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Wickedly Charming
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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
Wickedly Twisted 8
ScarI'm going to get myself killed.And I probably deserve it.I don't know what the hell I was thinking, saying Rita is my wife. As soon as I went back into that room, I could tell the vibe had changed. Orin went along with the meeting like nothing had happened, but his sons kept staring at me, especially that creature Gregory.They could tell it was bullshit.But it was such an insane lie, they probably couldn't figure out how to prove that I'm a fraud.I likely could've told them the truth. Admitted she was my legal assistant. Apologized for misleading them. I would've lost the job, but even violent gangsters aren't stupid enough to straight out murder a couple of people in the back of a bar.Probably, at least.But some part of me can't let go. I can't lose, not if there's a way to turn it around.And so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.Now I'm fucked because Orin wants to have another meeting.And he wants me to bring my new wife.This is bad. Extremely bad. I co
Wickedly Twisted 9
RitaI lounge back on the bed paid for by Scar, wondering if I just passed up my only chance at salvaging my life.He wants to marry me. For real, an actual marriage.Fake, but also not fake.The idea sends a shiver down my spine.The only thing I know about a marriage is my parents, and from my perspective, that looks awful. I could maybe play pretend—smile, kiss him, hang on his arm at parties—but an actual marriage?I can't do it. Even at my lowest, I can't.I'm miserable. Stupid and miserable. And a little drunk. I probably shouldn't have had three glasses of wine. As I wallow in my misery, my phone rings. Cait's face pops up on the screen, looking radiant and angelic. "Hi, girl!" she says. In the background, trees bend and blow in a slight breeze. I swear I hear mandolin music plucking nearby like a bluegrass band follows her around serenading her beauty. God, I love this girl, but I am in a sour mood."Hey, girl," I say, trying to smile, suddenly mortified of my homeless status
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