THE TEST: Secret Society Dark Romance (4Horsemen Series Book 1) Page 2

  I twisted the note in my fingers over and over again at my desk, waiting for the phone to ring—waiting for someone needing directions or one of the elitists I worked for ordering their avocado toast.

  It was the same note I found on my bedside table, like some fucked-up business card with a stamped symbol in red, bleeding at the edges. I didn’t know what it stood for after wracking my brain for the last 47 straight days.

  The words were typed out, like from an old typewriter that read: You can only find me with your eyes closed.

  Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean!

  In my dreams? In the dark?

  Poetic? Sure.

  Clear? No.

  I knew my best friend well enough to know that curling her hair before work elicited groans. She would snooze her alarm a few dozen times before she found the motivation to look how we were expected to here.

  This note had motivation all over it.

  Not Abigail’s thing.

  This was the only clue I had that connected me to her going MIA. I refused to mourn any more people in my life.

  I was the front receptionist at Clave International Holdings. My day consisted of sitting, smiling, answering the occasional phone call, and now also endlessly thinking of where the hell Abigail could be.

  She was the reason I got this job after scooping up every ounce of temp work I could to make rent. We met outside of the senate's office the day after news broke he was feeling up the staff, making the Me Too movement take off like a rocket. Suddenly, women weren’t afraid to speak up, and our voices were getting louder.

  I was maxing out credit cards and contemplating some really questionable ways to make money. Selling my dirty panties, escorting, Ponzi schemes… I wasn’t against much, morally bankrupt or not, if it kept me from being the kind of homeless I was back then.

  Counting nickels and dimes to make a dollar for a cup of noodles wasn’t exactly the life my parents wanted me to have.

  I wasn’t your average brunette with amber eyes. I had thick skin, and there is nothing too fragile about me. My appearance was pretty apparent upon first look—pink hair, uterus, and Peta pins on whatever I was wearing. I wore boots, even to work, and a scowl that looked displeased and uninterested.

  I was a walking protest.

  Against traditional anything.

  When Abigail got me the job here at the Clave, I was over the moon until I figured out that these elite assholes and I don't mix—like, at all. The four men we worked for were referred to as the Horsemen, for less obvious reasons—ones I was still figuring out. They were pretty much the Backstreet Boys or One Direction minus the one less talented member.

  Dead weight.

  These guys were anything but dead weight. They were all special in their own ways.

  Specially immature: Khaos.

  Specially creepy: Bowen.

  Specially dangerous: Grimm.

  And there’s always the lead singer with an inflated ego… that’s Vic. He was traditionally handsome with a sharp jaw. He was very easy on the eyes and had a real sense of authority that I wanted to hate, but every time he was around, I felt myself sit up taller, like he was going to punish me if I didn’t.

  Also, I wasn’t against whatever punishment he had for me.

  It didn’t matter what member of the lame-ass boy band they were, because now I took pride in being the stone in their overpriced shoes.

  Abigail wouldn’t want anything to change in her absence. She was all about living vicariously through me and my non-existent filter.

  She was always the more quiet, more polished, more mousy one of us.

  Abigail was so routine and cautious that she would even text me when she left the gym at night, just to ease my mind. She wouldn’t just disappear without a single word for this long.

  Flipping the note over and over between my fingers, I studied every edge of it looking for anything I missed, when I heard some talking and heading my way. With a small eye roll, I tucked the note under my keyboard and slapped a smile on my face for the incoming boy band.

  It was their dad’s hard work that kept the company successful, yet everyone gave them some of the credit by falling at their feet.

  I didn’t care who they were. I cared about people’s actions and motives. I had been studying Grimm’s features every time he decided to show up to work to see if he even cared that Abigail was replaced at his desk by someone who wasn’t my best friend.

  Someone who wasn’t the girl I knew he secretly liked.

  Someone who isn’t really missing, just missing right now.

  With my fake smile in place, I was placid as I tossed out, “Good morning.” The standard greeting I was forced to give everyone, even my number one suspects.

  Vic stopped walking with the others, and I knew I was in trouble. My fake smile tripped some kind of wire he had set down to trap me. He was the only one who stared at me longer and harder than anyone else.

  I couldn’t tell if he was taking inventory of me or seeing something in me that I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t even be sure if he was conquest or war. Grimm and Bowen were the only ones easy enough to figure out—death and famine.

  Clearly, if you were going to give them some lame-ass boy band sounding name the rest of the world was going to make educated guesses as to who is who.

  All I knew was that I felt deprived, anarchy brewing under my skin, and his harsh glare made me hostile without any real reason.

  He strutted over in his black on black suit, hair perfectly messy, and his shoes dressy and uncomfortable. I could tell he wanted to be here as much as I did right now.

  “Miss Fritz, right?” You’d think that was a normal question, but I could hear the other end of it ready to bite me in the ass.

  “Yes, most people call me Jus.”

  He leaned against the desk between us in some attempt to intimidate me. We both knew my name didn’t matter at all.

  Stolen territory and taking the war was ringing in our tones, echoing through the pause sitting between us.

  It’s hard to intimidate a woman who’s best friend is missing, and I’m blaming one of your best friends silently in my mind.

  “Why would people do that?” I have heard his voice angry, demanding, even the tone, where he’d make his secretary cry on a weekly basis—just not this one. No, his tone right now was casual and, dare I say it, smooth.

  If he wasn’t involved in my best friend's disappearance, then I would be swooning.

  “Because Justice doesn’t sound like a name…” I didn’t know how else to answer but honestly.

  “Sounds like you were named Justice for a reason, Miss Fritz. Maybe ponder that while you wait for my breakfast to be delivered.”

  Dick.

  I want to tell him to get his own damn breakfast, but the more my retort soaked in, I was consumed by it being my job.

  His words echoed in my head long after he tapped the glass top of my desk with his pointer finger and walked away.

  My response didn’t matter at all, even if I got it out.

  He was part of the inner circle at Clave. Everyone was beneath him and he wore that proudly.

  It was the same way I wore my brash personality: with pride. People needed to see how I carried being an orphan, because my parents fought the good fight. I wasn’t going to roll over and play dead.

  Abigail would joke constantly about that being the reason why I wasn’t assigned to someone’s desk, like she was. No one wanted to deal with my back talk, my judgmental eyes, or how unapologetic I am for not kissing the ground these guys walked on.

  Without us, they wouldn’t have food, know their schedule, be able to manage their time, or frankly, be successful.

  They should be kissing the ground we walked on.

  Sitting back down, I caught Vic still staring at me over his shoulder as he caught up with the others.

  What an arrogant prick.

  He should go to Kenya and help them build irrigat
ion or China to help control the outbreaks. Anywhere but in my safe space, throwing around his damn elitism.

  My parents may have oddly named me Justice, but the meaning stuck to me like glue. It twisted around all my vital organs, strangling my motivation, until I was blinded by the need to seek out justice in a world full of bad influences.

  Sliding the note out from under my keyboard, I continued to examine it.

  Abigail wouldn't go unnoticed.

  VIC

  She clearly wanted to start a war with that sullen fucking face she would make every time I found the exact button to push that bested her, but she always stopped herself from saying everything that would ring my victory bell.

  For someone trying to fit into this world of poise and polish, she was a mess full of tells in her wrinkled skirt.

  She would shift from foot to foot, eyes darting erratically, and her body would tense in a way only danger does to someone when I was around.

  I would know; danger is something I find myself neck deep in most nights.

  Clave Intentional Holdings was just a front for what this company really does.

  Murders for hire.

  Theft for hire.

  Lust for hire.

  Greed for hire.

  We’d probably sell you our souls too, if you paid enough. Be warned our souls are pretty fucking dirty.

  Any sin you can imagine. As long as it serves a greater purpose—our purpose. Ridding the world of evil, yet here we are, doing things to make that evil a reality.

  I still sleep at night, but it didn't make us any more holy.

  The good guys hired bad guys to do what they couldn't, wouldn't, didn't have to. Those guys included my father, and saving face was their greatest skill. Why get your hands dirty when someone else can just do it all for you?

  Including your own flesh and blood.

  Better known as Vic, so I can seem less like an asshole, even though that's exactly what I am.

  Asshole down to the core. Poisoned soul. No saving me.

  Tastes likes victory most of the time, but right now I was salivating at the thought of what the receptionist up front tasted like.

  Does she taste just as sweet?

  Does her primal instinct to fight back make winning so much sweeter?

  Ripping off my tailed suit jacket and hanging it up, I walked over to the edge of the glass walls of my corner office. The only authority here were the four of us. Our fathers didn't work here or show face. Rubbing elbows with the world’s one percenters didn't require a desk.

  Looking at the Los Angeles skyline this up close seemed like a sin. I was flying between buildings, too close to the sun, but goddamn was it worth it.

  I lost track of time, avoiding real work, still swallowing my own tongue, wondering if I could taste cruelty.

  All I am is hard, cruel, determined—not someone who loses.

  Not because that’s who I want to be, but that's my role: conquest.

  We were all taught to be these people—the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, sent off to private school in the mountains, where we trained, learned strategy, and understood just how elite we were. It didn't take long before they saw us each gravitate to a certain demise.

  I liked to toy with the idea that these particular demises weren't what we represented, but what would be our downfall.

  Rockefeller.

  Astor.

  DuPont.

  Rothschild.

  Untouchable names.

  Untouchable downfalls.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and without moving, I snapped a quick “come in” thinking she was my receptionist. It was clear it wasn't her, when I smelled the sandalwood waft in the door frame as it opened. That wasn’t a scent I would tolerate from my own receptionist.

  The sassy receptionist up front knew how to follow orders, even if she didn't want to.

  I appreciated that.

  I was in the same position of no choice, in anything I do or say. Everything was a construct of conquest I brought to this fucked-up table.

  “Avocado toast, as ordered.” Her tone fell flat, and the air was stiff as she breezed in uninvited.

  “I didn’t order your attitude with it.”

  I watched her come forward towards my desk sitting in front of the window, and she placed the plate down with even more attitude. She made sure her body was on the right side of my desk. I was sure I wouldn’t enjoy the show of her bending over either.

  Sneaky bitch.

  “Think of it as seasoning. Spicing up your basic bitch toast.”

  A smirk curled the edges of my lips as I watched her exit, and then I called out, “Where’s my receptionist?”

  Samantha would have taken the plate from her before she could even touch my door. I had an understanding with her to create a barrier from everyone and me. The only people who crossed that threshold were the four. Even then, she'd send me an email announcing them.

  “Out sick. Good luck managing,” she snapped as the door closed quietly behind her. I’m sure she would have preferred the door to slam, but the doors all had springs that stopped any dramatics—hers included.

  I walked to the door, pulled it open, and watched her round ass and curves parade down the hall in her skirt. She was a walking fucking tease, and she knew it.

  No one has an ass like that, perfectly plump, and sitting so high up it could be considered holy, yet made of my darkest fantasies.

  She was in for a rude awakening if she thought she could walk away before I was done talking to her.

  We each took corner offices, naturally. We all were desperate for space, even though we were raised as brothers.

  Same expectations.

  Same benefits.

  Same punishments.

  Grimm was by far the most complicated and temperamental one of all of us. We earned all of our catastrophes and plagues, and so did he. After we basically all agreed to kidnap Abigail.

  The bad things that go bump in the night were most likely him, and you just didn’t know it.

  No one was at the small, simple desk outside his door to stop me from walking in, so that’s what I did. Grimm had probably scared her away already.

  We had to keep up appearances, and that meant replacing his secretary, while Abigail was barefoot and pregnant, hiding out from the Clave. If they knew, they would stop at nothing to kill her. That much was a no brainer.

  That joke was really on me, when I found Grimm, sitting there silently staring into nothing but the air, not even facing the window. The bags under his eyes looked purple. His knuckles were so tight that the tattoos seemed to fade into a strange shade of pale, and he wasn’t wearing office attire, per usual. God forbid he ever wear something respectable.

  He was always different, but his behavior lately was panic inducing.

  Grimm was drowning in paranoia and worry, over a female—not outwardly of course. He didn’t like the mess emotions created, and I’ve seen him kill people over a lot less.

  Leaning against the wall, leaving a great deal of space between us, I told him, “I need you to get your shit together. It’s distracting.”

  He looked up, with his eyes intense, and the eyebrow with the scar arched up tightly. “You did me a favor, so unless this is you cashing in, then get the fuck out of my office.”

  Feelings, the same ones he hated, were acting like death hovering and waiting to take him to the Promised Land.

  Good ol’ Heaven.

  We acted like we had clipped wings, but in reality, we were justified, because everything we do is in the light.

  “You think people aren’t gonna notice the black holes pretending to be bags under your eyes?”

  I let my words make sense, because that’s how you got Grimm to do what you wanted.

  “I’m sorry… Did you mistake me for caring?” He spun away from me, making sure to cover up everything I was judging.

  All of us coming together to give our blood up for Abigail didn’t have any foll
ow through—not that I thought it would—but fuck me if I was bleeding for strangers and still fielding his explosive attitude.

  He was making happiness look painfully undesirable.

  Turning out of his office, I came to the conclusion I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. Grimm, the Clave, Justice’s attitude… It all needed a touch of me before all the variables imploded into a loss on the battlefield.

  “Vic…” Grimm didn’t even shout. He knew I was listening already. “Handle Jus. I’m not explaining to my pregnant girlfriend that she got fired and executed while she was hiding out.”

  I clamped my eyes closed tightly, stuck right in his doorway, soaking up how Jus was my responsibility now.

  “I’ll handle it, but you aren’t telling me how. Now you owe me two-fold,” I countered.

  How does one handle a loud activist with pink hair and a-lot-to-be-desired attitude?

  My knee jerk response would be to kill her. That would tie up loose ends and take care of the problem all at once.

  VIC

  Getting to know your enemy is key in planning their demise. It’s so much easier when that person has no idea you’ve marked them as an enemy.

  Justice had no idea I was coming for her. I saw the way her body perked up when I walked into the office—a unique way it didn’t for everyone else. She wore that smirk that wanted to take me down just as much.

  She was a dog with a bone when it came to her friend being missing, and all four of us taking the same position of pretending she never existed in the first place wasn’t helping.

  I watched her flip my calling card over, again and again, trying to squeeze any kind of clue from it.

  Goodluck, sweetheart.

  I developed a nasty habit of leaving calling cards behind with my kills after my first, Thomas. They were printed on the East Coast by a small shop in Connecticut in small batches, making it impossible for any kind of mistakes.

  The cards were perfect.

  The cards were a warning.

  The cards were a cry for help, some days.

  She cares nearly as much as the imaginary person in my mind who will find one of those cards, find me, and save me from myself.