Wicked Bad Boys Read online

  I realize he needs some kind of familiarity to get him to tell me why he called me over. Playing pool is like meditation for him. I set up the balls with the rack. I take my jacket off and roll up my sleeves. Now he knows I mean business.

  “Okay Dad. Game play it is. I call open break shot.”

  “Fine.”

  “Promise me one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No matter who wins, before this game is over, you’re telling me what you want from me. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Picking up my cue stick, I stand at the side of the table. Like any other game, I play to win. I lean down and poise myself for the shot. Today, I have an extra helping of fury in me. I take the shot and transfer some of that emotion through my arms. The break ball ends up hitting the rack balls so hard the other balls go flying everywhere. I end up with a scratch. My father laughs and takes the cue ball out of the pocket.

  “You call this a game? I think I’m going to have to kick your ass.” He looks at the cue ball as if it’s his new woman, kisses it, and sets it down on the opposite corner. “Maybe we should put money on this game, like old times. I feel like a winner already.”

  He takes his shot. It’s good. He stands up and walks around the table, studying which balls to tackle next.

  “Son, we’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, Dad. We have.”

  “Do you know what I’m most proud of?”

  “No, Dad. I don’t.”

  “The way you and I have stuck together.”

  He looks at me and doesn’t move until I nod. He goes in for another shot—he makes that one too.

  “The Sloan businesses have seen its share of competition and drama. Sometimes I’m surrounded by people I can’t trust in this business, but I can tell you one thing. You’re not one of them. I’ve never once questioned your loyalty to me.”

  “That’s because I’ve never once betrayed it, Dad. Not once.”

  “I know, Jonathan. I know.”

  He’s talking to me, and there’s more to the message. At the same time, the man is laser focused. He makes the next shot—he gets three more balls in.

  “It’s the people you give your trust to who can do you in, isn’t that right, son?”

  “You taught me that, Dad. That’s why I’ve never given you a reason to doubt me.”

  He comes around the table and stands beside me. He leans in, and on this shot, he misses. It’s an intentional miss.

  “See that missed shot, Jonathan?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, getting myself ready to play. “What about it?”

  “That missed shot is where we are right now. I’m not talking about the game anymore. I’m talking about life. I’ve been making great shots all my life, and in this last shot—the one where it counts to win—I missed it.”

  He picks up the missed ball and looks at it for a minute, as though he’s mystified. I turn and face him. I know the game is over from his diatribe. I figure he’s ready to tell me everything.

  “This is a metaphor, Jonathan, for much of what’s going on. Right now, this ball is the one that got away, like that girl. It’s also a symbol of the end of the road for me. I’ve quit, Jonathan. Those four girls were my last—honest.”

  He’s said that before, so I’m not buying it. He must sense my disbelief because he comes toe to toe with me, looks deep into my eyes, and pauses.

  “This ball is also freedom—yours and mine. The next play is yours. I’m leading, but my destiny is now in your hands. All I can do is to cheer you on from the sidelines. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure we’re both free when this is all said and done. What I’m trying to say is I need you to do what we’ve talked about for all those years. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jonathan?”

  In no uncertain terms, my father is asking me to take the fall for this murder if there’s any legal or criminal fallout, and if someone has to go down. I knew this day would eventually come, and now it’s here. The Sloans are nothing if we’re not true to our word to family. I made a promise to my dad years ago, and I sealed the deal when he called in the mother of all favors to get me off the trumped up second degree charge back at Harvard.

  When I look back at that night, trying to figure out what happened and why, I’m always left with a few unanswered questions. It started off with ten of us freshmen from the fraternity—armed with our fake IDs—heading out to a Thursday night pub crawl. Stephen Harrigan, the kid who ended up dead, was with us. We had hit six or seven bars by then, and the group had grown to about eighteen of us when we got to Pot o’ Gold Irish Tavern.

  We walked in like we owned the place, and decided this was where we’d stay the rest of the night. There were more college girls there than guys—and so many of these women were sexy as hell. We took over three tables and half of the main bar, claiming all the women nearby as well.

  Stephen and I were side to side at the bar, each of us hitting on a different girl. Well, we thought they were girls. That’s what caused all the shit that came next. Stephen was the first to realize the girl who he had been chatting up had an Adam’s apple, and he lost it.

  He grabbed the transsexual woman’s hair to drag her out of the bar, and the woman’s wig came off in his hand. He was mad as hell before, but after that, he was embarrassed. Everyone at the tavern started roaring with laughter at the situation, and Stephen’s ego was even more bruised. He went ape-shit. He put the woman in a headlock and dragged her outside.

  A group of us from the fraternity followed him out. Stephen proceeded to pound the crap out of this woman in the middle of the street, and that’s what set me off. By then, I’ve covered up for my dad so many times, anyone who messes with a woman makes me think the worst is going to happen.

  I can’t handle women being touched, or spoken to in the wrong way without going off the edge and stepping in to stop the guy. That’s my weakness. I laugh about the irony of this now. I’m now the complete opposite of my dad. He has created a champion for women without even realizing it.

  When Stephen threw her to the ground and kicked her in the stomach, I ran in to pull him off her. The alcohol and adrenaline gave me more strength than I felt I had, and the force of how I pulled Stephen off this transsexual woman ended up throwing him back onto the pavement. We all looked on like it was in slow motion, but it was too late to help him. His head made contact with the concrete sidewalk at the wrong angle, and Stephen went limp.

  Blood poured from the back of his head. Ten people got on their cell phones to call 9-1-1. Someone from inside the bar came out and began to perform mouth-to-mouth CPR on him without checking for vital signs. See, that person should have had to answer for what he did. Even I know you should only perform chest compressions on someone with head trauma—never mouth-to-mouth.

  The ambulance took way too long to arrive, and Stephen was pronounced dead when they get to the hospital. I was charged with second degree murder, and to this day, my questions are the same. Where did that transsexual woman go? She never came forward when my defense lawyer was looking for witnesses. We combed the campus and the area for months. We even offered one hundred thousand dollars as a reward for any information about that night. No one ever came forward.

  Why did the other ten witnesses—most of them from my fraternity—refuse to testify on my behalf? They all saw that what happened to Stephen was an accident, yet not one of them was willing to stand in my corner. A few of them pulled me aside during the investigation. They said they couldn’t get in the middle of a murder case, or that it was too damning for their future careers or their family’s reputation.

  The district attorney was gunning for me to go down. It had become political, and I was a symbolic lamb he wanted to send to slaughter. It was perfect. He happened to be pushing for stronger penalties for violent offenses. He could use me to send a message.

  I learned an important lesson from that tragic night. Not everyone who says
they’re your buddy has your back. In the end, it was only my dad, Mandy and Claire who were at my side. It’s family who stuck around, and it’s my dad who saved my hide. Now, it’s time to pay the piper.

  “Yes, Dad. I’ll do it. So what do I need to know before these lawyers arrive?”

  Spencer, Mandy’s longstanding butler, knocks on the door, and my dad calls for him to come in.

  “What would you like, Spencer?” Dad asks.

  “Miss Kara Henry and Miss Rebecca Clark are here to see you, sir.”

  “Send them in,” Dad answers. He puts the pool cue and balls back before looking over at me. “You remember Kara, right?”

  “How can I forget?”

  “Good. Follow my lead. Let me do the talking.”

  The lawyers walk in and my dad greets them. “Come in, ladies.”

  I shake my head slightly and smile after I turn to look at them. The young woman nods. I can tell she’s thinking the same thing I am. She spilled coffee on me this morning. I’m guessing I’ll get her number after all.

  Chapter 6 - Rebecca

  “Let me see if I get this straight,” Kara says after we sit to hear what the Sloans want. “Hypothetically, a woman may have been partying with two men. She ends up taking too much heroine on their property, after which she hypothetically slashes her own wrists and dies?”

  “Exactly,” my father says.

  “Does she hypothetically have a history of cutting herself or any other psychological instability?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “In theory, what does she use to slash her wrists?”

  “Possibly a knife from the men’s property.”

  “And whose fingerprints or DNA might the police find on that imaginary knife?”

  Dad looks over to me. “Probably no one. Maybe one of the men’s. Possibly the lady’s as well.”

  “Where’s the imaginary knife?”

  “It may have been cleaned with industrial cleaners and then got lost.”

  Kara shakes her head and laughs. She has to know this is not good.

  “About this woman—hypothetically speaking of course, Solomon—has she been at the men’s property long enough to pick up any of their body fluids anywhere on or inside her body?”

  “Well, yes. She’s hypothetically a call girl, and that’s why she may have been on the men’s property to begin with.”

  Kara looks at me and then back at the men. “Gentlemen, the completely fictional scenario you're describing could be considered an accident, depending on whether the men come forward, and all the evidence is intact. If the DA thinks there’s foul play, there could be a thorough investigation, which could lead to charges of involuntary manslaughter or second-degree murder. Also, if the DA wants to prove a point—that maybe you lured this fictional woman to your place with intention to kill her—then there’s the possibility of a first-degree murder charge.”

  “Who could the charges be against? Both men?”

  “If they’re not forthcoming, both men would be in a world of trouble, especially for the person who’s about to launch a new arm of their publicly traded company. You know how these things go, Solomon. The mere publicity of an investigation, laying of charges, or an arrest could derail your business activities.”

  “Shit,” the older Sloan shouts.

  “You didn’t let me finish, Sloan.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This worst case scenario is only possible if there’s evidence linking the men to the crime, and the victim to the crime scene. Like fingerprints, semen and other DNA.”

  “What would you advise these men to do if something like that happened?”

  “To turn themselves in before the evidence comes back to them.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then they should never engage law enforcement. It would be time for these men to distance themselves from the event, but mark my words here, Solomon. It’s not a road without consequences. The longer things take to come to a head, and in particular, given the people who that dead woman may be related to, the worse the situation can become. This can spiral out of control, and take down more than those two men, eventually. Also, don’t forget the web of lies.”

  Solomon Sloan stands up. “Kara, a word outside?”

  The two head out to the hallway, and suddenly I’m left to face Jonathan Sloan—the man from this morning. I should have taken his number then, but I got the sense he was assessing me somehow, with those piercing eyes. He stood too close to me, gave off a captivating energy, and drew me in with his charm when he offered to replace my tablet.

  Everything about him was infectious. That’s why I had to get out of there. Just from what I had seen this morning, I sensed a guy like him would leave someone like me needy and vulnerable, or turn me into someone obsessed. Right now, considering that warning Kara gave me, I see my gut feeling was right.

  My legs are restless from sitting in Kara’s limousine for too long. Jonathan is staring at me again. I stand up and walk over to the pool table. There are four oil paintings that line the wall behind it. They offer a great distraction, and an excellent reason to avoid his gaze.

  “Miss Clark—is it actually Miss?” he asks, getting up and standing beside me as I look on.

  “Yes, it’s Miss.”

  “Can I call you Rebecca?”

  “Yes, yes of course.”

  “Rebecca, then. Are you still too busy to let me replace that tablet?”

  “I’m beginning to see you’re not one to dance around an issue.”

  “It’s never been my style. Is that a yes?”

  “The law firm will take care of it. Thank you, Mr. Sloan.”

  “Please. Call me Jonathan. How about a drink this week? Or dinner perhaps?”

  “Thank you for the offer, Jonathan, but it’s not necessary.”

  He scoffs at me and returns to the armchair where he was sitting. I do exactly what Kara says. I do not make eye contact or engage him.

  “Haven’t you heard of innocent until proven guilty?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve already made up your mind about me, Rebecca.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “My father calls you to speak about an item, and for whatever reason, I’m already guilty in your eyes.”

  “That’s not true. I—”

  He turns away from me and looks at the wall near the office door. “You know what, Miss Clark? I don’t believe you would be best suited to have any involvement in whatever my father chooses to do with your firm.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Sloan?”

  “Admit it. You think I’m guilty.”

  “I—I do not. All your father has asked for is advice based on a scenario. How could I believe you’re guilty of a hypothetical situation?”

  “What other reason could you possibly have to turn me down for dinner or drinks, Miss Clark?”

  “For one,” I start, “I’m very busy at the law firm. I work long hours almost every night.”

  He rolls his eyes and I realize I’ve followed him to where he’s standing. Again, we’re inches away from each other. He’s a lot taller than me. I have to crane my neck to look up at him, even in these five-inch pumps. I stand my ground, waiting for his reply. His response surprises me.

  He gently places one hand on my shoulder. I do not move. My brain is telling my muscles to move away, but I’m frozen. I feel a heat rise to my face. He snakes the other arm around my waist. My stomach clenches from just his touch. He leans his head in and brings his lips close to my ear.

  He whispers, “I don’t bite, Rebecca,” and I think I’ve soaked my panties.

  He lets out a breath on my neck and desire engulfs me. I tilt my neck slightly and his lips are now caressing it. He trails a set of tender kisses down to my collarbone.

  “Mmmm,” I let out a moan that I swear is not from my own mouth. It wrenches me back to reality. I’m acutely aware that now, my hands are around his waist and
one leg is already sliding up and down his pant leg. I let go and back away from him, all the way back to the pool table. I’m hot and panting, and the man has barely touched me. He’s dangerous. He’s addictive.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight tonight,” he says.

  “Sorry, I—”

  Kara and Solomon return before I can answer. I couldn’t be any more relieved. Kara informs us that she has to get to other clients. We leave, and I let out a thankful breath when we’re back in the limousine, headed back to Manhattan. She looks at me intently. She’s studying my face, my clothes and all my body language.

  “Did I not tell you to keep your hands off that man, Rebecca?”

  I hesitate, and that’s all Kara needs, to know something happened.

  “What’s the matter with you? What happened back there?”

  “Nothing,” I reply. “I didn’t think—I mean, I—it didn’t hit me that he was Jonathan Sloan.”

  “You mean you know him? Jesus, Becky. You swore that you didn’t.”

  “I don’t—I mean I do, but not that way you think.”

  “Pull yourself together and tell me how you know him. If I see you this frazzled again, you may want to start looking for another place of employment.”

  I take a deep breath, and explain what happened this morning at the coffee shop. She nods. She looks out the window and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes.

  “Okay, so you don’t know him. That’s what I’m hearing and that’s how I’m expecting it to stay. Keep it professional. Understood?”

  “Yes. You have my word, Kara.”

  “Good. So let me finish some details about Sloan Sports and Entertainment. This is the part that’s the most relevant to what we just spoke about. Sloan has experienced exponential growth. The entertainment arm is now in over one hundred countries around the world, including most of South America, the Caribbean, much of Europe, and happily blazing trails through Africa, Russia, and China. That’s all great, but what most people don’t realize is the real estate arm has grown even more. Their assets include sports arenas, private college sports facilities, professional practice facilities, and a major share in over one hundred resort developments in the Caribbean and Dubai.