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His Wicked Games series
His Wicked Games series
Author: Ember Casey

Chapter 1

Author: Ember Casey
last update Last Updated: 2024-10-29 19:42:56
BOOK ONE: HIS WICKED GAMES

I lean out the car window and press the button on the call box for the third time.

"Hello?" I say yet again. "Anyone there?"

No one answers. Yet again.

I sit back against the seat and slam my hand against the steering wheel. Stupid rich asshole. I've driven all the way out here to the middle of nowhere and he won't even let me in.

Not that I expected any different.

A pair of wrought-iron gates stands ahead of me in the driveway. They're covered in ivy, like the entrance to some enchanted garden in a fairy tale, and I have no doubt the family paid a small fortune to their landscapers to create that wild, "overgrown" look. I kill the engine of my beat-up Honda and climb out of the car. I don't care how long it takes - I won't leave until they let me through. If that means camping out here for the next several hours, then so be it.

I walk up to the gates and give them a good shake, hoping they'll magically pop open at my touch. They don't even wiggle. Beyond them lie the estates of the Cunningham family, the current residence of the infamous - and infuriating - Calder Cunningham.

His note arrived yesterday, and I've read it about fifty times since then.

Dearest Ms. Frazer,

While your persistence is admirable, I assure you your exertions on behalf of the Frazer Center for the Arts will do little to change my decision. I'm afraid I will not be including the Frazer Center in my financial plans for the foreseeable future, and for your own sake, I request that you abandon your efforts to change my mind. I would not waste any more of your time.

Respectfully,

Calder

No mention of the fact that he's broken the pledge contract his late father signed. No acknowledgment that his actions might single-handedly be responsible for the closing of the Frazer Center. No apology for blowing off all my previous attempts to contact him.

I stand on my toes in front of the gates, trying to find a place where the vines part just enough to give me a view of the other side. Between the leaves I can see the long, cobblestoned driveway winding between a double row of live oaks. There's no view of the house from here, but if the rumors are true, it's something of a monstrosity. The rich love their ridiculous mansions.

The Cunninghams have always been weird about their property. No photos of the estate have ever been released to the public - except for the occasional grainy shot from a helicopter, which is always quickly retracted - though descriptions of the lands and house grow more extravagant with every story. They're one of the last great "old money" families in this part of the country and have a reputation for being a little eccentric; as such, they attract their fair share of attention - and they appear to harbor their fair share of secrets as well.

Probably why security's such a bitch.

I step back and look up at the camera bolted to the stone wall above the call box.

"I don't have a camera," I call up to it. "I'm not trying to sneak any photos or anything."

I go back to the car and grab my purse. There are only four things inside: my wallet, a pack of gum, some sunglasses, and a six-year-old flip phone. I take them out one by one, and when I get to the phone I hold it up so the security camera can see.

"Look," I say, flicking it open. "There's not even a camera on here." I throw the phone down with the other items and grab the purse again. I turn it upside down and give it a good shake for effect.

The gates don't budge.

I give an exasperated sigh and walk around to the trunk of my car. It's full of the usual junk. I pull out the grocery sack I use as a makeshift garbage bag, rifle through it beneath the camera to show that it's only receipts and fast food wrappers, and drop it on the drive. Next I pull out a pair of sneakers, a small emergency car kit, and a couple of rough-edged file folders.

"See?" I say. "Nothing."

There's no response.

I lean over to the call button and jam it another time.

"Look," I say. "I'm not trying to cause any trouble. As I said before, I'm from the Frazer Center for the Arts." I flip open my wallet and flash my ID card at the camera. Lily Frazer. Assistant Director. There's even a picture, though my naturally brunette hair looks rather orange in the image. "Please. I just want to speak with Mr. Cunningham in regard to the letter he sent us. He won't return my calls." God, could I sound like any more of a stalker?

But there is still no answer from the call box. I walk back over to the gates and press my face against the bars.

"Hello!" I call. "Can anyone hear me?" I don't see anyone on the other side, but that doesn't mean there's no one there.

I'm about to yell again when the first raindrop lands on my cheek. I brush it off and glance up. The sky was clear when I left this morning, but now it's an ominous gray.

Great. Just what I need.

A crack of thunder sounds right overhead. I curse and run back to my stuff, scooping it up off the driveway as the rain starts to pick up. I've just managed to throw the last of it in my trunk when the skies open up and it begins to pour. I jump back into my car and roll up the window, but not before half of the driver's side seat is soaked.

I lean on my right hip, trying to keep the butt of my jeans dry. It's too late for my upper half. For a moment I just sit there, sideways, staring at the water sliding down the windshield. Beyond the glass, the gates are still closed. It doesn't look like security is going to take pity on the poor wet girl sitting outside.

I chew absently on my lip as I try to think. Sure, this puts a damper on things, but I'm not about to let a little rain stop me. If I have to sit out here all night, I'll do it, but there has to be a way to convince them to let me through. I hoped, naively, that my determination would inspire some sort of sympathy. It's easy enough for a gazillion-aire like Calder Cunningham to brush off letters and phone calls, but I thought it would be harder for him to ignore someone sitting in front of his own gate. Looks like I was wrong.

I tap my horn a couple of times, just to show security that I don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon. They're probably having a good laugh at me, but I don't care. For once, I'm standing up for something. The Frazer Center is my life, and now it's going to close - unless I convince Calder Cunningham to reverse his decision to retract the promise his father made.

The late Wentworth Cunningham was a great patron of the arts and our largest donor for years. Apparently his son shares no such philanthropic tendencies. According to the tabloids, Calder's spent the better part of the last ten years gallivanting across Europe, romancing models and starlets and partying his way through every techno club he could find. Since his father's death this past summer, Calder's been in charge of the family funds, and he's wasted no time in undoing his father's contributions to society.

We received notice of the decision through his lawyers, who detailed in fancy legal jargon why Calder's actions weren't in violation of the pledge contract his father signed two years ago. We're a small nonprofit institution. We don't have the resources to challenge the decision, even if Dad would allow it.

A pang of guilt shoots through me. My dad doesn't know the whole truth about my trip out here today. He thinks I'm in Barberville trying to scare up some corporate sponsors.

He's been adamantly against pursuing the matter with Calder Cunningham, claiming he refuses to reduce himself to begging. I hoped to avoid calling him until I had this whole Cunningham business wrapped up - better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right? - but now that it looks I'm going to be here a while, I know I need to give him a call.

I grab my phone and punch in the number for the Frazer Center. Dad's been manning the phone in the evenings after the volunteer secretary leaves.

The line rings once before he picks up.

"Frazer Center for the Arts," he says. "David speaking."

"Hey," I say.

"Hey, honey." The cheerful act of a moment ago seeps out of his voice. He sounds exhausted. "I was just thinking about you. Any luck with those leads?"

Dad founded the Frazer Center twenty years ago, back when I was five. He was a dentist before that, and he sold his very successful practice in order to secure the initial funds for the organization. My mother was still around then, too, but she didn't stay long after he stopped bringing in the fat salary. Since then, my dad has poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the Center, building it into a cornerstone of our community.

Which is why I'll do anything to help, even if it means lying to him for the time being.

"Nothing's settled yet," I say carefully. "But I still have a few inquiries to make." It's not quite a lie. And technically the Cunningham estates have a Barberville address, even if I'm currently fifteen miles outside the town itself.

"What about you?" I say quickly, before Dad can ask me any more questions about my current location. "Come up with any more ideas?"

He's silent for a long time. I can practically hear him rubbing his forehead. When I left the Center this morning, he was going over the budgets and accounts for the hundredth time.

"It's not good," he says finally. "I just can't - I can't make it work. Vinny suggests raising the class prices, but we'd have to triple them, and I won't do that. He said he thinks we might be able to draw in an extra thousand at the Harvest Festival this year, but I don't think that'll be enough." He lets out a long, shaky breath.

Something tightens in my chest. I've never heard my dad sound so defeated.

"Dad, I..." What can I say that I haven't said a hundred times already? Time and again over the last few months I've reassured him that we'll get through this, that we'll find a way, but the chances of that are looking bleaker every day. I pick at a loose bit of vinyl hanging off my steering wheel.

On the other end of the line, I hear him shuffling through some papers. He gives another sigh.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call Garrett, honey?" he says. "I know it didn't end well between you two, but I just think - "

"No. Absolutely not." The loose piece of vinyl tears off beneath my nail. "Please, Dad. Anything else. But please don't call him." Once, I thought Garrett was the perfect man. I mean, come on - he was a successful journalist who spent his free time volunteering at the Center. And he was a damn good volunteer, too. When he worked for us, he managed to solicit more donations in a month than all of our other volunteers combined. It was how we met.

It took two years before I realized that "good on paper" doesn't exactly equal "good boyfriend." The worst part is my dad still thinks that asshole was the greatest fucking thing that has ever happened to me.

I stab at another piece of loose vinyl with my thumbnail.

"Just let me see what I can manage out here," I say. "And then we can go from there." If I never see Garrett again, it'll be too soon. I won't let us get that desperate.

On the other end, my dad lets out another long breath. "All right, honey. I'm just not sure what our options are anymore."

Me either, I think, but I won't tell him that.

"We'll be okay," I tell him. "I know we will. We might just have to be a little creative for a while."

"Creative," he repeats. "We can do that."

I can't tell if he believes it or not.

"I'll be in tomorrow morning," I say. "I'm not sure how much longer this will take tonight."

"Good," he says, distracted. "That sounds good, honey."

"Love you, Dad."

"Love you too, honey. Stay safe out there."

I hang up and toss the phone on the passenger's seat. I can't take this much longer. I can't stand to hear my dad sound so tired, so old, so utterly dejected. I'll do anything to save the Center and give him back that spark I miss so much - anything short of calling Garrett, at least. Bringing him into this will only make the whole situation worse.

That's why I have to convince Calder Cunningham to change his mind.

Before I can lose my nerve, I throw open the door and step back out into the rain. For kicks, I press the call button one more time.

"I don't suppose you've changed your mind?" I say into the box.

There's no response.

I look up at the camera. I need to talk to Calder. It doesn't matter how. The idea comes into my head from nowhere, and I decide to go for it before I have the chance to chicken out.

"Hey, boys," I call over the rain. I grab the bottom of my shirt, take a deep breath, and pull it up, catching the lower edge of bra as well and exposing my breasts to the security system.

One, two, three seconds of the rain pouring over my bare skin, and then I yank my shirt quickly back down. My cheeks are blazing hot, but there's a wild rush in my belly. I've just flashed the Cunningham security camera. That has to get a reaction.

I cross my arms over my chest as I wait. There's a strange, reckless feeling flowing through me, and it's kind of exciting. Maybe a little desperation is good for me.

But as the minutes tick by and no one comes out to apprehend me - or compliment my breasts and usher me inside - the exhilaration slowly seeps away.

"Seriously?" I yell up at the camera. "That got nothing?"

The intercom doesn't even offer a taunting crackle.

Fine. I'll just have to implement Plan B.

I march back over to the gates, wading through the puddles that have already formed on the driveway. I move down the length of the gates, feeling past the ivy for any openings in the wrought iron where I might be able to slip through. I'm relatively tiny, but the ironwork here is pretty elaborate, all curlicues and closed spiral patterns. Finally, about halfway down the length of the gate, I find a spot where I think I can squeeze by. It's about chest high, which means I'll have to climb a little to get to it, but I think I'm up for it.

"Oh, no," I cry in mocking challenge over the rain. "You guys better come and stop me." I grip the iron bars with both hands and pause, waiting to hear the approach of a security guard through the rain.

No one comes.

I raise one foot up onto the gate and then the other, and I begin to climb. The metal is cold and slick beneath my fingers, but that wild, reckless feeling is building in my belly again. I move carefully but deliberately, kicking through the vines to find the footholds, clutching the bars with white knuckles. When I'm high enough, I pause again.

"Aren't you going to stop me?" I call up to the camera.

Apparently, the answer is no.

I bring one leg up and through the break in the ironwork, then slide forward until my upper body is through. I glance around for security guards, but I don't see anyone or anything that might stop me.

Is it really this easy? Can I honestly just climb down onto the Cunningham property?

I pull myself through the rest of the way, clinging desperately to the bars as my feet fumble for new footholds. I'm breaking into the Cunningham estates. This is crazy. I'm crazy. Adrenaline is pumping through my system, and I'm not sure whether I want to laugh or vomit.

"I guess no one minds I'm here?" I call into the rain.

I take the resulting silence as consent.

The climb down is more difficult than the climb up. My fingers are colder now from the rain and they're starting to get stiff. The vines seem to be thicker on this side, and one gets tangled around my leg. I manage to free myself, but I'm more than grateful when my feet finally hit solid ground again.

I stand there, frozen, and wait for the alarms to go off. Shouldn't there be blaring sirens or flashing lights or something? Shouldn't a pack of vicious Dobermans come charging down the driveway to rip me to shreds?

Apparently the Cunningham family's security measures aren't as good as I thought.

I smile to myself. I've never felt this reckless before, but I think it agrees with me. I know I'm being insane, but I don't care. I've come here to save the Center, and there's no turning back now.

Calder Cunningham won't even know what hit him.

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    What the fuck just happened?I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath, while Calder holds his hand out to me as if we were just having a perfectly normal conversation."Ready for the rest of the tour?"Like fuck I am. I can hardly stand upright. He just had his fingers inside me and now he wants to pretend like none of it ever happened? My breasts are still hanging out, for fuck's sake.I straighten and quickly yank my dress back up."What the hell was that?" I say.He withdraws his hand. "A lesson.""A lesson?""You asked me why this painting was my favorite. I was only answering you." He rubs his jaw. "You seemed to be enjoying it well enough.""You too," I counter, but honestly he doesn't look half as flustered as I feel. How the fuck did he manage that? I know he wants me too, that he was aroused by the way I let him touch me."Is this some sort of sick game?""Not at all," he says, leaning toward me again and dropping his voice. "I only wanted you to realize h

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    - LOUISA -Lily's face has gone white."Calder?" she says into the phone, her voice cracking. "Calder! Calder, answer me!" Her hand visibly shakes as she pulls the phone away from her ear."What's going on?" I ask her, running over and shifting Ramona in my arms. I've just managed to get my little girl to stop crying. "What happened?"She doesn't answer. Instead she hits a couple of buttons on the screen, presumably calling him again. I glance over at Ward, but he looks just as shocked and confused as I feel.After a moment, Lily drops the phone, her eyes wide with horror."What happened?" I ask again, my stomach sinking further with every passing second. Something is wrong. Something is desperately wrong. Ramona starts to whimper in my arms."Lily," Ward says firmly. "You have to tell us what's happening."Lily glances up, blinking, as if she's suddenly remembered she's not alone."Something happened," she whispers. "Something happened to Calder."She's in shock, that much i

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    - CALDER -Lily is in labor. Lily is in labor.That thought drives out everything else - even the raw, gnawing feeling in my gut when I think about what Michelle has done - and suddenly nothing matters but getting to my wife.If I was a madman on the road before, it's nothing to how I drive now. I don't care about the rain or the traffic. I don't care if a cop chases me down for driving twice the speed limit. I'm getting to that hospital. Getting to my wife.I should have been there, I think. I should have been by her side when this started. But though the guilt eats away at me, I can't think about that now. I have one concern and one concern only - getting to her. Being with her as soon as humanly possible. Holding her hand as the pain comes. Even over the phone, I could hear the fear in her voice.I need to be with her.And if I have to kill myself to get to her, I will.. . . . .- WARD -Keep it together, man. They're counting on you.I hate that I have to remind myself o

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  • His Wicked Games series   Chapter 110

    - CALDER -Less than two hours later, Michelle and I are in Barberville and I've got her set up at a modest little extended stay hotel just outside of downtown. I've prepaid for a two-week stay, and after that, I'll reassess the situation and figure out the best course of action. Michelle told Lily that she was looking for a job in the area, but since learning the truth about her health, I'm not sure whether that was an empty claim or not. Either way, though, now is not the time to be making any rash decisions. Lily comes first. We'll deal with Michelle after the baby is here.I'm getting ready to leave when a thought occurs to me."Lily will have lots of questions when she learns the truth. And she'll want you to start treatment as soon as possible."She starts to protest. "I still don't think I want treatment - ""At the very least, will you go talk to a doctor here in town? Explore your options? I'll pay for your visit, of course."She hesitates, then nods. "All right."I tur

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    - LOUISA -I'm in the office on the south side of the house, working out some of the final details of my surprise honeymoon trip for Ward, when Calder stalks into the room."Good morning," I say - though you'd hardly know it was morning, considering how overcast it is outside today. When I glance up and see his face, my fingers freeze on the computer keyboard. "What's wrong? Is it Lily?"We had a bit of a scare yesterday, what with Lily getting rushed to the hospital. She'll be on bed rest for the duration of her term, but both mother and baby are healthy - or so I thought. Calder looks like he's hardly slept. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he seems agitated."We need to figure out what Lily's mother wants," Calder says, jerking a hand through his hair. "It's that woman's fault that Lily is in this state."I lean back in my chair and glance over at Ramona. She's in her playpen over by the window, and she's pulled herself up onto her feet so that she can watch her uncle

  • His Wicked Games series   Chapter 108

    - CALDER -That was too close.My jaw hurts from clenching. My mind won't slow down. I've been pacing the same spot on the floor for so long that I'm surprised I haven't worn a hole into the boards.It was only a false alarm, I remind myself. Lily is fine - for now - and the doctor said she was only having Braxton-Hicks contractions, probably made worse by stress. But even though she's now safe in our bed, I still can't seem to make myself calm down. When it comes time for the real thing... I don't even want to think about it."There's no need to be so worked up," Lily tells me. "Everything is fine. Come to bed.""Everything is not all right," I say. "Your mother upset you so much that you - ""It was my dad's fault, too," she says. "And it was a false alarm. I'm all right. No harm done.""Maybe not this time, but I'm not willing to take that chance again." I resume my pacing. "That woman needs to go.""I agree," she says. "And she's already looking for a place. But in the mean

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