The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

“I can’t believe they didn’t ID you, bitch. Sam’s gonna shit so many bricks, he’ll be able to build a replica of the Empire State Building!” Emmabelle—Belle for short—hi-fived me, whisper-shouting as we shouldered past hipsters, brushing along psychedelic art deco wallpaper and neon faux taxidermy.

Belle was my only partner in crime when it came to going out on the town, seeing as both our other friends—Sailor, and Emmabelle’s baby sister, Persephone—were new mothers, and therefore more interested in catching power naps and exchanging breastfeeding tips than downing drinks at a bar.

Belle was also the owner of Madame Mayhem, a notoriously sordid club downtown, and always enjoyed sniffing around the competition, so convincing her to come here today was no issue.

Badlands was darker and smaller than I’d imagined it. Dripping decadence. We reached the end of the stairway. I noticed that the club was no more than a few velvet couches, a small dance floor and a long bar made out of black wood. Above the bar, small, vintage televisions were lined up, all of them playing the same black-and-white movie: Dr. Strangelove.

“Fool’s Gold” by The Stone Roses played in the background, shaking the floor beneath my knee-high leather heels.

Partygoers in costumes sniffed cocaine off the bar, and there was a couple at the far corner of the club having full-blown sex on the couch. The girl, dressed as the Queen of Hearts, bounced up and down on the guy while sitting on his lap, her dress covering their dirty deed.

This club was Sam personified. Dark and wretched yet oddly beautiful.

I smoothed a hand over my outfit. It was Halloween. A great excuse to cover my true identity. I went for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and put on a short, blonde wig, complete with sunglasses, scarlet-red lipstick, and blue miniskirt, and cropped white top.

Belle had covered her blonde hair with a raven wig, a-la Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. She blew on an e-cigarette theatrically, looking around for her next victim. “Anyway, Sam’s an asshole for blacklisting you in the first place.”

“Sam’s an asshole for many reasons, none of them have anything to do with blacklisting me, but banning me from his club for no apparent reason just shows how much of a tyrant he is,” I murmured.

I didn’t speak ill of Sam often—or anyone else, for that matter—but when I did, it was to Belle, because I knew she wouldn’t judge me.

“Do you think he did it because you are Hunter and Kill’s sister?” Belle asked.

“No, I think he did it because I remind him of all the things he wants to forget,” I said honestly but didn’t elaborate.

The carnival.

That kiss.

Our conversation.

Sam never thought he’d see me again. I wasn’t in his plans, and whatever wasn’t in his plans had to go. That was why he treated me as he had—with indifference dipped in cruelty. Looking past me whenever we were in the same room. Never acknowledging anything I said or did.

Both Belle and I perched on high stools at the bar. I motioned for the bartender to get us two gin and tonics, doing my absolute best not to slump and/or cry into someone else’s drink.

At twenty-seven, I’d only been to bars a handful of times. I’d been too busy with med school until a second ago to really dive into the club scene, and now I had a residency. Or so people thought. But tonight, I wanted to do something reckless, dangerous, and stupid. To remind myself I was alive.

Tonight, I wanted to seek Sam Brennan out, even though I knew I shouldn’t.

Because tonight, like that other night, I watched someone die.

And whenever death was close, so was my need to curl into the soul of a monster and hide from the world.

To make matters complicated, I saw Sam all the time.

At dinners, charity events, and parties.

He had been working for my family for almost a decade now.

Somehow, I’d let the worst happen. I continued loving him from afar, like the sun loved the moon. Coexisting, but distantly. Eternally star-crossed, but never close enough for comfort.

We’d spoken very little to each other since that evening, even though our families had grown close to one another through Hunter and Sailor. Seeing him was always a bittersweet cocktail of elation and pain.

I’d learned to get high on both feelings.

“Forget about Sam tonight.” Belle sucked on her straw, inhaling the gin and tonic like getting trashed was an Olympic competition. Under her costume, she was the closest thing to Margot Robbie I’d seen up-close. Feline blue eyes, sunshine blonde hair, delicately arched brows, and a sinfully full bottom lip.

“You haven’t gone out once since you started your residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. That was over six months ago. Find yourself a hookup. Have fun. You earned it, Doc.”

“I don’t do hookups,” I pointed out, crushing the lime with my straw in my drink like it wronged me somehow.