by Coralee June
Lies and Other Drugs
CoraLee June
Copyright © 2018 by CoraLee June
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For all the antiheroes of the world.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Tears and Other Fears Coming Soon
Also by CoraLee June
Untitled
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
My brother’s murderer was hot.
He had that coy smile that made panties melt and a body to back up his cocky attitude. With chocolate eyes and black hair, he moved around the room like he owned it. Each flex of his muscle, each step, was precise. Objectively speaking, the man was sex on a stick.
Nathaniel Youngblood was many things. The wealthy heir to an oil empire. Intelligent. Attractive. Charming. But he was also a cold-blooded killer. I could practically feel the guilt rolling off of his muscular back.
I’d been watching him throw back drinks for a couple of hours now, but he didn’t seem to show any signs of being drunk. Not a single slur escaped his lips, nor did he stumble as he paraded around the party. He was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, looking more like a future CEO than the life of the party.
Nathaniel Youngblood had it all. The status, the cars, the money. It was easy to get away with things when you had the world at your feet. Nathaniel didn’t even have to try. He was born into privilege and would probably die with privilege. And if I had anything to do with it—he’d die very soon.
The Pike house at Blackwood University, the most prestigious Ivy League school in New York, looked like any other frat house on a Saturday night. Drunk girls danced around at the mercy of drunk guys. Coy smiles and flirting. Everyone was tripping over themselves to get a quick fuck in the bathroom. It was easy to ask for what you wanted when you were drunk, that’s why they kept the alcohol flowing at these things. I personally didn’t get the appeal. If I wanted something—I got it. I didn’t need drugs, alcohol or an excuse to act out on my desires. But then again, I didn’t feel much of anything these days.
I breathed in the smell of pot, hating the skunky aroma. I was still pretending to nurse my vodka when another girl walked up to Nathaniel. I stared blatantly at them, curious if this would be the girl he’d take upstairs for the night. He flirted with all of the sorority chicks brave enough to approach, but the moment they tried to push further and take their cheap little mating dance upstairs, he’d brush them off or pretend to be distracted by something else.
Interesting. Very, very interesting.
In observing him, I’d concluded that Nathaniel was a sexual man. It was in the way he talked and commanded a room. He had that innate confidence that only came naturally to people like him. But he was picky, too. No one here was good enough or seemed to catch his eye.
“Are you going to go talk to him?” someone whisper-yelled in my ear. I flinched and shut my eyes, frustrated for being caught so quickly. I wasn’t a spy, not even close. I was supposed to be in Southern California finishing up my degree at the Art Institute.
I turned to face the person speaking to me and switched on my charm. I was a Wilson girl, through and through. Mom taught me how to smile past anyone’s defenses. “I’m sorry?” I asked, deciding to feign ignorance. The guy was attractive enough, bright green eyes and tousled blond hair. He looked like he belonged on an ad for cologne, but I guess most of these guys did. Fortune usually was accompanied by beauty, ’twas the fairness of it all. After closer inspection, I realized that he was Samuel Smith, and according to social media, he was Nathaniel’s best friend.
“You show up wearing”—he paused to gesture to me for dramatic effect, dragging his eyes up and down like he was hungry and I was nothing but a tasty snack—“that, nurse the same vodka and tonic for three hours, and watch my boy like it’s your job. So either you’re a stalker or a spy.”
His boy, huh? I looked down at my outfit and bit the inside of my cheek. Black skinny jeans, black heels, and an oversized black shirt. I used to have more of a bohemian vibe to my wardrobe, but since William’s death, I’d started dressing to match my mood. Black was nothing. Black intimidated.
No one should be forced to bury their twin.
“Spy. Definitely a spy. I’m with the CIA,” I answered as I took another swallow of my watered down drink. I hated alcohol. Despised it, really. Alcohol made smart people do stupid things. Again, why use it as a crutch to act on your impulses when you could just stop giving a fuck?
“Can I see your badge?” he asked. I knew he was flirting with me, and I didn’t want to play. Flirting was a game for people who wanted to find a home in other people’s souls. My home was in the ground.
“You can, but then I’d have to kill you,” I said with a grin that felt forced. I hoped Samuel was too drunk to notice that I didn’t give a fuck about his flirty smile and this damn party. The music was too loud. The room was too crowded. The energy was too vibrant.
“Why do I feel like you’re serious right now?” he asked with a smile before guiding me to the bar. “I’m Samuel, by the way. Don’t call me Sam.”
I debated on giving him a fake name, but it didn’t really matter. Pretty soon, everyone here would know who I was. Word traveled fast when your brother died tragically in one of the upstairs bedrooms. “I’m Octavia,” I half-heartedly replied while he pushed aside a sloppy guy drooling on the bar top to make me a drink. I’d let him think he was a gentleman by making me something.
He dipped his brow, probably trying to think of where he’d heard that name before. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out. My name wasn’t too common, and our family was plastered all over the national news when my brother was found dead—an overdose.
A goddamn overdose, they said. Hah!
“That’s a pretty name. Have you been here before?” He slid the cup towards me, and I placed my hands around it, opting not to sip. I didn’t owe him politeness. I didn’t owe any of them anything. I also knew better than to accept drinks from men I didn’t know.
“Transfer student,” I lied with ease. It would have looked suspicious to enroll here. A girl beside me pushed to be at the center of Samuel’s attention, and I saw my opportunity to escape. She plopped her breasts on the bar top, grinning like a predator at him.
“Can I have a drink, please?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t whiney, just assuming. This chick knew she was pretty and could get whatever she wanted. It’s how everyone at this school acted. They either had money to buy their attention, looks to steal it, or both to demand it.
&
nbsp; “Sure thing.” He kept his green eyes on me before saying, “Don’t leave, Octavia.”
Damn. Samuel could already tell that I was turning to escape. He cracked open a can of cheap beer for her before circling the bar to stand beside me.
“You going to drink that?” he asked while nodding at the cup in my hand.
“No.”
He grabbed it from my hands and gulped it down in one swig, letting out a hiss of satisfaction before throwing me a lazy grin. “So you’re the sort of girl that doesn’t drink at parties. Noted.”
I wasn’t sure why he felt the need to note anything about me. Maybe it was just his flirty way of appearing like someone who remembered shit about his conquests. I looked around the room for Nathaniel, curious about what he was doing. Had he finally found a girl for the night? Was he still pretending to drink? “You can try, but I guarantee he won’t be interested,” Samuel said. I was being obvious again. I guess it didn’t matter now. I didn’t care. I never cared.
“Who says I’m interested?” I asked in response, deflecting. I was interested in Nathaniel Youngblood alright, just not in the way that he thought. I was interested in slitting his throat. I was interested in making him pay.
“Call it a hunch,” he replied.
I continued to scan the crowd, looking for the man in question. At this point, it was too late to pretend and wear the mask of indifference. Around us, people moved in slow motion, dancing on my brother’s metaphorical grave without a care in the world. I almost gave up on finding Nathaniel again, but then my eyes connected with a dark, stormy expression, hiding in the corner across the room.
He looked feral. His stare was meant to intimidate and break, but I refused to let him get to me. I returned the glare without hesitation. We’d never met, but I knew everything about him. I spent months researching him. The coward didn’t show up to William’s funeral, but he recognized me. He was one of those sick fucks, the type that would dive in deep and get off on the damage he inflicted. I bet he learned about William’s past and our fucked up family. There was recognition in his expression.
I represented what he’d done, and I was here to be a tangible reminder of the consequences of his actions. Maybe men like Nathaniel Youngblood had too much power. Perhaps they didn’t feel guilty, or they thought they were above justice. But I had a plan in place that would make him hate himself. I would end him.
“I stand corrected,” Samuel choked out. He was staring between us in shock. The whole room seemed to grow quiet, but it was really just being drowned out by the bloodlust pounding in my ears. I didn’t break eye contact. I wanted him to see me. Truly see me. I hoped he recognized William’s and my similar features. Our reddish blond hair. Our noses. The anger buried within.
I ignored Samuel and walked towards Youngblood, bypassing the drunks that were coupling up and disappearing upstairs. I didn’t stumble, didn’t tremble. When half of yourself was gone, you didn’t experience fear or anxiety. I was a shell of myself and used it to my advantage.
Once we were chest to chest, I took the red cup from his hand and sniffed it before taking a sip. As expected, it’s water.
“Do you not drink because you’re afraid you'll spill your secrets?” I asked him. Why not dive in with the hard-hitting questions? There was no point dancing around it. “Or is this your way of penance? My brother overdoses, so you avoid anything of that nature?” I downed the drink, making sure not to break eye contact as I gulped down each drop.
“I never really liked to drink,” he said. His voice sounded sexy up close. No. That was the wrong adjective. I’d add it to the list of things to talk about with my therapist tomorrow.
“Neither did William,” I replied. Neither of us did. Watching Mom nearly kill herself all our lives with her various addictions made it lose its appeal.
That's how I knew the university was lying. That's how I knew that they were trying to cover up William’s death with some bullshit story. My brother couldn’t have overdosed, because he never wanted to end up like our mother. He was drugged.
I looked up at Youngblood and frowned as he brushed his thumb along my bottom lip. I froze in place as icy hate filled my veins. How dare he touch me.
“You look…” he began before shaking his head and pulling his hand back. “You look just like him.”
There was a brief moment, a flash of guilt, sadness, and pain. Youngblood’s features softened, and his chocolate eyes seemed to flood with disappointment. I took that weakness and committed it to memory. If I reminded him of William and it hurt him, then I’d play up our similarities. I’d make sure he saw me at every turn.
"Is it hard to look at me?" I asked while peering up at Youngblood. "Do I remind you of him?" I wanted to gauge his guilt and use it against him.
"Would it make you feel better if I said yes?"
Men like Nathaniel Youngblood manipulated others into feeling pity for them. I knew his type, and I would never feel sorry for him. I had proof that he was the reason my brother was now dead, and I'd make sure he paid for it.
"No."
I dropped the red solo cup on the floor and checked my watch. I had about six hours left before I had to make it to my job at the diner. Dropping out of college, moving to New York, and plotting my revenge had its consequences. But in the end, it didn't matter. I'd be joining my brother soon.
"I'll see you around, Youngblood," I said with a threatening growl. Turning around, I ignored everyone's intrusive stares and the whispers.
“Is that William Wilson’s sister?”
“Why is she talking to Nathaniel?”
“I heard she’s insane.”
They weren’t wrong about that. Didn’t they know the best people were fucked up? We were the ones not limited by society. Samuel had his mouth dropped open in shock. Predictably, the music stopped. Everyone was staring at the spectacle, and I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t enjoying ruining their buzz. These assholes were partying almost precisely a year to the date of my brother's death. I wanted nothing more than to ruin their good time.
"Enjoy the party," I said to Samuel before making my way through the crowd and outside.
My plan had three parts involving Nathaniel, and each step was just as important as the last.
Step one: Make him see me. Ruin every good time that he had with my presence. Remind everyone at the Pike house that William Wilson existed, and that he wasn't going away.
Step two: Ruin every good thing in his life. Spill his secrets, spend his money.
Step three: Kill Nathaniel Youngblood.
Chapter 2
I was renting a room from an elderly woman in the bad part of town. The room was small, and aside from the loud neighbors, it wasn't the worst living situation. Although I was barely making rent, I liked it. She was kind enough, but also forgetful. She spent more time being embarrassed over the fact that she couldn't remember my name than questioning where I was in the middle of the night. Her forgetfulness would come in handy during a murder investigation.
I've lived in a lot of shady places. Mom would move William and me into whatever home she could afford and with whatever boyfriend who would allow it. I could slum it and eat cereal and water with the best of them. I never understood why people bragged about money, I preferred to brag about survival. It wasn't until Mom settled down with her current husband that we were introduced to how the other half lived.
And the other half didn’t really do a whole lot of living. Bragging, scheming and lying? That was way more their style.
Mom married Liam Carlisle during William’s and my freshman year of high school. When they met, he was already married to a perma-bitchy woman, but with little effort, Mom charmed Liam into leaving his wife of twenty years to marry her. She was so proud, flaunting her gigantic diamond ring to anyone that would look while ignoring how our entire home town called her a whore.
Liam was in the real estate business, but he acted like a refined used car salesman. He was the one to insi
st that William attend school here. An alumnus himself, he put in a good word and made sure that William got every perk available to the Carlisle name. It was a status thing, everything was always a status thing. He didn't care that the whole world thought he was a shitty human for leaving his wife; as long as people knew that he was rich, everything else fell into place.
I took the late-night bus home. I stopped accepting Liam’s money after William died last year. Most of my small trust fund was sitting in the bank untouched. Though he’d never admit it, Liam felt guilty for introducing William to Blackwood University. I considered anything from him to be blood money, and I wanted nothing to do with it. So when I made the decision to move to New York, I did it completely alone. I saved up and didn’t bother telling them where I was—not that they would’ve cared to know.
Mom didn’t really care what I did, as long as I stayed away. When she looked at me, she saw William. And even though she wasn't the best mother in the world, she was human. And humans grieved. So I kept my distance. I didn't call, nor did I remind her of the son she’d lost. She blamed herself for his death, and I was fucked up enough to not correct her.
Sometimes, late at night, I liked to tell myself the layers of circumstances that killed William.
Mom had car trouble, and Liam offered her a ride.
William didn’t get into Princeton.
The moment the toxicology report said overdose, Mom lost it. I remember watching her cry on the floor of the police station. Liam tried to console her. She'd struggled with many vices: sleeping pills, alcohol, and coke. After she and Liam got married, she tried to sober up but instead just got more secretive about her addictions.
