Vanity, p.1
Vanity, page 1
part #5 of Villainously Romantic Retelling Series
Vanity
Mary Martel
Vanity
A Villainously Romantic Retelling
By: Mary Martel
Copyright © Mary Martel 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Mary Martel, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.
1st Edition Published: November 2019
Cover Design by: Everly Yours Cover Design
All Rights Reserved: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction in whole or in part, without express written permission by Mary Martel.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Other Works by Mary Martel
The Ariel Kimber series
Brothers of the Flame
Love Potion
Blood Magic
The Ties That Bind
Tyson (Novella)
Good Witch, Bad Witch (Short Story)
Black as Midnight
Rain (Novella)
Dash (Novella)
The Dollhouse Series:
No Mercy
Lost Faith
Dark Beginnings
Broken Pieces
Last Sins
Willow
Mercy Motorcycle Club:
Pretty Ugly
Pretty Complicated
Pretty Painful
Two Princes:
My King
My Queen
The River Ash Wolf Pack:
Ashes
Embers
Kings of Torment Motorcycle Club:
Killing Time
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. Nova
2. Olliver
3. Nova
4. River
5. Nova
6. Talin
7. River
8. Nova
9. Vega
10. Olliver
11. Nova
12. Olliver
13. Nova
14. Nova
Epilogue
15. Worthy - Villains Book 6
Chapter One
Nova
Better Off With Him Being Dead
"I don't care how much it costs," I muttered, as I crossed my ankles under my desk, admiring my fantastic high heels. Black with a red underside and a six-inch heel. They'd been a gift from myself to myself, as all my gifts were wont to be.
"Just find him," I snapped in a louder voice. I could afford it. I could afford anything.
The room remained silent, and I didn't need to look up at the gentlemen sitting across from my desk to know they were upset with the tone I'd taken with them and my attitude. Too bad, boys. I was footing this bill, therefore this was my show.
"Yes, ma'am," the bigger of the two replied in a gruff, masculine voice.
He'd been the only one to actually speak so far, while the other had remained oddly mute and ever watchful. I didn't trust that one. He saw too much. Not that I could really trust either of them. Trust was earned and never freely given.
They were both dressed in black button down, long-sleeved shirts of a nice enough quality to blend in with the rest of the crew in this building, and jeans that were so far out of place that the shirts on their backs looked ridiculous, even though they were the only thing about them that fit in here. Their feet were encased in black combat boots. If they were in my employ for something other than what I needed them for, I would likely fire them based on their attire alone. Appearances needed to be kept in my line of work, it held suspicions at bay.
Given that they worked for an investigative firm owned by the bigger of the two, River, I believe his name was, they could wear whatever the hell they wanted. Just so long as they got the job done.
And, hey, what was up with him not giving me a last name?
"We'll do our best, Ms. Crimson."
At that proclamation, they both pushed up from their chairs and stood, drawing my attention away from my shoes.
I blinked. And blinked some more.
Damn.
Now why had I thought the other was small in comparison? Just because he wasn't sporting big, gym muscles? He was by no means small. Over six feet tall, with muscles that were compact and not showy like the other one. He had dark green eyes that were filled with an intelligence that had me looking away as soon as I'd made contact with him. His hair was shaved down to a no-nonsense do that suited his seriousness—Vega, I believe River had called him when they'd arrived and introductions had been made.
River was just as tall as his buddy, hitting the mark way over six feet. His hair was a dirty blond that he'd spiked up top in messy disarray. His eyes were blue, clear, and very, very empty of anything. A look I imagined he'd either worked very hard at perfecting, or he'd been through some serious shit in his time and gotten good at hiding his emotions because of it.
Either way, I didn't know why I took notice, because I certainly didn't care.
Nope, didn't care in the slightest. The problems of others had absolutely nothing to do with me. Usually, I didn't even have to think about it, other people just didn't factor in on my radar.
And did I mention he had muscles? Lots and lots of delicious muscles.
Good Christ, my libido had taken control of my body, and if I didn't get laid soon I was going to screw the wrong person and end up fucked in a way I didn't like. Literally.
I liked to do the fucking myself, thank you very much. After they'd signed an NDA and had a visit with my personal physician to make sure they were STD free.
I currently had three such men on my payroll. And yes, you read that right, I said payroll. Things were so much easier that way, tighter. Emotions could be very messy and men could often grow attached with bright, shiny dollar signs in their eyes or the need to conquer that which had not been conquered before.
Men. Fucking animals or gold diggers, the whole lot of them.
River, I assumed it was him because the other refused to speak in front of me, cleared his throat and I closed my eyes in frustration. Were they still here? What the hell was I paying them for?
"Yes?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head, then turned and walked away and out of my office. The heavy door closed behind his buddy, Vega, who'd followed him out like a good little shadow.
It didn't take a genius to figure out that River with no last name didn't like me much, but I didn't care. Not a whole lot of people actually did like me and I didn't care about that much either.
My mother and father had died in a horrible car accident when I was in my early teens. They'd left their attorney in charge of caring for me, their massive estate, and the various bank accounts and trust funds I had become the sole beneficiary of upon their deaths. He'd been a kind man, though a distant one. My parents had been much the same.
I'd been on my own for a very long time and had grown to enjoy my own company above others. I never tried to take advantage of myself. I never tried to use me for money or social gain. I never cheated on me. I never lied to myself. And I never, not ever, let myself down in any kind of way.
That was more than anyone else could ever offer me.
Except for that one person all those years ago.
His name had been Olliver Ralph Sullivan, and I couldn't seem to forget him.
Some horrible part of me hoped he was dead, that way his ghost could finally let go of me and I'd be free of him at long last.
God, how I desperately wanted to be rid of him. He constantly took up space in my head that I should never have allowed him to rent out in the first place.
If those investigators found a dead body instead of a living, breathing one, would I finally actually be able to let him go? And, worse case, what the fuck was I going to do if they found him still breathing?
Yeah, I would be better off with him being dead. There was no room in my life for another living person, the dead took up too much space and the majority of my thoughts. My vanity and ego took up what was left.
Chapter Two
Olliver
Some People Got What They Deserved
Something caught my foot, taking me out of the world inside my head. I'd been too focused on my thoughts to pay attention to where I was going, and I lost my balance. I clutched the book under my arm tightly to my body, too focused on protecting it from the mud to worry about putting my arms out and protecting myself from said mud or, more importantly, bodily harm.
I landed hard in the mud on my side with a grunt and a wet plop. Mud splashed all around me, spraying far and wide, my clothes soaking through from the puddle I now lay in. The book, which was more precious to me than my body, was now clutched to my chest, covered by my arms and mostly safe from the dirty, wet mess.
I hadn't fared so well myself. And my shoulder burned to the point of agony, my body's way of letting me know something was seriously wrong. My hip screamed in pain, but it was nothing in comparison to my shoulder. I was going to have a wicked bruise on my hip when I looked at it later.
None of that mattered. Pain was normal, bruises were normal, and with enough time both would fade. My books were the only things in my possession that were precious to me and I'd yet to
"Awwww," a male voice drawled from above me. "He looks like he's going to cry. Doesn't he? Guyyysssss, check him out. The poor baby is gonna cry."
I cringed, knowing exactly who stood above me and why I'd landed almost face first in the mud. These assholes never had anything better to do with their time than bully me and push me around.
I didn't get it, we were all poor kids from the wrong side of the tracks here in town, and I thought we should have banded together instead of being against each other. Alas, that was not the case. They hated me because even though we were from the same side of the tracks—that being the wrong side, obviously—that was where our similarities ended.
My clothes were clean and well cared for because I made sure to keep them that way. They may have been from a secondhand store, but that didn't mean they looked used or resembled rags in any way. I had a peculiar way of dressing that others didn't understand, therefore they mocked me for it. The button ups, bow ties, and slacks didn't sit well with the other teenagers, and they let me know I was a freak for dressing the way I did. Most of them questioned my sexuality while taunting me because of the clothes I chose to wear.
There had always been a small part inside me, a part I always battled against, that raged at myself to be normal, to be like everyone else. That was the part of me, the little boy I tried to kill, the one who still cried when he was in pain. I hated that part of myself and I hated it even more that it still existed no matter how hard I tried to kill it.
The difference between my clothes and their secondhand clothes, as in passed down from sibling to sibling and full of holes, and wear and tear, was something that made it drastically clear that no matter where we came from we were far too different to ever be friends. Or so they said. There had been a time, albeit a lonnnggggg time ago, where I had wanted nothing else and would have done anything for a friend, to have one to call my own.
"What's that you've got in your hands there, loser?"
God, please, just walk away. Wasn't it enough I was already lying down in the mud? Why must there be more added to my humiliation? Why couldn't they just walk away?
"Get it from him."
The book was ripped from my arms without a struggle on my behalf. I'd learned the hard way not to fight them. The beatings were much worse if I fought. If I didn't fight, they usually left me before causing too much physical pain. Then I could just go home and get it from my father and not have to take a double beating.
Wasn't life just so much fun when you were me...
When it came down to it, was the book really worth taking a beating for? Some days the answer to that question was a resounding yes. Other days it was always a no. Guess it just depended on the day.
Today, it was surprisingly a no. My body still ached from the beating I took yesterday after I'd gotten home from school. I wasn't quite ready for another one just yet.
"Ohhhh," the main instigator drawled. "What, no pictures? What the hell kind of book is this anyways?"
And here he called me a loser? What a joke.
I rolled over onto my back and sat up in the puddle. The pressure on my hip eased some and I knew the extent of that hurt would only be slight bruising. The pain in my shoulder screamed at me, though, even sitting up with no pressure on it, and I worried there was something really wrong with it.
There was no insurance and my father would never be cool with spending his beer money on taking me to the doctor. I hoped there was still Tylenol left over in the bottle in the bathroom cupboard or I might be forced to steal another bottle from the drugstore, and that usually made me feel sick to my stomach.
I pushed myself up to my feet and was super proud of myself when I only slightly listed to the side. Let's hear it for having earned a high pain tolerance through years of hard-won suffering.
My entire left side, from ankle to neck, was covered in wet mud and dirty rainwater. I think even part of my hair was covered in it as well.
Despite being dirty as all get out, I still straightened my crooked bow tie out of a desperate need to set something about my appearance back to rights. It was the only thing about my life I usually had control over, and despite being dirty, I wasn't about to release my hold on that minuscule bit of control that gave me happiness in my life. It was the only thing outside of my books that did.
"Where do you think you're going, loser? We're not done with you yet."
Completely over it, I sighed and stepped out of the mud puddle.
My shoes were soaked all the way through and it was the one thing in my closet I didn't have an extra pair of. I'd have to carefully wash these then air dry them. It would likely take forever.
For the first time in a long time, I found myself getting extremely angry. I usually kept my emotions on a tight leash, not allowing them to surface. They were pretty much useless, wasted energy on my part, because they did me no good. Getting angry never stopped me from taking a beating.
I shook my head and started to walk away from the growing crowd of horrible teenagers that were circling around us like rabid dogs looking for something to sink their teeth in to.
I was that something, it usually turned out that way.
I felt the air shift behind me before something hit me in the back of my head. I stumbled forward, tripping over my feet, and dropped to my knees in the damp dirt. My hands went to the back of my head. My hair was soaked through from the dirty water from the puddle and I hoped that was the only reason there was wetness back there. Head wounds bled a lot, not to mention they scared me more than other wounds.
I pulled my hand away and felt tears of relief sting the backs of my eyes when there was no blood to be seen on my fingers. If there was no blood, then it couldn't be that serious, right?
I didn't need to turn around to know they'd thrown my poor, abused book at me and it'd been what had hit me in the head. But, since it was now within reach and I was even angrier than I'd been seconds ago, I decided right then and there I wasn't going to leave without it. I didn't care if the ink had bled through all of the pages and the words were no longer legible. I wasn't losing anything else to these retched excuses for human beings. Not even another shred of my pride, not that I had much of that left to call my own at this point. They'd stripped me of most of that a long time ago.
I turned to face them and calmly bent to pick up the book they'd taken from me, likely destroyed, and then used as a weapon against me. I tucked the book back under my arm where it belonged.
I stared down my main attacker, always the instigator, and smirked at him. He was older than me by a year, and half a foot shorter than all of his friends. He had the little man's complex, something that would plague him for the rest of his days, making him a complete and utter asshole to the whole world around him. I felt bad for whatever poor woman or man he'd con into spending their life with him, because it wasn't going to be a good one. His dark hair hung down around his shoulders in curly, messy disarray that needed a brush ran through it five years ago. I had heard some girls in passing in the hallways at school once talk about how much they loved his long hair. They said something about him being a rebel and how he looked dangerous. Dirty and unkempt was more like it. Some people had no good sense.
"Do you even know how to read, Andre?" I asked quietly, silencing the entire crowd with my words. "I heard being illiterate was part of the reason you were held back so many times in elementary school. The other reason, of course, being that you're that big of an asshole."
