Fatal Beauty - Nazarea Andrews Page 0,1

don’t fucking hover,” Charlie snaps.

Anger flares in EJ’s eyes, for a moment, and then it vanishes, and she stands. “Fine. Have fun with your boy.”

Her tone is mocking and knowing and it stings a little as she watches EJ leave.

For a moment, it occurs to her that she should apologize. She dismisses it just as quickly and grabs the stack of cash, standing and moving to the wall where her safe is.

It’s crammed with money and a small black revolver. As she adds the new stack to the others, she touches the gun.

It’s soothing, and her unease and nerves settle at the touch of the cool metal.

It’s a standard black Glock. Most of her girlfriends carry a tiny pink pistols they can tuck in their Coach bags with equally ridiculous sized dogs. But Travis Brooks always said that if she wanted to be man enough to carry a gun, she’d damn well carry a man’s gun.

“Charlotte? We have a meeting with the partners.”

She snaps the safe shut, keying the lock and spins to smile at her fiancée.

Wallace Bryce Talbert the Third. Tre to his friends and enemies alike. A golden boy in her father’s law firm, and the man she had promised to spend her entire life with.

He’s grinning at her, holding a hand out and she swallows her nerves and fear as she places her hand in his and follows him out of the office.

*

EJ pads out of her bedroom, her naked body wrapped in moonlight. A bottle of spumante sits discarded in a silver wine chiller, and she grabs it as she moves to her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She smokes almost pensively, staring out the window. Behind her, she can hear him moving but she keeps her gaze trained on the window as smoke curls around her, dissipating slowly.

“You should come back to bed,” he says, and she can hear the tease in his tone. She barely manages to keep from rolling her eyes as she wraps her lips around the cigarette again, pulling one last time before dropping it into a forgotten champagne flute.

“You should go. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

Surprise and anger chase across his face, and she waits to see if he’ll follow through.

Clayton Poole was the heir of an ancient oil tycoon, and would be much more interesting if he would lose his temper every once in a while.

He was a fun fuck, always took care to get her off, and he opened social doors even she couldn’t walk though. But he was boring as shit when they weren’t naked.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, lamely, and she flicks a look at him as she pours a glass of spumante.

“Don’t. I’ll call you soon.” She gives him a smile and kisses his cheek before returning to her bedroom.

She lets out a sigh when the door shuts behind him, and settles on her bed. It smells of sex still, but she’s too drunk and lazy just now to strip the sheets.

Besides, she likes the smell of sex, even if Clayton isn’t her favorite fuck buddy.

There is a joint in her bedside table and she fishes it out and lights it, pulling on it deeply as she thumbs through her social media.

The entire newsfeed is abuzz with the engagement party of the year, and she grits her teeth. She should have been there. Clayton had been invited—Charlie will be pissed he didn’t show, a thought that strings a smirk across her lips—and she could have crashed it. Nothing to be done once she was there.

Once upon a time, it would have been amusing just to get a rise from Charlie.

When the fuck had that changed? When she realized that Charlie was just as unhappy in their fucking perfect life as she was?

Or was it when Charlie blackmailed EJ into sharing her distribution, earning her respect as more than another empty headed social climber.

She huffs, and takes another pull on the joint. The smell of weed fills the bedroom, covering the scent of sex. Her muscles are loose and relaxed against the bed and she lets her phone drop beside her, drifting on her high, drunk and post-orgasmic relaxation combining to pull her down into sleep.

The room is pitch black, her body hot and sweating against the rough duvet when she wakes. Her mouth is dry and for a disorienting moment, she wonders where the hell she is, and what happened.

Her phone buzzes against her thigh again, and she fumbles for