Arranged Devotion

Chapter 1

REGAN

I’m going to spray paint that cheating bastard’s car.

I’m not proud of it.

Well, maybe a bit.

But Kieren Foley deserves so, so much worse for what he did to me.

I hurry down a quiet Brooklyn street at two in the morning.

It’s Tuesday night so there aren’t many people out this late.

I’m in all black, dark jeans, matching sweatshirt, and my hood’s pulled up to cover my wavy brown hair.

A messenger bag bumps against my hip. Nothing to see here, just a shady looking girl hurrying down the street, perfectly normal.

Not that anyone cares in New York City. People do weirder shit all the time.

But I can’t help the nervous energy pulsing through me.

I’ve never, ever, ever done anything like this before.

All my life I’ve been a good person, to the point of obsession.

I got straight A’s in school, captained the debate club, played field hockey, joined the student newspaper, got perfect grades at NYU, and graduated with honors.

It got to the point where my little brother Luke calls me Saint Regan to my face and Boring Regan behind my back.

I used to think he wasn’t being fair, but now I wonder if maybe he was right.

Maybe I wasted my stinking life getting an accounting degree, dating the same guy since high school, planning every single little detail of every single stupid day, down to the minute, creating spreadsheets, leaving myself Post-its all over the apartment, and maybe it’s my fault—

No Regan, stop it, nobody made Kieren fuck Vera Baranov in your bed, nobody except for him.

I have to stop to catch my breath. My heart’s racing and sweat breaks out across my skin.

Every time I think of that moment— the closed door, the huffs, grunts, moans, the sound of her saying his name, knowing what they were doing and still being unable to stop myself from looking inside and seeing it with my own eyes—my body feels like it’s going to fall apart.

Panic rolls down my skin in electric tingles.

It’s like the way I used to react to my father’s anger, back when I was little.

Back before I learned how to live the right way.

Get it together.

I march on, more determined now.

Screwing Vera was bad enough. I never liked her one bit.

She was the popular girl, a cliche, but even better.

Blonde, beautiful, cheerleader, but also brilliant, well-liked, and kind.

She was talented, funny, and outgoing. We weren’t friends exactly, but we took all the advanced classes together, and I didn’t hate it when we were assigned to do group projects. Vera was always so stinking likeable.

And really hot.

We could never be friends though. Not in a million freaking years. Not when her last name was Baranov and mine was Corrigan.

Not when her family and my family despise each other.

No, banging a hot Russian girl is bad, but the real problem is what Kieren fucking her means.

I come to a stop outside of the parking garage where he keeps his precious car.

The old BMW he obsessively restored back in college and keeps in immaculate condition.

Boxy, shiny, and cool as heck, if I’m being honest. It’s fussy and a pain, but Kieren loves that thing so much.

I used to joke it’s like his second girlfriend.

Now I’m thinking it was more like his third.

I slip inside the structure. It’s cool with all that concrete around.

My footsteps echo and I force myself to focus on the task at hand.

I tug a surgical mask over my face and slip a pair of fake glasses over my eyes.

The rims are dark and thick. I don’t know if there are security cameras in here, but I’d be an idiot if I didn’t at least try to hide my identity.

And there she is. Kieren’s beamer, right where he always parks it, in that overpriced spot he says is worth every penny. Lucky me, there’s no other vehicle to its right.

I drop the messenger bag, glance around, and take out a can of white paint.

I shake it, heart leaping into my throat.

Am I seriously going to do this? I pictured it a thousand times on the way over here.

I imagined drawing a huge dick on his hood, writing cheater and liar and fucker all over the doors and windows.

But now that I’m standing here, shaking the can and listening to the plastic ball clack around, I’m starting to have second thoughts.

I close my eyes and blow out a slow breath.

And I see them again. Vera on all fours.

Kieren behind her, thrusting away, his face twisted in bliss.

He looked happier than I’d seen him in years.

Our sex life was never adventurous, but I thought we did okay.

Once per month, exactly eight minutes long, blowjob, missionary, orgasm, good to go for a while.

But he never looked at me like he was looking at Vera’s ass, his naked chest sweating, his eyes shining with pure lust and happiness.

Meanwhile, she seemed almost bored—and smiled when she spotted me in the door.

Rage hits me. It’s that fucking smirk like she knew what she was taking away from me.

Not just a boyfriend, but a future.

My fucking future.

The plan I’d built painstakingly for years, now ripped away by her (probably) magical vagina.

It feels really good when I slam my thumb down on the top of the paint can and white blasts all over Kieren’s hood. I try to write dickhead but it comes out all slurry and messy, so I settle for a rough sort of dickheyyyy instead.

I get into the groove after that. Whore, fucker, slut, cheater, bastard, small dick.

I fill in the entire back windshield. Good luck cleaning it off, you cheap shit.

I remember one time for our anniversary he took me to freaking Chick-Fil-A.

Don’t get me wrong, I love that place, but come on.

Four years deserved better than greasy chicken.

I know this is wrong. I’m breaking all sorts of laws, most of which I can’t even guess at.

But it feels so good. I’ve never done anything like this before, never so much as gone over the speed limit by more than 5mph, and now I’m ruining the former love of my life’s special vehicle, all out of spite.

It’s psychotic.

No, seriously. It’s insane. It’s unhinged.

It’s dumb, now that I think about it.

I step back and stare at my handiwork.

Paint’s dripping in smears. Most of the words are illegible. The car’s a wreck, the paint probably ruined. But worst of all, it’s so obvious who did this.

He’s going to know the second he sees it.

Could he press charges? Would he? The bastard cheated on me in the bed we shared for three years.

We moved in together a couple years after college when I was twenty-three, after he begged me to live in sin with him.

He said it would strengthen our relationship and help him make the leap into full-blown marriage.

I believed him, like a moron. Paid for everything, including the mattress, which is now trashed and left out on the sidewalk.

Let rats bang in it. They did once already.

But would Kieren stoop so low?

The answer hits me like a hernia:

Yeah, probably.

“Oh, crap,” I groan as I feel like I might throw up. Understanding hits me as my anger dissipates, leaving me emotionally empty and hollowed out, staring at a husk of a vehicle, at my future doom.

I’ve always been perfect. Never stepped a toe out of line, always did what I was supposed to do, and now look at this.

By far the biggest mistake of my life, and it’s a doozy.

“Shit,” I whisper, jamming everything into my bag. I shove the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my hand and start manically trying to wipe the drying paint away. “Shit, shit, shit!” I only manage to smear it around.

I’m screwed. He’ll report me to the police and I’ll go to jail.

They’ll execute me for being such a moron, and I’ll deserve it.

I’ll put the stinking poison needle in my own arm and thank the judge who sentenced me to death because I’m too polite.

The whole world will watch me succumb, an ugly, ignoble end, and they’ll all be like, yep that tracks.

“Hello, darling, you look like you could use some help.”

The voice stops me dead.

Panic hits a fever pitch as I turn around, my sweatshirt covered in paint, my fake glasses askew, my surgical mask falling off my nose.

He’s standing ten feet away.

I throw my hands in the air. The spray can clatters to the ground at my feet.

“It wasn’t me!” My voice echoes in the otherwise empty parking garage.

The stranger watches me like a predator. “It wasn’t you?”

Low voice, almost melodic. It sends a shiver down into my toes.

“It was… it was teens.”

“Teens?”

“A whole pack of unruly teens.”

His eyes flick to the paint can at my feet. “Right. Teens.” He clearly doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame him.

Unruly teens? Seriously Regan?! I’m freaking out, my heart racing, every muscle in my body screaming at me to run, run away as fast as possible, get out of here before I get in trouble. I’ve tried so hard to avoid breaking the rules and now here I am, living through my nightmare scenario.

The stranger doesn’t seem angry though. He walks toward me and I back away, my heel sending the can clattering a few feet to the side.

His eyes rake over my body, his lips tugging down, and I’m struck by the shape of his mouth, the sharp lines of his jaw, the slight stubble on his strong cheeks.

His hair’s a rusty copper color, closer to brown than red, like old blood.

He’s in dark jeans, a gray long sleeve shirt, and a dark blue backpack.

He’s wearing black leather gloves, which I find extremely unnerving for some reason.

And he’s big. Athletic and muscular. The sort of man who keeps himself in shape. I catch a hint of something spicy as he moves toward the car, looking more thoughtful than angry, and I start to wonder who the heck just caught me.