Kings Paradise

Chapter One Hundred and One: A Mess

The penthouse is a disaster.

Sarah steps through the doorway and stops. Her eyes widen. Furniture is overturned. Drawers pulled out. Papers scattered across the floor like confetti. The couch cushions are slashed open. Stuffing spills out onto the hardwood.

"Jesus," she whispers.

Jack walks past her without looking. He shrugs off his wet shirt and tosses it onto a chair.

"Don't mind the mess."

Sarah turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. Books pulled from shelves. Picture frames face-down on the floor. A lamp broken in the corner.

"What happened here?"

Jack walks to the mini bar. Opens a cabinet. Pulls out a bottle of whiskey.

"Police raid." He pours himself a glass. The amber liquid catches the light. "Those bastards."

Sarah's stomach tightens. Police raid. She looks at Jack again. At the scars. The tattoos. The cold, brutal face. What did he do? But she doesn't ask. Something tells her it's smarter not to.

Jack brings the glass to his lips. Takes a slow drink. Then he looks at her.

"Make yourself comfortable."

Sarah glances around. There's nowhere to sit that isn't destroyed.

"Comfortable," she repeats.

Jack almost smiles. Almost.

"Do your best."

Sarah pulls his jacket tighter around her shoulders. She's still soaked from the rain. Her hair drips onto the floor. She shivers.

"I need a shower," she mumbles.

More to herself than to him.

Jack sets the glass down. Picks up a fresh cigar from the bar. Cut's it. Lights it. The ember glows orange.

"Bedroom's down the hall. Shower's in there."

He takes a drag. Blows smoke toward the ceiling.

"Should still be some women's shampoo and body wash in the bathroom."

Sarah blinks. Women's shampoo. She wonders who it belonged to. A girlfriend? A wife? She glances at his left hand. No ring.

Jack walks toward his office, scotch in one hand, cigar in the other.

"Help yourself."

Then he disappears through the doorway.

Sarah stands alone in the wrecked living room. The rain drums against the windows. She takes a breath. Then she walks down the hall.

***

The bedroom is just as bad.

Mattress half off the bed frame. Dresser drawers yanked out and dumped. Clothes everywhere. Sarah steps carefully over the mess, her eyes scanning the chaos.

Then she sees them.

Photos. Scattered across the floor near the nightstand. Dozens of them. Sarah crouches down. Picks one up.

Her breath catches.

It's Jack. Younger looking. Or maybe just less stressed. Less scarred. He's standing between two women. One of them is blonde. Stunning. A smile that could make the devil good on across her lips. The other—

Oh my god.

Sarah's hands start to shake.

Stella.

The Stella. The pop star. The A-list celebrity. The woman Sarah used to watch on TV when she was learning to dance and sing. The woman she idolized.

Jack's arm is wrapped around both their hips. They're at some kind of party. Fancy. Expensive-looking. All three of them are smiling. Relaxed. Like old friends.

How does he know Stella?

Sarah flips the photo over. On the back, in elegant cursive:

Good times. We should do it again sometime.

—Stella

Sarah stares at the words. Good times.Do it again. Do what again? Her mind races. What kind of man is Jack? A businessman? A celebrity? Did he... did he sleep with Stella?

She shakes her head. Sets the photo down. Picks up another.

This one is just Jack and the blonde woman. They're on a beach somewhere. The sun is setting behind them. They look happy. Really happy. The blonde is wearing a ring. Sarah's eyes drop to Jack's hand in the photo.

He's wearing one too.

His wife.

Sarah's chest tightens. She sets the photo down carefully. Like it might break.

What happened to her?

She stands. Walks into the bathroom. The mess continues here. Towels on the floor. Cabinet doors hanging open. Sarah starts searching for the shampoo and body wash.

She opens a drawer under the sink.

And freezes.

A handgun.

Black. Heavy-looking. Sitting right there among the toiletries.

Sarah jumps back. Her heart hammers. Jesus Christ. David always wanted a gun in the house. Sarah never allowed it. She hated weapons. Too violent. Too dangerous.

She slams the drawer shut. Takes a breath. Keeps searching.

Finally, she finds the body wash. Tucked behind a stack of towels. She grabs it. Sets it on the edge of the tub.

Then she strips off her wet clothes and steps into the shower.

The water is hot. Almost too hot. But Sarah doesn't care. She stands under the spray, letting it wash away the rain. The cold. The fear.

She closes her eyes.

What am I doing here?

She doesn't know this man. Doesn't know what he's capable of. He has a gun in his bathroom. The police raided his house. He knows celebrities. He's covered in scars.

But he gave her his jacket. His cigar. A place to stay.

He can't be that bad, right?

Sarah opens her eyes. Reaches for the body wash. It smells like lavender. Expensive. She lathers it over her skin, washing away the grime of the last two days.

When she's done, she turns off the water. Steps out.

And stops.

There's a towel on the hanger. And clothes. Men's underwear. An oversized t-shirt.

Did he come in here?

Sarah's face flushes. She looks around. The door is still closed. Locked. Did he peek?

She dries off quickly. Pulls on the underwear. They fit like shorts on her. Loose. Comfortable. Then the t-shirt. It's huge. Hangs down to her thighs.

She brings the collar to her nose. Inhales.

It smells like him.

Sarah's stomach flutters. She doesn't know why.

She opens the bathroom door. Walks down the hall. Toward the office.

***

Jack is sitting at his desk. His back is to the door. His fingers tap against his temple. His eyes are locked on the computer screen.

Sarah stops in the doorway. Watches him for a moment. He looks... tense. Agitated. Like something is eating at him.

She knocks softly on the doorframe.

Jack's head turns. His good eye lands on her.

"Good shower?"

Sarah nods.

"Yes. Thank you. For the clothes."

Jack's gaze drops. Takes in the oversized shirt. The way it hangs off her frame.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't find anything that would fit you."

Sarah shakes her head.

"It's fine. I'm grateful enough."

A silence follows. Jack turns back to the computer. His jaw clenches. His finger taps faster against his temple.

Sarah shifts her weight.

"Is anything wrong?"

Jack doesn't look at her.

"Nothing that concerns you."

His tone is cold. Sharp. Sarah flinches. Okay. She takes a step back. Something's definitely wrong. Maybe his business isn't doing well. Maybe—

Her eyes land on the picture frame on his desk.

Jack and the blonde woman. The same one from the photo in the bedroom. They're on a cliff overlooking the city. Smiling. Rings on their fingers.

"Is that your wife?"

The words are out before Sarah can stop them.

Jack looks up. Follows her gaze to the picture. His expression shifts. Just for a second. Sadness. Pain. Then it's gone. Replaced by the cold mask.

"No."

His voice is flat.

"Unfortunately not."

Sarah's throat tightens.

"Oh."

The atmosphere in the room gets heavier. Darker. Sarah feels like she's stepped on a landmine. She clears her throat.

"I'll take the couch."

Jack gently dabs ash from his cigar into the ashtray.

"Take the bedroom."

Sarah shakes her head.

"No, I couldn't—"

"I haven't slept in that bed for weeks."

Jack's voice is quiet. Distant.

"To many unwanted memories there."

Sarah stares at him. The way his shoulders slump. The way his hand lingers on the picture frame.

He loved her.

"Okay," Sarah says softly.

Jack waves her off without looking.

"Goodnight."

Sarah hesitates. Then she turns and walks back down the hall.

***

Jack leans back in his chair. Sighs. Runs a hand over his face.

Why did she have to bring up the picture?

Now his mood is ruined all over again. He looks at the frame. At Bella's woman's smile. At the way she leaned into him. Trusted him.

Jack sets the frame face-down on the desk. He can't look at it anymore.

He turns back to the computer. The screen glows in the dim light. Rows of numbers. Account balances. Offshore holdings.

The ones Steely didn't have access to.

Jack still has most of his assets. The real estate. The investments. The hidden accounts in the Caymans. But his liquid assets? Gone. Steely took them. Cleaned them out.

And with Cage taking his cocaine supplier. The prostitutes leaving. People refusing to pay protection fees. His revenue has dropped. Drastically.

Jack scrolls through the list. His jaw tightens.

The investments. The real estate. The assets.

Barely any of it is in his name. Too risky. He'd put it all in the names of trusted men. Men who owed him. Men who feared him.

A fool's move.

Jack closes his eyes.

He'd trusted fear and authority to keep them in line. To keep them loyal. But fear only works when you're present. When you're powerful. When you're there.

The moment he went to jail, the fear evaporated.

And the men scattered.

Jack opens his eyes. Picks up his phone. He needs to know who's still with him. Who he can count on.

He starts making calls.

The first number rings. And rings. No answer.

The second. Same thing.

The third. Voicemail.

Jack's jaw clenches. He keeps dialing.

Too many.

Too many aren't picking up. Too many have abandoned him.

Finally, someone answers.

"Jack?"

It's Togo. A small bar owner. Jack helped him years ago. Pulled him out of the gutter when he was begging on the streets.

"You still with me?"

There's a pause.

"Yeah, boss. I'm with you."

Jack exhales.

"Good."

He hangs up. Dials the next number.

Tiger picks up on the second ring.

"Jack. Didn't think I'd hear from you so soon."

Tiger. A sex addict. A drunk. Jack only kept him around because he was good with tech. His uses were limited. But he was useful and skilled. For this reason Jack liked to keep him lowkey, unknown to many.

He was the one who hacked into Mercer's phone and computer to find the information on the witnesses who were going to testify against Jack in court. Without him Bones would have never found them. Now one will find them. Their were safely hidden in the acid with Detective Borne.

That's it.

Out of an entire organization. Out of dozens of men. Only five are still with him.

Less than I thought.

Jack sets the phone down. Closes the computer. He picks up the cigar. Lets it die out naturally in the ashtray.

Then he picks up the phone again.

He needs a companion tonight. Someone to fuck. Someone to take his mind off the wreckage.

He dials Hela.

She picks up on the third ring.

"How nice to be your first call after getting out of jail," she says. Her voice is sarcastic. Sharp.

Jack leans back.

"You're my last."

Hela clicks her tongue.

"What do you want, Jack?"

"What else do I call you for?"

The line goes silent. Jack waits. Then Hela speaks.

"Is that all you want me for?"

Jack frowns.

"I certainly don't call you for your upstanding attitude."

"Go fuck yourself."

Hela's voice is cold. Angry.

"Find a blow up doll to go fuck or something."

Then she hangs up.

Jack stares at the phone. What the hell? He pulls it away from his ear. Looks at the screen.

Call ended.

He sets the phone down. Rubs his temple.

Is she on her period?

He doesn't understand. Hela's never acted like this before. She's always been pragmatic. Transactional. No emotions. No complications.

Jack picks up the phone again. Dials the next number.

Maya.

She picks up immediately.

"Jack?"

Her voice is soft. Hopeful.

"Come over."

There's a pause.

"Now?"

"Yes."

Maya hesitates.

"Okay. I'll be there in twenty."

Jack hangs up. Sets the phone down. Leans back in his chair.

The rain drums against the window. The city is dark. Quiet.

And somewhere down the hall, Sarah is lying in his bed.

Jack closes his eyes.

What a fucking mess.