Broken Beast

I went to all this effort, Adam. You can leave your office for thirty minutes. A gentleman sits at the table. He doesn't eat at his desk.

What would your father say?

Most days, I curse her for playing that card. Today, I wonder.

My father was a merciless man. He would have done anything to protect us.

But vengeance never entered the equation.

Would he approve of my plan?

Would he insist I take it further, kill the asshole myself?

Or would he beg me to let go, move on, get out of the fucking house the way my brothers do?

I don't know anymore. It's been too long. His memory is too faded.

The buzz of my cell pulls me from my thoughts.

I know it's Danielle before I check the message.

Still, I move down the stairs, through the massive ballroom, to the quiet backyard.

Whipping wind, crashing waves, bleak white sky.

In winter, the beach is freezing.

Cold, brutal, totally unwelcome. Just like you, Adam.

You should start writing poetry.

I'm so moody.

Also broody.

This poem's shoddy.

I need more coffee.

That's a slant rhyme.

It's more artistic that way.

The memory of my brother's laugh warms my heart.

Then I see the accident and my body goes cold.

This is supposed to be simple.

I marry her. I show her off until Fitzgerald is consumed with jealousy.

I savor his pain.

I don't fall for her. I don't fuck her. I don't worry I'm going to hurt her.

Danielle: I have a few terms.

Warmth spreads through my chest. My stomach flutters. My limbs buzz.

The cold disappears.

Replaced by a strange mix of affection and desire.

Wanting to fuck her is one thing. But liking her?

That's a complication I can't afford.

Adam: Name them.

Danielle: My brother gets a scholarship, one he'll believe he earned.

Her brother is a programmer. A game designer. He shows promise, but it's a competitive field. Not a lot of room for scholarships. Even with his background.

Adam: I'll ask a friend to offer him a scholarship. A competitor.

Danielle: Now?

In two minutes, I arrange the details. And it's done.

Danielle's brother doesn't have to worry about his tuition.

Adam: Now.

Danielle: And the mortgage. I want that paid.

Adam: Done.

Danielle: It could be another million dollars.

Adam: Send me the information and it's done.

Danielle: Like that?

Adam: Like that.

Danielle: I haven't said yes yet.

Adam: You will.

Danielle: It's that easy?

Adam: Unless you have another term.

Danielle: We'll have to kiss in public.

My body buzzes. The promise of a kiss is nothing, but it overwhelms me.

I want her too badly.

Adam: Only in public.

Danielle: We'll have to practice.

Adam: We will?

Danielle: If we want to sell it. That's how you develop a skill. You practice.

Adam: Then we'll practice.

Danielle: Only kissing?

Adam: Only kissing.

Danielle: When do I sign?

Adam: Tomorrow. I'll send a car for you.

Danielle: Then?

Adam: Then you're mine.

Chapter Six

Danielle

Remy invites me to join him at his favorite Williamsburg bar, but I'm not in the mood to drink overpriced beer with hipsters.

My head is too full.

A million dollars to marry Adam Pierce.

To pose as his wife for a year.

To ease his brothers' doubts. And maybe other people's too.

I look for answers in old photos of the Pierce family. Adam wouldn't have his brother killed—he looks so happy in all these pictures with Sebastian—but there's something he isn't saying.

Adam appears in hundreds of images with his brothers. With all three but especially with Sebastian (Bash to his friends).

Business events.

Social occasions.

Vacations even.

They complement each other.

The matter-of-fact older brother. The trouble-making younger brother.

The two of them irresistible to every woman in a six-block radius.

I'm not sure who was more handsome.

Adam had the Disney Prince thing going before the accident. But Sebastian had this devil-may-care smile. His eyes were the same deep blue, but they were bright with joy.

Even when he was smiling—and he was, in a lot of these photos—Adam always looked serious.

After I finish dinner, clean up, and check on Remy, I do what I always do when I need to clear my head; I take pictures.

Since I have the apartment to myself, I take over the main room. Once I push the coffee table out of the way, hang a white sheet, and set up my lights, I have a perfect studio.

All white background and soft light.

Small, yes, but mine.

I close my eyes, let images fill my mind.

A woman at the window, looking back at the camera, like The Voyeur.

Only I don't see her slight curves or her light skin.

I see my wavy hair, my round hips, my dark eyes fixed on the space just past the camera.

On Adam.

He's not there to photograph.

He's there to watch.

And he's standing there, with that firm posture and intense focus, ordering me out of my clothes.

Ordering me against the wall.

Ordering me to fuck myself.

I set up the camera. Perfect the light.

The soft glow of morning, heaven, bliss.

Images fill my head.

Adam behind the camera.

His voice in my ears.

His hands on my thighs.

His lips on my neck.

Curves of flesh and cloth.

Dark and light.

Soft and hard.