Reckless (Black Mansion Boys Book 1)

  Chapter 1

  Rose

  My mom said I was like a storm.

  A little girl with eyes so big and so blue I could soak up the world in a single blink. Spit it back out and paint it anew. The world was black and white she would say, tucking my hair behind my ear. You spill color over all the cracks, covering every inch of the world. Making it your palace. Your kingdom. And in your world, Rose, you're a queen. With a crown made of gold and a heart spun of dreams.

  Don’t let anyone tell you you can't paint the world.

  That was before everything went to shit.

  Now I want to destroy the world. All broken edges and hidden swords, I was far from the little girl she saw me to be. I was a tortured doll stuffed into a plastic world.

  A fake. A liar. A coward.

  Hiding in my tower waiting for the world to save me. But how can the world save what is already doomed? Art was the only thing my mother got right about me. And right now, it took every ounce of concentration not to break the skin of my palms, my nails biting into my flesh with a fierce sting.

  It was wrong.

  It was all wrong. Five-year-olds in a finger painting for beginners class could have come up with something more aesthetically pleasing. Hell, even if they named their piece fart, or some other eloquent name equivalent to the intellect of the world's brilliant youth, I bet it still would create a splash to rival the release of Justin Bieber's new album (which for some reason the world was so enraptured with. I, however, thought it was garbage fire).

  Biting back a groan of frustration, blue acrylic paint drips between my fingers, staining the already scuffed wooden floor.

  I felt dirty.

  It was unfinished.

  The canvas was empty.

  And to make matters worse, it was three pm.

  Damn it.

  Time was like sand whenever the paints spoke to me. Always slipping through my fingers and shattering on the floor. Leaving a broken, bloody mess behind.

  Not to mention, I was drowning. My thoughts colliding all at once and seemingly not at all. My mind was either a storm or a blank wall whenever I painted.

  Today was a blank wall day.

  I was supposed to have this piece done last week, and still, nothing had come to me. Frustrated, I listen as The Strokes Reptilia vibrated through the walls of my apartment. Soaking into my soul. The volume was cranked so loud it was a miracle my neighbors didn't call the police with a noise complaint.

  The music is wonderful when it comes to not thinking. Although after thoroughly drowning in a sea of nothingness for the past hour, I think it's safe to say I’m a firecracker seconds away from ripping the very hair from my tied up blond locks. I hadn’t struggled this much since senior year of high school when I had my senior showcase piece.

  My last piece before my world fell apart.

  Buzz buzz.

  I blinked as my phone went off, the chorus to Nelly's Hot in Here buzzing obnoxiously in my palm. Morise was going to kill me. Most likely after she shoved my job into the hands of another slightly broke, desperate, unemployed freeloader. My replacement would toss out promises of being on time like dreamers tossed coins in public fountains.

  Without reasoning, and more importantly, without conscious thought.

  Just like I had done when I interviewed for this job three weeks ago. And to both my and Morise’s surprise, she had hired me.

  Panicked, I shoved both my palms through the sleeves of my brown oversized jacket. The worn leather giving me a hug as I accidentally smeared the insides blue, and I prayed the job gods have mercy on my soul. Lord knows I need it. Although me and Mom had gotten quite comfy saying Hello to the wonderful eviction notice that liked to play hide and seek with us every few months.

  It really spiced up our dull gray apartment door.

  Dodging paint jars littered on the floor like glass snowflakes, I quickly glanced at myself in the mirror only to grimace.

  I looked like the devil after he stayed out all night.

  Eyeliner was smeared across my eyelids, and dark circles pooled thick under my eyes. Art was heaven for the soul but apparently did nothing for the complexion. Sighing, I attempted in vain to fix my hair, which was tossed up into two slightly askew buns, before giving up and shoving my feet into some black combat boots.

  Throwing my black leather backpack across my shoulders, I yanked open the door of my apartment (aka home sweet home), more than grateful to leave my fucked up fairytale tower behind.

  -----

  Dashing through the city, I tried not to trip. It seemed like half of New York was playing catch up this morning and I was the dashing princess trying to run from her own demise.

  I almost laughed at the thought. Me running through the streets in a torn tulle gown, my captor raising a sword at my backside, ready to impale me for my betrayal. After all, the irony of the vision wasn't lost on me.

  My mom and I moved to the city because we were running.

  If there was one thing you should know about Levingstons, it is that we are always running. Running from unpaid bills left on the counter. Running from poisoned promises made by cheating tongues. Running from empty homes in battered wastelands we used to call our paradise. Only this time, we were running from something I didn't care to think about.

  It would only paralyze me.

  Mom's words echoed through my head, giving me strength; The damn world doesn’t give a fuck if you’re scared. It still keeps on turning, and if you’re not turning with it, then you're lost.

  And we can't get lost, sweetie.

  Levingstons don't get lost, we always find our way.

  The words were written in sharpie across my wrist.

  So, I guess it's a good thing everyone in this goddamn city was always running. Running to work. Running away. Desperately trying to find themselves. Frantically grasping ahold of something silken and soft - claiming it as theirs. Hollow shells trying to feel whole again by stuffing themselves with gaudy materials, overpriced caffeine, and flimsy promises. Hey, whatever makes them feel good at the moment. But if you were already lost then, is there even anything left to be found? With that golden fucked up philosophy it's safe to say I fit right inside of this snowglobe of a city.

  I was used to disappearing.

  After all, I was broken. Torn apart and dying on the inside.

  It was easier to pick up the pieces in a new place. Where no one knew my name. My past. Where my petals could fall silently to the floor.

  These months in New York were supposed to save me. Save us.

  I only hoped it wasn't too late.

  That he wouldn’t find us. For no prince was coming to save me. This wasn’t some twisted fairytale. No broken king was here to pick up my pieces.

  I was alone.

  But that didn't mean I was not going to fight like hell to survive. After all, fighting was all I knew.

  Groaning, I dug my sparkle-covered nails into my palms. The train was running late. Again.

  I really, really need this job.

  Anxious, my feet began to shift back and forth as I balanced on my tiptoes trying to get a good look at the arrival times, but when I spot them, it takes all of my energy not to release a screech of frustration.

  Damn it. I could already tell this morning was going to be an absolute ray of motherfu-

  Screeechhh!

  And that would be the sound of the subway finally bothering to grace us with its presence. Wasting no time, I hop aboard the train, nearly scuffing my combat boots while shoving my way through the doors. I may be little but that didn't mean I couldn't be aggressive as hell. Especially when I was running late.

  Which honestly, was most
of the time.

  Once inside, my ocean eyes were quick to assess the interior of the train. Finding an open seat on the subway was like finding a reasonably priced mocha latte in the heart of the city. You’d have a better chance of finding a unicorn that shit rainbows.

  Impossible.

  And yet a miracle was occurring. I was about to witness a miracle. And not only that, I was on the receiving end of this miracle. I could kiss the rings of all the gods in the hopes my eyes did not deceive me. For certainty that wasn't an open seat, on the subway, in the middle of midday rush hour?

  Suppressing a squeal, I nearly ran to the open seat, my H&M denim-clad legs claiming the dirty plastic seat as the previous occupier made his way off the train. I sent a silent prayer to the man who had literally just poured a heaping pile of sugar on my coffee-less morning (which honestly, I was seriously starting to regret the lack of caffeine at this point).

  After plopping my butt on the dirty plastic chair, I released a sigh before reaching for my sketchbook that was tucked away in my leather backpack (on sale - couldn't resist) in the hopes of working out my painting's composition, (which at the moment was being as bitchy as a post-menopausal employee at Bloomingdale's), when I noticed it.

  Or more specifically, sat on it.

  Reaching underneath me, I grabbed the chunky item only to realize it was a bound leather notebook, its previous origins (for those of you who are history majors) stemming from underneath my arse.

  Silver words were scrawled viciously across the cover and my eyes widened as I read them:

  THE THINGS I’D DO IF I WERE RECKLESS

  They were written in all capital letters. The silver ink stark against the pristine black cover. It was clear whoever wrote this was angry. The cover was practically screaming at the world, bleeding frustration out of its very pores.

  It must have been forgotten by the man who was just here.

  Against my better judgment, curiosity attacked me like a sword between my ribcage and heart, slicing me deep with need. I never was a patient girl. I always attacked first, asked questions later. It was the shark in me. Always out for blood.

  Turning the page, my eyes absorbed every word. Like a fish to water, I couldn’t bring myself to stop.

  And what I read shocked me.

  Dark details stung my eyes. The words were violent in their profanity. It was like I was reading somebody's dirty diary. Their most perverse fantasies. All written in the same silver sharpie. All in capital letters:

  1) IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D THROW ALL MY MONEY IN THE BATHTUB, LIGHT IT ON FIRE WITH THE TIP OF ONE OF JAYSON'S BLUNTS AND WATCH IT BURN AWAY. EVERY USELESS FUCKING PENNY.

  2) IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D MAKE MY FATHER'S MISTRESS MOAN SO LOUD THE TILES IN THE BATHROOM FLOOR WOULD CRACK AND WE WOULD FORGET WE LEFT THE DOOR UNLOCKED.

  3) IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D BURN EVERY STARBUCKS DOWN TO THE GROUND FOR MAKING ME DRINK WATERED DOWN PISS AND PAY FOUR DOLLARS PLUS TAX FOR THE SHEER WELL WATER THEIR FORCIBLY PASSING OFF AS A “CAFFEINATED BEVERAGE”.

  4) IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D FUCK THE BRANSON TWINS ON THEIR BIRTHDAY - IN THE POOL - BLINDFOLDED.

  5) IF I WERE RECKLESS, I’D KICK MY DAD’S ASS SO THOROUGHLY HE’D FEEL MY FOOT SHOVED UP HIS THROAT EVERY TIME HE OPENED HIS SELF RIGHTEOUS, MONEY SOAKED, PIG HEADED MOUTH.

  The list went on and on. The entire book was almost completely full. The phrases varying from mildly offensive to outright extreme in their explicitness. It was clear that whoever this guy was, he was not one to be messed with.

  The thought shouldn't intrigue me.

  But it did.

  The only hint to who the owner may be was scrawled on the very last page, where in tiny letters it read “Property of the Black Mansion”. The address was scribbled below, the letters barely legible. Almost as if he didn't want anyone to be able to read them.

  I reached for my phone, and against my better judgment, I plugged the address into my maps app.

  Maybe I just wanted to see if this Black Mansion was real.

  Maybe I just sought out trouble like the twisted mess I was.

  And what do you know? According to GPS calculations, it was only forty minutes from the heart of the city. Much too close for my dangerous curiosity not to get the better of me. Besides, it was probably just one of those quaint tucked-away suburban homes. A perfect little day trip destination.

  Besides, if I knew anything for certain, it was that the owner of this journal would want it back. It couldn't hurt to return it to him, right?

  In fact, he was probably panicking right at this very moment. His fear devouring him at the loss of his precious dark journal. And it was simply my civic duty to return lost items left with breadcrumbs leading to their owners. And so, with that brilliant logic, I tucked the journal into the pocket of my leather jacket, my evening plans solidified for the night.

  After all, I was used to stirring trouble, what's one more stupid idea?

  Chapter 2

  Kaleb

  They said I was a monster.

  A dark prince.

  A twisted hero.

  That the devil kissed me when I was born... and then decided to stick around. Only to turn my heart to ice and make me the fucked-up ice prince I was destined to become. (Hey whatever satisfies your daddy issues.)

  I was a twisted son of bitch and a master of getting my way. At the ripe age of nineteen, I ran my own underground empire in this juicy apple of a city, and I ruled it with an iron fist. Maybe I was fucked in the head. Maybe I didn’t give a fuck either way. I had money lining my pockets, and the only thing that mattered was that it wasn’t coming from him.

  The names really didn't bother me so much. The only thing I didn’t tolerate was when they said I was anything like him.

  Those people often didn't get the chance to say much else.

  Jaw twitching, I stretched out on Tristan's designer, specifically designed for small asses, leather couch, kicking my black Timberland boots up on the glass coffee table.

  It had been a shit week.

  And I was the Monster that was supposed to clean it all up.

  The only one with a heart cold enough.

  Jayson's laugh echoed against the glass windows, emphasizing how empty the modern Manhattan flat was. Tristan was supposed to be here 30 minutes ago.

  That pretty boy would be late to a meeting in his very own penthouse.

  Restless, I watched as Jayson squat on the black and white marble countertops, his Gucci-sweat pant-covered ass making himself comfortable before passing a freshly lit blunt over to me.

  I took a long drag, the week blurring and softening with every inhale. Tristan's dad was currently off on some “work trip” in which he was most likely banging his new European intern he acquired three months ago. The very same intern who was responsible for the obscene pear sculptures and exotic dragon fruit paintings that stuck to the walls like stale candy. The only color in the otherwise gray-and-white-clad apartment (Chick had some sort of weird fruit kink). Not that I was complaining, his absence meant me and the boys got to crash here for a whole week uninterrupted. And any chance to stay away from the Black Mansion stuffed with “family love” and “affection” was given the green light from me.

  The trip was also most likely responsible for Tristan's absence. Knowing him, he was probably three floors below us, fucking the brains out of Mrs. Hathaway before her husband got home, mentally flipping his dad the finger.

  Taking another drag, I handed the blunt off to Jayson. The TV was on but neither of us were really watching it.

  We were waiting.

  Just as we’d always done.

  The couch started vibrating, and I turned to find Jayson's legs shaking like a goddamn neck massager. The boy wouldn't ever stop moving. I swear he had enough nervous energy to fill up a commercialized hot air balloon. The doctor said it was some sort of attention deficit thing in his brain. The boy couldn't focus for more than two seconds before going berserk. It was also
the reason his pockets were always lined with a never-ending supply of joints.

  Suppressing a groan of frustration, I reached over and shoved his knee.

  “Maybe you should go join Tristan and work off some of that nervous energy.” The suggestion came pouring out of my mouth, and I watched as a smirk cracked across his blond, chiseled face, lighting up his eyes.

  And god damn it if the guy didn't actually look like he was considering it. His hand reaching back to scratch the shorn side of his head, Burberry sweatshirt riding up, inadmissibly flashing me a glimpse of his eight pack. I’d seen cheese less shredded than him. Boy had the workout routine of a fucking racehorse.

  Typical Jayson. I roll my eyes, Never one for wasting an opportunity to show off his abs. He even manages to flash ‘em subconsciously.

  “You know Tristan doesn't share.” Jayson spat while taking a sip of his Starbucks iced latte. The commercialized sludge was like drinking straight cat piss and yet the dude inhaled the stuff on an almost religious level. Starting his day with six pumps of caramel syrup, ten sugar packets, and a drop of caffeine all tossed in a plastic bottle green stamped cup.

  If that wasn't enough to make you want to blow your brains out, then I don't know what is. But Jayson was always like that.

  Crazy.

  On a fucked up, unreasonable level.

  If I was a dark horse then Jayson was a broken prince. The prettiest of us, his golden playboy hair got him into more trouble than even a rich boy like himself could get out of.

  A ruler of a world crackling in excess and he was still the one everyone wanted.

  America's golden boy.

  Not to mention the dude looked like a Greek god or some shit. Pair that with blue eyes and a jawline that could cut glass, and the girls dropped their panties after two seconds of brief as fuck eye contact with the man.

  It also didn't help that his parents were loaded. Considering that they could afford to pay off nearly anything their impulsive reckless god of a son came up with for entertainment for the evening. His panty-melting smile and charming twin dimples getting him into more trouble than even he could talk himself out of.