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Double Down
Jay Leigh Brown
Chapter One
Arryn
I nurse my drink while staring at the woman whose sun kissed skin and expertly bleached blond hair reminds me so much of my brother. Odd how she looks more like his sibling than I do. If they were married today, with a passel of Adonic crotch goblins sporting the same beach-born looks and living the perfect life Stark had planned, I have no doubt they’d be a viral social media sensation.
But she didn’t marry my brother. Here she is, seven marriages and six different countries later, living her life. She’s never even been investigated; not by a single law enforcement agency. I allow a fraction of a smile to touch my lips as she stares at a silver-haired gentleman. One hundred percent of her attention is focused on him. His outfit and watch are understated, but his posture and the two hundred dollars a glass scotch he’s drinking signify that he’s been smart enough to steward his earnings into multigenerational wealth.
Will this be the man to stop her? Or will he fall prey to her charm, permitting her to ensnare him in her wickedly sexy web of deception? Will he allow her to inject her poison into his heart and his home? No one gets into this club without scads of their own money, not even the women brought in to entertain. It’s a brilliant setup. A fail-safe in case one of their clientele loses all reason and decides they’re in love with someone they’ve met. Should a pregnancy—in most cases, an impromptu wedding without a prenup—occur, there is less liability for the club knowing all patrons have a minimum net worth.
I sip my considerably-less-than-two-hundred-dollar beverage right out in the open, knowing Vivienne won’t recognize me. I’m nothing like the chubby, soft, painfully shy boy I was when she knew me. Just like I’m no longer anything like my brother. My life has been driven by one all-consuming goal: to gut the cunt who killed my brother, so slowly that she can no longer register the passage of time. To destroy her in every way possible, so that even if she were to seek the solace of death, she would have no means to obtain that sweet, eternal relief.
I’ve already set everything up. By this time next week, Vivienne Wallace will be destitute, physically unrecognizable, and locked away from the world. Every choice will be taken away from her, right down to what puréed foods get poured down her ruined throat. The bitch won’t even be able to hold a glass. She won’t be able to speak, to itch her ass, to choose what position her mangled body lies in.
She won’t realize, until too late, that the most important parts of her life have been ripped from her clawed grasp. But I’ll be there to see her face when she does. That moment won’t bring back my brother, but it will grant me the infinitesimally tiny measure of peace I’ll need to live the rest of my life for myself. Twenty-four years ago, my brother’s murder was ruled a suicide. He’d recently lost his job, and his girlfriend. The woman he professed to be the love of his life was moving to Australia to pursue a marine biology degree. She swore she’d stay faithful to him, but she didn’t want him to go with her. Stark took it hard, but understood, with a maturity far beyond his years, that interfering with her dreams wouldn’t benefit either of them.
She said she’d be out on the boats. She insisted it would be best for him to stay home and finish his kinesiology degree. She rambled on about how the distance and romantic, old-fashioned letters would only make them stronger as a couple.
I hated Vivienne Wallace. She was an entitled, uppity rich girl who couldn’t boil water if Gordon Ramsey himself filled the pot and turned on the stove for her. She was a haughty, snotty, bitch on wheels, but she wasn’t dumb. She was a stellar student, and when it came to Stark, my twin, she displayed a softness with him that not many were privy to.
As long as she was good to him, I could deal with the level of rank bitch she reserved for the rest of the world. I wasn’t in any place to judge. I’m not exactly the extroverted, people-loving friendly type either.
When Stark wasn’t in his bed one Sunday morning, I didn’t think anything of it. He’d been to a concert the night before with our friends. I hadn’t bothered buying a ticket. I had better things to do on Sunday mornings than nurse a hangover. Just because Stark and I are twins doesn’t mean we enjoyed all the same things. Stark was, by far, the more personable of the two of us, and he loved late nights with our friends. He loved playing sports. He was handsome, and witty, and could charm the habit off a nun. He wasn’t anything like me. Stark was a golden god. Our mother may have been a rabid Game of Thrones fan, as evidenced by our names, but I should have been named Golem. I preferred spending my time in front of a screen, alone, working on projects by myself. Sure, I went out with my brother and indulged occasionally, but I didn’t need to be the center of a crowd the way he did.
And I sure as fuck didn’t need the deadweight of a relationship tied around my neck when I was working to get out of the trailer park we lived in. Especially not one as heavy as Stark’s.
I had no idea how he planned on keeping a girl like Vivienne living in the same style she was raised in, but that wasn’t my problem. It was his. And if he thought his summer job on a highway construction crew was the ticket, well, more power to him.
Stark was generally a happy guy. He worked, played, and loved hard. He was planning on a ticket out via sports scholarship, and he got one. Who was I to judge his plans? He may have grinned like a lazy fuck, but he didn’t live that way. He managed to accomplish all his goals seemingly without effort. And I was happy for him. Truly. I loved my brother. He was my best friend. The only person who well and truly knew me.
He had been content to wait for her. If he thought Vivienne was the one, who was I to say otherwise?
Chapter Two
Cleo
“Webber! Get your lazy ass in here and help me,” I shout, growling as I yank a loose hank of golden hair behind my ear. The humidity here is outrageous. You’d think being so close to the ocean would mean cool wind and fresh, salted air, but no. Less than one hour out of the shower in this quaint, provincial villa that looked so fucking cool online and I’m melting like a cheap sherbet in a sweaty toddler’s sticky grip.
Fuck I hate this place. I hate my life.
I hate my ‘mother’ and her insatiable lust for conquest. I loathe how she refuses to accept any other version of us that isn’t in her image. I despise how successful she is, how perfect her forty-four-year-old body is, how whip-crack sharp her mind is, and how instinctively she can read an entire room full of people.
Webber is just like her. He’s beautiful, and smart, and just knows what makes people tick. The difference is, no matter how hard she’s tried, she cannot warp him. He’s inherently sweet and loving and good.
I don’t lie to myself. I’m almost as bad as she is. I think about killing her every single day. Fantasizing about the most twisted, vile ways I could end her and the stranglehold she has on the two of us is my favorite kind of daydream. Webber appears in the arched opening at the other end of the hall, hanging diagonally from the wide trim, a crooked smile on his face as he takes me in. “Damn, Cleo.” He sucks in a ragged breath and straightens as he bites his lower lip, his eyes darkening with a hunger so honest it steals my breath. He stalks down the hallway, his gaze fixated on me.
I hold my breath as he prowls. He doesn’t stop until he’s deep into my personal space, forcing me to look up as he slants his face over mine. “You look so good my mouth is watering.” He steps into me, forcing me back through the door of my bedroom.
I place a hand on his chest. “Stop it. I’m ready to go out. You know she’ll make it hurt if I don’t do what she’s demanded.”
A cloud of hurt blooms in his eyes before he shutters them. “I know,” he murmurs. My lips part in surprise when he doesn’t come to her defense. Webber believes Mother can change. He insists the world has made her who she is, and with the right stimulus, she’ll become the person he knows she can be once her wounds have healed.
I try not to talk about her with him. I don’t want to damage the part of him that believes every person can be good. Using harsh words to steal the maternal love he’s fabricated to protect himself won’t save either of us from her. “Earth to Cleo,” he says, grasping my chin and lifting, forcing me to refocus on his face. A small sigh leaves my lips. He’s so beautiful. A square jaw, with golden stubble that glints like precious metal around his plush mouth; a strong, straight nose, and perfectly set sea-green eyes that put the water off the coast of Curacao to shame; tousled locks with the hint of a wave cap; and a body that would put the subjects of the renaissance masters to shame.
My heart picks up speed as his warm, minty breath ghosts over my skin. “Give me your burden. Let me touch you. Let me coat your skin with our love, so that no other will truly touch you.”
