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Wickedly Twisted 45
Allison"You smell like smoke again." I gaze at him across the bed, blinking sleep away."I really did shower twice.""I believe you." I sit up, rubbing my face, then lean closer to him. I'm exhausted from staying up all night, sick with worry. He made the mistake of telling me what he planned on doing last night, and while it sort of comforted me knowing that Paul was about to die, it also freaked me out. "I was pretty terrified, you know.""Of what?""Losing you." I laugh at the absurdity of the words. "Which doesn't make sense, since I've thought about strangling you myself maybe a hundred times since we met.""Ah, my sweet wife, you're fond of me, aren't you?""I would say that I've grown very tolerant.""And yet here I am, sick with want for you." He comes closer, that beautiful man with his intense, lovely eyes, and those lips. Those amazing lips. He kisses me gently. "Does that bother you?""No," I say. "Not really.""Not really?" His smirk is like a velvet whip. "Come now, pri
Wickedly Twisted Wickedly Charming
Twenty-two-year-old Rita Hunters has finally hit rock bottom. Separated from her best friend, her parents in the middle of a messy divorce, and student loans piled way up to the ceiling, her once organized, serene life is burning to the ground right before her very eyes.But life isn't done fucking her up just yet. When she walks into her hot, gangster boss, Scar Scarfoni discussing some very illegal plans with his cohorts, she almost loses her life. But thank heavens that Scar is considerate and makes her an unusual offer so she can stay alive.Rita would be his bride. A fake bride.But Rita knows the kind of man Scar is; cold, ruthless and borderline psychopathic. Add to that his wickedly charming eyes, and Rita wants nothing but to bolt for the door.There are no alternatives, unfortunately, so Rita agrees.Scar is a neat, treats her like an actual bride, and teases her endlessly. Rita hates his jokes, his guts, the entire arrangement.Well, until she doesn't. Not all fake marriage
Wickedly Twisted 2
RitaIt's not the kind of bar I imagined.Scar Scarfoni is a martinis-in-the-lounge kind of guy. He likes high-end everything, from suits to cars to whiskey. He works hard, earns obscene amounts of money, and spends like he's never heard of the word retirement.He's not shy about it, either.But this place is a dive. There's a drop ceiling—an actual drop ceiling with probably-not-but-maybe-asbestos tiles—and fake wood all over the walls. Neon signs advertise beers I'm pretty sure don't exist anymore, and some ancient-looking faded pictures of retired Boston sports stars are tacked up on the walls—with actual tacks.It's quiet at four in the afternoon. Scar scowls around for a moment until he leads me to the far end and deposits me at the end of a curving bar in the shadows of what I assume must be a kitchen. Or maybe where they send discontinued beers to die. "You'll stay here," he declares."I thought the meeting wasn't until six," I say, blinking rapidly. "You want me to sit here fo
Wickedly Twisted 3
RitaI sip my non-alcoholic drink, eat my healthy deep-fried wings, and think about the way Scar shoved the seatbelt over my body. It's hard not to daydream about that man, with those big hands, beautiful eyes, his shoulders like mountains, his slim-fitted suits—if he weren't such a nightmare, I'd probably find him attractive.Fortunately, I don't. He's handsome, but that's different from being attractive. I want to look at him in a purely clinical way, like how I look at statues in museums.I don't want to get anywhere near him.Except for when he gets all bossy and shoves the seatbelt down over me.Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't mind if he got a little bit more exploratory. With his hands. On my body.God, Rita, get it together.An hour passes. Then another. Then I'm creeping up on hour three and the bar's jam-packed. I'm on my third basket of fries, my second order of wings, and like my tenth club soda. At this point I'm pretty sure the bartender hates me for taking up valuable
Wickedly Twisted 4
ScarI accept the cigar from Orin Callahan, clip the end, and light it with my own torch. "Very nice," I say, nodding with satisfaction as I take a deep puff. "Cuban?""Of course," Orin says, grinning. He sips a whiskey, ice clinking in the glass. The room is dim and smoky, dominated by a large table and surrounded by storage shelves. We're deep in a back room, hidden behind racks of dry goods. The door is lost in shadows somewhere behind me. Orin dominates the space, though his four sons take up plenty of room on their own. I'm at the far end, closest to the door. "You know, Cubans aren't even all that much better these days.""Status symbol," his son Nolan says, a tall boy with dark hair and light eyes."Like you know a fucking thing about status," Carson says, another Callahan son, this one broader with freckles and a loud laugh.Nolan's about to rip into his brother but Orin waves them off. "Enough, boys." He glares at his children, all four of them. Finley, the youngest, sits bac
Wickedly Twisted 5
Rita"Orin, this is my new wife, Rita Hunters. Rita, darling, say hello."What the hell?Did he just say new wife? As in, I'm his wife, and we're married?Like, husband, wife, loving relationship, sharing a marital bed, all that stuff?My brain's slow to process. I'm still in panic mode because of the fire back at my apartment, but now my fight-or-flight response is also severely triggered by the four massive thugs with the guns they're clearly itching to point at my face.Now I understand why Scar wanted me to stay behind.These guys are monsters.No, it's worse than that. I overheard a little of what they were saying as I came into the room.These guys are drug dealers. They're organized crime. They're probably freaking mafia.I knew Scar had some shady clients. Most lawyers do, especially at a certain level. But I had no clue he was actively courting criminals.Everyone's staring at me. The older man sitting in the center narrows his gaze like he's looking for a weakness. Like he's
Wickedly Twisted 6
RitaThe apartment building isn't burning anymore when I get back to Texas.Instead, it's a blackened husk.Even from across the street, the coals are still hot. Steam rises into the early morning Texas air. My skin feels like I'm warming myself by a fire. Sunlight slants through drifting, lazy clouds, and it would almost be pretty.If it didn't represent the total destruction of my existence.Everything I owned was in that apartment. Everything except for my car and the few meager belongings I brought with me to Boston. Pictures from my childhood, my high school yearbooks, all my clothes, my expensive make up, my climbing gear, shoes, mugs, plates, paintings, little keepsakes and knickknacks I've collected over the years—all gone now."Horrible, isn't it?"I flinch at the voice and look over. My landlord Eduardo's standing ten feet away. I don't even remember him showing up. He's staring at the wreck with his hands on his hips, looking exhausted. He's older, mid-fifties, balding and
Wickedly Twisted 7
RitaI take out my phone and try my mom for the fifth time today. It rings, and rings, and rings. I want to scream at her. How can she disappear on me again, now of all times? I need her, need someone, and she's supposed to be my parent. I know I'm a grown woman, I'm a freaking adult, but shit, my life is a mess. All I want someone to listen to me for once.Finally, the line clicks to life. I expect to hear an answering machine robot, but instead, it's actually her. Relief floods me. Finally, I start feeling like something's going right. She sounds a little out of breath, but it's her. Old feelings of comfort and safety try to push their way to the surface."Hi, honey!" she says, chipper as always. "Sorry I keep missing you. We've been so busy this weekend. Your dad and I went to this amazing retreat with a few other couples we've gotten friendly with, and we've just been swapping this whole time, really getting to know—""Mom," I say sharply before she can start to describe what I ca
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