Chapter 5 Bolton
BOLTON
Ijump out of bed feeling a thousand pounds lighter. Fuck waiting around for my career to implode. I’m finding this asshole myself. Then turning him in…after giving him a piece of my mind.
I take a hot shower in the guest bathroom, forming a plan as the hot water pelts my back.
The first order of business is to find out more about these murder victims, if the victims are connected.
How were they selected by the Christmas Cleaver?
If I’m lucky, he’ll have established a pattern I can follow right back to him.
I also need to comb through my books for potential murder scenes he hasn’t used as inspiration yet. Maybe I’ll find some clues as to where he’ll dump the next body.
Well—hopefully I catch him in time and there isn’t a next body—but realistically, I’m a writer, not the second coming of Sherlock Holmes. I’ll be lucky to find him at all, let alone stop him from killing another victim.
Bolton, what have I told you? I hear my mom’s voice in my head. Fake it til you make it, honey.
She’s right. I can’t get down on myself before I’ve even started. Confidence can be the difference between clearing my name and having my own story on the eight o’clock news.
I wrap a towel around my waist and head back to my room. It’s already nine, so Cal should be long gone. Knee-deep in meetings, charts, and reports.
He’s one of those early-riser types. Gag. I’m legit fake-barfing in my mouth at the thought of waking up before double-digit times. I’m team night owl all day, only waking up early for international flights and meetings with my publisher.
When I open the bedroom door, I’m surprised to see Cal sitting up in bed, shirtless with pajama pants.
I can see all his chest hair, including the little strands of gray woven through it.
His laptop sits on his lap, and he’s typing away, intently focused as he wears his slutty Clark Kent glasses.
The scene is distracting enough that I don’t register him calling my name right away.
“Bolton…” he calls me again.
“Yeah…” I reply, trying to buy myself some time.
“Good morning,” he greets me with a smile.
“Why are you here?” I blurt out.
“Because I’m sorry for telling you to calm down and not taking your emotions seriously.
I forget you’re not used to dealing with legal proceedings and police.
What happened yesterday was alarming for you.
I took the whole day off—let me treat you to some shopping, lunch, and a movie. We can grab dinner.”
Part of me is so impressed with Cal’s emotional growth.
He used to be such a stone-faced, emotionally distant, stereotypical man.
I can’t wait to tell our therapist how he not only apologized, but clearly acknowledged what he did wrong and made a plan to atone for it.
All the money we spend on marriage counseling is paying off.
I’m also annoyed as fuck that of all the times he is husband of the year, he chooses the day I start my covert murder investigation.
Outright turning him down would be rude and suspicious.
I’d never deny myself the chance to shop and try new fancy food.
Even thinking about doing it feels wrong.
I need to play this carefully so I don’t raise any red flags.
“I’m so behind with my book. Can I write for a few hours, then we can hit up a couple of shops, eat, and watch an adult movie at home? We can use it as inspiration…”
Distracting him with sex was the right move. His lips curl into a smile, and he rises from the bed, stalking toward me like a big, hungry cat.
“Anything for you. I’ll work in my office and give you space until you’re ready to leave. Make sure you check the kitchen counter before you lose yourself in your book.”
“Why?” I wrap my arms around him, admiring how handsome he is. I know I deserve him, but sometimes I’m still surprised that out of all the men and women in this city, this man chose me.
“Because your favorite breakfast dessert is on the counter.” Ugh, the self-satisfied smirk on his face is even hotter than the slut glasses.
“You got me D’Arrazio’s cannolis?!” I scratch, running to the kitchen. Their signature red box on the counter calls to me like a siren in the sea. A siren singing, ‘Fuck watching what you eat. Shove all these cannolis in your pie-hole and enjoy this treat’.
I take one of the mini pistachio ones out of the decorative paper and shove it right into my mouth like a fucking animal.
Creamy perfection inside a crunchy shell invades my taste buds, the rich, salty nuts leaving the perfect end note on my tongue.
The moan escaping my mouth is borderline pornographic, but I don’t care.
“How did you even get these?” I ask Cal. “They’re all the way in Brooklyn near my old apartment.”
“My PA picked them up on her way into work. Enjoy your breakfast, and I’ll see you soon, babe.” The way he saunters out of the kitchen makes me want to forget all about this murder investigation and jingle his balls. In my mouth.
But I won’t be able to write or function like a proper human being while all of this is hanging over my head. I devour the other seven cannoli and get to work.
I spent three hours in my room digging through social media, public police reports and court records, and got lost down a few Reddit-hole threads.
Turns out there is a connection between the victims. They are all connected to VoilaCorps.
DiMuzio worked there and embezzled millions of dollars.
Bawdin did consulting work for them before his Ponzi scheme fiasco.
Summerton worked there until his death, despite the charges he faced.
I guess multiple sexual harassment suits aren’t enough to get you fired from one of the city’s leading financial firms. My anger simmers inside me at how fucked up it is that a company would keep someone so dangerous in a position of power.
Cal would have kicked that asshole to the curb if he had worked for Monroe Enterprises.
ViolaCorps used to be a huge competitor for Monroe Enterprises when Cal’s dad owned the company.
I remember the conversation we had on our first date about how ViolaCorps was crashing and burning.
The CEO made poor business decisions, and Cal bragged about how they dismantled the company and sold its assets.
Honestly, I don’t understand business stuff.
I was too poor to invest money back then, let alone understand how a major corporation handled its cash flow.
The only thing I thought of during that entire conversation was how attractive Cal’s motivation and passion for business were.
It reminded me of what my mom always said when I was growing up.
A handsome man is interesting for a while, but looks fade. A man with passion will always keep life interesting. Especially if his passion is money.
That’s my mom—the pragmatist.
I wish I could ask Cal more about ViolaCorps, but he can’t catch on to my investigation. He’ll tell me how impulsive and dangerous it is, how I should let the police handle it. Well, if they think I’m a suspect, they’re not handling it very well. So it’s up to me to figure it out.
A knock on the door startles me. Cal walks through the doorway, wearing a pair of black dress pants, a white shirt, and a hounds tooth sport coat.
He’s still wearing his slut glasses, and the whole look gives off major professor vibes.
I can imagine him standing in front of a lecture hall full of college students, lecturing them about the fall of modern politics or classic Roman history with gusto, gesturing wildly as he clicks through his carefully curated slides.
I go into my notes app on my phone and furiously jot down a story idea.
A hot Daddy professor who teaches literature by day and moonlights as a hitman for a powerful crime syndicate. He accidentally meets one of his male students on a contract hit, and he becomes his sub—
Cal clears his throat, bringing me out of my thoughts. He walks over and swipes his thumb across my bottom lip. It’s wet, and I realize I’m actually drooling over how hot my husband is.
He leans over me, reading the new story idea with a smile on his face. “I’d be offended by your silence, but knowing I remind you of a ‘hot Daddy professor who turns his little inside out with his huge dick’ is the best compliment you could give me. Are you ready to go?”
I got too consumed by my research. “Sorry! Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”
I hop out of bed, walking into my closet to see what I can wear. It’s larger than my bedroom at my old apartment, and it has an oversized green velvet chair. Cal sits in it, relaxing into the soft fabric.
“What did you write?” He asks as he scrolls through his phone.
“Ummm, nothing crazy. Just some character development,” I reply, digging through the racks of clothes, silently praying he shows no more interest in my life. This is not the time to implement our therapy tools, Cal!
“What is the main character like?”
I pick a forest green cashmere sweater and tight tan dress pants that mold to my butt and thighs. I turn away from Cal, because lying to his face is hard enough without having to control my facial expressions.
“His name is Jonas. He’s a computer hacker, the cunning, morally corrupt type.”
I strip out of my pajamas, hoping my nudity will distract him enough to stop asking questions. Unfortunately, it isn’t doing the trick.
“Okay, but what are his motives?”
Seriously, Cal, why are you being such a good husband right now?!
“He’s secretly searching for his lost brother. They were separated in a mob conflict years ago, and he joined a crime syndicate so he’d have the resources to search for him.”
“Wow, that’s interesting. Writing about organized crime gives you so many story options. Can I read some of it?”
Is he serious? The first time he’s ever asked to read my work is the one time I didn’t actually do any work! What in the spotted fuck?
I put my clothes on, mulling over a way to turn him down gently. “Not today. I want to let today’s words sit and marinate. Then I’ll read them tomorrow and see if they’re worth keeping. It’s part of my creative process.”
“Okay lightning bolt. Are you ready to go shopping?”
A pang of guilt hits me right in the chest. Cal’s about to spend an insane amount of money on me. His motto when shopping is, “Why ask when the answer is yes?” Meanwhile, I’m lying to his face, hiding an entire murder investigation from him.
“Always ready to spend your money, Daddy,” I quip to keep up appearances.
Cal kisses my cheek and leads me to the elevator with his hand on the small of my back. The contact burns, but not in the smoldering way I’m used to. It feels like a punishment for lying to him.
I grab my coat and put it on before he has the chance to help me with it.
“Okay, baby. Lead the way,” he gestures to the open elevator doors. We’re doing whatever you want to do today!”
Ugh, all I want to do is crawl into a hole for being such a fucking liar.
“Um, let’s go to Fifth Avenue.” Maybe I’ll feel better once we walk down the street and see the stores, but I doubt it.
Because the only thing I feel today is a crushing sense of dread and anxiety.