Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (3 page)

Yes, I imagine he’s already informed my mother of the part he would’ve expected her to play had I made the mistake of declining.

“This calls for a drink,” the judge announces.

This calls for a recalibration.
The new play I’ll put into spin will slingshot me into the catbird seat. A cold-blooded tactic. With a target on my back, I’ll take aim.
Two birds. One stone.

Phoenix. Silver. O’Malley~
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot

Six years later.

I CLIMB OUT from behind the wheel of my Fiat. Brand-spanking new and bait. A graduation gift from my grandparents. In the rear window, I see my reflection and note my blond hair could use a trim. My gaunt skin some sun. But something had to give. Kicking ass at Boston College taught me a lesson in upping my game. As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I’ll need those lessons in my upcoming court battle. Armed with the facts, I’m headed into a civilized debate where the truth is a matter of opinion and revenge is served with sophisticated precision.

“Should we wait for Simon?” I ask Brooke about her newest pal-with-benefits.

“Umm…isn’t he right behind us?” She stoops to gather up the contents of her purse that must’ve toppled out when I nailed the newly installed speed bump.

Nary a complaint from Brooke. She’s my longtime friend and all about options. I hoist the bags of Indian take-out from the backseat, giving a quick survey of the neighborhood. Slanting sideways, I peer down the street, admiring the median and flowering magnolia trees in full bloom.

“Negative,” I report, not seeing Simon or his Benz.” A silver bullet-shaped SLS AMG that could leave me in the dust, but apparently didn’t.

Her cell chimes and without glancing at the screen, she states, “That’s my boy.” Brooke’s petite and trim and mega confident. My grandfather refers to her as ‘the redhead fireball.’

“He was behind us but somehow didn’t make the last intersection.” I think that’s when I noticed him MIA. “How’d the hunk get lost?”

“Multitasking while driving. He’s an animal between the sheets, but could get lost in a box. Without a limo and driver, Simon is hopeless.” Brooke answers her cell, then directs me, “Go on. I’ll bring the cake and catch up with you when he arrives.”

“Okay,” I say but add, jutting my chin toward the side entrance, “Use the basement door.”

“Got it!” Bobbling her head, Brooke does a hands-free fluff of her pixie hairdo. Seamlessly, she resumes giving the hunk directions.

We’re parked in front of my and Spencer’s townhouse with the makings of a celebratory dinner. My fiancé’s twenty-eighth birthday combined with him making junior partner in his family’s architectural firm. He thinks we’re meeting downtown to spend the evening with my grandfather. A customary birthday dinner celebrated at an old money—code for boring—business club. Stifling tradition can wait, and I’d pushed it off until tomorrow night.

I’m dying to see Spence’s face when I holler, “Surprise!”

I traipse down the slope of the side driveway of the two-story three-bedroom we bought together. We swung it using money from my trust fund for the down payment. I haven’t officially moved in, saving my grandmother from a nervous breakdown.

Leaning against the wall, I maneuver the bags into the crook of my arm while slipping my key into the lock of the basement side door. It’s well-oiled and has that snick of expensive hardware. An upgrade—one of many—Spence and I debate about. I’m standing in the shadow from the neighboring townhouse, but within the paved parking, and I get the distinct impression of being watched. I turn, using my shoulder to push open the door and notice the curious stare of Nina, our neighbor to the south. I nod and smile. She’s out on her patio grilling and waves.

Crap, I don’t want to blow my cover or the ‘surprise’ I’ve planned, and pray she doesn’t yodel out a greeting. The townhouses are situated relatively close together, modeled on a modern brownstone, and reside in Jamaica Plains. The highest elevation in Boston, it was coined as the cute part of the city. A hipster neighborhood with a pond, a community garden and matches the beard and offbeat dry humor Spencer sports. I left it up to him where we’d live since he puts up with our Sunday and summer jaunts down to the cape for Gran and Pop time. They practically raised me or as they allege, civilized me into
a refined young woman
. A bit of a stretch, but whatever. If it makes their day, more power to ‘em.

To say my grandparents are overbearing is being polite. I shouldn’t complain. They’ve always been there for me. Giving Spencer and me a loan against my trust fund as well as bankrolling our upcoming nuptials. They squawked about the location of this place. But not to the extent they could’ve, seeming to understand that a daily commute from the cape wasn’t prudent for Spencer or me given we don’t have a private helicopter like my cousin who resides in downtown Boston in a swanky penthouse part-time.

After subjecting this place to a white-glove inspection, my grandmother gave her approval. In days, her bank prepared the closing documents. When I say Gran’s bank, I’m talking
PanCorp
and my grandparents sit on the board. Pop semi-retired as CEO two years ago due to a valve issue with his heart. Not that it quashed them from overseeing their Wall Street dominion. They still fly back and forth between Manhattan and Boston as if it’s nothing.

Our place might not be an estate, but each townhouse has an idyllic covered porch, and some like ours have the proverbial porch swing. Something I never enjoyed as a kid. My mom’s bohemian lifestyle knows no bounds when it comes to condo digs with rooftop access—hers and those of her ‘friends.’ Recently divorced, extricating herself from husband number six—although she claims he’s number five since she remarried an ex twice somewhere along the way. I’ve liked all of my mom’s husbands, especially Martin. Or as Mom refers to him:
Number Two
. He adopted me when I was six months old and so far, his and mom’s marital record stands undefeated. Eight years, three months…I close my eyes against the sting…
twelve days
.

Inhaling, I blow out a breath of bittersweet sorrow that accompanies his memory. Hence my last name: O’Malley. Martin was a far distant relative to the famous Nantucket clan—you know the ones. It’s a question I’m routinely asked when people connect the dots.

“Hi, Phoenix.” The greeting jars me from my thoughts and I refocus on the present, wiping an errant blonde strand of my hair that sticks to my cheek. Another woman joins Nina, not her partner Reina. I squint at them, silently conceding that I don’t recognize her but cordially return her mini-wave as a cloud of smoke swirls by.

“Smells good,” I whisper-talk, stepping away from the door, and under the heat of embarrassment at the realization it’s the weed they’re smoking, not the food they’re grilling.

“Care for a hit?” Nina holds out the joint. “By the way, this is Tracy. New HOA prez.”

From here, it looks like they’re grilling octopus and smells of garlic yet fishy. I don’t want the smoke—weed or food—to be absorbed by my hair or clothes. Spencer is super sensitive to scents, especially those resembling cigarettes or cigars. Being met by a rant with Brooke visiting would be embarrassing enough—not that he’d relent with company. He’d have a fit if I came home reeking of smoke whether solo or in a mob. A rudimentary neighbor greeting isn’t worth me having to jump in the shower to wash my hair with the bio-ethical peppermint hemp soap he prefers and I put up with (not wanting to incite his bottomless disdain).

“No thanks. I brought dinner and better get inside.” I lift the bags a few inches as if indicating a valid excuse.

“Really?” Nina’s almond-shaped eyes momentarily lift to my townhouse as if in question. Then she exchanges a ‘look’ with her friend.

Spencer’s Saab is a few feet away and if I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if he were home. Her odd reply isn’t bait enough for me to keep standing here. If anything, it spurs a sense of unease that lies at the pit of my stomach.

“Nice to meet you, Tracy. Take it easy and
bon appétit
,” I reply over my shoulder, marshaling back to my doorway and enter into the dim basement hall. Closing the door, I kick off my Birkenstocks and from the glass insets, I watch my neighbors deep in a discussion. Whatever the subject is, it warrants a frown from Nina, then a shrug from Tracy.

Perspiration dots my forehead and cheeks, so much a droplet slides to my chin. I shake my head at why I’m trying to decipher their conversation, sweating bullets, and toting bags of spicy curry and tandoori food that is sure to have permeated my clothing and skin. As if on cue, the sour twist knotting my insides flares. With the back of my arm, I wipe my forehead, smearing the sweat and forcing down the whisper of worry.

Mewing at my feet ensues and I let go a knowing smile. Oh my. “Mommy’s little helper,” I say to Chester my hairless cat vying for attention. He rubs his cheek against my ankle and I snort, “Is it me or the take-out?”

What a stinker
. My face and neck cool as I pad my way upstairs on bare feet accompanied by Ches. From the basement, I’m welcomed by the muted light of the blinds partially drawn and seductive notes of my jazz playlist. Both are products from
Echo
, my newest acquisition. A combination tech app and home electronic in a futuristic smart speaker that
I linked
to my other smart home appliances. From news to music to audio books, and let’s include lighting, laundry, and security,
Echo
coordinates with voice commands addressed to Alexa. My fav are the word games I recently downloaded. It’s become a nerd challenge between Spence and me, who can stockpile more points as if we were back in high school.

Entering the kitchen, I hear a deep groan. Before I can set the bags on the polished granite counters, I freeze. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of Spencer, buck-naked and bent over the custom Stickley chair delivered last week.

Oh my God. He’s being raped!
Terrified for our lives, I’ve got to call 9-1-1, and drop the take-out bags, fumbling for my cell.

“Dude, that’s it,” the man assaulting Spencer groans. “Lift up your ass so I can go deeper. Show me what you learned in class.”

Without missing a beat, my fiancé grips the leather cushion, and does a downward dog proud. Through my haze of confusion, I recognize Lance, and then I understand. The yoga teacher from the rec center is deep drilling Spence. The shock of betrayal races from the pit of my belly as if jettisoned. I’m rooted to the spot, openmouthed to the nightmare before me.

X, stop gawking!
I order but the pumping motion of the yogi-boy-toy and Spencer’s garbled moans for more have warped all my good sense. The man I’m engaged to… the man whom I’ve known since high school and am going to marry, spend the rest of my life with until we’re old and gray, is getting pommeled. And not just pommeled, he’s bound by the wrist and there’s some kind of metal bar between his spindly legs.

Spencer arches upward with a grunt. In denial, I tell myself this can’t be happening as I continue to stare in disbelief, recognizing the tattoo on his neck, trailing what looks like a studded leather dog collar. Taking it hard from behind, this collared jerk is my fiancé. A lying sack of manure who refused to have sex before marriage. Who wanted our wedding night to be special, even though Spence knew I wasn’t a virgin.

Absurd and I can’t absorb this new gestalt, except it dawns on me that he’s also wearing a mask and is gagged.

The guy doing him, pumps so violently that the chair rocks precariously. Each slam of their hips forces me to the edge of sanity. The chair legs
thud-thud-thud
, reverberating off the living room walls as my universe rips apart. In seconds, the kitchen floor will drop, my world will end, and I back up, trying to escape the darkness that creeps closer, threatening to take over.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing to negotiate, plead, holler—anything except admit that this is real. It’s some form of a test. A Boston College challenge offered up like those at the rope course we’d visited on campus last weekend.

Then I hear Brooke behind me shout, “Surprise! Happy… What the puck!”

As I peel apart my eyelids, Lance rams full force into Spencer. He even glances over to us on his down stroke and grins.
Leers.
And I lose it!

Gone is a lifetime of control. As if I’m on fire, I race toward them, grabbing a vintage fruit bowl in my raze of indignation that Spencer is nailing—no, correction. He’s getting nailed, grunting like a greedy pig in my house, defiling my home.

“Get out!” I heave the bowl of organic apples, pears, peaches at them.

Spencer in his Tommy impression doesn’t see me, doesn’t hear me, but that fool feels me. I pelt him with his precious fruit from Whole Foods, clocking him in the cheek with a Granny Smith. The Murano glass bowl crashes to the floor. It splinters into blue shards as the torrent of fruit roll across the tiger bamboo planks.

Lance hoists Spencer upright and uses him like a shield. They’re still connected, reminiscent of cats that can’t unhinge. Spencer haphazardly with his bound wrists, claws off the blindfold, and our eyes lock. His bright blue eyes widen and he mumbles behind his gag, his fingers outstretched as if pleading.

“Save it,” I sob, surprised that tears are gushing down my cheeks. “Get your stuff and get out!” I choke on the bubble of fear and rage stuck in my windpipe.

He yanks on the straps of the gag and shrieks, “Don’t think so! I own half of this place. Half, Ms. High and Mighty.”

I’m mortified by Spencer’s tone and more so by his erection. His wiener sticks out like an accusatory appendage, mimicking his finger pointing in my face.

It’s Brooke who saves me from being emotionally scarred for life. She jerks me back away from him and follows up with, “Don’t you dare threaten X!”

When he curses vehemently at both of us, Brooke picks up an orange and wings it across the space, smacking Spencer in the head as he tries to come after me.

“Whoa, dickweed,” Simon hollers from the doorway, a tower of ripped fuel masculinity compared with Spencer and company. “Brookie, what’s doing?”