Fatal Beauty Read online

  Fatal Beauty

  Nazarea Andrews

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands or products.

  Copyright © 2015 Nazarea Andrews.

  Fatal Beauty

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by A&A Literary.

  Summary: When two best friends find themselves with a dead body, they are drawn into a string of crimes and the manipulations of a drug lord.

  1. Suspense 2. Thriller 3. Romantic Suspense

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, address Nazarea Andrews

  [email protected]

  Edited by Angi Black

  Cover design by The Illustrated Author

  Cover art copyright©: Nazarea Andrews

  Ebook Formatting by A & A Literary

  About Fatal Beauty:

  Charlotte was a good girl.

  Sweet and innocent, a debutante with her Daddy’s credit card and a fiancée who doted on her.

  She was destined for a perfect picture life in Charleston.

  Until everything goes wrong.

  EJ grew up with everything she could ever want, and bored as hell.

  Nothing surprises her and nothing ever changes, and she wants out—whatever it takes.

  Getting involved with Anthony Jacobs is probably the worst idea she’s ever had—and that makes it irresistible.

  Until Charlie needs her.

  New Orleans. Memphis. Vegas.

  Beautiful girls who know just how to get exactly what they want.

  It’s all fun and games, sexy nights and wild parties.

  But you can only manipulate your way out of so much, and the body count is rising. When their past catches up, not even a pretty smile will get them out of trouble this time.

  For Aj.

  Because everyone needs someone to help move the bodies.

  Best partner in crime, ever.

  Part 1:

  The Beginning

  Detective Blackmon: State your name for the record.

  Charlotte Brooks: (clears throat) Charlie Brooks.

  Detective Blackmon: Your legal name, ma’am.

  Brooks: Charlotte Suzanne Brooks.

  Detective Blackmon: Have you been advised of your rights, ma’am?

  Brooks: (soft laugh) You advised me of them. So yes.

  Detective Blackmon: Do you want to tell us how you came to know Ms. Ella Jane Munro?

  Brooks: Where is she?

  Detective Blackmon: Ma’am, I need you to calm down and give your statement.

  Brooks: Where the fuck is EJ?

  Detective Blackmon: At nine fifty pm the LVPD were called to a hotel room secured with a credit card in your name. Upon searching it, we found drugs, weapons and almost two hundred thousand in cash. Do you want to say anything about that?

  Brooks: I wasn’t in that room, and neither were my belongings. You verified that. My wallet was stolen. And I want EJ.

  Brooks: Why the hell are you looking at me like that?

  Detective Blackmon: Ma’am…

  Brooks: (screaming) Where the hell is EJ?

  Chapter 1

  If she could look at it, with the hindsight of everything that had happened, she would say that it all began six months before Wallace Bryce Talbert went missing. The day Ella Jane Munro sold Llewellyn Koonts a hit of blow in the locker room of her father's country club.

  Of course, if she had the luxury of hindsight, she might have changed everything by simply going to lunch at the Greenhouse instead of tennis at the club.

  Then again. Charlotte never had much use for hindsight and even less for regrets.

  *

  Charlie Brooks was an institution at the Buringtree Country Club. She had grown up in the halls, played tennis early and well, swam in the summer and pranced around the greens in tiny shorts, her blonde hair bobbing in a signature braid.

  She was a perfect debutante. Sweet as sugar when it suited her, and an utter bitch when it didn't. The staff at the club lived in fear of her temper. HR had to step in when she was in high school because they couldn't keep a staff--Charlie either terrorized them into quitting or demanded they were fired over minor infractions.

  And because she was Travis Brooks only daughter, she usually got her way.

  Ella Jane Munro was different from Charlie. Just as bitchy, just as demanding. Filthy fucking rich. But Charlie revelled in who and what she was born to. She never wanted to be anything but the queen bee at her private school, at the club, and Vanderbilt. Everything she did was carefully calculated for how it would reflect on her and how people viewed her.

  It’s why she and Ella Jane had never gotten along, despite being in the same circles.

  From the outside, they would have made the perfect frenemies. Self-destructive, the kind of too-close back-stabbing that would fuel the wet dreams of high school boys with visions of love-hate sexcapdes.

  Ella Jane and Charlie didn't cooperate. Ella was bored to death with country club life and everything expected of a Deb. And she might be an It girl, in her blasè way, but she never aspired to steal Charlie's crown.

  They existed for most of their life, in a kind of live-and-let-live dètente.

  No one could explain why that changed. It was whispered about, of course. Two of Charleston's favorite daughters, suddenly inseparable? Everyone had a theory. No one knew the truth, though.

  No one would have ever believed the truth.

  *

  The door to her office opened and closed again, in the kind of way that was an announcement. She swallows a smirk and layers another coat of pale pink on her nails.

  Most girls would pay for a manicure, but she had always found the ritual of nail care to be soothing.

  The cash slaps down on her desk and she blinks at it slowly before letting her gaze slide lazily up to the woman across from her.

  Sharp green eyes, long jet black hair with a single streak of magenta in bangs cut across her forehead. A pair of designer skinny jeans and a loose, sheer black tank top scattered with polka dot skull-and-crossbones, lace-edged cami under it showing off her amazing tits.

  Only Ella Jane could stalk into her office in designer jeans and a Walmart clearance top and look perfect instead of ridiculous.

  “Your half.” She says.

  Charlie finishes her last finger, admiring it briefly before screwing the lid on her nail polish and giving the other woman her attention. “When are you meeting with Jacobs?”

  “Tomorrow. Don’t be impatient, greedy girl.”

  She bites down on the acidic response that wants to rise, and arches an eyebrow silently. EJ stares at her for a long moment, before she huffs a sigh and drops into the high back leather chair across from her.

  “You can’t do anything until Monday anyway. Isn’t your engagement thing tonight?”

  It’s posed as a question, but she knows damn well when it is. Charlie goes still and her gaze clouds for a heartbeat.

  “Do you want me to come?” EJ asks, quietly.

  The offer startles a laugh from Charlie and she grins, a dry, mocking thing. “And how the hell would I explain that? No. Stay on your side of the club, and I’ll stay on mine. I’ll be fine.”

  There’ a tense moment, as they stare at each other, a
nd Charlie wonders just how much EJ suspects.

  They weren’t supposed to become friends—it was a business arrangement. One that benefited them both and made EJ’s supplier happy. But it had evolved.

  It made her nervous, and nothing made her nervous. She didn’t like it.

  “Don’t be a bitch, Charlie,” EJ says coldly.

  “Then 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 it.

  “Charlie?” she croaks, and swallows. Reaches for the spumante on the bedside table.

  “I need you.”

  The whisper from the other end of the line chills her, and she shudders, rubbing away the goosebumps that trace along her arms.

  That’s it—those three words and nothing more.

  Sleep is forgotten completely as she sits up and nods. “I’ll be right there.”

  Chapter 2

  Wallace Bryce Talbert was dead. She stood next to him, and distantly, she was aware of the blood spilling out, spreading to seep around her toes, sinking into the crack of her feet.

  They had hardwood floors. She could mop. She should mop. Except it was a crime scene. You didn’t just mop up a crime scene. There were procedures to follow and—her stomach heaves suddenly, and she whirls, her foot sliding in the spreading blood as she scrambles for the trash bin. She’s still in the dress she wore to their engagement party, her hair half down, makeup smudged.

  Hair falls in the trashcan, and she gags as vomit catches in it.

  She straightens slowly and makes a face. Wonderful. There was now a dead body on the floor and vomit in her hair. The night was definitely on a downward spiral.

  There is a sharp knock on the front door, but Charlie doesn't move to answer.

  She shouldn't have called Ella, but it happened before she could think, while Wallace was still gasping, his eyes shocked and angry while she fumbled for her phone and stood over him.

  "Charlie?"

  The voice breaks the cocoon of distance, and she draws in a shuddering breath.

  "Oh holy fuck." EJ breathes the curse like a prayer and stumbles across the room to grab Charlie, yanking her around. Her eyes and hands are frantic as she looks over the other woman, and a hysterical giggle works it's way up Charlie's throat and bubbles over.

  EJ goes still and watchful, her sharp blue eyes locked onto Charlie's. "Charlie, I need you to focus on me. Tell me what happened."

  The words snap her laughter off and Charlie shudders, a full body spasm that makes EJ's hands on her shoulders tighten for a heartbeat.

  "He hit me. Again. I had too, EJ."

  Ella stills, and from the ground, Charlie stares at her, eyes almost pleading.

  Charlotte Brooks. Who has never in her life pled for anything.

  Ella expels a slow breath. "Get up, honey."

  For a moment, she hesitates and Ella nods at the blood. "We're going to get you cleaned up. And then we'll talk about Tre. But you have to start by getting off the ground."

  EJ waits, patient, and it occurs to Charlie that she's here. In yoga pants and tousled hair and slept in makeup, she's here.

  And Tre is still dead. So fucking dead.

  She pukes again, and EJ hisses a curse as the vomit splatters across the hardwood.

  She's covered in vomit and blood and there's a dead fucking body on her floor. "Shouldn't have called you," Charlie mumbles.

  EJ sighs and reaches down grabbing Charlie under the arm. She pulls her out of the blood and across the living room, shoving her into the lavender-accented guest bath.

  “Little late to worry about it, Charlie. Now come on.”

  Charlie stands in a corner, quiet and too still, watching as EJ turns on the shower. She turns back, and her gaze is sympathetic but unflinching.

  “Get in.”

  “
We need to call the police,” Charlie whispers.

  “First, you get in.”

  EJ makes a quiet noise when Charlie doesn’t move, and stalks across the bathroom. She reaches around her and tugs the zipper, and the gorgeous designer dress covered in blood and puke falls to the ground.

  EJ gasps. Charlie’s hand are moving, fluttering over her bare belly, and hips, but there’s no way to hide. Not this.

  She’s wearing a strapless peach bra and matching panties, and bruises.

  So many fucking bruises.

  “Charlie?” EJ whispers, green eyes searching the other woman’s.

  Charlie shakes her head, hiding behind a veil of dirty hair, and EJ clenches her teeth. Nods once. The bathroom is filling with steam. “Get in. Take as long as you need.”

  Charlie listens. Maybe she is too tired to do anything else. But she strips off the bra and panties, avoiding her friend’s furious eyes and steps into the shower.

  The water runs red with the blood coming off her, and there, hidden by the shower curtain and the water, she finally cries, shoulders shaking in silent sobs as EJ scoops up the discarded clothing and slips out.

  *

  She can’t quite grasp how things got so fucked up so quickly. Not Tre being dead—she expected that in a vague sort of way. Tre had lived with the kind of pompous arrogance that always ended badly. The only surprising thing about his death was how fucking stupid Charlie had been about it.

  The fucked up bits of the evening started with the unexpected phone call, took a pit stop in Charlie’s breakdown in the living room, and ended in the bathroom with a wash of bruises.

  She stands away from the blood and for a long time, all she can do is stare at Tre.

  Wallace Bryce Talbert the Third had grown up in Savannah, and often summered in Charleston with his wealthy, socially powerful grandmother. He’d caught Charlie’s eye the summer she graduated high school before Vandy whisked her away.