by Kenya Wright
Zach Evans Publishing
Filthy Lies
by
Kenya Wright
Filthy Lies is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Kenya Wright
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by ZachEvans Publishing, an imprint of ZachEvans Creative, a division of Jessica Watkins Presents, LLC.
I would rather die
riding 95
than live a life
full of nothing
but
filthy lies.
—Mitch Lucker
Prologue
Logan
When I was a kid, I would run around with a cardboard sword. I’d drawn skulls at the center of its brown papery blade and used red marker to represent the blood of my enemies.
Growing up with five little sisters would do that to a boy.
“Mom, I’m going out to play.” I bounced my ball, excited to hit some baskets.
“Take your sisters with you.”
I turned to her and pleaded. “Aww, come on, Mom!”
“You’re the oldest.” And then she gave me that look, the one that said I better shut it up.
So, I always dragged myself back into the house, put my ball under the bed, grabbed my cardboard sword, and took my time gathering each one of my sisters. Celia always needed help finding her damn left sneaker. It was always the left one, never the right. Once, I’d tried to glue it to her foot while she was sleeping, and Mom went ballistic.
Celia and I looked the most alike, both dark haired with green eyes and tanned skin.
Reece and Rina, the twins, always held their hands and waited for me outside—always the dutiful princesses, happy to make their big brother’s life easier. They were the only blondes in the family.
Meanwhile, my other sister, Patricia whined about having to go outside. She was always stuck between the pages of a thick book and despised things like fresh air, human beings, and the sun. And then there was my baby sis, Monica who always jumped her tiny self on my back and made horsy sounds.
“Charge, horsy, charge!” Monica always roared.
“Yeah. Yeah.” I would roll my eyes. “Hold on so you don’t fall off.”
“You would never let me fall, horsy!”
And then I would leave the house, pouting and surrounded by pig tails and pink bows, headless dolls and stinky little fingers holding my hands.
Happy, Mom would always stand in front of the door, watching us and giving me that special smile—the one that made me feel like my sacrifices were all worth it. “There’s my little man. You’re such a great prince. Don’t forget to watch out for them.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Always stay around them.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
When I turned twenty, Mom passed from cancer.
I still had that cardboard sword, although it was crumpled, and the red skulls appeared faded and rusty brown. Presently, it was nailed to the main wall in my man cave.
“Don’t forget to watch out for them.”
And sometimes when I looked at that sword, I wished Mom had told me to protect her.
She’d worked too much.
We had lived in a house that looked like a mansion, but it was nothing of the sort. Eight bedrooms, five baths, and a small pool house. There had been no staff, just my mother cleaning and cooking, mopping and dusting, constantly with something in her hands, tired and stressed. My dad was a good man who worked night and day—no sleeping around, no skirting his duties. He just had so many mouths to feed and remained full of anxiety each day, always talking about bills, the stock market, and how life would be peaceful when he retired.
But, when Mom died so young, he lost it, staring at a blank TV most of the day with a glass of vodka in his hand.
Dad died a month later from a broken heart.
Hope and hurt. Both started with h and were four letters. Yet, one strengthened and the other crippled. And every year—every month, week, and day—I battled with finding hope through the hurt of losing the two most important people in my life.
At twenty, I dropped out of college, returned home, and took care of my sisters. At the time, Celia was eighteen. The twins were seventeen, Patricia fifteen, and Monica twelve. For five years, they gave me gray hairs and unnecessary anxiety.
At least, Mom and Dad left us with more money than the six of us would ever need. They’d both had small inheritances, before their marriage—properties and stocks. Plus, Dad had made smart investments.
In his will, he ordered us to never choose money over our passion—never work the day away.
We did our best to comply. I’d taken ahold of the funds, sold our old property, and bought a new one. It was a six-level building where I lived on the third floor, and all my younger sisters stayed on the floors above. The rest of the condos were rented.
For me, Mom’s rules hadn’t died with her.
“Always take care of your sisters.”
But on a night like this, when I could take off my Big Brother hat, put away that cardboard sword, and really explore the playground of life, that was when things got interesting. Now, it wasn’t a park where I wanted to play ball. It was a club. And the childhood games of tag and hide-and-seek had remained. They were just on a higher level, built on deception and schemes.
I rounded the corner and drove into Heaven’s parking lot. Already, cars packed and surrounded the nightclub. My best friend, Tyson sat in the passenger seat. My other buddy, Karan drove in his car behind us.
Tyson clapped his hands and rubbed them together just like an evil wizard would. “The club looks packed tonight. Check out these cars and these women. Damn!”
“It’s going to be a good night.” I drove us to the front, climbed out, and gave the keys to the valet.
A gorgeous redhead swayed by, winked at me, and then turned to my car, gaping at the beautiful machine for several seconds. A low feminine growl left her lips. She gazed back and blew me an inviting kiss.
I don’t think so, sweetheart.
Since coming into money, I had to watch out for gold-diggers. While some guys used their bank accounts to get laid, I wanted women to get in my bed due to my cock and smile. I didn’t flash and show off. My fat wallet stayed hidden. I didn’t need someone in my car because it was the new edition Aston Martin One-77 with the Kingmaker coloring—scarlet red and midnight black lathered in flecks of gold. It was the car used in the first three Kingmaker movies. And anytime I drove it, women damn near slung panties at me during red lights.
Tyson jumped out on the other side, whistling at my car as it sped away with the valet. “She’s so damn beautiful. I could fuck your car all night.”
I frowned. “Stay away from Scarlett. She has standards.”
“Not if she lets you drive her.”
My frown broke into a grin. “Good point.”
When Tyson and I had hung in college, our friends called us Ebony and Ivory. He had dark brown skin and a bald head. I was the complete opposite with a tapered cut and always tanned skin due to running on the beach every morning.
We both loved the gym, meeting up together daily. I needed the muscles. When I fucked, I loved to pick women up and slam my cock deep into them. With that fetish, I needed strong arms because only God knew when I would put them down.
Karan drove up to our side. He had a Ferrari—nothing to frown at and turned many heads. He called it Beast because it looked like a Bengal tiger
—all violent yellow with dark brown stripes and a white belly. Most of his family was from Bengal—around the eastern part of India.
Karan Kapoor—KK to his best friends.
I supposed he had a good look about him. Every time we were on a beach or at some island resort pool and Karan rose out of the water, women swooned and thought he was some famous actor called Hrithik Roshan—The Greek God of Bollywood.
Karan jumped out of the Beast and handed his keys over to a different valet. “Damn, Logan. You drove like an old lady.”
“I had to drive slow.” I shrugged. “I didn’t think you would be able to keep up and that trash heap you call a car.”
“The Beast would eat up Scarlett any day.”
“Keep dreaming, KK, just keep on dreaming.”
A full moon hovered in the sky. The cool night hair brushed against my skin. Even though I hated nighttime—the all-consuming darkness—at least the stars shined bright. And I loved stars. Although they glowed during the day, the glaring blue in the sunlight scattered all over the atmosphere and hid them.
But at least in the darkness, the stars’ light could be seen.
“Hey fellas.” A group of women giggled at us as they waved.
I waved back and watched them enter the club. “I’m glad you guys dragged me here. I needed a break.”
“I’m glad your sisters let us take you.” Tyson wiped imaginary sweat from his head. “Jesus. Your sisters are hot, but they’re ball breakers.”
“They think they’re protecting me.”
Karan mimicked the twins. “Don’t have Logan out all night, or we will find you, and we will kill you...slowly”
I laughed. “They like to think they can put me on a curfew.”
I’d just hit twenty-five. Most of my sisters were different levels of twenty. Back when we were kids, Celia had always lost her shoe, puzzle pieces, and toys. Always breaking something. Always whining for me to fix it. Now, she was divorced, heart-broken, and pregnant at twenty-three. I’d never even met the jerk off husband. She’d married some loser one weekend in Las Vegas, annulled the next month, and discovered the news of her pregnancy three months later. We couldn’t even find the father. I had an investigator searching for him. I figured the child should know his dad.
At twenty-two, the twins Reece and Rina—my dutiful princesses—both were finishing medical school, stayed in our building, and never partied. They planned on heading onto residency with the local hospital just around the block from our building. They gave me no trouble, but I still worried that they didn’t take enough time off.
Then there was Patricia, the most argumentative being I’d ever met at twenty. We’d decided to open a bookstore and coffee shop together. It would happen soon, if we could just stop arguing over every fucking detail.
Monica—the baby—demanded that she was an adult every other hour of the day, even though she’d just turned eighteen. She didn’t know what college she wanted to go to or what major she should study. All she knew was that she loved horses and sneaking marijuana behind my back.
Tyson broke my thoughts. “Dude, it’s like you have five wives.”
“I wouldn’t say wives. More like five annoying mother-in-laws or five spoiled ass kids. Well...the twins aren’t spoiled.”
“No, they’re not.” Karan grinned from ear-to-ear, held his hands up like a dainty little princess, and batted his eyes. “Yes. Oh, yes. Let’s talk more about the twins.”
“Don’t even think about it.” I headed to the club.
Tyson chuckled and got to my side. “Hey, I think it sucks that you don’t trust us to date any of your sisters.”
“You two don’t date women. Karan does some sort of bullshit dance with women and then drops them when he’s bored.”
Karan held out his hands. “What do you want from me? My mom has already found my wife, set the date, and planned the wedding. I’m just having fun.”
“Not with my sisters you won’t.”
Tyson eyed me. “Why can’t I date them?”
“Are you fucking serious?” I asked.
“What?” He fixed his face in mock shock and put his hand on his chest. “Are you questioning my character?”
“It’s those fucking videos you like to take of women while they sleep.”
Karan nodded. “That is a bit creepy.”
Tyson also liked to record his women when they had sex. And he couldn’t just keep it to himself. He had to show us all his sexual escapades. It was like the experience of fucking wasn’t enough; it had to be invasive. And there was no way the women knew he’d be sharing their videos off later and bragging about them.
I didn’t like him showing me the videos and I told him. If I wanted to watch people fuck, I’d turn on a porno.
That part of Tyson made me not want to hang with him, but in the end, we all had some fucked-up things about us. None of us were perfect.
We stopped behind a group of guys showing their identification to get in.
“I wouldn’t record your sisters.” Tyson frowned. “And you do know that you’ll never get a girlfriend with your sisters around. They would scratch any female’s eyes out.”
“No problem with me,” I said. “After being around my sisters all day, I don’t even want to see another woman. I just want to go in my apartment, turn off the lights, and cry.”
Karan pulled his wallet out of his jeans. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Hey, I’m a sensitive type.”
Tyson smirked. “That’s why your sisters call you One-Punch?”
“No, that’s because I usually knock the creeps that they bring around me out in one punch. Only the creeps. Anytime the guy is good he makes it out of the relationship alive.”
“They’ve been keeping you busy for years. Hey, I told you, if you want me to watch after your sisters,” Tyson put on an innocent smile, “I’ll take one for the team and protect those beautiful women with my life. I could move in the building.”
I patted his back and smiled. “If you get three feet near them, I’ll gut you slowly and watch your insides spill from your wounds.”
“Hmmm.” Tyson nodded. “I’m going to take that as a no.”
“Hell, no would be more accurate.”
Once my sisters started dating, my respect for men dwindled. Sometimes I was embarrassed to call myself one. Men did the vilest things. It was like they got off on hurting females for no reason. The lies. The cheating. At times, abuse. The moments of sexual harassment that I would hear from my sisters’ friends. Either their friends were overexaggerating or some men really did walk this earth like beasts plundering and pilfering every woman in site.
We walked up and showed our IDs to the bouncers at the door.
“Okay. Enough about those sweet sisters of yours.” Karan led the way to Heaven. “Let’s have a drink and fuck every woman in here.”
I smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
Excitement boomed within me, blazing as bright as the club’s strategically placed halogen lights illuminating the bar and dance floor. Exposed brick walls added appeal to the converted warehouse.
Music blasted from the speakers. A DJ stood near the dance floor. Half-naked women danced in cages above us.
We stepped in further.
High tables dotted the space around the dance floors and long, leather couches resided in shadowed corners. There were even glass-enclosed balconies above us, probably designated for VIP customers.
And this nightclub was called Heaven, but there were no angels here, just sexy little demons yearning to get fucked. Pussy crowded the nightclub. Sweet and soft. Slim and thick. Young and old. Blonde pussy. Red-headed pussy. And some with asses so fat, I could barely see the pussy. And I barely used the word pussy, but tonight, all I could think of was just that.
My cock wondered who we would take to a hotel tonight.
This evening, I could take the Big Brother hat off and sink into the swell of my hardening cock as half-naked women danc
ed around me. This evening, all I wanted to do was take one of these beautiful women to a hotel—never home—and fuck them, hard, with no mercy, with no worry, just hard-pounding, sweaty balls deep sex until we were both drained and exhausted.
People danced on the main dance floor which was blasting hip hop music out the many speakers all over the club.
The hip hop song shifted to a dance club beat.
“Touch me. All night,” a woman sang to a fast beat. “Give it to me. All night.”
Cigarette smoke mingled with the scent of weed. Glasses clanked and some shattered. Women laughed, and men attempted to outdo themselves, peacocking for their attention—fanning their back feathers and strutting expensive car keys and designer labels just to catch one of the lovely ladies’ eyes.
“I don’t want your love, get it out of sight.” The bass sped up and the dancefloor went crazy. “I just want that body, baby. All night! All night! All, all, all night!”
The singing left, and the rhythm went insane—pounding and pumping. My blood drummed with the music.
“All night! All night! All, all, all night!”
I just needed one good drink, and I’d be out on that dance floor too.
I grinned.
I’ll probably be dancing all night.
My sisters claimed I couldn’t dance, but anytime I hit the floor, crowds of women surrounded me.
“It’s your muscles, dick head.” Patricia flipped me the middle finger. “You can’t dance worth shit, Logan.”
“Your jealousy makes me sad.” I did a turn and swung my hips, inciting laughter from all my sisters who hung around in my kitchen for breakfast every morning.
“No, Logan.” Cecilia shook her head and laughed some more. “It’s definitely the muscles.”
“No, Cee Cee.” I did a Michael Jackson kick to further the point. “It’s the moves.”
“The muscles!” they all screamed in unison.
Tyson signaled at a cute bartender with pink hair and ordered some shots. “This is going to be a good night.”
