HauntingAdeline {1}

C7

The Manipulator

“You need to get out of the house," Daya concludes, staring at me with fear
and distress swirling in her sage eyes. I just told her about my mom’s visit
yesterday.
By the look on her face, I can tell that she’s well and truly scared for me.
"I need to finish this manuscript," I argue, my thoughts straying to the massive
plot hole I’ve fallen into. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I press the
proverbial Life Alert—I can’t get up. I’m going to have to roll out my whiteboard
and sticky notes to map out the plot tonight, so I can figure out how to solve the
issue once and for all.
Sometimes I wish I could just simplify my books and call it a day, but then I
wouldn't have the readership I have.
"Uh uh," Daya snipes, shaking her head at me. "Get ready. We're having a girls
night."
I slump, the whiteboard and sticky notes going poof. But I don't argue. I'm an
indie author, so I publish when I'm ready to. I hardly set deadlines for myself
because the pressure suppresses my creativity. I can’t write when I’m too ridden
with anxiety to get the book done by a specific time. And as great as my readers
are, there’s always that pressure to get the next book out.
Of course, Daya knows this and now wields this knowledge as a weapon.
Dick.
Groaning, I let her hurdle me up the stairs and into my bedroom, my eyes
immediately finding the mirror and chest—they always seem to do that now after
finding out what really happened in here.
Those two pieces feel like beacons in the room now, glaring at me as if to say I
know who killed her.
It doesn’t matter that I slapped some black paint on them. The bones are still
the same.
The walls and floor are smooth black rock now, with white ceilings and large
white rugs to lighten up the room. I also installed a heating system in the floors.
Otherwise, getting up in the middle of the night to pee and stepping on ice-cold
floors would just be cruel and unusual punishment.

I decided I love the sconces in the hallway so much that I wanted a few in my
room, too. Placed artfully on the wall my bed is against, surrounding a massive,
beautiful art piece of a woman.
Straight ahead of the bedroom door is my favorite part—the balcony. Black
double doors open up to a terrace that overlooks the cliffside. It has a way of
making you feel small and insignificant when you’re standing before a sight as
beautiful as that.
The entire house has now been modernized, though I kept most of the original
style. The sconces, checkered floors, black stone fireplace, and black cabinets,
just to name a few. Most importantly, I kept Gigi’s red velvet rocking chair.
I'm living in a Victorian gothic dreamhouse.
"We're going to make you look hot and find you a delicious man to take home
tonight. And if the stalker comes around, he can kill him, too."
I roll my eyes. "Daya, it's hard to find a man these days that can even fuck
right. You think I'm going to find a man that will kill in my honor, too? That's
cute."
"You never know, baby girl. Crazier things have happened."

The bass pumping through the speakers vibrates throughout my body. My
black, ripped skinny jeans cling to my curves, and the plunging low cut red tank
shows off my ample cleavage along with the small glistening beads of sweat
between my breasts.

It’s fucking hotter than Hades’s ballsack, and the alcohol pumping through my
veins doesn’t help matters.
For a solid hour, Daya and I stick close to each other and dance. We both
briefly separate to dance with a few men, but I tend to tire of the groping hands
quickly and always find my way back to my best friend.
Suddenly, a heavy presence crowds into my back, his hands sliding around my
waist and pressing in close. A whiff of spearmint and whiskey invades my senses
right before I feel his breath on my ear.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his spearmint gum stinging my nose now that
he’s closer. I wrinkle my nose and turn my head to see a tall, attractive man
leaning over me.
He has strawberry blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, and a killer smile.
Just my type.
I grin. “Why, thank you,” I respond sweetly. Social situations nearly send me
into hibernation, but I’ve always been skilled at flirting. Too bad most times, I
can’t stand to do it.
Men have a unique way of killing my mood every time I come within ten feet
of them.
“Come upstairs with me,” he yells over the music. His voice isn’t aggressive
by any means, but it’s not a question either. It’s a demand that leaves little room
for argument.
I like that.
I cock a brow. “And if I don’t?” I ask.
His smile widens. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
The other brow joins its twin, hiking halfway up my forehead.
“Really,” I say demurely. “What kind of plans do you have for me that I’d
regret missing out on for the rest of my life?”
“The kind that leaves you naked and sated in my bed.”
“Bitch, let’s go already,” Daya cuts in. My head turns to her, but I feel the
man’s eyes linger on my face, caressing my cheek like a feather tracing across
skin.
Daya is standing in front of us, impatiently waving her hand towards the stairs
that lead to the second floor. She must've been eavesdropping, and she doesn't
look the least bit ashamed.
When we both just stare at her, she huffs and rolls her eyes.
“We get it, you’re hot for each other. And she doesn’t go anywhere without me.
So, let’s go already.” She waves her hands at us more urgently, shooing us
towards the stairs.
The man laughs and seizes the opportunity provided by my dear best friend.
Grabbing my hand, he leads me towards the black metal stairs at the back of the club.
But not before I shoot Daya a narrow-eyed look. One which she dutifully
cackles at.
Upstairs is for VIP members only. The stairs lead up to a balcony that
overlooks the entirety of the club. It’s where the rich, important people drink,
staring out at us like a bunch of bugs trapped in a science experiment.
The atmosphere up here is darker, denser, and has a vibe that has my instincts
flaring red. Walking up here feels like sticking my head into a hornet’s nest. And
the bastards won’t stop stinging until they tire of you, or you’re dead.
Four men are draped across a black leather booth formed in a half-moon. In the
center is a black marble table occupied by several glasses of amber liquid, along
with a few crystal ashtrays. There’s barely a hint of color in here, the décor
reminding me of Parsons Manor.
A man eyes the both of us with a predatory and calculated gleam. He looks
eerily similar to the man who has his hand wrapped around mine. Same
strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes, though this one appears younger and a tad
more wicked.
The other three men are equally handsome, all sporting the same dark and
dangerous type. One man appears European with white-blonde hair, fair, pale
skin, and sharp angular features. His hooded icy blue eyes are locked on Daya as
hers sweep across the small, intimate room. His gaze is already tracing the dips
and curves of her body hungrily. My instincts spike again, telling me to pop the
man’s eyes out of their sockets and throw them over the balcony.
The remaining two men are twins with tanned skin, dark hair and eyes and
killer bodies. Their suits can barely contain the muscles threatening to rip the
expensive fabric at the seams.
One twin has long hair tied back in a bun and several rings adorning his
fingers, while the other has his hair cropped close to his head and a diamond nose
ring.
All four of them could easily ruin my life. And I would be hesitant to stop
them.
“So, you finally grew the balls and got her,” the blonde man says, grinning
devilishly at me. He’s the only one out of the four that isn’t eye-fucking us.
Honestly, he looks like he’d be far more interested in eating babies for dinner.
There’s a dark aura around him. If I could guess, the unsettling atmosphere up
here derives directly from him. His energy sprouts and festers until it makes you
feel like you’re trapped in a room breathing in black smoke.
“Quiet, Connor,” the man says from beside me, his tone low and full of
warning.