Revenge On Her Dad’s Best Friends (Three Ways To Get Even #2)

Chapter Five

Oh. Dear. God.

She was in.

She was in Bradford Evans’, Reece Fischer’s, and Zachariah Smith’s house. Well, not their permanent home. This was just a one-bedroom penthouse they owned, one of a couple of hundred apparently sprinkled around the world.

Lady Night’s source, one of their bodyguards who trusted Lady Night on their behalf and easily granted her access into their realm whenever she wanted, had told her they were finishing up a meeting in the penthouse and then they were splitting up and going to three different continents for meetings that would last possibly a few weeks or longer, no one knew exactly how long though.

This was Calista’s only chance, or she’d have to wait, god, knew how long before she got them all three together in one place. It could be months. She didn’t have months of going out of her mind with thoughts of them.

She wasn’t waiting anymore. This was it.

She also knew from her father that, they actually lived in a mansion that looked like a castle out in the country. Each one of them had a wing to themselves. Hank had also told her he chose her mother and Calista over a bachelor wing of the castle, and he would do it again and again until the end of time.

But finally, all the dots were connected here. They were the dots, her, Bradford, Reece, and Zachariah here in this penthouse, so here was where the showdown would go down.

And best of all, she’d gotten this close to them, and they didn’t know it was her their trusted bodyguard had brought up as an early birthday present from Lady Night, or they would have had her thrown out on her ass, right into the Hudson River if they uncovered her true identity. But this was working. Her diabolical plan was working.

She used every bit of control she possessed not to rip off the mask and start bouncing up and down, clapping her hands, and saying gotcha . After years and years of slipping through her fingers like sand, she was standing right in front of them, and they didn’t know it was her.

Composure. That was her word for the day. Also, she needed them at least partially incapacitated, so they could do nothing but listen to her when she said all she wanted to say.

While her heart pounded with excitement, the rest of her body had started to do some other unfamiliar things. Did a charge of adrenaline also harden her nipples, because she certainly wasn’t cold? She was quite the opposite, actually; she was slowly simmering in the heat of the suit.

And the tenseness between her thighs, the ache in her clit? What the crap was all that about? Least of her problems, she decided. Her focus was purely targeted on the three incredibly tall men—well, over six three—dressed in their usual bespoke suits, looking as if they belonged on the cover of some aristocrat magazine for the sophisticated, noble male with just a side of devilish ruggedness to cast an alluring doubt on their gentleman-like character.

Tabby was right, of course. They were not the usual ‘dad’s best friends’, guys with beer bellies, wearing strappy sandals, khaki shorts, and haircuts they got on the way to pick up milk from the store, which basically described her dad. God, she missed him so much. But her dad’s friends were nothing like him.

They always appeared larger than life to her, from the first moment she could remember seeing them. She’d overhear her mom’s girlfriends always go on about them, calling her dad’s best friends, hot, sexy, panty-melting, earth-shattering gorgeous, as they begged for introductions that would never happen since her mom had told them the only panty-melting Bradford, Reece, and Zachariah did was on supermodels with legs for days and celebrities deemed the most beautiful women in the world.

She’d been fourteen at the time, took one look at herself in the mirror, and concluded she was never going to be tall enough if she grew to be a hundred-year-old supermodel and never beautiful enough to be a celebrity. Thank goodness. She didn’t want her panties to melt. That sounded downright painful. And yes, while other fourteen-year-old girls were wearing full-face makeup and dating, she and Tabby were still bruising their knees riding their bikes. Those other girls also didn’t have a sick mom, she thought sadly.

Well, her dad’s best friends hadn’t changed much over the years, except for maybe streaks of gray at their temples that just accentuated the sharpness of their symmetrical jawlines currently dusted with a five o’clock shadow.

Bradford still had those stern green eyes, like a lake under a winter sky, unyielding, dangerous. He kept his dark hair short and neat; nothing frivolous about it.

Reece’s chocolate dark hair slicked back, matched his cerulean blue eyes, the likes of a calm sea, but he also hid what was beneath it with a placid smile.

And Zachariah, with his thick soft hair, brushed back with his fingers, had the grayest eyes she had ever seen and had the ability to exude playfulness and trust but could also change in an instant, like an insidious river.

Serious, Calista? What is that about? Bradford has green eyes, Reece has blue eyes, and Zachariah has gray eyes. No more lakes, seas, and rivers for her. No more romanticizing them. She had a job to do—get closure—and she came armed with everything she needed for complete success.

Three pairs of handcuffs dangled from a loop in the suit. Their purpose? Self-explanatory. From the other side of her hip and hanging from another loop were three bands of black silk. If she didn’t want to hear them telling her to go home, she could use the strips of fabric as gags.

In one hand she held the whip, and her other held the black briefcase that Lady Night had said was their actual birthday present, and Calista was to let them know that after she was done getting her vengeance.

She cracked the whip, proud of herself when the crash course in her bedroom with Tabby paid off and she didn’t do her eye out. That would have been a colossal fuck-up on her part, and she didn’t get this far to mess it up.

Happy early birthday, Dad’s best friends.

“Gentlemen,” she began. She tried to make her voice husky, deeper. It came out as guttural, and she sounded maybe a little inebriated. On what exactly she had no idea, except a devious voice in her head let her know it was because she had drunk up the sight of them like a girl dying in a desert. Yeah no. The voice was wrong.

But she took solace in that they wouldn’t be able to identify her through her voice anyway since they hardly spoke to her—try… never spoke to her. She wasn’t at risk of giving herself away just yet. Still, she tried for husky and deeper again and succeeded.

“I’m KittyHotStuff69. And tonight's your lucky night.”

Or not. Depending on who wore the handcuffs.