Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Hank is beginning to look like he regrets embarking on this particular chat. He spends a moment choosing his words, then says, “You committed a theft.”

  “Oh, yeah. A big one. Then this dangerous man discovered it was me who did it—I won’t bore you with the details of how he found out it was me, but they’re pretty interesting—and he followed me. And he kept following me, because he liked me, even when he discovered that my father is, like, his worst enemy.”

  Hank peers at me. He’s starting to look confused. “Uh-huh.”

  Warming up to the subject, I sit up straighter in my chair. “And that’s the main problem, really. Not that the two of them are enemies, but that he’s in the same line of work as my father. He basically has the same type of lifestyle.”

  “The malignant type.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask a personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you considered professional therapy?”

  I stare at him, strangely hurt. “Jeez, Hank.”

  He says gently, “That’s not a rebuke. I say it out of genuine concern. Because what I’m hearing is that you have an intense sexual attraction to a man you know you should stay away from, but can’t.” He pauses. “Also, the theft thing is a problem.”

  “It’s more like a hobby.”

  His voice rises. “You’ve stolen something more than once?”

  I’m feeling reckless, so I admit it. Might as well keep the scandalous admissions train going full steam ahead. “Oh, god, yeah. Lots of times.”

  He gapes at me. “You could end up in prison!”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “I’ve been in jail before. It’s surprisingly relaxing. You get a lot of good thinking done.”

  Hank sits back into his chair slowly, his brow furrowed, his expression one of dismay.

  “I know,” I say softly, watching his face. “I seem like such a nice girl.”

  “You are a nice girl. Honestly, this is shocking.”

  “What if I told you that I only steal from bad guys and that all the stuff I take goes to help the less fortunate?”

  “I’d say that story’s as old as the hills.”

  “So’s the story of Moses. Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  He props his elbows on his desk, drops his head into his hands, and groans. “Please stop talking.”

  This is why you don’t confide in people. The truth makes them twitchy. “Oh, relax, Hank. I’m only kidding. Not about the guy I shouldn’t like, but about everything else.”

  When he looks up at me, I send him my most winsome smile. He narrows his eyes, clearly dubious. “So you didn’t steal anything from him?”

  I wave my hand in the air dismissively. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

  “And he’s not dangerous?”

  “He’s an accountant.”

  “Why shouldn’t you like him, then?”

  “Because my father’s an accountant, too. I swore I’d never marry one. All that bean counting could drive a girl nuts.”

  We stare at each other. Me with a straight face, Hank with a face like he’s painfully constipated.

  Finally, he sighs. “Okay. Here’s my advice. Take it for what it’s worth. You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Life is short. You don’t get a do-over. Kiss who you need to kiss, love who you need to love, tell anyone who disrespects you to go fuck themselves. Let your heart lead you where it wants to. Don’t ever make a decision based on fear. In fact, if it scares you, that’s the thing you should run fastest toward, because that’s where real life is. In the scary parts. In the messy parts. In the parts that aren’t so pretty. Dive in and take a swim in all the pain and beauty that life has to offer, so that at the end of it, you don’t have any regrets.

  “We only come this way once. Our obligation for receiving the miraculous gift of life is to truly, fully live it.”

  He pauses, blinking. “Wow. I wish I’d recorded that. It was brilliant.”

  My voice choked, I say, “I’ll transcribe it for you. I’m pretty sure it’s etched into my soul.”

  “Oh god. You’re crying.”

  “I am not,” I say through a sob. Swiping at my watering eyes, I add, “I’m just on my period.”

  Shaking his head, Hank chuckles. “So glad we’re finally doing the sharing thing at eight o’clock on a Monday morning. I should’ve called in sick.”

  I stand, round his desk, and throw my arms around his neck. Still in his chair, he pats my back in a fatherly way.

  After a moment, he clears his throat. “Okay. This is the limit of my paternal instincts, kiddo. If you need more help, I’m gonna send you to Ruth in Human Resources because I literally have no idea how to handle emotional young women.”

  I straighten and smile down at him. “You’re a good egg, Hank Hauser.”

  He waves me off. “Quit trying to butter me up. You’re not due for a wage increase for another five months.”

  A knock on Hank’s office door makes us turn.

  A young man stands in the doorway. He’s Latino, good-looking, maybe late twenties, dressed in an expensive black suit and a white dress shirt open at the collar. He’s carrying a big bouquet of dark red roses and a flat black velvet box, about twelve inches square, tied with black ribbon.

  “Juliet,” he says sternly, gazing at me like I’m being accused of a terrible wrongdoing.

  Oh god. What’s this? “She’s out sick today.”

  He quirks his mouth and shakes his head. “Nice try. You want these here?” He jerks his chin toward Hank’s desk.

  Bemused at this new development, Hank makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “By all means, mister…”

  “Diego. Just Diego.”

  Diego is obviously not your average delivery boy. Aside from the suit, he’s also got that cocky swagger that I know all too well.

  Made men all walk like they’ve got a million dollars in cash stuck up their butts.

  He sets the bouquet of roses down, puts the black box next to it, then turns and heads back toward the door. Before he walks out, he stops abruptly and looks at me.

  “He’s not what you think he is.”

  We gaze at each other steadily. I feel Hank looking back and forth between us in concern, unsure if he should intervene or let this odd little drama play out.

  I want it to play out. I’ve had enough of this “not who but what” BS.

  “Tell me what he is, then.”

  Diego glances at Hank. He looks back at me. His voice low, he says, “He bought my mother a house. Paid it off. Gave her the deed. Nobody in my family’s ever owned property.”

  “That’s a touching story, Diego. My father once bought someone property, too. Gave him the deed, moved him and his whole family in. The house burned to the ground within a week, with everyone still in it. Guess who lit the match that started the fire?”

  Hank’s mouth drops open.

  Diego’s eyes flash. He says, “That’s fucked up.”

  “It is. Bad people can sometimes act like they’re doing good things, but it’s only a game. It’s make-believe. If I were you, I’d tell your mother to find another place to live before your employer shows his true colors and lights a match.”

  Hank stands, hands spread wide like he’s conducting an intervention. “Okay, this is getting weird. Diego, I think it’s time for you to—”

  “What did they do?” says Diego, aggressively cutting him off. “The family who got burned in the fire—what did they do to deserve it?”

  I say softly, “Oh. You still think it’s about honor, huh? This little club you’ve joined, you think it’s a brotherhood based on principles, when really it’s just an excuse for cruel men to grind people under their heels.”

  We stare at each other. Hank looks on in dismay.

  Then Diego says, “I come from bad people, too. My employer isn’t one of them. I thought he was at the beginning. But my ignorance doesn’t equal his guilt.”

>   At the end of my patience, I demand, “What does it equal, then?”

  He gazes at me, dark eyes glittering. “I hope you figure it out. Because he’s worth it. And what he’s doing is important work.”

  My mouth drops open. Being a gangster is important work?

  Diego turns around and strides out.

  After a moment, Hank says my name. He looks up from the black velvet box he’s holding. He’s undone the ribbon, and the lid stands open in his hands. He turns the box around so I can see what’s inside.

  It’s a necklace. Diamonds glitter against black velvet, three fat rows of them nestled together around a large center stone, big as a robin’s egg and black as ink.

  My gut tells me that’s a diamond, too.

  Hank says drily, “So, this accountant of yours. Not only does he have loyal underlings and extraordinary taste in jewelry, he’s quite the romantic, too.”

  He doesn’t bother to wait for me to respond, he simply holds up the small white card that came with the gift and reads aloud from it. “Thus with a kiss I die.”

  More Shakespeare. It’s Romeo’s final line from the play, after he drinks the poison to join his love in the afterlife. A chill of foreboding runs through me.

  Looking at me steadily, Hank says, “Must’ve been some kiss, Juliet.”

  My laugh is utterly without mirth. “Yeah. It was a real killer.”

  18

  Jules

  Deciding I won’t be of any use to him in my current state, Hank tells me to take the day off. He suggests I take a drive out to the country to clear my head.

  He also tells me to call a therapist as soon as I can, but I know it’s not more talking I need. I need to do something.

  Only I have no idea what that something is.

  The first place I stop after I leave work is my bank. I rent a safety deposit box and leave the necklace in it. I’ll get an estimate of its value later on, after I can think straight again. I know nothing about diamonds, only that the bigger and brighter they are, the more they cost, so Killian’s present will probably bring a hefty chunk of change when I sell it.

  I haven’t decided yet if I’ll give the money to charity or light it all on fire and watch it burn.

  I make another stop at a convenience store to buy bottled water and fill up on gas, then hit the highway and start driving. I don’t have a destination in mind, but it feels good to go fast, look in the rearview mirror, and not see any big black SUVs following behind me.

  It feels good for all of one minute, until I see a plane flying overhead and realize that’s not the only way Killian could follow me.

  The man seems to have eyes everywhere, including the sky.

  “Stupid satellites,” I mutter, pulling into the parking garage of a mall.

  I park in the middle of a crowded row of cars, head inside, and hunt for a payphone. I find one near the restrooms and call a taxi for a ride. When the cab arrives, I slouch down in the back seat and tell the driver to take me somewhere pretty.

  “Manchester-by-the-Sea,” he says instantly. “Pretty beach. Pretty marina. Pretty everything. Only a forty-minute drive.”

  “Let’s go.”

  On the way, I force myself to do everything but think about Killian.

  I count the number of red cars I see. I count the number of churches we pass. I try to remember all the lyrics to “Let It Be,” by the Beatles, my mother’s favorite song. I engage the driver in Twenty Questions, grilling him about where he’s from, how he likes Boston, and what he thinks of the President.

  Then I sit back and listen to him rant with only enough attention to insert a polite “Mmm” and “uh-huh” here and there.

  By the time we arrive at our destination, I need a drink. Not thinking about someone is a surprisingly hard amount of work.

  It’s too early to hit a bar, so I spend a few hours wandering around the marina and its charming little shops until it’s time for lunch. Starving, I shovel food into my mouth like a farm animal. I drink two pints of cold beer. Afterward, I feel much better. More clear-headed. It’s probably only the sea air, but I’ll take it.

  I decide I like the place so much, I want to stay longer.

  I call Hank from a payphone near the restaurant’s restrooms.

  “How much vacation time do I have accrued?”

  “You’ve worked for me for five years. You get two weeks of paid vacation a year. You’ve never taken one. You do the math. Why do you ask?”

  “The therapist I went to this morning said it would be good for me to take some time off work.”

  Hank pauses, then sighs. “That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Juliet, I’m worried about you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just need a few days off.”

  “How many days?”

  “Like…a hundred and eighty-seven?”

  “You’ve got through the end of the week,” he says firmly. “Get your head on straight and come back fresh next Monday. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I say, relieved.

  “And kiddo?”

  “Yes?”

  His voice drops. “You’re a smart girl. You already know what to do with your accountant. Trust your gut.”

  I can hear the air quotes around the word “accountant.”

  “I would, but my gut is currently waging a bloody war between my head and my loins. Things are ugly. The casualties are piling up.”

  He chuckles. “Ah, to be young with an overabundance of hormones. I’m so glad I’m old. Things are far less confusing.”

  “You’re not old!”

  “I’ve been alive twice as long as you have. That’s half a century.”

  “Half a century isn’t old. My grandmother was ninety-two and still going strong the last time I saw her.”

  “And I’ll bet she looked as fresh as a daisy, didn’t she?”

  When I don’t say anything, he laughs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fifty isn’t old in mind or spirit, but trust me, kiddo, you get to my age and you start avoiding mirrors. Your skin becomes forested with weird moles. Sleeping the whole night through without having to get up to pee is a thing of the distant past. Anything that can possibly sag, wrinkle, or dangle, does.”

  “Please excuse me while I go throw up.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me for gravity.”

  “I like you the way Newton liked gravity. Once he found it, everything else made sense.”

  I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cool metal housing of the pay phone, praying for some miracle that will block Killian’s words—and his beautiful face—from my mind.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes. Just wondering if there’s a way to bleach my brain of the hideous images you’ve branded onto it. I’m traumatized. I’ll never be able to look you in the eye again.”

  “You’ll live. See you Monday.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.

  The next call I make is to the voicemail Fin, Max, and I use for emergencies. I leave a message saying I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I’ll check in so they know I’m OK. Out of an overabundance of caution, I don’t say more. Especially not where I’m staying. I know they’ll understand.

  I rent a room for the rest of the week at a motel right on the water’s edge. It has a view of the boats bobbing peacefully in the marina, a fully stocked minibar, and a whirlpool bathtub big enough for three people. If I thought heaven was anything like this, I might start trying to be a better person.

  Then I call back the voicemail and tell Fin where I left my car in the mall so it doesn’t get towed. There’s a spare key in the kitchen drawer, but knowing her, she’ll hotwire it just to rub it in.

  There’s a small gift shop in the motel lobby where I buy toothpaste and a few toiletries. A boutique down the street catering to tourists sells T-shirts and shorts, flip-flops and breezy, floral dresses. I splurge on several things, wondering when was the last time I bought myself clothes.


  Unlike Fin, the fashion plate, or Max, who always looks like she’s auditioning for a role in the next installment of Tomb Raider, I’m usually dressed down in jeans.

  I spend the afternoon wandering around on foot, no destination in mind. When the sun is sinking below the horizon and my empty stomach is protesting, I look for a place to eat dinner. I settle on an oyster bar with a crowded outdoor patio and a live band playing classic rock covers in one corner of the dining room.

  I take a seat at the bar inside and order a chardonnay from the leather-skinned, wild-haired bartender, who is approximately two hundred years old. He tells me his name is Harley after the motorcycle, that he’s lived in this town since the day he was born, and also that he’s in love with me.

  “I love you, too, Harley,” I tell him, smiling. “Let’s run away to Mexico together.”

  He cackles, then sends a glance down the bar to my right. He lowers his voice. “I’d take you up on that, sweetheart, but I think you might have bigger fish to fry tonight.”

  Following his head tilt, I turn in that direction.

  Seated backward on a stool with both elbows propped up on the bar top, a man faces the crowd. Clad in denim, one long leg is stuck out into the aisle, the other is casually kicked up on the footrest under the stool. He’s wearing sunglasses, Western boots, a cowboy hat, a tight white T-shirt that showcases every ripple of his washboard abs, and the collective lust of every woman in the place.

  Tattoos cover his muscular arms from his bulging biceps all the way down to his thick wrists.

  He runs a hand over the short black beard on his square jaw, giving me a perfect view of his other tattoos.

  The ones on his knuckles.

  I can’t describe this feeling. It’s shock, fury, disbelief, pleasure, horror, awe, and an almost overpowering urge to commit bloody homicide with a cocktail pick in a room full of people, all rolled into one.

  Killian turns his head and looks at me. I can’t see his eyes behind the mirrored glasses, but I feel them, fiery red Superman laser beams slicing me in two.

  I turn my attention back to Harley. “You know what? This wine isn’t gonna do it for me. I need a shot of tequila.”

  “Atta girl!” He produces a shot glass from under the bar, sloppily pours tequila into it, hands it to me, and says, “Just remember, sweetheart: no glove, no love.”