Over a thousand pages.
That’s the size of the file Jackson sent, every page filled with text messages between Aalyiah and Alex. I skim through the first fifty or so, catching keywords, and I quickly realize I won’t stomach this without numbing my mind a little.
Kicking my shoes off, I grab a crystal glass, fill it halfway with the finest bourbon and sit in the loveseat with the laptop on my knees. I start from the top, hoping that easing into it from their earliest messages can acclimatize me for when the content gets too disturbing. Like a frog in boiling water.
Nothing worse than reading through your sister’s sexting… I fucking hope it doesn’t get to that.
Alex: Hey, it’s Alex from the concert. Did you get home okay?
Aalyiah: Hi! Yes, I did, thanks. How about you?
Alex: Safe and sound. Got time for coffee tomorrow?
Aalyiah: Sure. Where and what time?
It took her less than a minute to agree and I can imagine her excitement. I grind my teeth, squeezing the life out of my glass; if it was any cheaper I’d be picking shards of it out from between my fingers. I should’ve known about him. I should’ve fucking realized she was dating. I should’ve paid more attention.
She just met this guy and agreed to meet him again straight away?
Did I teach her nothing?
It seems she forgot everything I ever told her about being careful. The world is full of psychos and my world, her world, is infinitely worse.
Alex could’ve been anyone. A mole planted by Rhett’s rivals, someone tasked with kidnapping her for ransom, favors, or revenge. God knows Rhett has many enemies, many of which hold personal grudges.
She should’ve been more careful. She was this close to getting kidnapped by Blaze Noretto Jr. a few years ago, after Rhett executed Blaze’s father. To ensure Aalyiah’s safety, he paid Blaze a hefty sum as compensation, but Noretto’s crazy; who knows what he’ll do when the money runs out?
She should’ve called me immediately so I could investigate the guy. I would’ve flown to Columbus to threaten him with a slow, painful death if he even thought about hurting my little sister.
But she did none of that. What’s more, she even kept the fucker a secret from Rhett for months.
I keep reading, keeping an eye on the dates. One page after another, the texts change from friendly to nuanced and flirty. Days go by, but not nearly enough, unfortunately.
One week and shit got real.
Seven fucking days.
Aalyiah: Can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. When can I see you again?
Alex: Whenever you want, sweetheart.
Aalyiah: Now. I can sneak out.
Alex: I don’t want you to get in trouble…
Aalyiah: I won’t, I promise.
He didn’t try convincing her it wasn’t a good idea. She was barely eighteen, a daughter of a mafia man, always in danger.
Rhett should’ve had a bodyguard shadowing her every move. He should’ve looked after her better, but… he didn’t and Aalyiah snuck out of the mansion.
Judging by the next texts, she stayed out till five in the morning doing God knows what.
I down the rest of my drink, powering through a few more pages. Another week and they’re texting almost constantly. Hundreds of messages exchanged late into the nights.
I keep scrolling, my heartrate gaining pace as I watch their relationship evolve. I’m almost done with my second drink when what I dreaded most appears.
A month. That’s how long my innocent little sister waited before letting that fucker put his hands on her.
I grip the laptop with both hands, my fingers digging into the plastic. The idea of any man close to Aalyiah drives me crazy. Every protective instinct inside me goes haywire.
He touched her.
He fucked her.
I’m so unhinged it takes me three tries before I can read through the entire exchange.
Aalyiah: Tonight was beautiful. I love you.
Alex: I love you too. Rest, sweetheart. You might be sore tomorrow, so try to spend the day in bed, okay?
Aalyiah: Can I spend it in your bed?
Alex: You won’t get any rest if you’re in my bed. I can’t wait to feel you again, sweetheart.
Aalyiah: Yes, please.
Alex: I’ll pick you up after work.
My head hits the back of the chair, hot wrath burning my veins. Alex is lucky he’s dead. If he weren’t I’d drag him through hell and back. He’d beg me to kill him.
I’m sick to my stomach thinking how that scumbag used Aalyiah for personal gain. He pretended to be something he wasn’t to make her fall in love with him, then used her feelings to infiltrate my father’s organization.
I’ve barely scratched the surface, less than two hundred pages in, but I can’t go any further without bursting into flames. I slam the laptop closed, set it aside and gulp the rest of my drink, tapping my signet ring against the glass.
I need a break. A distraction. Something to sooth the wrath burning me from the inside.
At the flick of a metaphorical switch, Hailey hijacks my thoughts.
Hailey and the hundreds of carefully assembled molds I’ve tried to shove her into… none of which fit.
Hailey and her fucking perfect ass, pursed lips, and big steel-blue eyes staring at me with awed fear.
Fuck, this girl’s messing with my wiring.
Guilt sprouts in my chest, beating like a second heart. None of these depraved thoughts are welcome.
None should ever be entertained.
I need my head full of answers, not idle daydreams of how Hailey looks under those cardigans and what I could do with her. I need her diary, full of memories, questions, and possible answers.
◆◆◆
I wait until it’s late enough that most everyone will be fast asleep. The campus is silent as I exit my room, taking light, cautious steps down the stairs.
Sounds that wouldn’t be noticeable during the day are amplified in the deathly silence. Every thump of my boots and rustle of my uncomfortable jeans reverberates in the empty corridor, threatening to wake the whole building.
Even my heart beats louder than a bass drum through the Coachella sound system.
It’s an illusion. I’m moving toward the exit almost soundlessly but knowing my route sharpens my instincts.
I push the tall, heavy wooden doors open and step outside, greeted by the cool evening air. Moving along the walls to avoid the camera, I make my way toward the girls’ dormitories. All the lights are off in the building, except one, two floors up from Hailey’s.
Beneath the layer of perfume, lotions, and scented candles inside the girl’s dorm, a musty smell fills the air as I ascend the first staircase, each creak underfoot unnaturally loud.
I was here a few hours ago, perfectly certain I’d find my way back to Hailey’s room without a hiccup, but the long maze of corridors seems to have a mind of its own.
Left, then right… I second-guess each turn, nearly jumping out of my skin when I round a corner and see an indistinct figure coming straight at me. Pausing for a beat, I watch the flickering lights cast a long, slender-man-type shadow across the walls.
It’s only the janitor, but a chill zaps me when he walks past like I’m not there, his boots making almost no sound. I bet he knows every creaking floorboard in this place.
Shaking off the last ten seconds, I head down the corridor, take a left, and immediately turn left again, finding the second staircase. It’s narrower than the first, the steps worn from years of use.
My heart pounds in my chest, an undeniable tension in the air, as I reach Hailey’s door. The faintest sounds are magnified tenfold as I examine the lock, my own breathing a loud whisper in my ears.
I’m not new to breaking and entering. I’ve done this a thousand times, but it feels different tonight.
More nerve racking.
Not only because getting caught will bring consequences, but also because a small part of me is fighting this idea. I’m already betraying what little trust I’ve earned from Hailey.
If she wakes up and spots me, I won’t regain that trust, irredeemably complicating my task.
Taking a deep breath, I take a knee, pulling out what will act as a stopgap tension wrench and hook pick from my back pocket: bobby pins.
I’ve broken into many places in my life, but never exercised this much caution. My breaking and entering technique involves a heavy kick and watching the door snap off its hinges. Getting spotted or waking up the tenants doesn’t normally matter. They’re dead men walking, minutes or hours away from meeting their maker.
But not tonight.
I can’t draw any attention. Hailey can’t ever know I’ve done this, so I watched dozens of DIY lockpicking videos online. Then I went hunting for bobby pins since they seemed the easiest option on a campus full of women studying performing arts.
I already instructed Broadway to send over a lockpicking kit. For now, I found a stash of bobby pins backstage in the theater and shaped them as per the instructional video.
Now, recalling what I learned, I maneuver my DIY tools within the lock, nudging the first pin upward.
Click.
Not as hard as I expected.
There’s a rhythm to it: find a pin, push it up, feel it set, and move on. Seconds stretch into eternity while my focus narrows, tuning out everything save for the pins.
Kicking the door down would be infinitely easier.
Click.
I suddenly have a new appreciation for Broadway, master lockpicker. He could get this done inside ten seconds with his eyes closed.
Click.
Halfway through, a distant noise rocks my concentration. Like a wail, or maybe a moan. Either way, my hand jerks ever so slightly and a pin drops.
Fuck.
I hold off from voicing that fuck aloud, somehow reining in my annoyance, and start over. Ignoring the noises coming from above—definitely moaning, and getting more frequent—I focus on the lock.
Click.
One by one, all the pins set into place like small victories.
The makeshift tension wrench turns, the door unlatches, and I slowly empty my lungs. It’ll be a fucking nightmare doing this every time Hailey adds more full pages to her journal.
I grip the handle, pushing the door open, my heart climbing up my throat as I wait for the hinges to groan or creak. Given the age of the building, I’m surprised when the door glides open without the faintest noise, letting me inside.
Unfortunately, not before I catch movement at the top of the narrow staircase and come eye to eye with the fucking janitor soundlessly moving up like he’s floating rather than stomping through the passageways. His face doesn’t betray an ounce of emotion as he watches me slowly pushing the door closed.
My only option is to plaster what I hope passes for a self-indulgent smirk onto my lips and shrug, like I’m here on a booty call.
The janitor doesn’t say a word, doesn’t acknowledge my presence in any way, moving past Hailey’s door as the gap closes completely. I guess I’m not the first guy he caught sneaking into a girl’s room at night.
Given the moans and guttural, male grunts piercing the air every few seconds, I’m not the only man in the building tonight.
Safely inside the room, I lean against the closed door, surveying Hailey’s private space bathed in the pale moonlight pouring inside through a gap between the curtains.
I avoid glancing at the bed for all of ten seconds, before I stare at Hailey’s sleeping form, her long blonde locks a veil surrounding her pretty, pillow-nuzzled face.
She’s on her side, one leg bent over the comforter, her microscopic PJ shorts rolled up, revealing the brain-melting, soft curve of her ass.
This girl is made of wet dreams.
A sudden onslaught of erotic ideas diverts my attention from the task at hand. Instead of finding her diary and snapping pictures of it in the bathroom, I stare at the sleeping beauty, adjusting my hard cock.
This is wrong.
I shouldn’t be here, perving over an unconscious girl. I should summon a little patience and wait until Hailey trusts me enough to show me her diary by choice.
There are, however, two issues with that plan.
One: I have neither the time nor the patience.
Two: coaxing her trust means building a relationship. A friendly relationship… I don’t want to be her friend.
I don’t want to be her anything.
Apart from maybe the reason she’d scream my name while I powered inside her. Just once. Nothing lasting. One wild night of corrupting and dirtying the pretty girl until she’s a walking embodiment of the image I conjured before I met her: a cum-covered, needy, boyfriend-stealing slut.
Yes, one night would be enough.
Maybe I shouldn’t be here, but who knows how long it’ll take until she willingly shares her memories with me?
I’d rather not spend any more time here than absolutely necessary. I miss my life: my shiny Corvette, clothes, and evenings drinking fine whiskey and watching the dancing throng of ripe bodies in Bravo. I miss the nights filled with torture, blood marking my hands, and the screams of the men who wrong me.
I miss good, hard fucking with nameless women.
That last one is an easy fix on campus, but if Hailey found out I was sleeping around, I’d be in a losing position.
The fucking sacrifices I’m making for this task are unheard of. It’s a good job the stakes are worth it.
The longer the evidence is out there, the bigger the chance someone undesirable stumbles upon it. Whatever Hailey’s scribbling in her diary might be crucial.
The smallest detail could be the answer I need, even if she doesn’t know the question.
