2. Chapter 2
2
Bella
I tap out a quick text to Sandra before heading out of the house.
I’ll be in the office after lunch. Got a few clients this morning.
Message read. No reply.
Thursday morning. And she’s still a bitch.
Now, halfway through my second latte, I spot Elena walking into The Bean, our go-to coffee spot. It’s one of those small places tucked between overpriced yoga studios and boho boutiques, with hipster baristas who look like they spend their free time curating vinyl records.
Elena is impossible to miss. She strides in wearing a leather jacket that screams don’t mess with me , paired with tight jeans and combat boots. Her dark, curly hair is piled high in a messy bun that somehow looks effortless, and her red lipstick is bright enough to make a statement but dark enough to match her no-nonsense vibe.
Taking a quick sip of my coffee, I force a smile, trying to soften the blow of the bad news I’m about to drop.
She’s the editor of “Love and Lust,” a no-filter sex and relationships column for “Femme Fatale Magazine . ” Basically, she spends her days writing about kinks, heartbreaks, and orgasms, all while sipping kale juice and dropping snarky comments in between articles.
Her entire vibe is hot badass with an opinion.
She spots me, and before I can even greet her, she’s already rolling her eyes.
“You’re not fine, Bella. Don’t even try it.”
I raise an eyebrow, absentmindedly running my finger along the edge of my coffee cup.
“I didn’t even say anything yet.”
“No, but I can see it all over your face.” She pulls the chair in front of me and plops down. “Spill it.”
I sigh, trying to come up with the best way to tell her. But before I can even open my mouth, she leans in, narrowing her eyes at me.
“What is it? You got a dildo stuck somewhere? Blink twice if you need help.”
I choke on my coffee, nearly spitting it out as I glare at her. “What the hell, Elena?”
She grins, crossing her arms. “Well, whatever it is, it’s written all over your face.”
I take a deep breath and sit up straighter, trying to maintain my composure. “Okay, so… change of plans for tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean ‘change of plans’?”
“I… can’t do The Crimson Room.”
Her jaw drops like I just told her Santa doesn’t exist. “Wait, what?”
“Sandra’s evil plan for my birthday,” I say, taking a sip of my latte, avoiding eye contact. “She’s sending me to Shadow Hill to take photos of that haunted house instead.”
Elena’s red lips part in outrage, and she slams her hand down on the table, nearly causing me to spill mine. “Oh, hell no. I need to slap that woman so hard, she’ll need another round of Botox just to blink.”
I almost spit out the sip of water I just took, my eyes darting around to see if anyone else heard that. I glance over to the cute guy sitting a few tables away— light blue eyes, that soft boyish smile that says “I’m harmless but charming” —but he’s not there anymore. Of course, the universe sends attractive men just to witness my daily chaos.
Elena, however, is too busy fuming. “She canceled your birthday for some dusty-ass house in the middle of nowhere? On Valentine’s Day? Oh, hell no.”
I sigh, fiddling with the sugar packet on the table. “Relax, it’s not the end of the world.”
“No, it’s not okay!” She’s practically vibrating with rage. “We had plans! Leather, cocktails, hot bartenders… remember?”
“I know, I know.” I rub my temples, already feeling the headache coming on. “But it’s just one birthday. There’s always next year.”
Elena leans forward, eyes narrowing like she’s about to pull out a manifesto. “Next year? You’re turning 29 on Valentine’s Day. We had VIP access to the dungeon of all dungeons. You were going to sip tequila while people got spanked in leather, Bella. Spanked. In leather. And now you’re ditching that for some crusty old mansion?”
I stifle a laugh, shaking my head.
“Look, it’s not like I want to spend my birthday photographing a house that probably has ghosts, but it’s work.”
Elena isn’t having any of it. She stands up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor so loudly a few people glance over. “Hold that thought.”
Before I can protest, she’s out the door, marching toward her car like a woman on a mission. I stare after her, confused and mildly concerned, as I sip the last of my latte.
A few minutes later, she comes storming back in, holding a small black box. It’s not big, but it looks suspiciously like it belongs in a heist movie.
She drops it on the table, leaning over with a wicked grin. “Happy almost-birthday, babe.”
I squint at the box. “Elena, what the hell is that?”
She sits back down, crossing her arms triumphantly. “It’s supposed to be your present.”
I hesitate, eyeing the box. “It’s not a bomb, right?”
She smirks, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe a metaphorical one.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I pull the box toward me, my curiosity piqued. Elena’s practically bouncing in her seat now—she always does this when she’s excited, like she’s physically incapable of sitting still.
Slowly, I lift the lid.
My eyes go wide, and I squeak out a laugh, slapping my hand over my mouth to keep from outright screaming. I can’t even form words. All I can do is stare at what’s inside the box, my brain trying to process the sheer insanity of it.
The first thing that hits me is the color.
Neon green . Like toxic sludge green.
I blink, staring down at what is unmistakably the most grotesquely veiny, oversized… thing I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s sitting there, just… glaring up at me like it’s ready to destroy my dignity in one swift move.
“What… on earth?” I whisper, horrified, as I push the box back slightly, as if it might explode if I get too close.
Elena grins from ear to ear like she just won the lottery, and then her face drops into mock disappointment.
“Ugh! It was supposed to be a surprise for tomorrow… at the club,” she says.
I try not to laugh at how ridiculous this situation is. I can’t even look at it without feeling like I need a shower.
“You mean you were going to spring this on me, what, after birthday cake and cocktails at the BDSM dungeon?” My voice gets a little too loud. I notice a few people are glancing over, clearly judging.
Elena shrugs like we’re discussing the weather. “Hey, you’re turning 29, single, and your boss is a Satan in heels. If that’s not a reason to own the latest in… personal entertainment technology, I don’t know what is.”
I glance around the café, paranoid that someone might see what’s sitting between us. “Elena, we’re in a public place,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “And this thing looks like it came straight out of a sci-fi movie.”
She snorts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, it’s top of the line. Comes with a remote control, four speed settings, and,” she leans in closer, voice dropping, “a suction base for hands-free enjoyment.”
I choke on air. My brain can’t keep up with her, and I have no words. None .
Just then, the green monstrosity in the box vibrates.
Oh God, it’s moving.
I reach out to stop it, but before I can, it hops right out of the box, bouncing across the table like it’s making a break for freedom.
My eyes widen in horror. “What the f—?”
Elena cackles, snatching it up before it hops straight onto the floor. “Oops! Guess I accidentally hit the ‘on’ button. Good thing it’s not on turbo mode.”
I’m shaking with silent laughter, desperately trying to regain composure, but my face is turning red, and I can’t breathe. The people around us are starting to stare, but I don’t care.
This is too much.
“Elena, you are… insane.”
She winks, casually slipping the monstrosity back into the box like it’s no big deal. “I know. You’re welcome.”
Elena leans back in her chair, smirking as if she just saved the world with her vibrating neon-green monstrosity. I’m about to tell her she’s officially the most chaotic person in my life when she reaches into her pocket and pulls out… a joint.
“Happy backup birthday present,” she says, wiggling it between her fingers like a magician revealing a trick.
I blink at her. “Elena, you know I don’t smoke.”
She tilts her head, feigning shock. “What? This? You don’t smoke ? Bella, sweetie, I’m not asking you to become a full-time stoner. But look at your shoulders. They’re up to your ears. You’re walking around like someone who’s been in a perpetual fistfight with life since 2010. This is medicinal. ”
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes at her. “Oh, so now you’re a licensed therapist?”
“No,” she says, shrugging and inspecting the joint like it’s a rare gem. “But I am a very concerned friend who’s tired of watching you grind your teeth every time someone says ‘Mike and Peggy.’ Seriously, I thought your molars were going to file themselves into dust at that last court hearing.”
I can’t help but laugh, even though she’s not wrong. “You mean the hearing where the judge practically patted Uncle Mike on the back and called him a hero for trying to sell the house we grew up in ?”
Elena leans forward, eyes sharp. “Mike and Peggy are trash, Bella. The kind of people who’d sell Julian and Lila’s memories to buy a new car and still have the audacity to demand gas money from you.”
I sigh, gripping the edge of the table. “I just don’t understand how they can do this. To us. We’re his brother’s kids, for crying out loud.”
Elena’s jaw tightens, her eyes narrowing. “Exactly. You, Julian, and Lila are his family. His own niece and nephew! And instead of looking out for you, he’s trying to rip away the one thing that connects you to your parents. Over what? Another used BMW he can barely afford the insurance for?”
Her words hit hard because they’re the truth. Mike and Peggy were supposed to protect us. After Mom and Dad died, they should’ve stepped up as family. But they’re more interested in using the trust to fund their latest midlife crises—fancy cars, vacations they don’t need, and upgrades to their tacky house.
And now, they want the family home, too.
“That house isn’t just a house,” I say quietly, my fingers curling around the edge of the table. “It’s the only real piece of Mom and Dad we still have. They died when Julian was 3, Elena. He doesn’t even remember them. And Lila…” My voice catches for a moment. “Lila was a baby. All she has are photos and the stories I tell her.” I blink hard, pushing the tears back where they belong, refusing to let them spill. “It’s the house where Julian and I used to play hide-and-seek in the attic, where Mom baked birthday cakes from scratch, and Dad spent his weekends fixing that loose front step no one but him ever noticed.”
Elena nods, her expression softening. “That’s why we’re going to win this, Bella. No way those two vultures are getting their hands on it. They can buy all the lawyers they want, but they’ll never have what you have—heart.”
I roll my eyes, but her words hit me somewhere deep. “That’s poetic and all, but unfortunately, heart doesn’t pay for legal fees or convince a judge that I can financially support two teenagers and a house on my own.”
Elena smirks. “That’s why you have me—and, apparently, some really good weed.” She waves the joint again like it’s her magic wand. “You’re going to need this, trust me.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “You’re insane.”
“No,” she says, grinning. “I’m your best friend. Big difference. Now, are you going to let me light this thing or not?”
“Not,” I say firmly, grabbing my empty latte cup and standing up. “Because the last thing I need is to get high and start screaming about Mike and Peggy in a public café. Pretty sure that wouldn’t help my case.”
Elena sighs dramatically, shoving the joint back into her pocket. “Fine. But if your shoulders get any stiffer, don’t come crying to me when they fuse into your neck.”
“Noted.” I grab my bag, already heading for the door. “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”
She follows, slinging her leather jacket over her shoulder. “And by ‘work,’ I assume you mean surviving your Botox-loving boss and her latest evil scheme?”
I glance back at her, smirking. “What else?”
As we step outside, the California sun hits us, warm and bright—a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in my head. But with Elena by my side, I feel a little less like I’m fighting alone.
“Hey,” she says as we reach the car. “Just remember, Bella, they might have money and lawyers, but they don’t have you. You’re scrappy. And if all else fails…” She pats her pocket. “We can always send the green monster after them.”
I burst out laughing, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it.” Elena grins, throwing an arm around my shoulder as we step into the parking lot.
“Debatable,” I mutter, digging into my bag for my keys.
We stop in front of my car—a 2005 Dodge Neon that has seen better days. Its faded red paint is peeling in patches, and the passenger door has a dent that looks suspiciously like a shopping cart hit it at high speed. The car was already a junker when I bought it two years ago, and time hasn’t been kind. I had to trade in my favorite car—a cherry-red 2014 Ford Mustang convertible that I adored—for this, just to keep my head above water. Saying goodbye to the Mustang felt like cutting off a limb. This? This is more like driving around in someone’s big mistakes.
Elena lets out a long, exaggerated whistle. “Ah, yes. The ‘Stallion.’ Still standing proud.”
I glare at her. “Don’t start.”
She ignores me and leans against the hood, which creaks ominously under her weight. “You know, I’ve seen abandoned shopping carts that look sturdier than this thing.”
I sigh, yanking the driver’s side door open with more force than necessary. “It gets me where I need to go. Usually.”
Elena smirks, holding up the black box containing the green monstrosity. “Speaking of which, where does the monster ride? Front seat or trunk?”
I grab the box from her, shaking my head as I open the passenger door. “The back seat, obviously. I’m not letting it stare at me while I drive.”
Carefully, I place the box in the back, next to a pile of reusable grocery bags and an old hoodie I keep for emergencies. Then I toss the joint Elena gave me into the glove compartment, next to some spare change and a tube of lip balm that’s probably older than Lila.
Elena, now peeking into the car, raises an eyebrow. “No air freshener? Not even one of those little pine trees?”
“Funny,” I deadpan, leaning over to unlock the door manually because, of course, Betsy doesn’t believe in power locks. “Get in. I’ll drop you at your office. You can roast me all the way there.”
She slides into the passenger seat, her purse bumping against the dented door as she struggles to fit it between her legs. Wrinkling her nose, she takes a long, deliberate look around the car. Her eyes land on the duct tape patching a tear in the seat and the crumpled fast-food bags lurking near the floor mat.
“You know,” she says, clasping her hands over her knees with exaggerated primness, “if the judge saw this car, he might award custody to Mike and Peggy just out of pity. ‘Poor kids,’ he’d say. ‘We can’t let them grow up in… this.’”
“Ha. Ha.” I shoot her a look as I shift into gear, and the car lurches forward like it’s being woken up against its will. “It works, doesn’t it?”
“For now,” she mutters, buckling her seatbelt. “But if this thing dies on us mid-drive, I’m calling a tow truck and a priest.”
I shake my head, fighting back a laugh as I pull out of the parking lot. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”
“And you’re lucky I make your life interesting,” she fires back, leaning back in her seat with a satisfied smirk.