Beautiful Liar Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Natasha Knight

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations

  Photographer: Eric David Battershell

  Model: Chase Bergner

  Editing by Ann Curtis

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and as such, any similarity to existing persons, places or events must be considered purely coincidental.

  This book contains content that is not suitable for readers aged 17 and under.

  For mature readers only.

  First Electronic Edition: May 2016

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Author Note

  Other Books by Natasha Knight

  Excerpt: Retribution

  Excerpt: Deviant

  Excerpt: Theirs To Take

  Excerpt: Captive, Mine

  Excerpt: Given To The Savage

  From The Author

  Synopsis for Beautiful Liar by Natasha Knight

  Everything I believed was a lie. Everything except for her, the one person I blamed for it all.

  MacKayla Simone was beautiful. She was sexy as hell. She was also the setup.

  One night.

  Sex that rocked my world.

  Rocked it to its very foundations because the next thing I knew, she and I made the headlines of every paper, every news channel across the country, and it cost me everything.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. That came when I learned who was behind the set-up. That was when I understood what it meant to be destroyed absolutely.

  I don’t know why I went after MacKayla. She’d been a pawn just like me. But it was all I could do, all I had left. Hell, it was the one thing keeping me from tumbling into the abyss and never coming back into the light.

  Find her. Find the girl who’d fucked me. Find her and make her pay.

  I didn’t know who Slater Vaughn was, but if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered. Not when my sister was in trouble. I would have done what I did anyway. You can judge me. You can call me a whore. But I would have done it anyway.

  One night, they’d said. Make him want you, let him have you. Easiest money in the world for just one night of my life.

  Only it wasn’t one night because that night obliterated Slater Vaughn, and he came after me. He told me I owed him, and truthfully, I did. Hell, maybe those years in hiding, I’d been waiting for him to find me. To punish me. To make me pay.

  Maybe I sought his forgiveness all along.

  But now that he had me, how far would he take this game? Slater Vaughn was a broken man. He had nothing left to lose. What was to keep him from taking me with him into his darkness?

  MY BIKE’S ENGINE rumbled as I pulled into the parking lot of Hello Kitty Kat, a little strip club outside North Bend, Oregon. I took it all in: the old, windowless cabin-like structure; a red neon sign above the door, flashing the image of a half-naked woman wearing the predictable cat ears and a tail; the letter O burned out so it read HELL KITTY KAT.

  Four bikes stood in a row near the entrance, but pickups took up the majority of the parking spots in the lot. For a Thursday night, the place was hopping.

  I pulled my bike into line with the other four, killed the engine, and grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. I lit one and took a long drag. I held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, got off my bike, and headed for the entrance. Before I reached it, two men pushed the door open. Music drifted out, a slow, predictable tune to which I imagined one of the kitties stripped. I checked my watch. A little after one in the morning. This was a twenty-four-hour establishment, and I admit, the day the shit had hit the fan, I’d found myself at a strip club similar to this and hadn’t left for a full forty-eight hours.

  One of the men stumbled into me. I caught and righted him. He looked up. And up.

  “Oh. Sorry man,” he mumbled.

  I was a big guy. Six feet six and 250 pounds of muscle covered in tats. The man stepped backward, and this time, his friend caught him.

  “Lou here’s had a little too much to drink,” his friend, who seemed the less drunk of the two, said, slurring his words.

  “No problem.” I tossed the butt of my cigarette on the ground.

  The guy nodded and quickly took Lou toward his truck. I saw him glance back at me and pocket his keys. “I don’t think I can drive, man,” I heard him say.

  “Well, I know I can’t,” Lou said.

  They both apparently found that hilariously funny and, after recovering from their belly laugh, walked toward the road.

  Two less drunks behind the wheel tonight. That was a good thing.

  Crushing the still smoking butt under my boot, I pulled the door open and entered. The place reeked of beer, sweat, and horny men, but I didn’t care about that. I was here for one reason and one reason alone.

  The woman onstage finished. The men cheered and whistled while she collected her discarded garments and, after blowing one final kiss to the audience, left the stage.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “Whiskey.”

  He nodded and poured out a glass of Jack. I paid the man and took my drink to find a quiet place in the back just as the music started and the lights went up on the stage. I finished my first and ordered a second while watching two more women dance before it was finally her turn.

  The whole room went still. I leaned an elbow on the table and rested my chin on the backs of my fingers as music began to play and soft light settled on the stage. For a moment, it seemed like the whole place held its breath until she finally appeared to a round of whistles. The spotlight followed her feet, encased in strappy, high-heeled sandals, as she walked toward the center of the stage where the pole stood. There, she turned to the side, hands gripping the metal as the light slowly caressed her calf and rose up along her thigh, to her hips clad in dark lace. When she moved, it wasn’t like any other stripper I’d ever seen. There was something different about her, something just out of reach. She didn’t belong here, and that fact made her all the more desirable.

  It made you want.

  I watched, along with all the other hungry men in the room. Her body gyrated to the soft music, slow and dark as the spotlight finally reached her waist, where a jewel sparkled from the piercing in her belly button. She turned, the muscles in her arm tensing as she supported her weight. The light caught her breasts, small, full, and wrapped in lace. The sight of them instigated another round of whistling and catcalls from the crowd.

  As the spotlight continued panning upward, she turned her head. I saw that her dark hair was confined to a tight bun on top of her head. The music suddenly changed, the beat picked up. She looked out into the audience. Everything about her, her body, her face, her eyes—even from this distance—everything screamed erotic, right down to her pink tongue licking her full crimson lips.

  Then MacKayla Simone began her striptease.

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sp; I leaned back, hiding my face deeper in the shadows, even though she couldn’t see me due to the distance and the bright lights trained on her. I watched, my cock hardening, the memory of her in my arms, lying beneath me, still fresh. She released the bun and sent thick, dark waves of hair cascading down her back. Her body moved as if one with the music. She closed her eyes as she stripped off her bra. The crowd went insane. She gave them one hell of a show, shaking those tits, playing with her nipples, reaching down her belly, only to stop as one fingernail grazed the top of the lace triangle over the mound of her sex.

  I wondered if I were sitting closer if I’d be able to see the slit of her pussy. See if she was wet. If I’d be able to smell her sex.

  I swallowed hard, my cock throbbing against my jeans, and narrowed my eyes, forcing myself to remember what this woman had done to me. How one night with her had cost me everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. My wife. My daughter. My career. My name.

  One night. A moment of weakness. And I’d paid. How I’d paid.

  I downed the rest of my whiskey. MacKayla turned and gave us a view of her ass, spreading her legs wide and bending deep. The string between her ass cheeks was the only barrier between her and fifty men with raging boners. I stood, knowing my time had come. It wasn’t revenge I wanted, not exactly. I only wanted what was owed me, and the way I figured it, MacKayla Simone owed.

  She owed me fucking big.

  I ZIPPED MY hoodie, packed up the last of my things, counted out what I owed Jack, and stepped into the corridor. I could hear them cheering for Jenna, who always danced after me. On my way to Jack’s office, I saw that all of the private rooms were occupied apart from one. Horny bunch tonight. I never did the private rooms. I didn’t need to. I wouldn’t fuck for money—not anymore. I paid Jack extra out of what I earned for that. Well, for that and for letting me leave the strip of a thong he called underwear on. Still, I was the most popular dancer at Hello Kitty Kat, and everyone knew it.

  I knocked on Jack’s door. “Jack, it’s me, Mac.”

  “Come in, girl.”

  I hated that he called me that, but with Jack, it was best to fly under the radar, so I let it go. “Here’s the money for tonight.”

  “Why are you always in such a rush? You could make twice what you earn dancing if you’d stick around and serve some of your—” he searched for the word. “Admirers.”

  I shook my head. “No. You know I don’t want to do that.” I lived about forty-five minutes away from this place, not nearly far enough to not get caught stripping as it was. Onstage, I looked different enough that most people wouldn’t recognize me. Instead of the dark-rimmed glasses I usually wore, I used contacts when I danced. I have two very different-colored eyes, one midnight blue, the other a pale violet, a strange and far too memorable flaw. Apart from lip gloss and mascara, I didn’t wear makeup and usually had my hair in a ponytail at home. Here, it was all about sex, and I dressed the part. As far as being noticed—if someone from home ventured to this particular strip club, I banked on the fact that most people were too busy checking out my body to look at my face long enough to make a connection. At least while I danced up onstage.

  “I understand. But you know, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mac. You’ve got a great little figure.”

  He licked his lips, making my stomach turn as he leaned to the side to make a point of checking out my ass.

  “No sense in not showing it off. Besides, I don’t think I know another girl who dances like you do.”

  “I have to go, Jack. I have an early shift at my other job tomorrow.” I handed him the wad of cash.

  He took it and counted, then nodded. “See you on Tuesday.”

  “See you.”

  I walked out, pulled my hood up, and adjusted my glasses, glad not to be wearing the contacts. I only worked two nights a week. It was good money. Necessary money. I didn’t make nearly enough at the bookstore to cover more than basic living expenses, and I was cleaning up my act. Or trying to. I’d fucked for money one time, and that was one time too many. Contrary to what many people thought, I wasn’t a whore. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and if anyone wanted to judge me, well, they should walk a mile in my shoes first.

  Before opening the back door to the parking lot, I put on my coat and dug out my car keys. Something felt strange tonight, different. Like someone had been watching me, and not in the usual way. It was just an instinct, a strange sensation. Probably nothing. But I took one look behind me before opening the door and scanning the lot. I’d asked Jack to fix the lamp over the back door a hundred times, but he still hadn’t done it. Walking out into the dark parking lot made me nervous. I went quickly toward my car, a secondhand Honda Civic. Not the most glamorous vehicle, but reliable.

  I jumped when, just as I reached it, someone started a motorcycle engine on the opposite end of the lot. My heart pounded. I turned toward the sound, but in the darkness, I couldn’t make out his face. He revved the engine and looked in my direction, taking a long drag on his cigarette before flicking the still-smoking butt to the ground.

  My hand trembled, and the key slid out of my grip when I tried to get it in the lock.

  “Shit!”

  The back door of the club opened, and two dancers emerged, one laughing at what the other had said. I bent to pick up the key and stood back up just as the motorcycle took off in the opposite direction to where I lived.

  “Hey, Mac. You okay, Hon?”

  It was Angie. She stripped here, but she was also part owner, a 60-40 partner with Jack; Angie had the 40 percent.

  “Yeah, just spooked, I guess.”

  “Jack needs to fix those damned lights,” she said. “I’ll talk to him again.”

  “He’s too cheap to buy lightbulbs,” Maria said.

  “Tell me about it.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll see you guys Tuesday.”

  “See you, kid. And don’t let anyone spook you!” Angie added.

  “I won’t.” I got into my car, started the engine, and locked the door. As I drove off, I saw Maria climb into Angie’s car. Maria rented a room at Angie’s house. Angie was almost thirty and sort of like a den mother to us. More than a dozen girls stripped here, all on rotating schedules. Most of us were on our own, trying to make it. I doubted any of them were in a situation like me, but I’d managed to be in the same place for a full year now and hoped to not be leaving anytime soon. I had friends and liked the small-community feel of Bandon, Oregon: a town as far from Philadelphia as I could get. A place I could remain anonymous. I hoped.

  Besides, three years was a long time. I didn’t look the same anymore, and I certainly wasn’t the person I’d been back then. Still, all it would take would be for one person to recognize me, and I’d be done for. Because as much as I told myself I didn’t care, I couldn’t go through what I’d gone through again. Couldn’t take the accusing stares, the whispers, the nastiness. I understood human nature, the fact that we judged each other. Hell, I did it too. And I’d been the girl they all loved to hate: trailer-park trash who’d brought down a great man.

  Why was it always the woman to blame when a man couldn’t keep his dick in his pants?

  That night had been a means to an end. I didn’t like what I’d done to him, but I had more important people in my life to worry about. People in real trouble.

  I stuck my chin out and swallowed back the lump of guilt in my throat, forcing myself to forget, to focus on something else. Thing was, I never thought it would be this damn hard to just forget.

  Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of my house, a small, nondescript structure in a small, nondescript neighborhood, and switched off the engine. All the houses on the block were dark, which made sense, considering it was now almost three a.m. Grabbing my things, I headed toward the kitchen door, unlocked it, and went inside. Too tired for a cup of tea, I headed upstairs to have a quick shower before bed. My day at the coffee shop/bookstore started at eight o’clock. Eighty-two-year-old
Mrs. Donnelly owned the place and had given me the job. Even at her age, she was sharp. And kind. When I’d asked if I could be paid in cash, she’d looked at me with those old eyes that most people dismissed as senile and said, after a long minute, that she would pay me in cash. That was the end of that discussion, and I loved her more for it. She lived on her own, and her son came to visit once a month. I cooked for her a few times a week, loading her freezer with food and making sure she had everything she needed. I liked doing it, and I liked her. She felt more like a grandmother to me and was probably one of the kindest people I’d ever met.

  After work the next day, I rushed to the grocery store to pick up what I needed for Lydia’s Dead of Winter neighborhood party. She swore each year she gave it, spring arrived earlier. I’d signed up to bring an appetizer along with a bottle of wine. I was going to make hummus. My go-to. Even I had a hard time screwing that up.

  Following the directions of my favorite recipe, I tossed everything into the blender until smooth, poured it into a pretty bowl, surrounded it with pita bread cut into small triangles, and set it aside. It was almost seven, so I ran upstairs to have a quick shower and put on the emerald-green sequined dress I’d splurged on, a knee-length fitted dress with long sleeves and no back. I loved that part best. It was the nicest dress I owned. Once finished, I braided my hair in a fishtail down one side, applied mascara and lip gloss, slid my glasses back on, and went back downstairs. Lydia expected me half an hour early to help her setup before everyone got there at eight o’clock. I glanced outside and saw we were having some light snow, so I put on my snow boots, slid my shoes into a bag, picked up the hummus tray and the bottle of wine, and walked down the block to Lydia’s. Of the fourteen houses on our street, she lived four houses away.

  At twenty-nine, Lydia was five years older than me, had been married and divorced twice, and had just broken off her engagement to the local sheriff. She’d decided she wanted to stay on the market a little longer before settling down once and for all, but ‘once and for all’ and the Lydia I’d come to know didn’t go together well. She was my best friend. We laughed a lot and had a good time together.