Slay

  Contents

  Also by Laurelin Paige

  Foreword

  Introduction

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Also by Laurelin Paige

  Let’s stay in touch!

  About Laurelin Paige

  Copyright © 2019 by Laurelin Paige

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Editing: Erica Russikoff at Erica Edits

  Proofing: Michele Ficht

  Cover: Laurelin Paige

  Beta Readers: Candi Kane, Melissa Gaston, Amy “Vox” Libris and Roxie Madar

  Also by Laurelin Paige

  Visit my website for a more detailed reading order.

  * * *

  The Dirty Universe

  Dirty Filthy Rich Boys - READ FREE

  Dirty Duet: Dirty Filthy Rich Men | Dirty Filthy Rich Love

  Dirty Sexy Bastard - READ FREE

  Dirty Games Duet: Dirty Sexy Player | Dirty Sexy Games

  Dirty Sweet Duet: Sweet Liar | Sweet Fate

  Dirty Filthy Fix (a spinoff novella)

  Dirty Wild Trilogy: Coming 2020

  The Fixed Universe

  Fixed Series: Fixed on You | Found in You | Forever with You | Hudson | Fixed Forever

  Found Duet: Free Me | Find Me

  Chandler (a spinoff novel)

  Falling Under You (a spinoff novella)

  Dirty Filthy Fix (a spinoff novella)

  Slay Series: Slay One: Rivalry | Slay Two: Ruin

  Slay Three: Revenge | Slay Four: Rising

  The Open Door (a spinoff novella)

  First and Last

  First Touch | Last Kiss

  Hollywood Standalones

  One More Time

  Close

  Sex Symbol

  Star Struck

  Written with Sierra Simone

  Porn Star | Hot Cop

  Written with Kayti McGee under the name Laurelin McGee

  Miss Match | Love Struck | MisTaken | Holiday for Hire

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  DID YOU KNOW…

  This book is available in both paperback and audiobook editions at all major online retailers! Links are on my website.

  If you’d like to order a signed paperback, my online store is open several times a year here.

  For Candi and Melissa,

  who champion with soothing words

  and kindly, but surely,

  lured this beast out from inside me.

  Introduction

  Long ago, I learned how to be made of nothing.

  Trained my body to convert every experience, every encounter, every observation into emptiness before metabolizing and processing them inside of me. I run on nothingness. I feast on void. My fuel is black and cold and nothing, nothing.

  Every breath I take in, the oxygen transforms into wisps of oblivion. Feel it as I exhale (feel nothing). Hear the sound of nothing as it exits from my lungs and circles like a fog around me.

  Flesh and bone and blood no longer are my makeup. I’m stacks of naught, packed into my being at the molecular level. My skin, my muscles, my organs, my cunt—cells of non-existence, masquerading as bits of human. Touch me, I’ll feel nothing. Bruise me, fuck me, love me—nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Everything within me has been altered and adapted.

  There’s nothing real anymore. Nothing solid. Nothing worthy.

  Only pieces of limbo. Only nihilism. Only nothing.

  Nothing wrapped securely around my core, an impenetrable seal.

  Nothing jammed in all my spaces, crammed in tight, protecting the last embers of a once-blazing heart. I’m barely aware of its beat anymore through the layers of vacuity, barely feel the steadiness of its pulse.

  I hear it sometimes, muffled by the padding of nothing squeezed around it, tick-tick-ticking like a metronome. Like a faraway clock. Like the click of a turn signal. Like my uncle’s pocket watch.

  Like a bomb counting down to detonation.

  Like a bomb, waiting to explode.

  One

  “You really screwed this one up, Celia. Hudson is officially out of reach. You let him slip away, and now everything you dreamed of is over.”

  I rolled my eyes, even though my mother couldn’t see my face through the phone. I was tired of this speech. I’d heard a variation of it at least three times a week since my childhood friend had gotten married over two years ago.

  As for my dreams being over...well, it had been a long time since I’d imagined myself ending up with Hudson Pierce. That was my mother’s aspiration, not mine. Not anymore.

  There wasn’t any use in arguing with her. She found some sort of comfort in lamenting over her daughter’s failures, and this particular lament was one of her favorites.

  “From what Sophia says, he’s even more devoted now to this marriage than he ever was, and I’m not at all surprised. A man will leave a wife easily enough, but when she gets pregnant, forget it. He’s sticking around.”

  I leaned my head against the window of my Lyft car and sighed. “How is Sophia these days?” It was a manipulative redirection on my part. It disgusted me that she pretended otherwise, but Hudson’s mother wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with Madge Werner like she once was.

  Pity.

  That was also my fault. Hudson’s fault too, not that either of our mothers would ever concede that fact.

  I knew my tactic worked when my mother huffed loudly in my ear.

  Just as I’d thought. My mother hadn’t directly spoken to Hudson’s mother about any of this. Likely, she’d picked it up through the grapevine. A friend of a friend or overheard it at a charity luncheon. What else did the rich bitches do these days to keep themselves entertained?

  My own methods of amusement certainly weren’t of the popular variety. But they were definitely more fun.

  Or they once were, anyway. Even The Game had lost its spark in recent years.

  “I don’t even know why I bother talking to you about this,” my mother droned on. “It’s your own fault you’re not with Hudson.”

  There was his name again. Hudson. There had been a time when it hurt to hear it. A time when immense agony had wracked through my body at the two simple syllables. That was a lifetime ago now. The bruise he’d left was permanent and yellowed with age, and I pressed at it sometimes, saying his name, recalling everything that had transpired between us, just to see if I could provoke any of those emotions aga
in.

  Every time I came up empty.

  I owed that to him, I supposed. He’d been the one to teach me The Game. He’d been the one to teach me how to feel nothing. How to be nothing. How ironic that his life today was happy and complete and full.

  Good for you, Hudson. Good for fucking you.

  My mother was still yammering when the car pulled up at my destination. “You don’t even realize how much you gave up when you let him get away, do you? Don’t expect to do better than him. We both know you can’t.”

  Indignation pierced through my hollow cocoon; anger in its varied forms was the one emotion that seemed to slip in now and again. My mother didn’t know shit about me, no matter how close she perceived our relationship. Couldn’t do better than Hudson? God, how I longed to prove her wrong.

  But I didn’t have any ammunition. I had nothing. I wasn’t dating anyone, not really. I had my own interior design company that barely made enough to pay expenses, and I didn’t even take a salary for myself. I was a trust fund baby for all intents and purposes, living off my father’s business, Werner Media. And while all of my choices were purposeful, I couldn’t exactly explain to my mother that the majority of my time and energy was spent on playing The Game. There was no one who would understand that, not even Hudson anymore.

  With no comeback, my best bet was to end the call.

  “I’m at my meeting. I have to go now, Mom.” My tone was clipped, and I brusquely hung up before she could respond.

  I gave my driver a digital tip, threw my cell phone in my bag then climbed out of the car. It was hot for early June. Humidity hung like thick cologne, and it clung to me even after I entered the lobby of the St. Regis Hotel. I was running late, but I knew this building from a lifetime of living among the upper crust of New York, and I didn’t have to stop to ask for directions. The meeting rooms were a quick elevator ride up one floor to the level that had originally been John Jacob Astor’s living quarters. The hotel had been kept in the elegant chic design of his time, and, while pompous in its style, I found the luxurious decor both timeless and elegant.

  Since I was in too much of a hurry to admire the scenery, I headed straight to my destination. Inside the foyer for the Fontainebleau Room, I paused. The doors were shut. Was I supposed to knock or walk right in?

  I was already digging out my phone to text my assistant, Renee, when I noticed a man in a business suit sitting behind a small table at the opposite end of the foyer. He seemed to be deeply focused on the book he was reading and hadn’t yet seen me. I didn’t know what the man I was meeting with looked like so I couldn’t say if this was him or not.

  Cursing myself for not being more prepared, I approached him. “Excuse me, I’m Celia Werner, and I’m supposed to—”

  The man barely looked up from his reading when he cut me off. “I’ll let him know you’re here. Have a seat.” He propped his book open by placing it face down on the table and then stood and circled around it to the door of the Fontainebleau. He knocked once then opened it, disappearing inside.

  Somewhat baffled at the curt greeting, I scanned the foyer and found a bench to sit on. I took out my phone and shot a text to Renee.

  Why isn’t this guy meeting me at the office again?

  I rarely took initial client meetings anywhere else. When Renee had first told me about the appointment, I’d assumed I was being hired by a committee or a board of directors and that they’d requested to interview me as part of a general meeting of some sort. It made sense in that case to go to them rather than the other way around. But something about the vibe of the situation made me start to doubt my first assessment. If there was an entire committee behind the closed doors, why had the man who greeted me said “him”? And wouldn’t I have heard voices or people noises when the door had briefly been open?

  While I waited for Renee’s response, I pulled the client file from my bag and looked over the papers inside. The usual client questionnaire was on top, but, unlike usual, it was completely blank. I flipped to the next page, a background report. I ordered these on any client I considered taking on, not so much as a safety precaution, but more out of flagrant curiosity. My best games had been inspired by skeletons of the past, and I never passed up an opportunity to play.

  I had no intention of taking on this particular client, however. In fact, I was only meeting with him so I could turn him down. The reason was laid out in bold in the first line of his information sheet: Edward M. Fasbender, Owner and CEO of Accelecom.

  I didn’t know much about Accelecom and even less about Edward Fasbender, but what I did know was that the hardball strategies of his London-based company were the primary reason Werner Media had never been able to penetrate the UK market. My father would be livid if I ever worked for his competitor, but he might be delighted to hear me tell him I’d rejected their offer. Proud, even.

  At least, I hoped he would be. God only knew why I cared so deeply to please the man, but I did. It was ingrained in me at an early age to cater to the men who held dominion over me. My father was the lord of our household. If I could make him happy, I was sure my mother would stop her eternal lamenting. If I could make him happy, maybe I could be happy.

  It was a ridiculous notion, but it had deep roots inside me.

  I scanned through the rest of the report on Fasbender. Married very young. Divorced for several years. Hadn’t remarried. Two nearly grown children. His father had also owned a media company that had been sold when Edward was a teen, just before both his parents had died. He’d built Accelecom from practically nothing, turning it into a multibillion-dollar company before he’d even turned forty-two, which would be in September. It was all pretty standard information, but, with years of experience, it was enough to help me create a solid picture of what kind of man Edward M. Fasbender was. Driven, calculating, strategic, monomaniacal. His dating history was too sparse for him to be attractive. He likely had to pay for his sex and didn’t mind doing so. Egocentric and misogynistic probably as well, if I knew this kind of man, and I did. It would be fun rejecting his offer of employment, as shallow as the move might be.

  My cell buzzed.

  RENEE: He insisted on meeting at the hotel. You approved that before. Is that still okay?

  I’d been eager to be amenable, I remembered now. The more congenial I was in the outset, the more surprising the rejection.

  It’s fine. Did he say what the project was going to be?

  Something office related, I suspected, since there was a committee involved. Oh, that was going to be even more fun, turning him down in front of people.

  RENEE: He said he’d only discuss it in person.

  I added controlling to the list of character traits. And he definitely had a small dick. There was no way this asshole was packing.

  Before I could ask Renee anything else, the door to the meeting room opened and the man from before stepped out. “He’s ready for you now,” he said, again making it sound like Mr. Fasbender was alone.

  I shut the file folder, but didn’t put it back in my bag, too eager and intrigued to bother with the hassle. I stood up and walked to the door of the Fontainebleau. As soon as I crossed over the threshold, I paused and frowned. Every time I’d been here in the past, the room had been set up with several round tables, banquet style. This time there was only one long boardroom type table, and though there were several chairs lined up around it, no one was sitting at them. My gaze swept the space and knocked into the one other person in the room—a man who appeared to be the same age the report had given for Fasbender.

  But if this really was Edward Fasbender, I had grossly fucked up on my assessment of him. Because this man was not just attractive, he was overwhelmingly so. He was tall, just over six feet by my guesstimation. His expensive midnight-blue tailored suit showcased his svelte build, and from the way his jacket sleeves hugged his arms, it was obvious he worked out. He was fair-skinned, as his German name suggested, but his hair was dark and long at the top. While it had
been tamed and sculpted in place, I imagined it floppy in its natural state. His brows were thick, but flat and expressionless, his eyes deep-set and piercing, lighter than my own baby blues, though maybe it was his periwinkle tie that brought them out so vibrantly. Whatever the reason, they were mesmeric. They made my knees feel weak. They made me catch my breath.

  And his face!

  His face was long with prominent cheekbones, his features rugged without being worn. He was clean shaven at the moment, but I was sure he could pull off scruff without looking gritty if he tried. His lips were full and plump with a well-defined v at the top. Two faint creases ran between his eyebrows making him appear intensely focused, and the slight lines that bookended his mouth gave him a permanent smirk, even when his mouth was just at rest.

  Though, he might have meant the smirk in the moment. Considering the way I was standing frozen gawking at him, it was highly likely.

  I shook my head out of my stupid daze, put on an overly bright smile, and started toward him, my hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Celia Wern—” Before I could finish my introduction, the heel of my shoe caught on the carpet, and I tripped, spilling the contents of his file all over the floor.