Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Who are these jolly, laughing gangsters? In what upside-down universe am I living?

  More importantly, what am I supposed to do now?

  Two weeks go by. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. I don’t hear from Killian, but I don’t attempt to contact him, either. Once, a police cruiser pulls alongside one of the SUVs on the street outside. It lingers for less than thirty seconds, then drives away, never to be seen again.

  I figure Mrs. Lieberman downstairs finally called the cops. They arrived, discovered who they were dealing with, then immediately left.

  Not who they were dealing with…what.

  But what? WHAT?

  I become obsessed with finding out what Killian’s hiding. Every day at work, I spend hours crawling the internet for clues. Any story that mentions Killian or Liam Black. Any photographs. Any anything. But there’s nothing to be found.

  Even the reports of his arrest last year have vanished. As have all of his corporations listed in the Massachusetts Secretary of State database.

  It’s like he doesn’t exist.

  Like he’s a ghost, arriving to haunt me then disappearing without a trace.

  Needless to say, I’m deeply unsettled by all this. At one point, I’m so desperate for an explanation I even consider that he might be a time-traveler or an alien sent on a fact-finding mission from outer space.

  It’s good that I’m not pregnant. Considering the amount of wine that I’m consuming, my poor fetus would be pickled.

  “So when are we gonna start planning our next job? I’m ready for some excitement.”

  I snort at Max’s question. “Right. Because our last one went so well.”

  Fin says, “It did go well. Just because you slipped and fell onto a gangster’s magical dick right after doesn’t mean it didn’t go well.”

  We’re at the kitchen table on a weekday night, eating the lasagna I made to distract myself from hurling my body onto the hood of Declan’s black SUV and screaming at him to tell me where Killian is.

  I could call the man himself to find out, but that would require admitting that I want to know.

  Max says, “What about a politician? There are a lot of sleazy politicians we could hit.”

  Fin says, “They don’t have the right assets.”

  “They’ve got lots of assets. Stocks, bonds, yachts. You name it.”

  “Are we going to steal a yacht and park it in front of an orphanage? I don’t think so.”

  I say, “I’m not in the right head space yet to plan another job.”

  They glance at each other, then look at me. Fin says, “Head space. Right.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, don’t take a tone with me.”

  “Tone?” she says innocently, looking around as if for support from an invisible crowd of onlookers. “I didn’t take a tone.”

  “You totally took a tone.”

  “Max, did I take a tone?”

  Max makes a face at her. “Your tones are about as subtle as a sledgehammer. You took a big, fat tone, and you know it.”

  I say, “Thank you.”

  Fin shrugs and swallows a bite of food. “So I took a tone. Sue me.”

  “My point, if anyone’s interested, is that I don’t have the concentration right now that it would take to plan a job. I can’t think about anything but…”

  Max smiles. “The gangster’s magical dick. By the way, you never did spill the tea about that. How big is it?”

  I say with a straight face, “Two, maybe three inches.”

  “Bitch. It’s a total fatty, isn’t it? C’mon, don’t be stingy. Give us all the details. Cut? Uncut? Shaved balls? Pierced head? There’s a reason he’s got such mad swagger, and it’s his giant eggplant, right?”

  “Max, I can’t believe I have to say this to you, but you really need to get laid.”

  She waves a hand around dismissively. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

  Fin sighs. “I’m eating here, people. I don’t want to hear anything about anybody’s dick. I’m liable to gag on my lasagna.”

  “You’re the one who brought the subject up in the first place.”

  “And now I’m closing the subject. The end.”

  We eat in silence for a while, until I say quietly, “Huge. Huge.”

  Everyone freezes. I look at Fin. “Sorry.”

  Max hoots. “I knew it! You came home from your little vacay walking like you’d just spent two weeks on a dude ranch breaking in stallions. Ha!” She slaps the table. “Good for you, girl!”

  Fin curls her lip in distaste. “Ugh. Just the thought of a veiny, purple, engorged cock bobbing in my face makes me want to barf.”

  I start laughing so hard I almost choke.

  Max says sourly, “Thanks for that. Next time I see a dick up close, I’ll be thinking of you.”

  Fin says sweetly, “Why, Max. How nice. Next time I see a B movie where everyone dresses like rodeo clowns, I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “Oh, you think you’re such a stunner, huh? You look like something I drew with my left hand.”

  I say, “Girls.”

  They ignore me. Fin says, “Don’t make me have to smack the extra chromosome out of you.”

  Max says, “Bite me.”

  “I would, but I don’t want to have to get a tetanus shot.”

  I say brightly, “Okay. That was fun. Is everyone ready to go back into their cages now?”

  Max sticks out her tongue at Fin, who looks at the ceiling, shaking her head.

  I say, “Between the three of us, I figure we’ve got half a brain. So I need your help figuring out something.”

  They look at me. I lean my elbows on the table and prop my chin in my hands. “What do these things add up to? Secrets. Charisma. Surveillance skills. Computer skills. Undetectable access into buildings and locked rooms.”

  Max says, “Me.”

  Fin says, “Me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Let me finish. Advanced technology. A loyal army of soldiers. A mythical reputation but no verifiable evidence of existence on paper.”

  Max says, “Batman.”

  Fin says, “Lisbeth Salander.”

  “Both of those are loners. They don’t have armies of loyal soldiers. Pay attention.”

  Max raises her hand. “I have a question.”

  “Of course you do. What is it?”

  “Is there gonna be a test at the end? Because I missed some of the first part.”

  Sighing, I continue. “Ruthlessness. Intelligence. Sophistication. Vast sums of money. A gigantic ego. Excellent skills with firearms. A complete lack of fear. Incredible style. Magnificent hair.”

  Fin snaps her fingers. “A supervillain.”

  Max chuckles. “Or a psychopath.”

  “Maybe both. But seriously, if you put all those characteristics together in one person…what do you get?”

  They think for a moment, until Fin says, “A real person? Like, not a comic book superhero?”

  “Yeah.”

  She lifts a shoulder. “The head of the CIA.”

  “No,” says Max instantly. “That guy looks like a dentist. He has orthopedic shoes and an overbite. No style, charisma, or magnificent hair.”

  “Let’s hear your idea, then.”

  “I don’t have one. I’m just pointing out that yours sucks.”

  They bicker back and forth, but I’ve already stopped listening. I rise and go stand at the windows, looking down onto the street.

  Looking down onto the big SUVs with the shiny rims and blacked-out windows, filled with armed men in suits.

  “The head of the CIA.” Fin’s words echo over and over inside my skull.

  Maybe I had it backward when I thought Killian worked for the police.

  Maybe they’re working for him.

  Maybe everyone’s working for him.

  Maybe he’s much more powerful than I thought.

  Or maybe I should get drunk and have a séance with the ghost of Pippi Longstocking, my beloved chi
ldhood cat, because I’m already hallucinating anyway.

  The next day at work, I Google “Head of the CIA.”

  Clicking on a link, I’m taken to a Wikipedia page where I learn that the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency is a petite brunette woman named Gina who looks like a middle school teacher.

  She doesn’t appear ruthless, sophisticated, or as if she possesses any skills with firearms. She does, however, look like she can crochet a rather excellent throw pillow and has perfected a recipe for tender and flavorful meatloaf.

  I’m filled with disappointment.

  I decide to abandon my shiny new conspiracy theory that Killian is Secret Boss of Everything. If he were in any way related to government work, he wouldn’t own so many Armani suits. Not to mention, he wouldn’t be a bazillionaire who lives in a skyscraper. He’d probably have a 401(k) and a great dental plan, but that’s about it.

  So I’m back to square one. All I have to go on is that he’s sexy, rich, arrogant, mysterious, and a champ at performing oral sex.

  I give serious consideration to the idea that his whole cloak-and-dagger, not-who-but-what, I’m-helping-people-too routine is a bag of baloney, and he’s just getting his kicks by messing with my head. That he’s nothing more than a mobster with delusions of grandeur.

  It’s the simplest explanation. Especially considering that gargantuan ego of his.

  But somehow it doesn’t fit.

  What’s with the accents?

  What’s with the Shakespeare?

  What’s with hacking a satellite? I mean, who the fuck knows how to hack a satellite?

  This whole thing is exhausting.

  On the way home from work, I decide to treat myself to dinner. I’m not in the mood to play referee between Fin and Max again, so I stop at a little Italian place that makes lasagna almost as good as mine.

  I sit down and order a glass of red wine and a plate of spaghetti Bolognese from the elderly Italian waiter. Then I settle into my chair and look around at the charming décor.

  Just as I’m lifting my glass to take a sip of the wine, I happen to look out the front window.

  And there, on the street outside, is Killian.

  With a woman.

  A very pregnant woman.

  She’s in his arms. He’s tenderly kissing her.

  One hand cradles her face, the other caresses her swollen belly.

  I turn to stone. Every muscle in my body clenches. I’m unable to breathe or move or even blink as I stare at them out on the sidewalk.

  She’s young and pretty, about my age. Brunette like me, too. She gazes up at him with stars in her eyes. He stares down at her, smiling.

  God, how it hurts. How it burns.

  I don’t recall ever feeling pain like this. It’s like acid eating down through my flesh to dissolve my bones. I’m breathless with it. I’m about to explode from it. I’m dying, one agonized heartbeat at a time.

  In a moment, they move off, walking arm in arm down the street until they pass out of my line of vision. But I remain frozen, my wine glass clenched in my hand, hot tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.

  He swore he wasn’t using me. He looked deep into my eyes and said every word he’d ever told me had been the truth.

  He told me he thought I’d make an amazing mother.

  When the waiter arrives at the table with my entrée, it breaks the spell I’m under. I set the glass down carefully, my hands shaking hard. I take money from my purse and leave it on the table, then I rise and walk blindly to my car.

  My heart pounds. My skin turns clammy. My stomach is in knots. I know I’m hyperventilating, but I can’t help it. The world looks fuzzy around the edges, as if I might be about to pass out.

  Pregnant. She’s pregnant with his baby. Like I almost was.

  I feel like such a fool. Like such a stupid, naïve child. I feel like I could get sick and never stop throwing up, as if my body wants to purge all my organs.

  Especially my dumb heart.

  Because if I’d been able to delude myself until now, seeing him with her—his wife? Mistress? Another blind idiot like me?—has proven with sickening clarity just how much I actually care for him.

  Though I tried not to, though I resisted with all my might, I fell for him.

  I fell for him hard.

  A sob breaks from my chest. I slap a hand over my mouth to smother it. I drive too fast through the city streets, blind and shaking, with no idea where I am or where I’m going, until I screech to a stop in front of a liquor store.

  I run inside, panting and wild-eyed, knowing I look like a lunatic but not caring.

  “I’ll ask your father for permission to marry you.”

  “You idiot,” I whisper, stumbling down an aisle. “You knew he was bad. A liar. You knew it. And look at you now.”

  I grab a big bottle of tequila off a shelf and turn around, heading for the exit.

  “You let him seduce you. You let him fuck you. You let him in.”

  I shove open the glass door and stumble outside, the bottle of tequila clutched against my chest like a lifejacket. I can’t think of anything else I want to do more than get shitfaced. I need to block it all out, all this pain and shame, this horrible rage.

  This jealousy.

  I’ve never felt anything like this jealousy. It feels like I’m being stabbed in the heart, over and over, from the inside.

  His hand gently cradling her swollen belly…I’ll never forget that image for the rest of my life.

  I yank open my car door. I’m about to jump in, but someone pulls me away, shouting.

  “What?” I spin around, disoriented.

  A man is shouting at me. In Korean, so I have no idea what he’s saying. But he’s shouting angrily at me and pulling at my arm, jerking at it, and like a slap on the face I realize what’s happening.

  I left the store without paying for the tequila.

  “Oh. Sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—wait, my purse—I’ll get money—”

  Then I realize I must have left my purse at the restaurant, because it isn’t inside the car.

  The Korean shop owner is still screaming at me. A small crowd has gathered on the sidewalk, looking at me with various expressions ranging from curiosity to disdain. I try to back away, to explain that it’s all a mistake and I’ll pay for the bottle, of course I’ll pay for it, but now the Korean guy is shouting, “Thief! Thief!” and things are starting to get ugly.

  A few spectators have their cell phones out. They’re videoing.

  A big guy says loudly, “Call the cops.”

  Another guy says, “She’s trying to get away!”

  “No! I’m not! This is all a misunderstanding!” But I’m backing away, trying to yank my arm out of the shopkeeper’s hard grip, and I know exactly how it looks.

  Then someone grabs me from behind, the crowd starts hollering, and everything goes to shit.

  28

  Jules

  The cop who books me smells like soup.

  Not a good kind of soup, but something with a funky, sour note, like feet. I get fingerprinted, have my mug shot taken, am frisked and asked about gang affiliations and communicable diseases, then I’m brought to a holding cell and told to stay put.

  “When can I make my phone call?” I ask the cop.

  “Soon as I work up the energy to give a shit.” He ambles off.

  I’m alone in the cell. I sit on the hard metal bench against the cement wall and try to ignore the dark yellow stain on the floor in the corner.

  An hour goes by. Then two. By the third hour, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a police strike happening, because no one has come to see me. For a small crime like petty theft, I should be able to post bail and get out right away. They don’t have reason to keep me indefinitely.

  But hour after hour goes by and no one comes.

  Finally, about four o’clock in the morning, a new cop unlocks my cell. He’s big, with a shaved head and scary eyes. I decide not
to take him to task for the delay and quietly follow him out of the cell and down the hallway.

  He turns to an unmarked door and ushers me into a small room. The only furniture in the room is two metal chairs and a dented metal desk with nothing on it. He points at one of the chairs.

  “Sit.”

  I look around, baffled. The room looks exactly like one of those interrogation rooms from the movies. It’s stark white with bare cement walls, except for the one with dark reflective glass that people are definitely lurking behind.

  “What’s going on?”

  He says, “Sit.” It sounds like, “Ask me one more question and I’ll rip off your eyebrows.”

  I sit.

  He leaves, slamming the door behind him. A camera up in the corner near the ceiling stares at me with a red, unblinking eye.

  After a few minutes, I turn to the dark glass wall. “Seriously? It was a bottle of tequila. Off brand. Are you guys having a slow night or what?”

  Nothing happens. More time passes. No one comes.

  Just as I’m about to start pounding on the glass and screaming about my rights as an American citizen, the door to the room opens. A woman walks in.

  A pregnant woman.

  That woman.

  She’s dressed in a chic black suit that manages to make her belly look less like there’s a baby inside it and more like she ate a big dinner. She’s carrying a briefcase in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She smiles warmly at me.

  “Hi, Juliet. I’m Truvy. You can call me Tru. It’s so nice to meet y’all.”

  Her Texas twang is soft and lovely, and I am going to tear her eyes right out of her skull.

  Blood throbbing in my cheeks, I say stiffly, “What. The. Fuck.”

  “I can see we’ll get along just fine.” She laughs. It’s a charming laugh. Soft, feminine, and charming. The witch.

  She sits in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, sets her briefcase on the floor, pushes the cup of coffee toward me, folds her hands together in her lap, and takes me in.

  I mean she really looks at me.