Angry God Page 22

  He also loved to paint sad faces. I always thought there was something sadistic about his art. I was surprised Mom couldn’t see it.

  “Fine,” he clipped impatiently, standing and hurrying toward me before I tarnished the rest of his precious baby. His art. His painting. I made a V sign with my fingers, digging them into the girl’s eyes. The canvas was rich and thick, the paint over it dry and resistant, but I managed to pierce the holes deeper, slashing her face with two strokes of my fingers. The painting was officially ruined now.

  “Clumsy me.” I turned around, flashing him a smile. “You were saying? Just fine? Sounds a bit lackluster.”

  “Actually…” He cleared his throat, lacing his fingers behind his back, trying to salvage some kind of pride as he stood in front of me. “It’s been a very good year. My paintings have just been purchased by a private curator—nearly all of them, across the world. My guess is they’re going to open an exhibition, perhaps even a museum.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” I said smoothly.

  He frowned, but said nothing.

  “See, I’m the investor, and I already found a fitting purpose for your paintings,” I said, taking my phone out of my back pocket and sliding my thumb across the screen. “It took a bit of effort. I even had to break into my trust fund, but I got my hands on them. All one hundred ninety-three paintings. Wanna guess what I’m going to do with them?” I looked up, my voice cheerful, my stance confident.

  His Adam’s apple dipped with a swallow, and his face drained of color.

  “Don’t be shy now, Fairhurst. That’s not who you are.” I shoved my phone in his face, showing him exactly what I’d been up to in the days following my breaking and entering his house. All the paintings had been shipped express to Knight’s address, which had cost me dozens of thousands of dollars. After that, my best friend was all too happy to make a bonfire on a local beach and feed the flames with rich canvas and elaborate paint. They’d all melted spectacularly into the sand, the ocean washing away whatever was left in them.

  Fairhurst grabbed my phone and scoffed, watching the video of teenagers running through the fire, laughing and pouring gasoline onto the flames. After a few seconds, he tossed it back to me.

  “You’re dead! You are fucking dead. I’m going to kill you!”

  I tucked my phone back into my pocket, yawning as he paced the room, back and forth. His entire career, up in flames.

  He stopped abruptly in the middle of the room. “You ruined all of them, but not the one you want gone more than anything else—the one hanging in front of your childhood room.” His voice was laced with venom.

  I laughed, ignoring the dull pain in my chest. “Working on it.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t?” I rubbed at my chin. “Or shouldn’t? Those are two very different things. I could kill you right now and you wouldn’t even stop me. Because if I spill the shit I know about you out in the open, you’ll be as good as dead, anyway. Jailed, stripped of your money and prestige, living in solitary confinement so your fellow prison mates don’t kill you.”

  “I’ll deny everything you say. Every single word. I will start from scratch. I can—I can paint new paintings!” he screamed in my face. “I’ll work twice as hard.”

  I frowned. “That’ll be a bit difficult.”

  “Why’s that?” He took the bait again.

  I grabbed his left hand, his darling, moneymaking hand—funny how we were all left-handed in this business—insured for two million bucks, and found his pressure point, squeezing hard. He shrieked in pain, tears running down his cheeks. I raised his hand to my chest, shoving my hand forward until I heard the crack of his thumb breaking. Satisfaction shot through me. Revenge.

  Our eyes met, and his were so shocked and horrified, I wondered what he’d feel like when I had my knife at his throat. Expressionless, I made a ninety degree angle with his wrist, moving it to the other side of my chest. With my forearm on his elbow, I applied pressure until I heard his arm snap. He screamed to the fucking roof before I shoved him against the wall and let him drop to the ground. Whimpering, he stared at his twisted thumb and the bone poking out at his elbow. I darted to his desk, grabbed my untouched cup of coffee, and poured it onto the floor beside his sagging body.

  “Oops,” I said dryly. “Better be more careful. You could slip and break your other arm, too. Worse still, you could have a fatal accident. Now that’d be a shame.”

  His eyes were blurry with tears, his body shaking and arching with pain. When your entire existence is hanging by a thread, by the revenge you seek, you sometimes ask yourself if it’s worth it, if you’ll ever get the satisfaction you’re after.

  The answer is yes.

  I was hard as marble and ready to remind Lenora she was not in the business of depriving me. I turned around, leaving Harry high, dry, and ruined for the next year or so, artistically speaking.

  “Tell anyone what happened, and rot in jail for the rest of your life,” I reminded him as I slammed the door behind me. The wail he let out soaked the walls of the castle, and all I could think was, Once upon a time, I cried just as hard, and I didn’t even shed a fucking tear.

  I spent the rest of the day working, ignoring the sound of the ambulance upstairs as Harry was rushed to the hospital. When the clock hit seven p.m., I went back to my room, took a shower, and headed straight to Good Girl, skipping dinner. I felt on edge. Each day we hadn’t spoken had left a gap. If all it took to pacify her ass was telling her happy birthday, I guessed I was willing to bite the bullet.

  I mean, I knew her birthday had been shitty, so this was plain courtesy at this point.

  The thought that Lenora might have plans with Pope occurred to me, but did not deter me. Pope was an ongoing issue, but I could handle him.

  I was at Len’s door when my phone started ringing for the thousandth time today.

  Dad.

  What was his problem? I’d spoken to my mom three times since breaking into Harry’s house, expecting her to mention that Dad wanted to talk to me, but she never did. One time she’d tried to give him the phone, and he’d said he’d call me later.

  The fact that he’d kept something from his wife (Dad never kept anything from Mom) made me uneasy, and that meant the conversation we were going to have wasn’t one I was eager to participate in.

  I hadn’t been planning to ghost him tonight, but fuck, I wasn’t going to turn around and take the call. I needed to devour Good Girl to make my Bad Life a little less miserable.

  I knocked, knowing full damn well I wasn’t in any position to barge in anymore. She wasn’t the same girl from six years ago. Although, privately, I had to admit, both versions of her turned me on.

  Sweet and innocent.

  Feisty and psychotic.

  A combination that made me want to dick her more than I wanted to keep said dick away from anything remotely intimate.

  “Come in,” her sweet voice called.

  I’d started pushing the door open when it occurred to me that the invitation was likely for Pope, who had been visiting her on the reg, and not for me.

  What if she’s naked?

  She fucking better not be. I’d slap her ass silly after I fucked her.

  But I was experiencing something strange and uncultured called restraint. I didn’t want her to throw my ass out of her room like leftover Chinese takeout again.

  “It’s Vaughn,” I said as wryly as possible, waiting for her to shoo me away.

  A few seconds passed before she answered.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” she responded blandly.

  What was I fucking waiting for? Goddamn.

  I pushed the door open, hoping to find her working or reading or converting to a religion where she could only have sex with people named Vaughn Spencer. Instead, she was perched against her drafting table, wearing something I’d never seen on her before: a silky black nightgown tied together with a powder-pink ribbon at the tits, a slit
revealing her milky side-ass.

  Standing like that, she looked like Aphrodite, rising from the sea, fully formed and made to godly perfection. Confident. Gorgeous. Pleasurable and lustful.

  And knowing that wasn’t the case—that she had an insecure, irrational side to her—made her even more desirable and raw.

  “Shit,” the word was breathed in awe.

  I frowned, waiting for her to complete the sentence, then realized I was the pathetic motherfucker who’d uttered it.

  She crossed her legs at the ankle, looking at me funny.

  “You may pick up your jaw at any time, Spencer.”

  I blinked, resisting the urge to say something offensive and disgusting. It was an instinct, but that wasn’t the way to her pussy, which was my final destination tonight. So what if she called me out for wanting to screw her?

  A thought occurred to me—an alarming one, at that. Namely, having full-blown sex with her. And maybe even enjoying it. She was the kind of girl who would never throw it in my face if something went horribly wrong—like if I put my junk in an unauthorized trunk accidentally. Not to mention, she was a virgin, too.

  Maybe.

  Hopefully.

  Fuck.

  “Vaughn?” She tilted her head, waiting for signs of life from planet My Goddamn Brain.

  I clapped my chin up with one hand, pretending to put my jaw back in place. “Happy?”

  “Very.” She pushed off the table, walking toward me.

  I stood there, waiting for the catch. She’d told me not to come here again, and I knew better than to think she’d changed her mind. Lenora was a lot of things. Flaky wasn’t one of them.

  “Close the door after you,” she whispered into my face when we were toe-to-toe. “Then get in my bed.”

  And the stupid, horny, teenage asshole that I was, I did.

  “I said if you pushed me, I’d push harder.” I clucked my tongue, striding to Vaughn in my sexy lingerie. “Actually, I said it many months ago, when we were still seniors. Remember?”

  Because I do.

  Vaughn sat on my bed. The metal headboard behind him was round, thin, and perfect for my plan. I produced the handcuffs Pope had given me from my nightstand drawer—I hadn’t dared ask where he’d gotten them—and straddled Vaughn’s narrow waist, feeling his abs contracting under his shirt as he sucked in a breath.

  His throat bobbed, but his lips stayed pursed and sullen. He had this upper-class quality about him no new-moneyed man could buy—a rich boy’s pout that stirred something between your legs.

  Mine, anyway.

  He watched me through hooded, predatory eyes, probably thinking my plan was to kneel like the rest of them and service him chained to my headboard, unable to push my hair out of my face. He was predictable, and entirely too used to getting what he wanted.

  But the things we want aren’t always the things we need. Vaughn needed a reminder that he didn’t rule the world—a nice, generous dose of reality check. Most of all, he needed to learn a thing or two about intimacy.

  “Finally wrapping those lips around my cock?” he taunted, his voice thick with lust, strained.

  We still hadn’t broached the subject of our last conversation, in which I’d told him to take a hike. He seemed to have forgotten all about it. That was unlike observant, sharp-witted Vaughn. Not even asking what I was doing in a sexy nightgown? Why I wanted to chain him to my bed? Why the change of heart?

  Your heart has nothing to do with this, I scolded myself. You’re just teaching him a lesson.

  My sculpture—partly salvaged, but mostly ruined, with just the face remaining perfectly intact—was covered by a simple beige cloth in the corner of my room. Funny, I felt just as torn as it was.

  I shrugged at Vaughn’s question. “Only one way to find out, right?”

  I took his hand in mine. His arm was heavy with muscle, but lax, ready to cooperate, and a thrill shot through my lower belly, exploding in my heart.

  Locking his first wrist against the headboard, I leaned down to him, my breasts pressed against his mouth through my nightgown. I worked his other wrist, my body humming with sweet ache. Vaughn didn’t try to touch me. He seemed enchanted, following my every move through heavy-lidded eyes.

  You poor sod.

  “Don’t worry, Good Girl. I’ll give you pointers. It’s not that hard to give head.”

  “Suppose it’s going to be a lesson for both of us,” I said cheerfully, standing up and turning my back to him.

  I waltzed toward my door, my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my throat. The atmosphere in the room changed and thickened with danger and anticipation.

  I doubt you’ll call me Good Girl after tonight, Spencer.

  “Where are you going? Get your ass back here.”

  His tone held a threatening edge. But there was nothing he could do to me from his position, chained to my metal headboard. That was the beauty of the entire situation—his complete lack of power.

  I flung the door open, stepping aside. Pope walked in—perfect timing—still wearing his gray, stained slacks and a dirty white shirt. He smelled of paint fumes, varnish, and labor.

  “Spencer, mate. Fancy seeing you in a compromising position.” He wiped his face clean of sweat.

  I looked back, watching Vaughn twist on my mattress, his arms locked above his head. He tugged, moving the bed an inch. Even though he didn’t wince, I knew the handcuffs must have cut into his wrists.

  “Go eat cow shit, Pope.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll settle for Lenny. She seems much more edible. Not to mention sanitary.” He snapped his fingers, pointing his index at Vaughn with an easy wink.

  Vaughn’s eyes expanded, zinging with rage. It was the first time he’d looked genuinely disturbed. Stifling a giggle, I walked over to my drafting table, perching my bum at its edge and curling my fingers around its sides. Pope advanced toward me, peeling his dirty shirt off and throwing it onto the floor mid-stride.

  “What the fuck is this?” Vaughn seethed from his spot on my bed, tugging at the handcuffs again.

  It was the same bed he’d approached when I was weak and young and scared. The tables had turned, just like I’d promised they would.

  And whaddya know? Spencer didn’t like the view from that angle.

  Pope stopped about a foot from me, waiting for further instructions, his muscled back to Vaughn. We’d talked about this before my birthday. This was what I wanted. My present. Payback. I wanted Vaughn’s heart to bleed the way mine had that final day of school.

  I wanted him to feel like someone had clawed his soul out and dumped it onto the floor, left for the throng to step on with each laugh, taunt, and hoot.

  I turned my face to my enemy, businesslike.

  “Told you there would be consequences. You let Arabella give you head in front of everyone the last day of school. You flew to Indiana for your neighbor’s proposal, taking her with you, knowing word would spread and get to me, that I would know you took my bully, my tormentor, with you. Then you brought her here. And now she is having an affair with my father—my only family, aside from Poppy and Harry. That really did it, Vaughn. You play with fire, you get burned.”

  God or not.

  I wanted to awaken something in him, something human and feral and shameful. Need. Carnal lust.

  He was a virgin, even if he wouldn’t explicitly admit it. And I didn’t know why, but sex disgusted him. Intimacy frightened him. Yet for some insane, screwed-up reason, I wanted him to be my first. I knew Vaughn was incapable of falling in love, but I wanted to steal pieces of him. His time. His talent. His words. His smiles. And yes, his virginity, too. I was a thief of everything Vaughn Spencer.

  He was stunningly untouchable. A demi-god. Unreal.

  “You were weak,” Vaughn sneered, his voice dry and calm, his biceps bulging beside his head, highlighting his proud posture, even in this position. “I made you strong. I made you resilient. I made you one of us. Now you take no one’s bullsh
it—not even mine. All in the span of one year. By the time I was done, you no longer needed the black hair and Goth bullshit. Everyone feared and respected you. I took away from my power and gave it to you, because every time you disrespected me, challenged me, it weakened me. I worked hard so you’d stand up for yourself. I saved you, Astalis, and not for the first time.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  What did he mean? When else had he saved me?

  I knew he actually believed his backward logic, that every time he was cruel or offhand with me, he excused it by thinking he was toughening me up.

  I smiled. “Well, Master, I think you did too good a job. Turns out I, too, am partial to public sex displays.”

  “We weren’t together then,” he snapped before I’d managed to pronounce the last vowel.

  He was right. We weren’t. But I’d still felt like he belonged to me no less than he’d claimed I belonged to him.

  “We aren’t together now,” I retorted.

  He laughed, like this was all a big joke. “Get real.”

  “Now’s not the time to get real. Now’s the time to get even.”

  With that, I grabbed Pope’s face and brought it to mine. Our breaths mingled, sweet and warm. His arm circled my waist, his fingers fanning in mock possessiveness over my lower back. His other arm snaked between us, cupping my face.

  “No,” Vaughn growled from the bed, his pitch feral.

  Pope put his lips to mine, kissing me softly, slipping his tongue into my mouth at an angle Vaughn could see.

  Truly, the hottest thing about our kiss was knowing he was watching—not that Pope wasn’t a good kisser, but I barely felt his presence in the room. Revenge was sweet and pungent, and it made me throb between my legs.

  I’d nearly died watching Arabella service Vaughn. But I couldn’t deny, a part of it had turned me on, too.