Envy Page 2

  As the mother pried her son’s hands from the glass door, Liam had intervened.

  Liam gestured at Aretha with a debonair wave as the shiny gold elevator doors opened. Each time his eyes landed on a kid, boy or girl, he thought about the child Raven aborted. And then, Liam Lemaître had realized that of all the material things in the world he had—and he had lots—his assets honestly didn’t add up to shit. Though his mind was on one of the greatest sorrows in his life, Liam smiled through his pain. His executive assistant wasn’t pleased with how altruistic he’d just been. Or his disinterest in the fact that the mother-son duo might have been a con.

  “All right, say it was a scam. It is Christmastime, which increases the odds in your favor. Let’s say the kid is a blossoming actor, the mom returns the gift for hard cash, the rest of those rich bastards staring down their noses in the store are distant relatives of Scrooge, and I, myself, was taken for a few measly bucks—”

  “In the normal scheme of things, two hundred dollars is far from a few measly bucks, but continue,” Aretha said.

  He chuckled softly as the elevator zipped up the building. “And what about the other times someone is in need? If I allow myself to muddle over one person’s antics, someone who truly needs or deserves something is at a loss.”

  “Oh,” she scoffed, getting off the elevator. They sauntered down a passageway of lush green foliage to the maître d'. “That’s life, honey. People window shop on a daily basis. On another note, are you burrowing yourself in that glass cabin in the woods this weekend because that dreadful Camille is coming to town? Now, I’m always advocating for you to go out—without it revolving around a business chat or paparazzi cameras—except when it comes to gallivanting with Camille.”

  Liam considered that as they were quickly escorted to a table overlooking uptown Dallas. He often stayed at the penthouse in his hotel two blocks down the street. When he craved solitude, he went to the home he had made for himself in the woods that encompassed acres of land. Aretha had been Liam’s only guest, which was due to a mishap by the interior designer while Liam vacationed in Australia.

  “I’ll stay in the city.”

  It was her turn to laugh as a waiter pulled out her chair. “Thought so. Do you know I often envision you as a younger, and albeit handsome, Santa Claus? And then you delight in brainless models. It all just ruins my image of you as perfect.”

  “Glad that I have yet to exceed your expectations.” Liam laughed boisterously. He enjoyed his assistant’s company; they were always in a debate. Some of the topics revolved around the Victoria Secret model, Camille Kerr.

  “Sure, you’ll continue to try.”

  “True. But, my environment must always encompass pretty things. That’s why you’re my assistant.”

  “Humph, I’m an old woman.” She smirked, but her dark skin flushed a bit.

  Liam turned to the server. “Glass of red for the beautiful lady, scotch—no rocks—for me.”

  Aretha’s eyebrow arched. “Too soon to celebrate?”

  “Nah, never too soon. But I’m sure you’ll still be able to assist after a glass or two of wine. I believe in you.”

  Aretha’s iPhone chimed. “Ah, let’s see here. I knew there were a few things I’d have to force you to do. You lock yourself in that large office or are busy all day with the fleet of hotel architects these days. Let’s see … Oh, your grandmother called.”

  Liam pulled at his thick eyebrow hair in thought. “You want me to return my Nana’s call during lunch?”

  “Probably the best scenario. Seeing is believing, in my opinion. But I’ll schedule it in your phone for later as long as I have your word.” Aretha smiled triumphantly, holding out her hand for a firm shake. Sometimes he seemed forgetful. Only when it involved family.

  Estella Delacroix, Liam’s Nana, always had excuses as to why she hadn’t been present during much of Liam’s life. She’d once been a high-fashion supermodel, so he understood reliving her glory days came first. Truth be told, growing up with Annette Shaw as a grandmother figure had made Liam long for the care of his own grandmother. And then he turned fourteen, and his mother forced him to live in France.

  “No need, I’ll call Nana later.” He could still faintly feel the powerful sting of how Estella had pinched his cheeks in disgust. Now he was six foot four, two hundred forty-five pounds of raw muscle. But he didn’t want to thank Estella for that. Not at all.

  “Liam …”

  He picked up his menu, not in the mood to talk about how easy it was to alienate people. “C’mon, are you ordering the salmon, or, I believe the halibut is on the menu today.”

  “Liam, she’s your grandmother.”

  Why didn’t I just hire a slutty secretary who’s still good for something? “Okay.” He placed the menu back on the table. “Did you purchase a birthday gift?”

  “Yes, two months ago. Her birthday was two months ago. Estella called then, too.” Aretha paused. “For months on end she has insisted that she has something very pertinent to tell you about your family.”

  He straightened his black silk tie. It was always easy to speak with Aretha. On a few occasions, she’d taken him home for a home-cooked meal. Being personable came with the territory of working 24/7, but this was an uncharted subject.

  Later that evening, Liam scrolled through the contacts on his phone for Estella’s phone number. He stood on the patio outside of his penthouse. The bright nightlights of the city twinkled. Just as he was about to make the call, his doorbell chimed. Tossing the cell phone onto one of the wicker couches, Liam stepped inside onto the Italian marble to open the door.

  As soon as he did, red, glossy, manicured hands flew out, clasping his strong jaw and chiseled cheeks. Camille’s lips were latched onto his in seconds.

  Fucking the Vicky Secrets supermodel always seemed like a Nascar race. She didn’t cuddle; he didn’t mind. She was his little bit of “coloring outside the lines” in a world that required the media and all of his time.

  They found a way to alternate from playing Dom; exert control and beg for mercy. His hand yanked the back of her ponytail as he deepened the kiss while they stumbled down the hall toward his bedroom.

  With each step they made, bumping into glossy Venetian walls, or backing into canvas art, they kissed wildly, passionately.

  And then Liam dropped Camille on his bed. She laid down with a naughty laugh. With her legs wide open, those striped silk panties gave him a peekaboo of her wetness. But he needed to get off.

  “I miss those fucking lips, Camille.” He rubbed his thumb across the plumpness of her mouth.

  “I know you do.” Her red lips puckered around his thumb. Camille sucked him all the way into her mouth with such force, a barbarous grown vaulted from deep within his abdomen. Her motivation wasn’t to be reckoned with.

  Liam unbuckled his pants. Camille got onto the floor as he sat on the accent chair. Her dark brown eyes were hypnotized by the sight of him. She opened up wide, the satin head of his cock sliding across her lips.

  “Take it all, Cam. Let me fuck you all the way down your throat,” he said, his voice dropping to a deep rumble.

  With each thrust, her mouth expanded for more thickness, more length. He twined his fingers around her hair and began to pull just slightly in order for her to catch his desired rhythm. The moaning and slurping of her relaxed jaw made him lean back in comfort.

  “That’s what I want, Cam,” Liam told her. “Those fucking lips are beautiful.”

  With her tresses coiled around his knuckles, Liam fucked her face harder, faster. Her gag reflex was so impeccable that when she took each hit to her tonsils, it felt like she was massaging his cockhead. And at this point, every mistake he’d ever made with the only woman he ever loved was gone to him.

  Like a piston, his dick plunged in and out of Camille’s mouth at a rapid rate. Noting the swell of his cock beginning to pulsate, Camille squealed in delight. The first wave surged straight down her throat. That magical mou
th held steady as she milked the long warm spurt.

  3

  Mommy’s here, Mommy’s here, Mommy’s here for you today. I love you, I love you. Don’t you love me too?Raven sang to Royael as the just shy of five-years-old child cuddled in her arms. They laid in the toddler’s bed which had ballerina décor all around it. Raven was a tad uncomfortable, with her legs draped over the end of the short bed. She wanted to cry as Royael sniffled.

  Royael’s hazel eyes were shut, and her butterscotch skin had red blotches from crying. After a while, Raven stopped singing the song she’d made up for her daughter. She closed her own eyes harder so as not to cry.

  Jesus, why do I keep allowing this to happen? Royael had won Glitz and Natural, but the supreme title had been just out of her grasp. For her child’s sake, she hated all things pageant. Royael had been three when they were approached in the mall about joining the pageant world. After all the horror stories and reality TV shows, Raven had said no. But she soon relented. These days the pageants were an addiction to her daughter.

  The next morning, Raven woke with a stiff neck. Royael had awoken a few times through the night. Her daughter refused to get into her full-sized bed, always complaining that there was something under it. So, to the tiny toddler bed Raven went. And she spent much of the night there. Now it was barely the crack of dawn. Raven pulled out her sewing kit and got to work on a new outfit for the next pageant Royael was signed up for.

  A few hours later, her cell phone rang.

  “Hey, Damien,” Raven’s voice smiled into the receiver for the man who’d technically become her stepfather. The casting agent had married her mother Charlene a few years ago after Charlene’s overdose.

  “Did you stand your mother—Charlene up?” he asked, still becoming accustomed to not using the maternal title, though Raven had insisted. For all intents and purposes, she’d welcome him as a father before embracing her own mother, her own blood.

  “Not exactly,” Raven said, multitasking, nudging the cell phone onto the crook of her shoulder in order to talk and stitch at the same time. “Around the crack of dawn, Royael woke up and played me. She’s worried about the Christmas Eve pageant in a few days. I’ve been suckered into adding extra ruffles to Royael’s latest and greatest ensemble. If my child doesn’t win Glitz, we’re all suffering. I actually texted Char about thirty minutes ago letting her know I’d be late. Okay, Mr. Mediator?” she joked.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I am …,” Raven sighed, “actually trying.”

  “I know, you’re both doing well. Just a force of habit. I should be back for Royael’s pageant this weekend. Maybe I’ll bring her a present.”

  Raven smirked, glaring at the Annette’s sewing machine. “No gifts, no spoiling. The last time you brought her something from Rodeo Drive, she kept pronouncing ‘Rodeo’ like a country hick. Listen to that about fifty-two times, and you’ll be so over it.”

  He laughed into the receiver. “I get the picture, but there’s no such thing as spoiling a kid.”

  Damien sent his love before they hung up. It took her another hour to complete the tulle ruffles on the hot-pink dress and set it aside. This was the hundredth time she’d told herself to stop signing her child up for pageants. Private photography school was expensive. A job at the coffee shop was a godsend, but only when people tipped well, which wasn’t often.

  Raven dared not step into her daughter’s bedroom. She loved to watch Royael sleep, but waking the diva up would be a problem in itself.

  Dressed in her signature pair of distressed jeans, leather boots, and a red flannel, Raven descended the stairs of the condo she and her grandmother owned. She hadn’t thought to touch the check Liam left her to abort Royael, but half of it came in handy when they moved to Dallas for a better oncologist for Otis. The other half seemed to diminish by the second as the years passed.

  A half hour later, Raven’s box-shaped car pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of a complex with multi-million dollar homes. She punched in the code and pulled in. There were three-story houses to the right, and rolling lawns as far as the eye could see to the left, where snotty old men played golf.

  The vacation home her mother bought came as a surprise to Raven, since Charlene spent much of her time in Hollywood for the hit show Deceptive Desires. Charlene had first told her about the rush buy in Dallas after the couple brought up the fact that they were pregnant. Char probably thought Raven would have an issue with it, feeling replaced, which was so far from the truth. A new baby meant more family for Raven, if Charlene allowed the two half-sisters to interact.

  Damien always facilitated their relationship. Raven still got teary-eyed when thinking about all of the baby items he’d brought over after finding out she was pregnant. They’d only met once before, when he told Raven about Charlene’s overdose.

  She pulled up to a stone home, its backdrop a vast man-made lake. The home gave a bit of serenity to her otherwise attention-seeking mother.

  After getting out and meandering up the long, windy walkway, Raven knocked on the glossy black door. She rang the bell. After a few minutes, Raven knocked once more.

  “Maybe she stood me up? Dammit if I don’t mind,” Raven grumbled. She started to back away, thoughts of Stephen on her mind. It had been a week since he’d caught her with Calum. She’d tried to talk to him during the choir rehearsal, since he was the piano man, but he’d kept it strictly business on Tuesday evening.

  As her boots clomped onto the stone, she paused and sighed. That damn Damien was too good of a guy for her not to keep up her end of the bargain.

  Initially, her mother had invited Raven to their getaway wedding. After said tropical wedding off the coast of Jamaica, Raven had sort of “accidentally” leaked the wedding photos to the press.

  Though Damien had said he understood and accepted her apology, she still felt she owed him. Not the woman who’d given birth to her and abandoned her, but the helluva good guy so unfortunate to fall for Char.

  Digging into her satchel, Raven pushed past toys she often left in her purse and a wallet filled with coupons and fluff, to the spare key Damien had given her.

  She let herself into the house.

  “Char, Charlene?” Raven’s voice echoed down the sconce-and-crystal vase-studded hallway. Not one to invade someone’s personal space, she took an unsteady step over the threshold.

  She started for the chef’s kitchen, since her eight-month pregnant mother spent much of her time eating these days. An omelet was tightly covered in cling wrap on the island. Raven presumed the breakfast was for her. They’d been doing this play on a mother-and-daughter get-together for a while now, though the conversation and entertainment was stale. There were dishes in the sink and stainless-steel gadgets on the marble counters. But no super-gorgeous, self-impressed actress.

  The sound of rapid footsteps above made Raven’s gaze fly toward the ceiling. Something crashed. Her head cocked to the side for a second, fingers itching to grab one of the freshly-sharpened knifes from the block. This is not a friggen scary movie, Raven, stop.

  “Mo—” Raven caught herself from saying the dreaded word. “Charlene, hello?” She groaned, starting up the steps. Someone was asking for Meagan, voice heavy, laden with lust. “… c’mon, Meagan, fuck me like you did the guy.”

  What in the world is going on? Raven’s eyebrows knitted together. Meagan? The only Meagan she knew of was her mother’s character on that overly dramatic Deceptive Desires. She stood right outside of the upstairs office. If Charlene was cheating on Damien, she’d confront and run snitching!

  “Meagan, fuck me like the dude you met in Milan!”

  “My name is Charlene. Marcus, you need to stop now! I’m pregnant. The guy and I were acting …”

  Charlene took a sharp breath and looked into Marcus’s empty blue eyes. He laid inches away. Pieces of shattered glass surrounded them on the Oriental rug. Blood trickled at the side of his temple, into pale lashes, into his eyes. T
urning her head slightly, she saw Raven’s knees pressed into his gut. Her daughter’s eyes were blue. The same icy-blue as Roy’s, the man who’d raped her twenty-four years ago. Not a hint of a calm sea, not one hint.

  Spots of blood sprouted on the fat folds of his neck as Raven pierced him with a shard of multicolored glass. It had to be a piece of her designer lamp. Almost like cat and mouse, the way Raven toyed with his pain.

  Raven seemed to be whispering in his ear, and his head bobbed up and down in sheer terror. Red tears began to stream down the side of his face and cheeks.

  “Raven,” Charlene found her voice. Her daughter continued to use the glass like an ice pick. “Raven!”

  Humanity returned to Raven’s gaze as she turned Charlene’s way. Then Raven hopped off of Marcus. She stomped down on his balls, twisting the heel of her favorite cowgirl boot. The sides of her mouth were skyward in contentment.

  “Get out, sick bastard!” Raven kicked him swiftly in the ribs.

  Charlene watched as the pig grunted, rolling over. Marcus crawled out of the room, holding his privates with one hand and clawing at tile with the other. Raven followed, kicking him every couple of steps. He must have toppled down the stairs, because she heard a sound that mimicked a spoof comedy. The front door slammed.

  Less than a minute later, Raven came to her side, breathing easy. The girl hadn’t broken a sweat. Hoisting Charlene into a standing position, Raven said, “Watch yourself. Sorry about your fancy lamp. Well, I’ll go get you some water.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Legs regaining their strength, Charlene held her growing belly and followed.

  While Charlene nestled on the bar stool in the kitchen, Raven handed her a glass of water. Charlene’s rich, dark-brown skin was clammy, her curly, black hair matted to her forehead. “Raven, when you came in … W-was he … D-did—”

  “I heard you fall. When I came in, that fat fuck was standing over you, pawing your breast. I slammed the lamp on his head.” Raven shrugged, leaning against the refrigerator door. “Who was he?”