Revenge: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (5 page)

A
week
. I've been holed up in the mansion for a week, and it's driving me up a fucking wall. There's only so many laps I can swim in the pool, so many workouts I can do in the gym in the garage, so many movies I can watch before I go apeshit.

Not that Pops cares. He's instructed the staff, and Nathan in particular, not to let me off the property, regardless of how I want to go about it. I'm not even allowed to walk out of here if I were feeling up to it. Mike won't even talk to me any longer. When I went to Pops to ask him about it, he just reiterated that Mike is no longer to answer to me, and works for only Pops now. Fucking ass.

So I find myself in the one room of the mansion I rarely visit, the library. Image is important to my family, so even though nobody other than Andrea's even ever actually been to college, we still have an impressive-looking library. The library contains mostly books bound in leather, but there are still some regular hardcovers and even some paperbacks. I start looking at the titles, idly wondering if anyone's actually taken them off the shelves and read them, or if the maid just comes by twice a week to dust them.

“You should try
The Count of Monte Cristo.
It's about someone seeking revenge for being wronged,” someone says behind me, and I turn to see Andrea sitting in one of the leather lounge chairs. Either she came in nearly silently, or maybe I'm just more distracted than I thought. Probably a bit of both, since she's capable of sneaking around like a ninja when she wants. She's dressed in her normal daytime clothes. For Andrea that means she's wearing her take on a power suit, wearing hip-hugging pants with a matching vest and blouse, plus four-inch heels. When you see the whole thing paired with her long, black hair cascading down her back, it gives her a really severe appearance. Andi's finishing up her MBA and probably can already take down a lot of young executives in the brains department. “It seems appropriate for what's going on in your life,” she remarks casually.

“Our lives,” I retort, moving over to sit down next to her. I'm wearing a tank top and shorts. When you see our outfits side by side, I look even more casual by comparison, but it's not like I need to get dressed up just to sit around the house. Hell, the staff should just consider themselves lucky I even took a shower before my workout today. “She embarrassed the whole family.”

Andrea scowls, making her look older than her twenty years. I've pointed that out to her before, but it just makes her scowl more when I do. “No, she embarrassed you. She pissed off Peter and put herself in danger as a result. But she hasn't done anything to me.”

“Whatever. If she takes down this family, which is what it seems like she wants to do, you can say
sayonara
to your gravy train, too.”

Her scowl disappears, replaced by the sarcastic grin that is the second most common expression she normally wears. “I don't need a gravy train,
niichan
. I'm going to break free on my own someday. I've got things to do as well.”

I nod, half-frowning to myself. Andrea's always had this strange little driven side to her personality. I've never really been able to see all of it, but she hints at it sometimes. “If you say so, Andrea. But then why haven't you broken free yet?”

“Just wait. I'm biding my time, that's all. Patience can be a virtue.”

I shake my head and get up to walk toward the door, having had more than enough of this conversation. “Yeah, well, my patience is at an end. I need to do something to take my mind off this bullshit, have a little fun.”

Andrea shakes her head, snorting. “What's her name going to be?”

“Their names, Andrea. Their names.”

* * *

T
iffany is
an old hook-up of mine. We've played all sorts of games together, but what she loves to do best with me is costume play. I swear this bitch has a closet reserved solely for the outfits she wears when she's fucking me. So far I've seen various costumes, company uniforms, and other clothes specifically for fucking, but she's almost never repeated any of the pieces with me. Most of them allow for easy access between the legs.

Today she's Doctor Tiffany, although I doubt a real doctor would wear a skirt this short and still expect to be taken seriously. Or not get slapped with a malpractice suit with this much cleavage showing. “Hello, Jackson. What seems to be the trouble today?” she asks in a breathy voice.

I smirk. She's a terrible actress, but I didn't invite her over to read Shakespeare. I lean back on my bed and give a fake cough. “Oh Doctor, you know how it is. My throat's sore and my body aches all over. And I think my balls are turning blue.”

“Aww, you poor, poor man,” Tiffany says, giving me a naughty smile. I know a lot of men who'd already be creaming their jeans at that smile alone. She knows how to work what she's got, and she's got a body like Carmen Electra in her prime. “It sounds like I might need some help for this exam. Nurse?”

The door to my walk-in closet swings open, and Allison comes out. She's my other little playmate. She and Tiffany are pretty much night and day in appearance, but they're good friends, and sometimes more than just good friends. Allie is short where Tiffany is tall, and skinny where Tiffany is stacked, but she still has a sex drive that borders on the nymphomaniac level. And despite only having little A cup tits, she's got an ass that you just want to pour some maple syrup over and lick out for hours. Just like Tiffany, she's wearing a costume, but no nurse I've ever seen has ever worn thigh high stockings that stop an inch below the hem of her uniform.

“Yes, Doctor?” she asks, prancing her way across the floor. Allie loves playing up her youthfulness, and always tries to come across as an innocent young thing, even when she's riding my cock like a pro rodeo cowgirl. “How can I help you?”

“This patient, Mr. Jackson... he's not feeling good at all. He says his throat hurts, and his body aches.”

“Oh no, Doctor, what should I do?” Allie asks in her little girl voice, taking a seat on the bed. Tiffany climbs onto the bed next to Allie as she speaks.

“I thought you might want to start by checking his tonsils while I measure his temperature,” she says. Allie's lips find mine and we kiss, her long tongue already sweeping my mouth.

“Mmm, I think I need more exploration,” Allie whispers when she breaks our kiss, biting her lip. “What do you think, Jackson?”

I should be into this. I should be hard as a fucking rock. I've got two hot and horny nymphos in my bed, ready to do just about anything I want. Hell, I should be tearing off Allie's nurse uniform right now and feasting on those tiny but yummy tits of hers. She's able to come just from nipple play. I should be looking forward to Tiffany riding my mouth while Allie turns my cock into a pogo stick.

I should be... but I'm not. Tiffany runs her hand over my cock, and while there's a little twitch, that's it. “What's wrong, baby?” she asks, sliding up higher on the bed. Allie notices the look in my eye and sits up as well. “Talk to us, Jackson. Sure, we have a lot of fun fucking, but you've been an okay guy to talk with, too.”

I sigh and sit up, scooting back. “I don't know... maybe it's just stress. I thought that a little playtime between the three of us might help ease my mind.”

Tiffany nods. She's a nympho, but she's also an accountant, and I hear she's a talented one at that. She just likes playing the dumb slut for fun when we get together. Allie's actually a bimbo, but she's got a decent heart, too. “I gotcha, baby. Wanna talk about it instead?”

I shake my head. “Nah... it's nothing you girls need to worry about. Listen, I'm gonna go catch a swim or something. Feel free to stay as long as you want, play if you want. I know I got you two all heated up and there's no payoff.”

Allie looks over at Tiffany, and I can see the look in her eyes. She's still ready to go, and while playtime with just the two of them might not have been her first choice, she'll still take it. She looks like she wants to push me on the issue, but she also knows I'm nobody to be trifled with. “Well, okay... but if you're feeling up for it later, maybe we can still have a little fun?” she asks. “We don't even have to have the costumes.”

I reach out and stroke her cheek and nod. She's cute. “Maybe, baby. But don't get your hopes up too much.”

I get off the bed, making sure my shorts are okay before glancing back. Tiffany's already got Allie pinned to the mattress and is kissing her, the two of them quickly getting into it. Any other night I'd be up for at least watching, but I'm just not interested right now. I leave the spare bedroom and go out into the hallway, making sure to close the door behind me.

The problem's clear. I can't get Kat off my mind. Not only am I pissed at her still, but the way she touched me, the way she looked, the way her dress clung to her body... great, now my cock twitches and wakes up again.

“Face it, you dumb fuck, you want her,” I whisper, sighing. I go out onto the back patio that overlooks the garden, which leads to the rest of the old plantation lands. Ten acres is all that's left of one of the biggest indigo plantations of the pre-American days that once covered an area larger than the French Quarter, but it's a beautiful ten acres. I lean against the hundred-year-old red brick wall that lines the patio, and look out into the sky. After days of cloudiness and some rain, the weather finally broke just around sunset today, and now I can look up to see a mostly full moon shining down on the property, stars glittering around it. “Ten years.”

It's the part that's bothered me the most this past week. Nathan's question of if I had feelings for Katrina continues to dance around in my head, because the honest truth is... I probably did. There's never been a lot of love in my family, and even Andrea I can't call anything other than a close acquaintance. Mom... ha. Pops has always treated me like an annoying little insect to be paid off more than anything else. At least I've lived comfortably this entire time, I guess. Hell, more than comfortably.

But Katrina... from the first time we hung out together, we just clicked. Her father had brought her by on one of his visits to see Pops. We liked the same games and even had the same hobbies. When I went through a phase where I was into building plastic car models, she was right there with me. She'd help me cut out all the parts from the tree and sand the edges, making sure each piece fit perfectly. Her hands were steadier than mine, so she'd always paint the individual pieces before the two of us would work together on the final assembly. Going to the same school meant that we got a decent amount of facetime together, but we were pretty much inseparable even outside class. Riding bikes, doing homework... all of it. She got me through my times tables, and I helped her with learning how to swim in our pool.

I'd almost grown out of the plastic model phase when she dropped out of my life, and yeah, it left a hole inside me. Now she's back... and she's pissed. Considering what Nathan told me, I can understand. I don't like Pops either. In fact, the only person in my family I even respect is Andrea. But Pops... fine. He's scum. But how am I supposed to break away? Andrea talks about it, but the only step she’s taken toward it is getting her MBA. I've never even thought about college, and my only skill is knowing how to party. That's good for about fifty cents above minimum wage if it weren't for Pops' money.

I shake my head and go inside, leaving the door to the garden open. I head back toward the guest bedrooms, when a cough behind me catches my attention.

“Nathan,” I say after I turn. “Didn't think you'd still be dressed in your suit.”

Nathan looks down at his black linen suit and brushes a bit of lint off his lapel. “I didn't think I'd find you... dressed,” he replies. Nathan looks pointedly at the door where I’d just been with the two girls, then shrugs.

“Wasn't feeling it tonight. What can I help you with?”

Nathan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “An address. You were looking for it. She lives in a warehouse over on Market Street.”

I look down at the numbers written on the paper. “And you haven't told Pops?”

Nathan shakes his head. “Not until you find your answers. I told you, Jackson, I've got some debts to balance out. Or maybe in my mind I just keep seeing the little girl that Katrina Grammercy was when I first met her. I've done a lot of nasty things in my day, Jackson... but I don't touch kids.”

I nod and fold the paper up, putting it in the pocket of my shorts. “I see. Thank you, Nathan. And sometime... perhaps we can have a cup of tea again.”

Nathan, who's already turned to go back down the hallway, stops and looks back. “I'd like that. Have a good night, Jackson.”

I
'm inverted
, my feet pointing straight in the air as I lower myself on the two steel bars which let my head dip lower until my hands are next to my ears before pushing up, locking out. Seven. Three more and I can kick back down and let my shoulders rest a little bit.

I lower myself, sweat dripping off my nose to soak into the wooden floor below me, and push again. Eight.

I focus on the pain, tasting the metallic tang on my tongue and savoring the electric fire that runs up from my elbows to my spine. Soon enough, I may not feel anything at all except the eternal satisfaction of vengeance before Peter's men tear me apart. Nine.

One more. I can do this. My elbows are shaking, but I can make it. Don't cheat yourself, there's nothing that can bring defeat faster than cheating yourself... now PUSH! I push, and in my mind I see the fire rolling across the concrete ceiling of the parking garage, hungry and reaching for me after it's already taken my parents' lives. It's coming, ten years later now to claim me, but claim me it will...

Ten. I kick over and land on my feet, shaking out my arms. I don't need my pills yet, in fact since the night with Jackson I've only had to take them once. Still, the image of the explosion is hot in my brain, and I have to do something constructive before the anger morphs into depression. I know the pattern, but I'm going to fight it this time.

I grab the sandbag next to my handstand bars and lift it, whipping the forty-five-pound bag up and onto my shoulders. I start crossing the floor of my loft with long, lunging strides. Each one brings me nearly to the floor before I force myself to rise and take the next long step.

I'm on my second trip back across the loft when my computer beeps from the corner. Darcy's little setup on the shipping company she wants me to crack is tougher than I thought it'd be, and I wonder if she's calling me on time. I still have thirty-six hours left on the deadline that she gave me though, even if my tools are still barely chipping away at the firewall, still searching for that elusive crack. I know one has to be there, so it's just a matter of patience, processing power, and tools.

I set my sandbag down and see that I have an IRC chat window up on my screen. Only Darcy and a few others have my IRC handle, although it's not that hard to figure out if you know my hacker name. I mean, CDGrace and Coup De Grace aren't really all that different, after all.

But I don't know this IRC handle at all. Blue Sakura... intriguing. Maybe it's one of Darcy's Japanese contacts?

CDG- Hello.

BS- You're a hard woman to find.

CDG- I prefer my privacy. Who are you?

BS- An ally.

CDG- An ally? In what? I can count my allies on one hand.

BS- An ally who agrees with your vendetta against Peter DeLaCoeur.

I'm tempted to close the window now and reset my router. It'll cost me Darcy's contract, and six thousand dollars because of it, but this person knows who I am. I'm reaching for the power button when Blue Sakura pops up again.

BS- Please don't shut me off. I'm really not trying to expose you or hurt you. I messaged you to warn you.

I pause, my finger hovering over my power button, and go back to my keyboard.

CDG- About?

BS- Nathan Black has found out where you live. He's passed along that information. You need to get out of there.

CDG- If they want to come here, they can. Makes my job easier. Little messier, but a lot easier.

BS- Please watch your back, in any case. You deserve closure.

CDG- What do you know about closure?

BS- You're not the only one who's lost a parent because of Peter DeLaCoeur. Be careful.

The IRC window says that Blue Sakura has left the room, and I consider what just happened. Blue Sakura, huh? Makes sense... Andrea. That you found me at all online tells me that you've got some skills yourself. I run a backtrace on her IP and see that she's also using at least one signal relay, as the address says that Blue Sakura is currently on the Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica. Doubtful at best.

I could use my tools to continue running the backtrace, but I don't need to. It'd be easier just to get Andrea's phone number if I really want or need to contact her again. I've had access to that particular database for years. Instead, I go back to my workout, not letting myself get distracted. I've still got three hundred pushups to do, and then I'll go into my form training. Without a lot of partners, I have to keep my skills up as best I can, and that means lots and lots of mental imagery while I drill on poor substitutes for real people.

I wonder if Andrea can be a resource? There are so many things I can't verify yet, the things that can really take my campaign against Peter DeLaCoeur from just harassment to putting him behind bars. Not that I want it to stop there, but it's a start. The dirty cops, the mob connections, the bodies dropped off in the swamps or somewhere in the Mississippi... if I can verify those, I can really put the pressure on him. Maybe not enough to get him into a court of law, but certainly enough that his allies would move to distance themselves. Without their support, the walls he's carefully built over the years would surely start to crumble. If I can take down enough of those walls, maybe I can get him out of his fortress.

As I start my first set of fifty pushups, I think about the juiciest case I'd like to connect Peter to. He's no longer in office, but Dutch Landry is from one of the two biggest political families in this city. The Landrys and the Morrels have traded the mayor's office back and forth in five of the last six administrations. His son is currently on the city council and has a good shot of running for mayor himself in three years.

But Dutch... Dutch Landry was the type of mayor loved by the press, and hated by the underclass. Virginia and Darcy showed me the evidence firsthand, but hell, I grew up seeing it often enough in Virginia's foster care. I saw the drugs, the street crime that was only checked when the police rolled through in paramilitary fashion. I saw classmates show up with wounds from both police and gang bullets, and I know that a lot of the guns were bought through Dutch Landry's connections. The drugs for sure came in with his authorization. Of course, someone had to arrange transport for all of that, and wouldn't you know, Peter DeLaCoeur knew some friends among the longshoremen who were willing to look the other way as the shipments flooded the Port of New Orleans.

It's how Peter's stayed in business so long. He doesn't directly touch anything. Instead, he makes introductions, facilitates communication between interested parties, and collects his middleman's percentage regardless. He's the ultimate in one-stop criminal shopping. You want it, he knows a guy.

He's completely crooked, but there's no hard evidence. His business dealings are done face to face with cash on the table most of the time, and the IRS thinks he gets his money through renting residential properties in the Lower Ninth Ward. Hell, in their estimation the man's a saint, owning so many Section 8 properties. He's not looking out for anyone but himself, though—he filters his money through those houses.

Say you have a house that you're renting for a thousand dollars a month. Sometimes housing assistance provides full credit for rentals, and sometimes they only provide partial credit. Peter DeLaCoeur only rents to those with partial credit. The government gives him between three hundred and five hundred a month... and the rest of the thousand comes out of his illegal business. He makes friends with the IRS and HUD, who think his fifty houses are all rented out to families in need. Meanwhile, the families think he's renting to them cheap on the down low.

He's just using those same poor families as a cover, since the funds he's filtering are in fact coming from the same drugs and guns that are killing the neighborhoods he owns. He makes even more profit from the Section 8 money. I have to admit, it's a smooth scam, but it's just one of half a dozen that he runs.

If I could just prove it... maybe Andrea can help with that. It'd damage him more than just exposing an embarrassing affair. I don't know. In the meantime, I keep doing my pushups, even though my chest and shoulders are screaming at me at this point.

Someone knocks on my door and I pull my right leg up, bounding to my feet. I approach the door slowly, since it's one of only two entrances to my loft. The other entrance is the old freight elevator that connects to the boxing gym downstairs. Unlike the door, I can control the elevator entrance fully.

Next to the door is one of my home defense weapons. After all the years of martial arts training, you'd think that I'd have something exotic like sai or a wakizashi sword. Maybe a hundred years ago, but what I have instead is a Glock 18. They're highly illegal since they're fully automatic, but since I don't officially exist as far as the law's concerned, I'm not worried about illegally owning this gun. If I need to, I can fire all fifteen rounds through the door in less than a second, and whoever's unlucky enough to be on the other side is going to get turned into Swiss cheese.

I pick up the Glock and flick the fire selector switch from safe to semi-auto, and look through my peephole. I really should invest in a higher tech security system, but it hasn't been a priority.

Whoever it is knocks again as I open the cover on my peephole, and my fingers go numb when I see who it is. I'm only dimly aware that I drop the cover on the peephole. Jackson?

“Open the door please, Kat. I'm alone, and we need to talk.”

“What are you doing here, Jackson?” I yell through the door. “Don't try and knock the thing down either, it's steel core.”

Actually, my door isn't steel core, it's just a plain hollow metal door, but that's beside the point. If Jackson is alone, then just what the hell is he doing here?

“Please Kat, open the door,” Jackson repeats. “It's just me... I want to talk, that's all. Come on Kat, it's been ten years. If our friendship meant anything to you... I just want to talk.”

Against my better judgment, I lower my Glock for a moment and unlock the door, stepping back before raising my gun again. “It's open.”