Fatal Beauty

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, and 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.”