughed, as the Mercedes drove past the fifth house on the opposite side of the street, a bungalow on the left hand side, and Kasper Coffman watched it drive past. It wasn’t everyday a car like that turned onto Bronson, which was the main reason he bothered to look. But then again, he thought, it wasn’t everyday Big Daddy Sinatra was standing on his front porch either.

  He stared at Big Daddy as he read the note. “What’s it saying?” Kasper asked him. “I come home from working a double shift and I find that orange piece of paper on my door. I know it’s got something to do with the city because I can see the city logo there on it, but I don’t know what it can be. I ain’t got no dealings with this here town.”

  “Big Daddy” Charles Sinatra stood on Kasper’s porch and removed the sunglasses off of his narrow face, dangling them from his hand, as he read the note. Charles didn’t have time for this. It was a workday, a very busy workday, and there were fifty other far more compelling business matters he needed to attend to. As the town’s majority property owner, he was already stretched too thin. But Kasper was his long-time tenant, a hardworking man, poor all his life, who could barely read. On those rare occasions when he needed official documents explained, he called Charles. And Charles, loyal to those who were loyal to him, always came. “It’s a notice of inspection, Kass,” Charles said.

  “An inspection?” Kasper asked, his fat, pink face turning red. “What inspection? I don’t have nothing of theirs to inspect.”

  “It’s the house,” Charles said as he folded the notice and handed it back to Kasper. “They need to inspect the house.”

  Kasper looked at Charles with a wary eye. He respected Charles above any other man around town, but they were too different for him to fully trust him. Charles, for instance, was dressed in nothing fancy, just his usual professional attire: today it was a brown suit, white shirt, and brown tie, with a brown bowler hat on his head. But he stood in stark contrast to Kasper’s oil-stained blue jeans and sweat-stained t-shirt, and the dusty porch they stood upon. But both men looked overworked and tired. Neither man wanted to deal with some notice from the city. “What business is theirs about this house? You got to explain that to me.”


  “There’s apparently been some allegation of unsafe living conditions,” Charles said to his tenant. “And they need to look into it.”

  “But what allegations?” Kasper asked. “What unsafe? What are they talking about, Big Daddy?”

  It always felt odd to Charles when men older than he was, as Kasper clearly was, would call him Daddy anything. But that was his fate in Jericho. Everybody called him Big Daddy Sinatra as if they were sarcastically making his extensive property ownership synonymous with Big Brother. But because it wasn’t an affectionate nickname, there was a time when they would only use it behind his back. But now, as the years of use and overuse made the term more and more common, and as the meaning became more and more obscured, they took to calling him the nickname to his face. It used to annoy the hell out of Charles. Now he didn’t give a shit.

  “I’ve been living here damn near ten years,” Kasper continued. “What they got to do with how I’m living? It’s my business how I keep my house. What they got to do with it?”

  Kasper could tell Charles was getting impatient with him, but he couldn’t help it. He hated government overreach and he was certain that notice affirmed his distrust. He looked at Charles as Charles pushed the rim of his hat up a little, revealing more of his soft forehead against the beaming Jericho sun. Kasper wasn’t a man given to bromances with other men or anything close to it, but he could easily see why the ladies loved Big Daddy. With his tanned skin and muscular body, and his full eyebrows and big, intense green eyes, Big Daddy was a very handsome man. But he was mean as a junkyard dog, and Kasper saw that side of him too.

  “According to what they’re saying there,” Charles said to Kasper, “somebody apparently drove by the house, saw that it was loaded down with junk. And it is,” Charles added as he looked around at all of the junk appliances and furniture on the front porch, and all of the junk cars around the yard. “And that person called in a report. To make sure it’s not loaded with junk on the inside, the city is serving you notice that they’re coming out within ten days to see inside for themselves. They want you to call that number at the bottom of the notice and schedule a time for them to come out. But it has to be within that ten day window, or they’ll come without permission. They haven’t rendered any judgment yet, but they will once they get out here.”