Chad's Chase (Loving All Wrong Book 2) Read online

  by

  S. Ann Cole

  Chad's Chase

  By S. Ann Cole

  Copyright © S. Ann Cole 2014

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete itand purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  Cover by S. Ann Cole

  For permission requests, contact to the publisher via email: [email protected]

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  Creative Commons Attribution 3.0

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  GLOSSARY FOR JAMAICAN SLANGS USED

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONTACT ANN

  S. ANN'S BOOKSHELF

  We all leave our mother’s womb with blood not only on our hands, but all over us.

  Some of us are lucky enough to be washed clean.

  Pristine.

  Some of us, inauspiciously, are left stained.

  Permanently.

  PROLOGUE

  Twelve years ago…

  Rublevka, Moscow, Russia

  He woke up in a nightmare.

  No, not from a nightmare. In a nightmare.

  The shrills echoing from his piss-scared little sister were jarring, rattling his nerves. The sight of his mom and dad lying face-down on the floor, hands bound behind their backs, was a merciless, bone-cracking kick in the face from reality.

  Reality. This was reality.

  The world was evil. Humans were sharp-toothed creatures. No better than cannibals tearing each other apart in the forests for food, instead of sharing the fucking carcass and living in lazy peace.

  Evil.

  Evil had a smell. Raw. Evil had a color. Black. Evil had a taste. Bitter.

  Evil overpowered.

  Dad was bawling actual tears. Trembling, begging, and pleading for mercy.

  Mom, on the other hand, was calm, whimpering not a peep, patiently awaiting her fate. With the life that woman lived, moments like this were expected and prepared for.

  “The key to living, son, is to know that death is inevitable, and always be prepared for it,” she’d told him. “Then you will have no reason to fear or waste tears. And death shall have no dominion over you.”

  Easy for her to say.

  Standing at the hallway with wide, green eyes, was his little sister, screaming. Just screaming. Loud, piercing, ear-splitting. The fear in her eyes breaking him, beating him into the ground.

  Ricardo tried to move against his bindings, to go to her, to snatch her up and run. Run fast and far and hard. But before he could get even two feet toward her, a sharp pain impacted the back of his knee and he face-planted, busting his nose.

  Howling out like a man-bitch, he rolled over onto his back and grabbed onto his knee, his face twisted in pain. When he felt the wetness seeping through the soft cotton of his pajamas, he knew he was shot.

  Well, fuck. Tonight would be the night. The night death won.

  Just eighteen years old. Still a boy. And he was about to die—

  A pair of shit-kickers appeared in his periphery, and before he could raise a hand to protect himself, one of the booted feet slammed into the side of his head.

  Momentarily, he blacked out. Seeing nothing but blinking stars on a black backdrop, streaks of red, squiggly lines dancing up and down like a graphic equalizer. As the stars disappeared and clear vision returned, the voice above him spoke, words in their Russian tongue, “Stay down, son of a fucking traitor. No escaping. Tonight, you die.”

  Resigning to his fate, he gave up all hope, all fight, and relaxed his tensed up muscles, his limbs falling limp and unstrained on the hard, black and white marble tiles.

  Slowly, he turned his head in the direction of his sister, to see her face one last time before they died. To apologize through his eyes for not being able to save, protect and defend her, the way a big brother should.

  His sister was only ten. Ten. She deserved none of this.

  But when his eyes landed on her, he noticed all of a sudden, through the loud rushing of blood in his ears, that her screaming had stopped, the threats of the assailants had ceased, and thick silence plunged into the atrocious waves of this unfortunate night like a heavy anchor.

  He watched his little sister as she watched the front door, hope refulgent in her bright green eyes, her hand halfway reaching out, as if she knew who or what she saw would save them.

  Her hope revived his own hope, and so he followed her gaze to see what she saw.

  And that very moment was what made it all a nightmare. Not the fact that the whole Byrd family was about to be eliminated, but that the head man in charge, the man who would be pulling the trigger, had arrived.

  And this man—no, boy, because they shared the same age—was Chadrick Niiveux.

  A boy whom he grew up with. A boy whom he called ‘brother’. A boy who sat at the Byrds’ dinner table every night, whom they shared their home and lives with. A boy whom they all loved and treated like their own blood.

  Chadrick. Niiveux.

  As the betrayer gracefully attached a suppressor to his weapon, all false hopes dissipated, as it was clear Chadrick was not there to save them.

  Hope was wasted on him. Because the evil they needed saving from was him. He wasn’t the savior of this night’s dark tale, he was the soulless villain.

  Chadrick’s attention went to his wide-eyed, mouth-hanging little sister, and there was no emotion in him as he gestured to her and, in Russian tongue, ordered the henchman looming over Ricardo, “You, subdue her. Take her to her room and keep her there.”

  When the henchman non-hesitantly did as he was ordered, dragging his wailing and flailing little sister down the hall until her screams of “Blood! No! Please, Blood! No!” were no more, Chadrick moved as calmly and quietly as a panther over to Mom and Dad.

  Dad, bound and shaking, angled his head to look up at him. “Why—why are you doing this, Chad
rick? We treated you like our own. We love yo—”

  Dad’s word cut short as Chadrick aimed at his head and fired. As smooth and easy as honey overflowing from a spoon.

  Stepping over Dad’s lifeless body, he crouched down next to Mom, who was still acceptingly quiet, and whispered something lengthy in her ear, then positioned the gun directly into the shell of her ear, and fired.

  Dead.

  This could not be happening.

  By this time, Ricardo was full-on shaking, throwing dices with fear.

  Like an incontestable king creature, Chadrick rose up from his crouch and walked over to him, his feet making no sound whatsoever on the floor tiles. He didn’t even seem real, or tangible, but like a black, evil spirit moving on thin air.

  As Chadrick stooped down next to him, Ricardo stared up into his frenemy’s endless dark eyes, silently asking ‘why?’.

  But this man was a total stranger. Not the ‘brother’ he knew and loved. Not the best friend he played video games with only hours ago. Not even an iota. His eyes were nothing but infinite nights filled with terror. His face a steel wall—straight, blank, inanimate, inhumane.

  Knowing it was his turn to be executed, but not knowing what awaited him on the darker side, Ricardo began trembling violently as Chad raised his free hand and touched the side of his face, whispering, “Don’t be afraid, Ricardo. Trust that you are my brother, and I love you as such.”

  The hand on Ricardo’s cheek moved slightly, and he felt the coldness of Chadrick’s silver ring on his skin, and, with a more subtle move, felt something puncturing the soft flesh of his cheek.

  Chadrick kept his hand on his face for a while, and when Ricardo’s vision began to blur, he stood up.

  Ricardo got swept up into vertigo, consciousness slipping in and out.

  But it wasn’t enough to blot out the reality of Chadrick standing above him, three-headed, then two-headed, then three-headed again.

  Consciousness there, consciousness gone. Consciousness back just in time to see Chadrick aim the suppressed weapon at him, and fire.

  ONE

  Amazing grace…

  Nadia…

  There was something different about the new girl.

  The dancers at Empty Cage gentleman’s club surreptitiously eyed her with fairly concealed envy, or rather covetousness. They’d known without a flicker of doubt, the second she’d walked into the club, that she’d become club favorite.

  She was too physically perfect—naturally so. And girls this naturally perfect weren’t usually found in exclusive gentleman’s clubs. They were found on runways and big screens. They were socialites and trophy wives. Millionaires’ arm candies, and billionaires’ spoilt mistresses.

  If all a girl like her had to do was wink at a man and own him, it was beyond baffling why she was working at Empty Cage.

  Her strides were so confident. Her shoulders perennially squared, her chin perpetually jutted up and out, as if working in such a place was an honor. Nothing short of peculiar.

  The other girls whispered about her behind her back. Good things, incidentally—which was rare when it came to women who competed for attention in a four-walled work zone.

  Have you seen those green eyes? She’s unbelievable! She looks high-born. What’s a girl as refined as her doing in a place like this? You think she’s a rich runaway? She doesn’t fit here. Ohmygod, I’d kill for those tits!

  New Girl was like a diamond among broken shells. Customers gaped at her as she swayed by. Men and women alike.

  At an estimated five feet seven inches, she had hair the color of midnight—jet black, and whenever the light bounced off the straight, long tresses from a certain angle, it glinted midnight blue. Covetously long, but always pulled up in a tight ponytail.

  Unlike the other dancers, she wore little to no make-up, never trying to hide under thick layers of face concealer, fake lashes and eyeliner. No bright colored wigs or mysterious costumes.

  She wore fearlessness like it was an expensive fur coat gifted from a powerful drug lord. And she moved as smooth and graceful as a legless snake slithering in a clear pond.

  The weaponless killer was her body. Perfect C-cups, slim waistline ending where her hips began and shaped out into wide curves. Abs like no woman should have, and arms that needn’t be so toned. Runway models would slit throats for her legs, they were so long.

  Whenever she was up on that stage, wrapped around the pole like a goddamn contortionist, she was magic. Pure magic.

  She didn’t dance for money. She performed.

  And during her sessions, the entire club would pause to watch. She was a spotlight all on her own, that girl. Shining brightly on herself. Glowing from the inside out.

  A beautiful enigma.

  But while she left the majority in a whirl of mesmerizing entrancement, a few of the honed, acute ones were left in suspicion.

  The ones who took note that she didn’t drink alcohol or flirt with men. The ones who noticed her unnatural maturity for a girl estimated to be no older than twenty-three. The ones who took note that she didn’t work the floor like a stripper hunting the next dollar, but instead constantly eyed the club entrance. The ones who noted that her money purse was a little too big, and noticed the questionable bulge in her right boot. The ones who noticed she hadn’t the mannerisms of a normal new adult, but was always alert, poised, ready. But…for what?

  The ones who knew, unequivocally, that she was no one innocent, no one to be trusted, no one to be underestimated.

  New Girl was a beautiful disaster waiting to happen. Beautifully dangerous.

  Dangerously beautiful.

  One of those people was Nadia, a spy for the owner of Empty Cage, also covering as a stripper. Nadia wasn’t instructed to spy on the enigmatic new girl, but something had been so off about her since she arrived a week ago that Nadia’s natural instincts had her monitoring her every move.

  And after a week of spying, Nadia was convinced New Girl was bad news.

  Very bad news.

  She was out for someone, and this stripper job was a cover.

  Sitting on this conjecture, Nadia waited for her boss to show up on one of his guaranteed days: Monday, Wednesday or Friday. But when the entire week flew by and he didn’t show up, she figured he was out of state.

  She couldn’t call him to ascertain. She wasn’t allowed to call. No spy was allowed to call. No matter how important. He called whenever he was ready.

  So she waited.

  Wednesday rolled around again, and as Nadia exited the changing room after primping for another night on the job, the shift in the air told her the boss was in for the night. The entire atmosphere felt different whenever that man was in the building: a little ominous, yet a little safer.

  Nadia glanced over to the right where her boss’s two grim, hulky guards were blocking off the stairway leading up to the boss’s office.

  Before heading over to the guards, she inconspicuously scanned the club for New Girl, her eyes finding her a minute later.

  More like a customer than a dancer, she was sitting coolly unconcerned at a high-table, and one of the strippers was giving her a slow, sexy lap dance, while she stuck dollar bills into the stripper’s thong. But New Girl’s eyes weren’t on the stripper. No, they were watching the guards over at the stairway. Hard.

  Abruptly, that gaze shifted across the crowd so fast and latched onto Nadia’s, that Nadia stiffened, suddenly intimidated.

  Those green eyes, they held something. A threat.

  New Girl knew Nadia had been watching her. Hell. She knew.

  With her threatening eyes still on Nadia’s, New Girl palmed the stripper’s throat and roughly yanked her head back, then she brought her mouth to the side of the stripper’s neck and licked it, then sucked on it, her other hand drifting up to squeeze the stripper’s breast.

  The unexpected effect that viscerally unfurled inside Nadia had her questioning her sexuality. She shouldn’t have been turned on by New Girl. B
ut she was. She bewilderingly was.

  Swallowing hard, Nadia resumed her jaunt to the stairway, her steps quicker.

  The guards knew her role there so they nodded respectfully when she got up to them, but didn’t give her pass.

  “I’ve got word for him,” she told them.

  One of the guards, whom she knew as Ronnie, held up a hand in a ‘hang on’ signal then took out his cell and hit a number…

  “Nadia’s got word, boss…yeah…no…’kay.”

  Ronnie hung up and moved aside to grant her pass, and she went ahead and navigated her way to the boss’s office. The door was ajar but she knocked anyway.

  “Come, Nadia.”

  Nadia went in.

  Sitting in his office chair behind his modern glass desk, flipping through a mess of photos scattered across a large manila envelope, the owner was a torturous sight to the female eyes. Too damn good-looking to be doing—whatever it was he did that was so bad he needed bodyguards. She never asked questions. And she knew she was better off not knowing the gore. She just did what was expected of her and collected her lump sum every fortnight.

  Tall and lean, the man behind the desk wasn’t packing with muscles, but just enough to fit his body type. Dirty blond hair that didn’t have one particular style to it. Sometimes he trimmed it in a rocker’s style, sometimes he let it grow out in limp, loose waves like a surfer, and sometimes he trimmed it like an Ivy League gentleman. Whichever way he wore that lovely hair, it worked for him. Nadia was sure that, even on his worse day, he looked a lot better than every other man she’d ever come across in her entire life. He was just that undeniably, irresistibly mouth-watering.

  With dark eyes and lips that didn’t smile, Nadia often wondered what it would be like to have sex with a man so sexily fierce. With her open body language, she’d made it obvious, loud and clear, that she desired him since the moment he hired her. But the man wasn’t interested. In her or anyone.

  Cool and detached, never screwing around, never messing with the dancers.