Beautiful Hell: A Contemporary High School Bully Romance Read online

  With every minute that goes by, it becomes increasingly clearer that giving into my father’s demands will eventually kill me. Maybe then it’ll all be over, but part of me doesn’t want to surrender yet.

  Ignoring the call, I start digging through the fishbowl. This is where he keeps all of the matchboxes he’s collected from different bars in cities across the country. It’s sort of obsessive the way he adds to his collection. Once, when mom was alive, we’d driven at least a half an hour away from our hotel in Chicago before he realized he forgot to snipe the matchbox from the coffee table. He’d spun the car around and made the trip back – screw the fact that we’d missed our flight. At least he had his matchbox.

  I don’t really expect to find anything here, but I’m sort of out of options. I pluck a few more out and spin them over in my hands. My head pounds harder and I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temples. One breath in. Another out. It feels like I’m trying to inhale a blade.

  Focus Kira.

  It might hurt now.

  But it won’t hurt for good.

  I focus on the matchboxes again. My father even has some European pieces here, from Amsterdam and Paris, amongst others. The boxes are varied in shape and size, but they’re each branded with the logo of the locales from where they were collected. Studio 54. Jamieson’s. Carluccio’s… Denver, Seattle, New Jersey…

  I find a square one with a couple of matchsticks missing. It’s from the Red Herring Motel.

  “Since when do you stay at motels?” I murmur.

  William Malone considers a four-star hotel to be his worst-case scenario. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a motel. That would be an insult to his wealth. The man likes his champagne and caviar and massage services too much. I turn the box over to find printed details of the motel, including an address and a phone number.

  “Baltimore…”

  Baltimore. So the bastard was in Baltimore. He told the police he never set foot in Baltimore. That it’s one of the least attractive cities in terms of real estate development, considering his high-end projects and reputation. That he wouldn’t be caught dead dealing in that city.

  Flipping the top of the box over, I find three digits jotted down with a ballpoint pen. 601. It’s my father’s handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere. Something is wrong here. There’s a connection I’m missing.

  “I’ve seen this number before,” I say to myself, trying to remember where.

  Despite the pounding in my head, it doesn’t take long for the memory to resurface. A newspaper article, I think. About Joe Fowler and the motel where he was found. The Red Herring. Room 601. Stars start to dot behind my eyes, the pounding in my head even more prominent than before. I pull myself to my full height and try stretch my way through the swirling in my head. When that doesn’t work, I shove the matchbox in my pocket and press my hands against the table in front of me.

  What the hell is happening?

  Why the hell does it feel like the world is spinning on its side.

  An incontrollable tremor takes over. I’m shaking at every joint. My legs give out, and I fall. Hitting the floor hard, I yelp from the pain that seems to be attacking every single part of my body. Every muscle burns. Every bone feels like it’s being crushed with a hammer. And my head. Jesus Christ, my head.

  My father lied. He was in Baltimore, and he kept a trophy of his visit there. I try to hold onto that memory. I try to pull the bottle of Oxy from my pocket. Anything to get rid of the pain. Or will this make it worse? Dull the physical pain and amplify the emotional one – that doesn’t exactly sound like an ideal tradeoff.

  This is too much. My brain can’t cope. My soul is torn and shattered.

  Fire rages through me. There is so much pain, I don’t know how much I can put up with…

  I’m stuck in a haze, my back against the carpeted flooring and my body moving without me.

  Numbness begins to expand. It starts at the ankle and moves all the way up until it practically has me in a chokehold. I try to move, but my body doesn’t respond. I’m struggling to breathe, struggling to stay strong, struggling to keep the darkness away.

  A thread pulls loose, and reality begins to slip further and further away from me.

  I see pills on the floor. The bottle spilled. I see my hands. My fingers, trying to move.

  Hours feel like seconds, seconds feel like hours, and I lose all sense of time.

  Something cold covers me, followed by something hot. I can’t breathe. I’m shivering. I’m sweating.

  I think I want to sleep.

  I think I want to sleep forever…

  27

  Elias

  Sheldon paces around the room, nervously waiting for me to finish perusing the photos he brought in. My blood is boiling. There isn’t anything useful here, just pixelated zoom prints of what looks like William Malone’s car, but we can’t make out the license plates. Those insane zooms they show on CSI, magnified to the point where you see the killer’s nametag on his shirt? Fiction. Pure fucking fiction.

  “That was as much as we could get without a warrant,” Sheldon says. “I bet we can make out a plate number if we get the police involved.”

  Okay, so maybe not pure fucking fiction, but still impossible since we’re civilians. I slam my fist on the desk, anger taking over, turning my vision red.

  “We don’t have enough to get the police involved!” I shout. “All we have is circumstantial, at best, and the words of a mistress! It’s not enough!”

  Sheldon isn’t letting go. Normally, I would admire him for it, but it’s been sixteen hours since I’ve seen Kira, and she hasn’t returned any of my calls. I briefly check through my messages again. William’s only words to me are clear, black on the white screen. If you go anywhere near Kira again, I will hurt you in ways you never imagined possible.

  I could go to the police with this, sure. But he’d play the angry father role. His reputation is spotless with the authorities. After all the interviews and investigations, we simply do not have enough to break him. Nothing to positively put him in Baltimore, besides blurry CCTV shots.

  “You know the NYPD has the ability to magnify these images further,” Sheldon says. “We have to try. Come on, kid, you can’t let the son of a bitch get away with all this!”

  Why am I so quick to give up? If Kira’s father killed Joe Fowler, he belongs in jail, not in the streets. There’s also the problem that he’s still Kira’s father. Sure, he might have overreacted a bit when he found out I was in her room. But lots of fathers would break down doors if they suspected their daughters were up to no good. And the fact that it’s the enemy she was sneaking around with doesn’t make it any better. If I do manage to bring his ass to jail, will she hate me? Will she be happy that justice has been served, even if that justice took away the only family she has left? What will it mean for her relationship with Janelle?

  Would I cover up murder for my own father? I’m not sure.

  My thoughts are too much to deal with right now. I try to reel myself together and focus on the facts. Malone is a slippery bastard. He was able to cover his tracks so well that we can’t even prove he was on the highway, for Pete’s sake! Not definitively, anyway, and not without additional help from the police, who are already reluctant to so much as consider reopening the case, especially after it was ruled a suicide.

  “The cops don’t want to go after Malone unless we give them hard evidence. He has a good standing with the state authorities. He donates to their charities on a regular basis. They can’t bite the hand that feeds them,” I say, letting a sigh roll out of my chest.

  “State lines,” Sheldon mutters, staring at the printed photographs. “State lines, Elias!”

  He claps his hands as if the Yankees just won the championship. He’s laughing. I, on the other hand, I’m merely gawking at him, trying to figure out what he’s so excited about.

  “There’s one more place my PI hasn’t checked, and I can’t believe we missed it!” he s
ays. “Malone would’ve crossed state lines into Maryland. There must’ve been police checkpoints with motion-activated cameras of their own. It’s a habit of state troopers, especially on the eastern border, since they’re trying to clamp down on drug trafficking.”

  “Okay… how does that help us?” I ask.

  “Maryland state troopers are not New York state troopers,” Sheldon replies, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “My PI can make some inquiries. He’s got more juice over there, anyway. Maybe, just maybe, he can get us a clearer shot from the I-95. We already have time stamps on multiple possible vehicles matching Malone’s.”

  It’s a stretch, but I’ll take it. The more I think about this, the more I look at these blurry pictures, the more convinced I am that he’s an evil man.

  “Do it,” I tell Sheldon. “Whatever it takes. We need hard evidence.”

  He exhales sharply and pours himself a scotch. A couple of minutes pass in heavy silence, while I try to figure out what I’m going to do next. Restlessness keeps my mind scattered all over the place.

  “How’s Kira?” Sheldon asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t talked to her?”

  “Not since the incident. She’s not taking any of my calls,” I say, running a hand through my hair. No matter how I look at this whole situation, it still looks bad. It’s going to end even worse.

  “Imagining the worst about her father right now, what are the odds she’s still clean right now?”

  Oh, God. The thought didn’t cross my mind. I’ve been so busy stressing over every other aspect of this clusterfuck, that I completely overlooked the most imminent danger. Malone was raging mad when I skipped. And Kira was on her own, defenseless against that bastard. Words can cut deeper than any blade. Kira may be strong, but she’s nowhere near ready to stand up to him.

  “Also, how did Malone know you were there?” Sheldon adds, frowning slightly.

  The truth is quick to rear its ugly head and smack me over the head. “It might have been Janelle,” I say. “She saw us the other day… I think Kira was texting her before we got… you know.”

  Sheldon shakes his head. “You’ve got to make this right, kid. If you care about her, you can’t just run because Malone wants you to run. If you want her, fight for her. Malone’s not going to give his daughter over that easy. And if we do take him down, who will she have if you just turn your back on her?”

  I jump out of my chair, slipping the phone into my pocket. Malone’s message is still there, quietly irking me. “You’re right,” I say. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Where are you going?” he calls out after me.

  “Janelle.” I reply, hoping he heard me as I practically fly through the hallway.

  Everything goes by in a flash, and I’m suddenly in my car, turning the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I drive out with squealing tires. The city lights flicker past me. I remember where Joe Fowler used to live. His wife is still there, and so is Janelle. Sheldon’s words echo in the back of my head.

  Yes. I need to make this right. But first, I have to get to the truth.

  The apartment building is a tall and silent giant between a string of shops and a small marketplace. It’s not the place you’d expect someone with the kind of money Janelle’s family has to live. But the Fowlers have always been more down to earth than the Malones and the Dresslers.

  I take my phone out and dial Janelle’s number. There’s no one around. It’s so quiet at this hour, that I can hear myself thinking, and this is one of the times when I shouldn’t be left alone with my thoughts.

  The streetlamp hums above my head. Janelle picks up after the third try. “You need to come down, right now,” I tell her and hang up. Janelle and I don’t know each other that well, but she’s aware of how quickly I can turn into someone’s worst nightmare. She’s also aware that if she doesn’t come down, I will go up there myself and cause a scene to remember.

  I’m hoping she’ll appreciate the courtesy.

  I try calling Kira again. No answer. This is the thirtieth missed call in her log, and I’m not any closer to calming myself down.

  Five minutes later, Janelle comes out in a house robe and fluffy slippers. Her hair’s a mess. I got her out of bed, but it doesn’t matter. She’s here, now.

  “What the hell, Elias?”

  “You told Malone about Kira and me,” I say, and she freezes. The worst part is that she doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about.

  “What? No. I told you, and I told her as well. I would never—”

  “Don’t lie, Janelle. You’re the only person who knew I was at her house last night.” I am fishing here, but it’s the best way to get the truth out of her. I didn’t actually see who Kira was texting when she found me in her room.

  “She told me, but… Elias, it’s insane, I would never tell Mr. Malone. I swear!”

  She seems honest, but maybe she’s just a really good actress. Then again, what reason would she have to screw Kira over? With her out of the way, Janelle would have a better shot at someday taking over Fowler & Malone. Of all the people in this world, Janelle is one of the few who’d see only gains from my relationship with Kira.

  “How did he know, then?” I ask. “It was like fucking clockwork, Janelle. He didn’t knock, didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know what was going on. He kicked the fucking door down. He knew I was in there.”

  “Oh, God, that’s what happened?” Janelle gasps. “How’s Kira?”

  “I can’t reach her. Her phone keeps ringing,” I mutter.

  Janelle pulls out her phone, to try and call Kira, I presume. And that’s when I see it: the Fowler & Malone logo on the back. That wouldn’t make sense, right? There’s no way he would?

  “Janelle, are you using a company phone?” I ask the question anyway, despite how fucking sure I am that I’m hanging on to the wrong branch here.

  She blinks several times and hands me her smartphone. “Yeah. I’ve basically abandoned my other phone.”

  Her voice fades as she watches me fiddle through apps and settings. It doesn’t take long to find the cloning app that was secretly installed. It logs every text and call made to and from this number. Suddenly, Malone seems more like a psychopath than ever before. A scheming, controlling prick whom I definitely think is capable of murder.

  “Elias…”

  “He’s been spying on you,” I say bluntly. “The app was hidden in a settings folder, almost impossible to find unless you knew what you were looking for. Which you obviously didn’t.”

  I do feel a sliver of peace right now, understanding that it’s not Janelle’s fault. At least Kira still has a true friend in this world. I ran off and left her with that bastard. I should’ve stood my ground. Guilt threatens to suffocate me, as I try to find my next few steps.

  “Isn’t that illegal?!” Janelle asks, growing increasingly agitated. “Jesus…”

  “It is, yes. Mind if I keep this?” I reply.

  She nods vehemently, and I give her a faded smile.

  “I’m sorry I doubted you, Janelle. You’re a good person. And so was your dad…”

  “Thank you,” she murmurs. I turn to leave, but she stops me. “Elias. Can you do something for me, please?”

  “Considering what just happened here… yeah, go ahead.”

  “You know about Kira’s problem, right? The Oxy…” She waits for me to reply, but all I can do is nod. “Her father has a way of tearing down her defenses. I’m worried about her, especially after what you told me about this morning. You should go check on her.”

  “She’s not answering her phone, and that Doberman of a father of hers is likely around.”

  “When did that ever stop you?” She raises an eyebrow at me, and I’m humbled.

  Janelle gives me too much credit, but I have to rise to her standards. I owe Kira this much. Heading back to my car, I wave her goodbye. “You’re right, Janelle.”

  It’s time I
act like the man I promised Kira I would be. She needs me, now more than ever. I’m worse than Malone if I let her go through this alone.

  28

  Elias

  I’ve already got William Malone on cell phone fraud. It’s a shoddy case, but it’s enough to put some fear in him. It’s enough for me to stand up to him.

  Pulling up into the driveway, I take a moment to carefully analyze the windows to Kira’s house. The sky above is pitch black. Clouds are gathering. A storm is coming. Leaving Janelle’s phone in the glove compartment, I get out of my car and walk toward the main door. All the lights are off, except for a dim candle somewhere on the upper floor.

  The porch lights come on automatically as soon as I reach the top of the stairs.

  It’s almost two in the morning, but I can’t wait any longer. I’ve waited enough. If I don’t confront William now, I doubt I ever will. Dammit, I should’ve held my ground… I shouldn’t have let him chase me away like a delinquent.

  William has caused enough pain around him, already. And I don’t know why the fuck the need is so strong to save his daughter from him, to offer her something better than the hatred her father feeds her, but I feel like I need to. Maybe it’s just my own guilt, knowing that for a very long time, I added to her pain.

  I ring the doorbell. Once. Twice. No answer. I ring it again. Then I bang on the door.

  “Come out, you coward!” I shout. I keep my finger pressed on the doorbell button until the interior lights come on. I pull back and listen to the shuffling, rushed steps.

  The door swings open. It’s Margaret, Kira’s nanny and the Malones’ maid. “What in the world is the matter here?!” she asks, understandably outraged.

  But I can’t let my anger and determination dissipate. I need both for William.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I really am. But I need to speak with William.” I tell her.