Fearless Read online

  FEARLESS

  LETHAL ADDICTION BOOK ONE

  ESME DEVLIN

  LOGAN FOX

  Copyright © 2020 by DEVLIN & FOX

  Cover Design by Cover Candy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR NOTE

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  STAY IN TOUCH…

  A FEW WORDS

  AUTHOR NOTE

  We didn’t write this book.

  This book wrote us.

  Hope you laugh & cry as much as we did.

  Esme & Logan

  CHAPTER ONE

  CILLIAN

  Asylum’s upstairs office door nearly swings off its hinges as my brother, Cole, swaggers into the room.

  He’s not due in tonight, but he’s wearing a Canali suit as black as his hair. That could mean he intends on working, or it could be a sign of an imminent three-day cocaine-fueled bender.

  Only time will tell.

  He holds the door open for Sarah, his newest conquest, and the GBX music from downstairs in the club comes through loud enough that I feel it in my throat.

  I’ve tried to explain GBX a few times to people who don’t originate from Scotland, and never quite found the words. Imagine taking a popular song like Stand by Me, or The Gambler, speeding it up and adding a belter of a bass. It’s impossible to simply listen to GBX and think hmm, that’s nice. Nah, when you listen to GBX you’re a stone’s throw away from spunking every penny you own on drugs and texting your boss on Monday morning telling him to shove up his job up his arse.

  GBX is a drug dealer’s dream, basically.

  But as soon as the door swings closed behind him, the music fades to silence.

  And thank fuck for that.

  I’m in no mood for it tonight. It’s only just past midnight, and every floor is full to bursting. It would be good for business, if this place was actually a legitimate business and not just an excuse to rinse money, but I try not to think about that. Or the fact Cole swore it would be easy. It would only piss me off, and my mood is currently shite enough without dwelling on that.

  I’ve already been called downstairs twice.

  Twice, and the doors haven’t been open two hours yet.

  People can say what they want about men and our violent ways, but in the three years we’ve owned this place I’ve seen more catfights than fistfights. Tonight, it was a stiletto. A fucking stiletto. At least men generally have the decency to step outside with our shoes on when we have a problem.

  All I want to do is read my paper—catch up on the week’s football fixtures—but Cole’s already firing up the volume on the TV.

  He puts the controls back on the desk where I’m sitting and I quickly turn the volume down a few notches. This has been standard procedure since we were sprogs and TVs were as thick as they were wide. I used to think the cunt was deaf, but now I know he needs noise. He doesn’t even care what noise, just as long as there’s something loud to listen to.

  Maybe it drowns out the voices in his head.

  Tonight, it’s the news he chooses to fill the silence with.

  “Someone needs to fuck some sense into that woman,” Cole says, pointing his unlit cigarette at the flat-screen on the wall while he fishes in his pocket for a lighter.

  Sarah, the girl who’s been following him around like a lost puppy for the past six weeks, covers her mouth to make her giggle look cuter.

  “Is that you volunteering?” I ask Cole while looking at Sarah.

  And just like I predicted, it wipes the smile clean off her face.

  Good.

  I have a complicated relationship with Sarah.

  That’s code for—I wouldn’t piss on Sarah if Sarah were on fire.

  She’s a hoor.

  And I don’t throw that word around easily. I’m not a slut-shamer. I’m all for slutting it up. If a woman wants to enjoy the good times with multiple men, then that is her God-given right in this fine century. But a woman who moves from one twin to the next is a hoor. Pure and simple.

  I’m not jealous of her and Cole. She’s nothing special. In fact, I’d describe her as mousey, and that’s being complimentary. We didn’t even sleep together, but that’s not the point. The cow has no morals and no loyalty, and it’s happened too many times for me to put up with those types of women.

  I close my paper and kick my feet up on the desk to hear what the daft bitch on TV is prattling on about.

  It fills me with great pride to say the rest of the world will look toward us. We’ve always been the progressive nation.

  Cole is shaking his head, and Sarah just looks bored.

  Politics and hoors clearly don’t mix.

  A nation willing to do what others would so easily shy away from.

  The woman on the TV is doing that thing all politicians do, where they make a fist with their hand and bash it down against an invisible desk every time they say an important word. It looks fucking stupid seeing a man doing it, but on a woman it is downright farcical.

  Especially a woman like her. She’s lucky if she’s five feet with heels on. She wears glasses that make her eyes look small and beady, and her thick brown hair is cropped so short that from behind you’d mistake her for a man. All the female politicians seem to have those daft haircuts. Maybe they think it’ll make people take them more seriously. I don’t think they’re fooling anyone.

  I glance over at my brother to gauge his reaction, one fist clenched and the other one squeezing that cigarette for dear life.

  This is not a war on drugs. This is a chance for peace. A chance for hope. A chance for future generations to grow up in a world without that war taking place on their doorsteps.

  “Fucking turn her off, Kill. I can’t be dealing with her anymore.”

  I switch the channel up one, and some random nature documentary comes on.

  ...they mature, these young males begin to explore the boundaries of the pride’s territory.

  “Now there’s a man you can trust,” Cole says, pointing the end of his cigarette at the lion on the television. “That’s a man I could get behind. He knows the way of the world.”

  I laugh at his quick change of mood.

  “I’d vote for him instead of that stupid bitch,” he continues.

  “You should have gone for the old TV gangster trope,” I suggest. “Crime-lord slash drug-baron turned politician. I can see it now. Cole Hendry for First Minister.”

  He laughs at that. “Aye. Should have suggested that before we started this shit-show.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”

  “It’s too late,” he says, almost choking on a deep breath of smoke. “Meisie’s downstairs.”

  I lean forward in my chair. “She’s what?”

  Cole turns his head toward me. Sarah’s blond head is moving back and forth between us like a little ping pong as she desperately tries to keep up.

  “Can yo
u get rid of her or something?” I point my head in Sarah’s direction.

  Cole laughs. “She’s fine. She barely knows what planet she’s on. One too many lines, eh darlin’?”

  Sarah blinks at him.

  Still, I don’t like her knowing our business. It would be different if he ever actually settled down with one of them, but everyone except Sarah knows she’s unlikely to last another two weeks. Two months is about Cole’s limit.

  “You said she was downstairs?”

  He nods his head and stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, blinking rapidly as the smoke burns his eyes. “Aye. Spotted her in the Violet room. Why do you think I’m here? I thought you’d want me to cover the shift for you.”

  I rub my chin, turning my attention back to the flat-screen. The narrator’s moved on to chronicling the demise of a pretty little impala that seems wholly unaware of the cheetah stalking it in the tall grass.

  This is it.

  The night we’ve been waiting for.

  It’s taken three weeks of Catfishing Meisie on Bumble. And when I say Catfishing, I do mean Catfishing. I was me—with my own face—and the bitch swiped left. Swiped left! So I had to adjust my age and resort to using a photo of this skinny Justin Bieber look-alike from America, who I aptly named Justin.

  Justin is exactly the sort of cunt who takes a gap year in Thailand and poses with drugged-up tigers.

  She swiped right for Justin.

  I’ve been asking her to go on a date with me for the last two weeks, and honestly the girl is impenetrable. Think Princess Fiona in a dragon guarded tower, surrounded by Takeshi’s fucking Castle with machine gun turrets and German Shepherds patrolling the perimeter.

  And in this story, Princess Fiona wears a chastity belt.

  You can’t send dick pics to a Princess Fiona, which is usually my fool-proof method. The smart ones run a mile, but there are enough size-queens in the world for that not to matter. I had to woo her the good ol’ fashioned way, and that takes time and a lot more charm than I usually dish out.

  So hearing she’s downstairs is surprising, to say the least.

  She’s been led to believe that Justin—AKA my pretty-boy persona—works the bar here on Friday nights. I’d hoped that one day curiosity would get the better of her. And it appears that day is today.

  Now I just need to make a girl who came here looking for Justin Bieber want to go home with a six-foot-six, two-hundred and forty-pound reprobate, who’s at least ten years older than her.

  Aye, simple.

  I stand up from my chair and crack my neck both ways before heading to the door.

  “Behave yourself,” Cole says.

  “Fuck yourself,” I shoot back.

  He knows I’ve never been fully on board with this plan since he first thought it up on one of his acid-induced higher-level-strategy meetings (not even shitting you). So he likes to take every opportunity he can to rub it in my face.

  I wonder if he’d be as enthusiastic if he were the one actually having to do it, but that’s not the role each of us plays. Cole keeps his record clean and his nose straight, while I, quite literally, deal with all the dirty work. My nose is still physically decent looking though, touch wood.

  The thump of GBX music pounds in my chest as I make my way along the dimly lit corridor and down the first flight of stairs. These stairs lead to the upper level, where you have a view on all four sides down to the main dance floor—the Violet room—below.

  Third time tonight I’ve come down here, and it’s only gotten busier each time.

  I can barely move through the throngs of sweaty bodies stumbling around and making a piss-poor attempt at dancing. Dancing. Debatable. Some of them are just blatantly fucking with clothes on.

  Giving a nod to one of the bouncers, Derek, I continue around the upper level, my eyes scanning between both the floors. Sometimes my height comes in useful, but it’s as much of a curse as it is a blessing. I feel like the only adult in a room full of children, with the exception of Derek. And these children are hyped-up on sugar, and they’re messing up my house.

  And because they’re mostly smaller, their faces are a good foot beneath mine, which makes hunting out a particular face a nightmare.

  According to her profile, she’s five foot one inch. And a Capricorn, whatever the fuck that means. She never drinks, she never smokes, and she’s never doing children. Makes me wonder what she does do, but I’m not actually that interested.

  But fuck, five foot one. She could be anywhere, including standing under one of the taller tables and using it as a playhouse. Would not surprise me, going by her age. She’s legal, but only just.

  I lean my arms over the metal railing and scan the bar downstairs.

  Bingo.

  She’s surrounded by a bunch of boys. I’m going to say at least half of them haven’t yet sprouted ball hair. I make a mental note to kick every single one of the doormen’s arses later for not double-checking their ID. The only seventeen-year-olds allowed in are female. That’s the rules of nightclubs and everyone knows it. But her little posse is actually a good sign, because it means she’s not hung-up on Justin.

  And if she’s not hung up on Justin, she might just be up for what an actual fully-grown man can offer her.

  Maybe.

  For her sake, I hope so. Because the alternative is only going to get messy, and I’ve had enough of manhandling women tonight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MEISIE

  Fuck. Fuck! I suck in a deep breath and will the walls not to close in on me. This is nothing like that damn crackpot quackhead therapist said it would be.

  “Relive your trauma, Meisie.”

  “Open up to your past so you can address it and move on, Meisie.”

  And to think Mother paid good money for her stupid advice.

  Just breathe.

  You don’t want people to think you’ve just escaped from the crazy house, do you? Although honestly, I’m not sure anyone around here would notice.

  Around me toilet doors slam and hand-dryers cut out. Heels click-clack against tiles and girls giggle, shout, stumble, fix each other’s hair, and whisper secrets. There’s a lady sitting at the end of the long row of sinks with a trolley full of hairspray, perfume, lollipops, and condoms.

  Should I buy a lollipop?

  Pay one pound for a spritz of perfume that smells like a putrefying corpse?

  No. I need to get the fuck out of here.

  I’m not supposed to be hiding in the bathroom.

  I dip my head to the basin and splash lukewarm water on my face. It’s a good thing I didn’t bother with makeup tonight, because it would have been ruined. When I come up for air, I stare for a long moment at my freckled reflection.

  Wow, I look like shit.

  My dark hair’s up in a messy ponytail, and because I didn’t bother to groom my face, my shaggy eyebrows look like they’re about to start beating each other over my nose.

  Should really get around to plucking those one day.

  Pale gray eyes peer out between dark lashes as I slowly blink and try to will myself to transform into one of the pretty rave bunnies prancing around outside the door.

  Coming to one of the hippest, grungiest clubs in Edinburgh to live out my therapist’s wet dream of triggering my own PTSD…solid fucking plan, Meisie. Truly—there’s a Nobel prize in your future, you can bet on it.

  I straighten, push out my small boobs, and force my sequined dress down my curves. It doesn’t help that I feel like a girl playing dress-up in places like this.

  Always have, always will.

  Even when I’m definitely not a kid anymore.

  I push away that treacherous thought before it can take root and plant poison ivy all over my psyche.

  I give myself a good hard tap on one cheek, then the other, and blow myself a sarcastic kiss in the mirror.

  Asylum’s music slams into me when I open the bathroom door.

  I have one goal tonight.

&nbs
p; Meisie Ford is getting herself laid by a complete stranger. An evening of wild, dirty, hot sex.

  The rougher, the better.

  But as I stare out over the packed dance floor, my willpower starts draining again.

  I might feel like a kid, but this purple-hued room—reeking of the dusty fog pouring out of a nearby smoke machine—is bursting with actual kids. How the hell did any of these guys get in here?

  Some pimple-faced guy isn’t going to do it. I doubt even the guy I originally set out to meet here will cut it.

  I need a real man.

  Now all I have to do is find one in this packed club.

  I was going to leave half an hour ago. Now I’m glad I stayed. Two drinks in and I can almost trick myself into believing I’m just another one of these kids dancing and getting drunk with their friends.

  The perfumed, hair-sprayed, cozy click-clacky sisterhood of the bathroom doesn’t exist out here. It’s like two different worlds. But in this one, I attract way too much-unwanted attention.

  Maybe it’s the dress. Maybe it’s my accent. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone seems to know I don’t belong here.

  They’re not wrong. But I made a promise to myself, and I’m going to see this through if it kills me.

  With my eyes closed, nothing exists but me and the music. The deep, insistent bass thumping through my body moves me like a marionette puppet.

  The DJ is killing it. One track shifts to the next so subtly that I just keep going until my throat becomes dry and scratchy with thirst.