Amusement ticks through me briefly and I breathe the sensation deep. The Rendale sisters are heirs to the second strongest social media company, and their rivalry with Alana is cute. Sniping from any of them earns millions of clicks and thus results in empowering energy that can’t be bought. It’s a transfer of sorts. The more subscribers use and like different posts, the more traffic generated on the sites, and the stronger the crystals running the companies become. With that vitality comes the ability to offer more benefits to subscribers, which leads to more power and more money.
As well as longevity and health for the family members physically connected to those crystals. We all want to live longer than we should.
Of course, if the enmity between the women ever becomes a danger to Alana, I will take care of the matter.
The skies finish their tentative light rainfall and open to deluge the hapless world with gleefully aimed liquid spikes.
Alana retreats against the building, and I wish I had stood there. To be so close to her and to refrain from touching her is slowly driving me mad. It wasn’t a long journey to begin with.
She’s beauty personified, and she knows how to work a camera. I want her in a way that isn’t healthy . . . for either of us.
My fingers curl into fists, and I remain in the shadows, the flavor of her lingering on my tongue. Every molecule in my body wants to burst through the tempestuous storm and take her right now, but witnesses are a hindrance. No doubt I’m going to hell with my plan, but I’m past caring. Since my time is severely limited, I should leave her be.
The high road is no place for me, and that I can find a sense of honor is a lie I don’t bother telling myself. Deep down inside me, the monster that devoured my soul years ago knows the truth.
For her? It is already too late.
She looks up, and our eyes lock. Hers widen. Her pupils contract.
Definitely too late.
ONE
Alana
Dark eyes gleam from the darkness by the brick building across the street, and I shiver. Just eyes. Bodies, space, and pouring rain separate us, and all I can see are eyes and perhaps the shape of a man. A large one.
But that gaze.
His stare thrusts into my body with a sense of warning more foreboding than the thunder bellowing in the distance. Lightning flashes, too close, and I jump.
“I’m glad you enjoyed your evening,” Rosalie purrs, carefully keeping her new phone out of the rain. “Is there anything else you would like to say to your friends?”
I turn, angling my face so the neon lights emphasize my good side. One of my cheekbones is two millimeters higher than the other. It’s sad that I know that. Worse yet that I’ll exploit it. “Oh yes. Please remember to either attend or pledge to support the runners in tomorrow’s Dash for the Doggies.” The stupid name rolls nicely off the tongue, but unfortunately this tidbit won’t lead to half the clicks my insult to the Rendale sisters will. “Those little puppies at the pound need our help.” I smile and lower my chin for my flirty look.
Rosalie giggles appropriately. “Will you be running, Miss Beaumont?”
I allow my cheeks to pinken. “In these shoes? Never.” I lift a bare and now freezing shoulder in my best “aw, shucks” move. “I have to attend an Aquarius Social board meeting tomorrow, but I’ve pledged to support several of our joggers. I hope all my friends out there will do the same. Also, I’d so appreciate it if you’d explode-star and share this little emote-video of mine.” I wink, giving our signal, perfectly masking my unease at having to attend a board meeting after all this time.
She ends the video. “Should we get a drink?”
“No.” A hard body emerges from the crowd, flanking me as a near duplicate mashes to my other side. “Miss Beaumont is leaving now.” They usher me through the bodies to a running Mercedes, assist me inside, and shut the door. Nameless bodyguards that I barely look at tonight.
My father rotates all security personnel after an unfortunate crush I developed on a bodyguard at the age of fifteen. The man was at least twenty-five, starkly handsome with blond hair and mellow blue eyes, and knew how to whistle war ballads. It was the whistle that intrigued me. He gave me my first kiss in the front seat of a Mercedes, and that moment was amazing.
It also sealed his death. A lesson I will never forget.
Tonight’s driver maneuvers the vehicle through the crowd and I turn, seeking those eyes by the building, but only find shadows now. Shivering, I lean forward and turn up the seat warmers as well as the heat. The driver is quiet, his broad hands appearing loose on the steering wheel as he expertly maneuvers out of the commercial area to the residential, ultimately pulling to a stop in front of my unimposing building, where two bellmen hurry out into the rain to escort me inside.
God forbid I turn an ankle.
Of course, they’re both packing, so I suppose I won’t take a bullet, either.
I look up at the charming four-story brick-and-mortar building that my father hates. He likes chrome and glass, and while I enjoy items that sparkle, love them really, I wanted something homey when I moved out of the mansion after college. Since I was merely the spare and not an heir, and since I have a uterus and not balls, my father grudgingly gave in.
Things have changed.
I shiver and duck my head against the rain, my face cooling from the harsh drops. One of the guard dogs holds an umbrella over my head as he swivels around, scoping the trees and bushes as if waiting for the hydrangea to shoot poisonous darts. Unfortunately, the wind isn’t cooperating and slashes the rain sideways and under the umbrella. The harsh wetness stings my face.
Relief fills me as I enter the comfortable entryway and clip-clop on the impossibly high heels to the elevator, not showing my discomfort. A blister burns on my left heel, and I bite my lip to keep from stepping out of the shoe.
Instead, I rise to the top floor, regretting the need, or rather demand, for me to live at the top.
A basement apartment would suit me just fine. Of course, it’s easy to say that since I was raised in mansions or high-end hotels my entire life. I can be self-aware when necessary.
I enter my apartment, ditch the sparkling dress and offensive heels for torn yoga pants and a faded pink shirt older than I am before raiding the fridge for leftover Chinese. I use a fork. Nobody is here to see, so why dig for chopsticks?
My place is comfortable with cream-colored furniture, aquamarine accents, and hints of rose quartz. I finally relax.
After eating too many calories, I wash my face, brush out my impossibly wild hair, and lie in the bed until exactly three a.m. My bed is soft and the pillows plush. Here I have more of the rose quartz decorating my lamps, sparkling in picture frames surrounding family and friends, and woven throughout a thick rug that covers my hardwood floors.
However, there is no sleeping tonight for me. My childhood nightmare, the one I thought I’d banished, is back after my brother’s recent car accident and death. Finally, it’s time to move. I can’t hear the click of the security cameras being tricked onto a loop, if there is a click. Instead, the moment the clock ticks three in the morning, I stand, grab a flashlight, and silently make my way through the four-bedroom apartment to the landing outside. Then it’s a simple matter of walking down the five flights of stairs in my socks to the basement.
I can probably use the flashlight, but just in case, I leave it off. It’s for emergencies only.
Winding through the basement, I come to a heavy cement wall and click in a code on the barely there keypad. A hidden door opens.
Sprawling on a threadbare sofa, Rosalie looks up from a gallon of Chunky Monkey. She’s changed from her overcoat to sweats and a shirt even more faded than my own, although her protective angelite pendant still hangs between her breasts. “You sounded properly ditzy tonight. You sure you aren’t an asshole in disguise?”
