Wanted Box Set Read online

  Wanted

  Karpov Kinrade

  Liv Chatham

  http://KarpovKinrade.com

  Copyright © 2019 Karpov Kinrade/Liv Chatham

  Cover Art Copyright © 2019 Liv Chatham/Karpov Kinrade

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  Published by Daring Books

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  First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-939559-62-3

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  Book License Notes

  You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

  This Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold 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, please return to your Book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About Karpov Kinrade

  About Liv Chatham

  Also by Karpov Kinrade

  1

  I'm recording everything that happens in the very likely scenario that my whole plan goes to shit and all that's left to tell the story is this journal. If you're reading this, I'm probably dead, and it's too late to do anything about any of it now. But, at least, you'll know the truth. And I won't hold back. I won't try to make myself look better than I am. I have no delusions about myself.

  I began the day stealing from a department store and ended with lying to my new boss.

  I'm no saint, but I'm far from the worst that exists. No, there are much worse specimens of humanity than me. They're the ones to be afraid of and the kind I'm trying to get away from. But I don't think it's going to work.

  After all, nothing in my life has ever worked.

  I'm not trying to wallow in self-pity. I’m just being honest. Some lives shine with a kind of preternatural luck that follows them around. Others live under a perpetual storm cloud.

  My life is the latter.

  But who knows, maybe the weather is turning in my favor for once.

  You never know, right?

  * * *

  Steal a little and they'll jail your ass, steal a lot and they'll make you queen. It's a Bob Dylan quote with my personal spin on a few of the words. And it's all I could think about as I walked casually through the exit of the department store with new as-yet-paid-for dress and shoes shoved into my oversized purse.

  It was only a borrow. I'll return them tomorrow.

  However, stores generally frown on you taking their shit without paying, so I schooled my face into a bored housewife expression and causally browsed a few items lining the back of the store on my way out.

  Why do they put shit past the checkout stands? You don't pass them when you come in, only when you go out, and by then you've already paid. What's the point?

  Fortunately for me, the store alarm didn't go off. No one tried to stop me. In fact, one of the employees nodded his head in my direction with a smile as I left. "Have a nice day," he said with a wink. "And come back again soon."

  He looked college-aged, with a sweet grin and kind brown eyes.

  "Thanks," I said blandly, not giving into the temptation to flirt back.

  He was cute and it could have been fun, but he looked too innocent to handle the skeletons piling up in my closet. And by the time this blistering summer is over, there will be more.

  I sighed deeply once I was safely in my beaten-up old car, doors closed and locked, air conditioning drying the sweat dotting my skin.

  I studied my hands gripping the steering wheel as they shook, my fingernails bitten down to stumps, my cuticles in need of some serious TLC. You'd think this was my first time stealing, the way my heart fluttered in my chest like a hummingbird on crack.

  Closing my eyes, I steadied myself with a few deep breaths.

  A sharp knock on the window startled me back to the present and scared the living hell out of me.

  It was the cute store guy.

  Jesus.

  I rolled down my window and put on my best 'polite but I'm in a hurry' smile. "Is something wrong?"

  If I got caught, I'd be ruined, and I wouldn't be the only one to suffer.

  He held up a cell phone. "I think you left this in the store?"

  With a relieved sigh, I took it from him, feeling twice the idiot. How could I be so stupid? "Thank you. It must've fallen from my purse."

  This time, my smile was one hundred percent genuine. Losing my phone would have been Bad-with-a-capital-B.

  He glanced inside my car, towards said purse, but fortunately, I’d zipped it shut, the stolen items safely tucked out of sight.

  "Hey, so, I was wondering…" he began.

  I inwardly cringed, just knowing what was next. Could I start the car and hightail it out there fast enough? Would I?

  Then, he stunned me with a nervous slur of, "Would you like to grab a coffee after my shift?"

  I blinked. "Thanks, but I have a job interview today." This was it? Really?

  His smile faltered. "Oh, right. Well, good luck."

  Before he could ask for my number, I rolled up my window, waved, and then drove off.

  A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed him standing there, a bit forlorn. He watched my car leave the lot before he turned back toward the store.

  “Your lucky day, bud,” I muttered under my breath.

  Boys like troubled girls before they know what kind of trouble they're really in for. I’d just saved him a shit ton of heartache.

  My phone binged just as I pulled up to the curb and parked in front of my house. I already knew who it was, and a blanket of depression dropped over me as I checked the messages, proving myself right.

  Are you ready?

  With shaking hands, I replied.

  Yes.

  Good.

  I sat there, waiting for the three dots to blink, signaling a reply, but when nothing appeared on the tiny screen, I felt the anger beginning to bubble. That was it? That was all I was going to get? I mentally screamed a few choice words at the sender of the texts, then grabbed my purse and headed into the house.

  I heard the sound of an argument even before I set foot on the cracked concrete steps. One kick of the screen door later, I was in the living room, tense and ready.

  My father, a tall brute of a man with beady eyes, a rounded stomach fed by liquor, and meaty fists, towered over my little brother, wielding a broken beer bottle like a knife.

  "You do as you're told,” he was shouting. “Or I’ll shove this so far up your ass you'll be eating glass and shit for a week.”

  My little brother stood there, trembling, with his thin forearm protecting his face. At fourteen, he was small for his age and much preferred reading books to fighti
ng.

  As my father lurched forward to backhand my brother, I shoved Jeremy aside and stepped between them.

  The blow jarred my teeth and pain exploded across my cheekbone. If there weren’t any broken bones, I’d be shocked. I choked, clutching my face as tears stung my eyes.

  My dad's eyes widened. "What are you doing, you little slut?” He snarled, sending spittle straight at me. “You’re nothing but a worthless whore." He stumbled to the couch to grab another beer.

  Now was my chance, before he could wind himself up for another strike, a strike I sure as hell wasn’t going to be around to take. I grabbed Jeremy by the arm and dragged him out of the room to our shared bedroom at the end of the hall before that blow could land.

  Once locked in the safety of our shared bedroom, I checked him over quickly. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

  Jeremy shook his head, but tears glistened in his large eyes.

  My heart broke and I pulled him close, hugging him tight. "I'll get us out of this. I promise." And I would get us out, by any means necessary, even if it involved me dying.

  My little brother’s shoulders shook in mute sobs, silent as they must be in this house. We are the children of the silent pain. I grimaced. If nothing else, Children of the Silent Pain would be a cool band name.

  When he calmed down, I released him and wiped his face with my sleeve. "I have to go, but you should climb out the window and stay at Rick's tonight. Go to school with him in the morning."

  Jeremy’s caramel eyes widened. "But won't you get in trouble if I leave?"

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself,” I said. We are twelve years apart, and I only came back to this hell hole to rescue him. Well… mostly for him. I had a plan. Kind of. I shoved him toward the window. “Now, go!"

  He nodded and detoured to grab his backpack, then returned to the window and climbed out.

  I exhaled and turned my attention back to my father. He had the TV in the living room on as loud as it could go and now, he was bellowing at the game.

  Hoping he’d remain distracted, I crept down the hall and snuck into the kitchen with as much stealth as I could muster. After snagging a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and grabbing the ibuprofen, I scuttled back to my bedroom and locked the door.

  Suddenly drained, I collapsed on my bed and then slid to the floor, pressing the frozen peas to my cheek.

  I tried to cry.

  I wanted to cry.

  Hell, I needed to cry.

  But… nothing. I felt dead inside—and that scared me more than anything.

  I needed to feel. Do something to numb the pain that shriveled my soul, made me feel like I was a shell of a person, already dead, a ghost of myself haunting my own life.

  I felt under my bed until my fingers tripped over the small silver box that held a razor blade and alcohol wipes. Still numb, I pulled it out and flipped open the lid. It took only a second to clean the blade, and then, I was pulling my shorts up as far as I could, eyeing the small white scars crisscrossing my inner thighs.

  With a deep breath, I pressed the metal blade into my flesh, gently at first, then with more pressure until I felt the skin brake under that sharp edge of pain.

  Crimson blood spilled and dripped down my pale leg.

  Relief surged through me, almost as if the seeping blood released the poison lurking in my soul. I sighed as the tears finally began to fall.

  I'm not proud of it, and I’m not writing for sympathy. But I promised I wouldn't paint myself in a false, flattering light, and I'm keeping my word—at least, in this instance.

  Carefully, I cleaned myself with an alcohol wipe, applied a bandage, and then shoved the container back under my bed.

  It was time to move on. I had an interview. I opened my purse and grabbed my ‘borrowed’ outfit, a conservative navy-blue, button-up dress with matching slip-on ballet shoes. Everything fit to a T and minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the image reflected there.

  “Not bad,” I murmured. No, I looked damn good. Striking, even. The color brought out the blue in my eyes and complemented my dark hair and fair skin. Of course, I could still see the tattoos on my arms, but as practically everyone had them these days, I didn't see how that would be a problem.

  Then, I glanced at my cheek and winced outright at the dramatic array of reds and blues standing out against my white skin in a nice bruise despite the ice and meds.

  It took a good twenty minutes to do my makeup, thanks to the purple spreading over my cheekbone. I flinched each time I dabbed on the concealer, but finally, I’d finished and even I couldn't tell I'd been hit. I just had to keep my fingers crossed that my eye wouldn’t swell. Then, there’d be no hiding my injury.

  After one last dab of lip gloss, I followed my brother's path and shimmied through the window. I made it back to my car and then I was off again, before my father knew I'd even left.

  It was dusk by the time I reached the address for my interview. I switched off the engine and settled in my car, preparing to wait, as instructed, until full darkness descended.

  I didn’t mind. It gave me the chance to study the mansion I’d be cleaning, provided I got the job, of course.

  The place was massive, by far the largest and remotest estate in and around our small town. A forest of trees blanketed the mansion from the road and you had to drive down a long, winding driveway before you’d even catch a glimpse of the slate tile roof. It wasn’t until the last bend, when you were upon the place that you got a good view.

  Other than the ornately carved tall, black double arched front door, the mansion was entirely white with stately columns that gave it a Roman villa vibe. Fountains graced the lawn and a meticulous garden of red roses lined the walkway from the drive to the front door.

  For a place that had been vacant forever, it looked remarkably well kept. The man who’d bought it last month was a mystery in our small Northern California town. No one had seen him, but everyone had heard the rumors of his wealth and that he’d paid for the place in cash. With that kind of money, he had to be dripping with diamonds. He'd have to be to buy the place. Few could afford it, and those who could didn't want it after… well, after everything went down. A real estate agent is required by law to disclose when a murder's been committed on a property. That typically doesn’t help sell a place.

  I sat in my car, tapping a beat on the steering wheel as I watched and waited. Finally, the sun sank out of view and when the full moon hung over the treetops, fully visible, I checked my phone and scanned the job details one last time.

  Job details. Check. Like I hadn’t had them memorized already. Well, there was nothing left to do but get the show on the road.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I exited my car and walked to the entrance. After lifting the brass knocker and giving the door a sharp rap, I rubbed my sweating palms against my thigh without thinking. Damnit. I’d just left a dark wet smudge on the borrowed dress.

  I drew a deep breath and glanced around. I'd been here, at the house, once before, but it wasn’t a night I liked to recall.

  Fortunately, the door opened, sparing me the memories, and I straightened my spine and tried to act like someone else. Someone poised, polished, and well-spoken. Someone who deserved to scrub the toilets of the filthy rich.

  A tall, rail thin man wearing a traditional butler uniform greeted me. "You must be Miss Kassandra Blackwood," he said as he ushered me inside. "Welcome."

  "Thanks… er…thank you," I replied, belatedly polishing my speech so I could later polish the silver here.

  My phone buzzed in my purse, and I scowled at the annoyance.

  The butler’s eyes flicked down, but he said nothing. Instead, he escorted me to a small room a few doors to the left of the foyer and offered me a seat on a plush leather chair. "Please, wait a moment. The Count will be right with you."

  Count? I raised an eyebrow. Had he said…Count? Just who the hell was this guy? I scanned the room assessi
ng the value of the rugs, furniture, and knickknacks in a cursory calculation. It didn’t take long to determine that, most likely, just one of the knickknacks on his shelf was worth more than my whole life. I couldn’t imagine being so wealthy that you’d spend insane amounts of money on painted eggs or some shit just to display them behind locked glass doors. It was vulgar.

  But who was I to judge? After all, I didn’t have two pennies to rub together.

  Then, the butler returned, and I stood as he smiled and gestured for me to follow. "Right this way."

  He led me through gilded hallways with more molding than wall, and past rooms filled to the brim with priceless antiques. Obviously, the Count had changed a lot about the house since I’d been there last.

  Finally, the butler escorted me into an office lined wall-to-wall with leather-bound books. The room was dark and very Gothic, without windows. The only sources of light were the ornate iron candelabras, each boasting five beeswax pillar candles. Strange. The room was an odd choice considering the rest of the mansion had electricity.

  Under any other circumstances, I'd have hightailed it out of there. The whole place screamed sexual-assault-that-gets-thrown-out-of-court—that is, if it ever made to court in the first place with me. After all, they’d take one look at how I'm dressed and then another at my past and conclude I’d clearly asked for it.

  Yet the more I inspected the place, the more the highly tuned street-smart side of me kept telling the rest of me to calm down, that it wasn’t getting any real rapey vibes.