Savage: The Awakening of Lizzie Danton Read online

  Strolling down the hall on the way to class, I wasn’t paying attention and almost ran into someone.

  “Sorry…” Nadine. She made the staff look nice.

  “Watch where you’re going, bitch.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “What are you, blind?”

  “No.”

  “So you hit me on purpose.”

  Sweat dripped down my back. This was how it worked here. If it wasn’t the staff, it was the older kids picking on the younger ones. Violence was fostered here, honed like a weapon. Her hand curled into a fist. I didn’t run because that would only make it worse. I doubled over in pain when her fist connected with my stomach. My lunch rushed up my throat. She jumped back then started laughing, drawing the attention of others.

  “Enough. Get to class. Elizabeth, clean this up.” Ms. Beddle didn’t reprimand Nadine, didn’t ask what happened. That was how it worked here too. Don’t ask; don’t tell.

  Nadine walked past me, shoving me with her shoulder. “See ya around.”

  For the next few years until Nadine graduated, she would go out of her way to bully me, but no one helped, no one ever stood up for me, no one cared.

  2003

  Drawing became my passion and coping mechanism. Any free time I had I used sketching. I learned that there was more to people than what you saw and I found translating that onto a canvas very therapeutic. Many of my images were of faces…dark, haunting images with empty eyes because there were a lot of those at Stone Crest. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror I even saw that emptiness staring back at me. The human spirit could take only so much before it broke and I could acknowledge my life to that point had broken a part of me.

  I also learned I preferred being an observer to life rather than a participant. It was safer in the shadows, safer to document life but not actually live it. And with the life I had lived so far, I was ready for a little safe. My hope was one day to turn my observer ways into a career.

  2007

  I was going to throw up. My art professor entered one of my paintings in a contest and it won. It was a self-portrait. I called it ‘Voices’. After I graduated from Stone Crest, I used the money my father had been sending me as the deposit on a studio in a building one step up from being condemned. I had to work double shifts at the diner to afford the place, but the lighting was perfect for painting. I worked and I painted until I had a portfolio to apply for art school. I wanted to get a formal education on technique. I had done it. Long hours, late nights and pinching pennies but I had gotten into night school. And now here I was, at an exclusive gallery where my painting was being shown. My professor was with me, but she was mingling. I was too nervous to mingle. I stood in a corner, watching as the who’s who in the art world of Manhattan strolled around, many of whom stopped to study my work.

  “Why did you call it ‘Voices’?”

  I almost jumped out of my skin before turning to the man who asked the question. He was older, probably in his fifties. Kind brown eyes looked back from a face that had lots of laugh lines.

  “Your piece is exceptional, but I’m curious about the name.”

  “It’s my interpretation of the inner struggle we all face at some point, the angel and devil on your shoulder trying to sway you to do right or wrong and how the line between the two gets blurred.”

  He touched his ear and I realized he was communicating with someone. Some collectors sent representatives to showings. His attention shifted back to me when he guessed, “Sounds personal.”

  “It is.”

  He was silent for a moment before he turned and extended his hand. “Alistair Duncan. My client wants the painting.”

  “It isn’t for sale.”

  “He’s willing to make you an offer.”

  I hadn’t thought of selling my portrait. I loved it. It was my most favorite piece, but making a sale, my very first, it could be my foot in the door of a very difficult world to enter let alone be successful.

  “He’s prepared to pay $125,000.”

  My legs went weak and I almost sank to the floor. Alistair smiled. “I’ve shocked you.”

  “I’ve never sold my work before.”

  “His offer is more than fair.”

  “I know.” I looked past him to my painting. As much as I wanted to keep it, I liked the idea of it going to someone who understood it and liked it enough to pay well over what it was worth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Duncan. Please tell your client he has a deal.”

  “Excellent.”

  “May I ask who he is?”

  “I’m sorry, my client likes his anonymity.”

  I understood, most collectors did. I learned that in art school, still it would be nice to know where my painting was going. “I hope he sees something new every time he looks at it.”

  “I’ve no doubt. Thank you, Miss Danton.”

  “Thank you.”

  As painful as it was to part with ‘Voices’ that purchase was the start of my career, the next chapter in my life.

  2009

  It was late; thank goodness the diner was still open. I had just finished a painting, an alley not far from my apartment in the garment district. It was like any other of the countless alleys in the city. There was something about the lighting from the streetlight when dusk fell, shining on the stones that made up the buildings along the alley, how the light reflected off the mica chips was beautiful.

  The pancakes hit the spot. I hadn’t eaten at all today. That happened when I was really moving on a painting. The coffee was hot and would probably keep me up, but then I’d be up anyway. A painting was never done after the last brushstroke for me. I stepped back, left it so I could return to study it with fresh eyes. I always found something I wanted to add.

  Signaling the waitress for another coffee, a woman entered the diner. It was after eleven and she looked like she had just stepped off a fashion runway with her perfectly coiffed hair, her expertly applied makeup and her suit that was tailored just for her. She strolled through the diner on four-inch heels, an impressive sight. She scanned the diner until her eyes landed on me. It was tempting to glance behind me when she headed in my direction. Without a word, she slid into the booth across from me.

  “Lizzie Danton?”

  “Yes.”

  She extended her hand. “Cait Allen.”

  My painted covered hand curled around her French manicured one. “Hi.”

  “Your work is brilliant.”

  I had three showings since my first painting sold two years ago. They were small showings, but I couldn’t describe how amazing it was when people not only showed up but also actually studied my work.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re booking in small, off the beaten path galleries, where you’re not the featured artist. I want to help you become the main attraction.”

  “How?”

  “It’s all about who you know.”

  Any artist worth her portfolio would jump at an opportunity like the one Cait Allen was offering, but in my experiences no one did anything for free. “What do you want?”

  “I want to rise with a rising star.”

  At least she was honest. “Why me?”

  “Because the first time I saw one of your paintings I cried. I don’t cry, but there is something haunting about your work, something unique, and I know I can sell the hell out of that.”

  It sounded too good to be true. I told her as much.

  “We can negotiate my fee. I just ask that you give me a chance.”

  The idea of my own showing, that was too tempting to turn down. “Okay.”

  Her face lit up. “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t be sorry.”

  My feet ached, my face hurt from all the smiling, but I had just spent the night as the featured artist at the Coquette Gallery on Fifth Avenue. Cait sat next to me on my sofa, our shoes kicked off, our feet up on my coffee table.

  She dropp
ed her head back on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. “How fucking awesome was that?”

  “I’m still riding the high.”

  Her blue eyes found mine. “You sold out, not just the show but all of your paintings.”

  “I’m still trying to get my head around that.”

  “It is just the beginning.”

  “I never would have been there tonight if not for you.”

  “You would have gotten there eventually. You’re extremely talented; you just needed someone to market that talent, to push you into the spotlight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Do you want to sleep here?” Cait had slept here often, working until the early morning developing marketing plans and scheduling, so she had clothes here and a toothbrush. In the year and a half we’d been together she wasn’t just my agent. She had become my friend.

  “Yep. Let’s watch a movie. A scary one.”

  Thanks to Cait, I had started a new chapter in my life and so far I really liked this one.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BROCHAN

  PRESENT DAY

  Ashley curled into me. Her long arm wrapped possessively around my waist. Tall and rail thin, it wasn’t a wonder she was a super model. I preferred a woman with a little meat on her bones. One who wouldn’t break when I took her up against the wall, hard and fast. Ashley had been fun, but she was beginning to form an attachment. It was time to move on.

  We moved through Edinburgh Castle, the charity event was being held in the opulent dining room. It seemed counterproductive to hold an event for charity by spending a small fortune to host it. Write a damn check. I wasn’t here for the charity or for Ashley. I checked my watch; we were on schedule.

  “I was surprised you said yes. You hate functions like this,” Ashley purred as she ran her finger down my neck.

  I did, but when an opportunity presented itself. “I’m a fan of the panda.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that. Oh, champagne. I’m going to powder my nose. Grab me a glass.”

  She didn’t wait, strolling off in her fuck me heels.

  Ignoring the waiter and the champagne, I eyed the crowd until I found my mark—a heavyset man with an odd purplish complexion. Seemed to me his ex-wife should just wait for nature to take her course. The man looked like he was one foot in the grave already. Not my place to be the conscience or voice of reason. If you could pay my fee, there were no questions asked.

  Harold Erskine, a solicitor, husband and father of three. He also had wandering eyes and hands. His flavor for the moment was a girl no older than eighteen, nearly the age of his eldest. His wife learned of his infidelity and filed for divorce. Harold didn’t want to pay child support, so he was using his vast bank account and colleagues to find his wife unfit so his children could be sent to boarding school, cheaper than the monthly settlement he was paying currently.

  I’d done my research. Harold was a randy cad, liked to fuck in public. A man his age messing up the sheets with a teenager would work in my favor. Normally, I liked a more hands on approach, but with a witness I had to sit this one out. Monkshood, a poison that was undetectable in an autopsy, added to the whisky he drank religiously before a fuck would bring about cardiac arrest. His wife wanted him humiliated. Croaking with his cock in a girl young enough to be his daughter during a charity event to save the pandas, yeah, that was fucking humiliating.

  I checked my watch again. If he stuck to routine—the man was a stickler for routine, eating at the same bistro every morning for breakfast, parking in the same spot in front of his building, getting his clothes dry cleaned on the same fucking day every week—he’d be ordering that whisky any minute now. And like clockwork, he moved to the bar. I strolled through the crowd and came up beside him.

  “Evening.”

  He looked over, a man impatient to get to the more sensual part of his night.

  “Evening.”

  “Pandas,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Saving the pandas.” I looked around at the show of wealth, the flamboyance that had nothing at all to do with saving the pandas and all to do with status and showing off.

  He understood when he laughed. “Just another excuse to dress up and be decadent.”

  The bartender placed his glass on the bar top. Harold slid the money across to him and grabbed his drink. “Enjoy your evening,” he said kind of tongue in cheek and started away.

  I moved with him and was careful to knock his arm only enough to get some of the whisky to spill over the rim. His focus shifted down to his pants and the small wet spot forming. I dropped the powder into his drink.

  “Damn, sorry man.”

  Irritation rolled over his face. He didn’t even acknowledge the apology. His honey was waiting. He kicked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her away. I didn’t need to follow. When he croaked in the middle of a fuck, I was pretty sure her scream would alert everyone.

  I went in search of Ashley. She was still in the ladies room. I joined her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked then her eyes narrowed in understanding.

  I flipped the lock and pushed her up against the door. Lifting her dress, I found her both wet and naked. Her smug smile turned into a moan as I fingered her clit.

  “Condom is in my pocket.”

  She reached into my pocket, spent some time fondling me through the fabric of my pants, before she pulled my zipper down.

  “Let me play.”

  “No.”

  “I want to taste you.”

  “Condom. Now.”

  Her pout was lost on me. As soon as I was covered, I lifted her leg, dug my fingers into her thigh and pulled her onto my cock. Her head fell back, her moan loud enough to be heard through the door. Her hands pulled through my hair, trying to drag my mouth down to hers. I didn’t kiss. I fucked. She came, loud and long, before I emptied myself. The tingling at the base of my spine, the chills that moved down my legs, it was biology … pure and simple.

  “One of these days I’m going to get that magnificent cock in my mouth,” Ashley threatened as she fixed her appearance in the mirror.

  I wasn’t going to be seeing her again. No point in telling her that. I reached for the door and held it for her. A few minutes after we rejoined the others, we heard the scream.

  After dropping Ashley home, I called Gerard. He was my information man, the best in the business. He could find out anything on anyone.

  “It’s done,” I said. “Has the money been transferred?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m taking some time.”

  “Why?”

  “Personal reasons.”

  “You have a personal life?”

  I disconnected the call.

  On my way back from Edinburgh, I drove past my father’s estate—the McIntyre ancestral home. The charred remains sat hauntingly on its hill. I owned it, the land, what was left of the building. I had enjoyed watching it burn. There had been just enough wood in the design to catch the fucker on fire. Developers wanted it, but I wasn’t ready to part with it. I got an odd sense of satisfaction seeing what had been my nightmare nothing more than a pile of rocks.

  My home sat on the other end of the small town. I hadn’t had a stellar reputation, but after the fire I became a pariah. I didn’t visit town often, but when I did people avoided me like the plague. Fear fueled their behavior; I’d heard the whispers, the rumors. I did nothing to dispel their fears, partly because I didn’t give a fuck, but partly because many of them knew what my father became and yet they did nothing…all but one. My former teacher.

  There wasn’t much in my blackened heart, but what little I had went to her, Fenella and Finnegan. Her cottage sat on rolling hills. She was forever outside working the gardens. I didn’t get it. They died, you had to cut them back, replant. A lot of work for something that was so temporary. There was a heaviness that hu
ng in the air as I approached the house. It had been growing stronger and stronger as her life slowly slipped away. When I knocked, it was a weary Fergus that greeted me. He didn’t like me; he was right not to. We had something in common and as much as he disliked me, he loved her.

  “How is she?”

  Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. I felt nothing, hadn’t for a long time, but a phantom memory of pain burned in my gut.

  “It won’t be long now.”

  Such simple words, but when put together they were anything but.

  A sickly sour scent filled her cottage. Even with the windows open, the smell of death saturated. Her room was at the end of a small hall. Her one time robust frame was frail. Her auburn hair had gone completely white and those green eyes that always sparkled with life were dull. Her head turned on the pillow and her lips curved up.

  “Brochan.”

  I settled on the chair Fergus had vacated. I pressed a kiss on her forehead. She was cold and her skin was paper-thin. “She won’t come.”

  Brianna was speaking of her niece, Norah Calhoun. The woman was a cunt. I didn’t know her, but I heard the stories. The town still spoke of her. As loved as Brianna was, Norah was disliked just as strongly. She always wanted more than what she had. Lying and deceiving to get what she wanted. And she had hurt the one person who had given up everything to care for her because Norah left and never looked back.

  “She has a daughter. I want to meet her.”

  “She’s probably no better than her mother.”

  “She’s my kin. The only kin I have left.”

  With kin like hers she was better off alone.

  “My lawyer is looking for her, but there isn’t much time.”

  That phantom pain was stronger and I was more harsh than I intended when I barked, “Don’t say that.”

  “I’ve been dying for a while. I’m not going to thwart death again. I’ve made peace with it. If I don’t live to meet her, be kind.”

  “I am many things, but kind is not one of them. Leave that to Fergus.”

  “You have kindness in you, goodness too, otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here with me now.”