Catfish (Illusive Duet Book 1)

  Copyright 2020 © Hazel Grace All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the reader of this ebook ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Cover design: Black Widow Designs

  Proofreading: Dom’s Proofreading

  ♫ Back in Black — AC/DC ♫

  “He’s unavailable, sir. Can I schedule you an appointment?”

  I blink once at the young receptionist who looks haggard as hell. Curled blonde hair, puffy bags under mocha brown eyes, they stare at me expectedly over the high-topped desk to give her an answer to her question—it’s no.

  “Where’s Rebecca?” I grumble, adjusting the cuff links on my suit. She smiles at me; genuine, real, naive.

  Rebecca used to wear the same “every day is beautiful” look until she learned exactly how this world worked.

  How Holden Montgomery worked.

  You either let him fuck you, or you get fired. That’s if he deems you worthy enough to pop a Viagra and wait for the aftermath.

  Poor Rebecca, well, now she looks like a homeless person coming into the office. Her clothes are wrinkled from lack of sleep, misery dawns her pretty face, and she appears like she’s on her last straw before she loses her shit.

  The outcome of living and dealing with this shit all day.

  “It’s her day off,” the blonde receptionist beams with a smile. “It’s her sister’s birthday and she’s in—”

  “And you must be new.” A line appears between her brows due to my not giving a fuck but then quickly softens.

  That’s the difference between me and Montgomery—he gives a shit because he wants to bang you. I give a shit because I want you to give me my answers and stop talking.

  “I am,” she replies. “It’s my second week.”

  I roll my shoulders, stepping towards the generic counter to let my blue eyes shamelessly land on her skin-tight dress that looks like she got on clearance.

  The plum purple cotton clings to her decent size tits and hips, outlining her crossed legs that are now nervously bouncing under the desk. A stray piece of string from her hem is coming from the seams, further alluding to how much she’s penny-pinching on Holden’s dime.

  “I’m going to cut you some slack, Miss...”

  “Mila…just Mila, please.”

  “Mila.” I let her name roll off my lips, using my deep octave to brush along her skin. “I usually don’t schedule appointments with the mayor. Rebecca and I have...an understanding of my itinerary and—”

  “I apologize, Mr—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Mila,” I repeat, keeping my chest off the inexpensive laminate of the desk. “If you don’t know who I am, you definitely don’t belong at the front desk of the mayor’s office.”

  She stares at me like a deer in headlights. A pretty little fawn that I’m going to run over if she doesn’t get the fuck out of my way.

  “Well, I…” More leg bouncing.

  “Mila, focus,” I cut in with a ridge to my tone. “You seem like a good girl, probably come from a nice family. Have a dream of becoming something more than a receptionist to a man who doesn’t acknowledge you when he enters and leaves his office because your perfume is too heavy and you look like you’re still in middle school. I’ll give you two options—kinda like This or That. You only get to pick one.”

  “But Mr. Montgomery said he doesn’t want to be disturbed, and I can’t have the elevator unlocked until he—”

  “Two options.” I hold up my index and middle finger. “I’m going to go up to his office, and you’re going to unlock it. Or I’m going to send you back home to your parents because you won’t work another day in this town or state after the shit I’m capable of. Understand?”

  More widened eyes.

  Her body starts to tremble slightly.

  And I’m losing my fucking patience.

  “Understand?” I repeat. With a shaky nod, she reaches over her desk while I turn on my heel, already knowing where to go.

  Like I told the newbie receptionist, I’ve been here too many damn times. Each one with a promise from Holden to stand by his side of the agreement. That the next time I see him, I’ll get what’s owed back to me. That his banker wasn’t in the office and how he hates to wait because, apparently, it’s a concept to go inside himself and speak with a bank teller.

  Fool me once, shame on you.

  Fool me twice, I show up at your safe haven unannounced with one hell of an attitude problem.

  My Louis Vuitton shoes clack along the cheap tiled floors of Holden’s lobby, passing the inexpensive pleather seats and microfiber couches. Giving the illusion of a humble man who uses all of his funding and time to help the well-being of Bridgeport.

  A man who doesn’t blow his paychecks and the state’s treasury on casinos, first-class vacations, and expensive women he likes to fuck on Tuesdays and Fridays.

  A man I’ve saved on several occasions.

  But we’ve reached the end of my rope for the final time. My train waits for no one. My time has already been wasted enough with Montgomery, and his excuses. It’s time to lay down my retribution and exhibit that I’m not fucking around.

  Inside the elevator, I key in his code to take me to his penthouse office that’s made to look like it’s for maintenance to the basement. Obviously, people don’t know about it because it’s completely furnished to the nines—overpriced furniture, artwork picked out by a pricey interior designer, and a big-ticket view of Bridgeport.

  A man that needs to make up for his age and that fact that he’s not as “handsome” as he used to be and losing the popular vote of the people daily with his lack of governing.

  When the elevator door opens, I’m greeted by a large seating area of brown leather couches, dark hardwood floors that glint off the sunlight penetrating through the windows, and Holden pounding a busty blonde against a wall.

  The soft ding of the elevator doors doesn’t bring him back to reality, something he should be cautious of. Anyone who could pry their way into his penthouse like I just did with the tongue-tied receptionist downstairs could use one of his side hobbies as leverage against him.

  He doesn’t need that type of coverage.

  Especially when he’s up to run for mayor again next year and the Bridgeport Bulletin has been lacking a victim for their front page.

  Even more importantly, or at least you’d think, Holden can’t afford any more health problems. He’s already at high risk for heart disease and just dug himself out of a potential suicide only last year. One of his old side pieces tried to blackmail him by speaking to a local blogger about their Tuesday sessions. I can only imagine the amount of money he had to fork out to keep it out of the media and away from his wife and two kids.

  No folks, Holden Montgomery is a fucking idiot.

  The man is so self-centered that not even sound could summon him to the dangers of being found fucking someone who wasn’t his doting wife. He’s presumptuous and vain as all hell.

  Did I mention he was a dumbass?

  I look away, l
oudly clear my throat, and pray to God that the stupid son of a bitch hears me. The last thing I signed up for today was seeing his dick.

  A small shriek from a woman’s mouth reverberates through the air, along with Holden’s “shit,” as the rustling of clothes starts to commence.

  “What the fuck, Lockwood,” Holden chides, followed by the clanking of a belt.

  I stay grounded to my spot, eyeing the liquor cabinet to see if there’s anything drinkable other than the cheap vodka that he tends to stock his bar with.

  “You’re not returning my calls,” I convey, walking towards his mini-bar to get me through this conversation. “I was getting worried.”

  He scoffs. “Don’t bullshit me, it doesn’t fit you.”

  “On the contrary.” I grab a glass and hear Holden mumble a few words to his latest interest before stepping in my direction. I don’t turn around to face him until I hear the elevators close safely behind me. “If something happens to you, then I don’t get my money back.”

  Holden appears at my side, the heavy smell of aftershave assaulting my nose as he eyes me like a father about to lecture his son.

  “I told you I’d have it for you at the end of the month,” he bites out, buttoning the top of his shirt.

  Holden continues to stare, so I give in, peering over at him to be matched with brown eyes under bushy, dyed brows that scream I’m a greedy, persistent bastard.

  Should’ve thought about that when you called me, prick.

  “That was last month,” I deadpan. Returning my attention to my previous goal—whiskey.

  “Three weeks ago,” he remarks. “Learn how to count.” My hand snatches his throat, putting enough pressure on it to make my first point.

  I’m not going to stand here and be scolded by a motherfucker whose indebted to me. He might have a few decades on me, but I don’t plan on taking a once good political career and shitting on it because I preferred young blondes to my wife and a fantasy of being one of the assholes in Ocean’s Eight by stiffing me.

  Holden’s wrinkled hands seize my forearm, digging into my sleeve with his fingertips. When that doesn’t work, he starts beating on it with his fist, demanding for me to let go.

  Yeah, no.

  “Perhaps you should be more specific on a date next time,” I offer, watching his face redden.

  “Let me go,” he strains, using his fingers to dig deeper through my suit.

  I take a sip from my glass, peering over the rim at his wide-set eyes of dark brown and face that has seen over sixty years.

  My father used to talk about Holden Montgomery as a god. A man who wanted to rid Connecticut of the lower class and tax the rich to even out the ways of life. Who had dreams of a revolution to bring money into middle-class families and bring down the crime rate.

  You know, the normal shit people want to hear.

  It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realized the pedestal that my father put him on was a facade. A way to make me think that high-profile figures were who they advertised themselves to be. That dreams, my dreams, could be accomplished with the help of people like Holden.

  Wrong.

  “Lockwood,” Holden chokes out, thumping on my arm for me to tap him out like we’re in a WWE match.

  I don’t fake beat the shit out of my rivals. I either rip your whole world in half, or I have the media fuck you up the ass for everyone to see.

  “Or maybe,” I continue slowly, taking my sweet ass time as I point my index finger at him. “You should stop banging pretty little things who you can barely afford and—”

  “Don’t worry about my—” My grip tightens into his windpipe.

  Second warning, don’t interrupt me.

  “When you borrow my money to support and feed into your little dalliances and not pay me back, it is my fucking business. When you use the money you were given to help people, it is my fucking business.” I put more pressure on his throat to make my next point perfectly clear. “And when you say something that you don’t follow through with, well...that’s making this a whole lot harder for you, Holden. You know I’m not a patient man.”

  He taps my arm again, signaling that he gets my point. “Okay. Okay...Lockwood, I got it.”

  My eyes constrict. “Do you though? I remember telling you that if I had to hunt you down, it wouldn’t be a pleasant discussion.” He tries to nod, but my hand doesn’t give him much room to work with.

  “Yes…I remember.”

  Probably not.

  I can feel his rapid pulse hit the pads of my fingers, reminding me over and over again that I have to deal with men and women like Holden on a daily basis. That this road I’m on will be a winding and tedious trip, which will require a lot of deep breathing and a therapist in the near future.

  “I just want to make sure,” I note, bringing my glass back up to my lips. “That what you remember and what I remember are the same thing.” Taking a sip of the bitter, cheap liquid, I let it scorch my throat and right down to the pit of my stomach.

  Leaning closer to him, I smell his untimely scent and the smell of cigars on his clothing. “I want my fucking money, Holden. I saved your ass from jail time when your treasurer reported a million missing from the state’s assets. Do you know what kind of bullshit I had to pull to make that money appear again?”

  Holden’s head shakes, still tugging on the sleeve of my suit.

  “I’ll save you the boring details,” I allude before finishing off my glass.

  “I got...I have it,” Holden croaks.

  “Sure, you fucking do.” My fingers release him, prompting his hands to immediately go to his neck.

  Bending forward, Holden gasps and tries to catch his breath while I peer down at him with the same distrust in my eyes.

  I’m obviously not above choking out an older man. Nor do I give a fuck if it takes him a good five minutes to recover. The big bad wolf of Bridgeport thought he still had fear laced in his name and that I wouldn’t come running for what was owed to me.

  His glory days were over thirty years ago. That’s when his name meant something—powerful, devoted, worthy of his position.

  Holden Montgomery is now a washed-up brand of old and finished in the world of politics.

  He just hasn’t read the memo yet.

  “You wield your power around like a naive fool,” I snarl, glaring at the top of Holden’s bald spot as he still cowers, his hands on his knees. “Power you could use to make a difference. But you’ve been in this game too long, old man. It’s time to step down.”

  “You’re not any better than me,” he retorts through staggered gulps of air. “You feed off people to gain your goals. You hustle your victims. At least you do it yourself and without muscle.”

  “I feed off dumb motherfuckers who need an out. You’re a dime a dozen and became a victim when you made yourself one.”

  Holden sluggishly straightens, mirroring me through slitted eyes. “So, we’re not so different.”

  I slowly shake my head. For such a high-profile figure, I’m determined Holden got his law degree out of a cereal box. That he’s becoming senile because I’m not my father.

  I don’t forget.

  I don’t compromise.

  I don’t forgive.

  “Don’t compare yourself to me,” I recite. “We’re not even in the same wheelhouse, let alone financial status.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Holden sneers through his teeth. “I wish I would’ve never gotten involved with you. Your father said you were a good kid—kind and giving. I guess the last part was right.”

  The corner of my lips heave into a smirk. “I might be an asshole, Holden, but I’m also your future president of the United States.”

  ♫ Strangers In The Night — Frank Sinatra ♫

  “I drank wayyyy too much,” Chase slurs, stumbling into our suite as soon as I open the door. “But that tequila, dude, holyyyy shit.”

  “And it’s only nine at night.” I watch his legs try to support and b
alance his weight while I lock the door behind me. One small gust of air, and he’s going to be having a conversation with the floor.

  “First night.” He fist pumps the air. “Our first night of fucking freedom from the swells of privileged dickheads and gold-digging skanks.”

  I throw our key card on the nearby small table. “Calm down, killer. Those kinds of people pay for trips like this.”

  Chase chuckles and slaps his hands together. “Too late.” I suddenly catch him under his arms as he trips over nothing, almost face-planting into the coffee table.

  “C’mon, brother—” I wrap his arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get you into your room.”

  “The couch is fine.” He looks around the space for it when it’s right in front of him.

  “You paid for a room and a bed, so that’s where you’re going to sleep. I don’t want to hear you bitching about your neck being fucked up when we’re finally on vacation.”

  He tsks. “Vacation? You can only be gone for three days. I can’t even tire my dick out in three days.”

  “Good for you.” I start to guide him down the narrow hallway towards our rooms while he continues to bitch about my life.

  “You’re the fucking governor, bro, don’t you make the rules?”

  “I have a schedule.” My best friend huffs, tripping once again on his own feet and almost taking me with him.

  “Alright, alright, we’ll sleep in my bed tonight.”

  “You’re going to be sleeping in your bed tonight. I’m not into you like that.”

  “That’s what I said,” Chase rebukes at his doorframe, fumbling to find the light switch that isn’t there.

  Readjusting him, I usher him through the doorway of the large bedroom and flick on the lights for him.

  The shade of aqua blue blinds me for a moment, my own line of tequila shots impairing my vision before it slowly starts to focus again.

  The room is a beachy theme of seashell decor and old fishermen’s nets on the walls to make some cool-looking pieces. White silk sheets dawn his bed with contrasted red pillows. Freshly cleaned mahogany hardwood floor with Chase’s suitcase still zipped up off to the side and nothing else has been touched.