PROLOGUE
Cyrus
September, 2010…
Cyrus Longfellow stared at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror. In between the drips of condensation, he liked what he saw: slicked-back blond hair, dazzling, icy blue eyes, sexy dent in his chin that drove women and men wild. Cyrus had it all going for him. If he got lucky tonight, he was going to have it all going into him.
What the hell was he thinking? Cyrus always got lucky. Always . According to his dear mother, Alexandria, he'd been born under a lucky star. She, on the other hand, had been born under a bridge overpass in East Buttfuck, Texas, to a drug-addicted mother, who did her best to prepare her daughter for life on her own, just like that song "Fancy" by Reba McEntire. Thanks to making her own luck, Alexandria married far above her station, and contrary to popular belief, it was possible to turn a whore into a housewife.
Cyrus's luck had continued all his life, thanks to his father, the coal baron. Lucius Longfellow had owned a string of mines out west in Wyoming. Daddy dearest spent most of his time running his empire, while his wife and son spent his money from a luxury penthouse in New York City.
His family history meant little to Cyrus. So long as his bank accounts were flush with cash, he couldn't care less about his mother's checkered past or about Daddy's mines, which were passed down to him when Lucius died last summer. His only goal in life was to live the most hedonistic life possible. In his own humble opinion, Cyrus was off to a great start.
Leaving the bathroom, Cyrus pulled on his favorite black pants, which accentuated his juicy ass, and a black mesh shirt that showed off his six-pack abs. The last thing he needed for his night out was cold, hard cash.
Beside his bed was a leather satchel filled with cash. He preferred his stacks of Benjamins rolled up, just like the mafia. He stuck a roll into each of his front pockets. Ten thousand dollars would be enough for one night of debauchery. If it wasn't, he had several platinum cards to make up the difference.
His plan was to hit the Jungle, a local strip club where, for a little extra cash, the strippers did a lot more than take things off. Some liked to slide down his pole, a few loved to gag on said pole, while others loved to stick their pole into him. Life couldn't possibly get any better. Unless, of course, he could talk one or two of the hotties at the club to come back to the motel and party with him after hours, just like Marco had done last night. He'd been a tasty little snack, but what Cyrus needed was a man with more staying power.
Looking around his shitty motel room, Cyrus couldn't help but think he should have gotten a room at one of the fancier hotels on Old Orchard Beach. Unfortunately, those hotels had video cameras, and he knew from experience how much money a snapshot or two of Cyrus Longfellow blowing some guy in a hotel corridor would go for online. The New York Post loved running pictures of him in compromising situations with men and women. For whatever reason, bisexuals were considered much more exotic than gay men. Or was it erotic? Either way, Cyrus didn't want his antics captured on video for all the world to see.
Again.
This dingy little motel suited his needs perfectly. Opened in 1976, and not renovated since, the Four Star was anything but. What it had going for it was a killer view of the Atlantic Ocean, clean sheets, and a housekeeping department who, for a little extra cash, kept their lips zipped about his comings and goings. Pun definitely intended.
With one more look at his reflection, Cyrus noticed a hair or two was out of place. He grabbed a bottle of his favorite hair product but was stopped from using it by a knock at the door. It was a little late for housekeeping to deliver the extra pillows and towels he'd requested hours ago. He plastered on a smile and promised himself he wouldn't lose his shit on the poor housemaid who'd been sent up with his delivery.
Forgoing the peephole, Cyrus yanked his door open. It wasn't some poor member of the staff waiting for him. It was someone else entirely. A person he wasn't happy to see. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Like a flash of lightning, the visitor's right arm lifted over their head, reminding Cyrus of that scene from Psycho when Norman Bates' wickedly sharp butcher knife came into view. Just like the movie, his visitor also held a knife, one that quickly stabbed downward, hitting him in the chest. Falling back a few steps, Cyrus stumbled to his knees. Bright red blood dripped from the wound. "Why?" he asked, his breathing labored.
Instead of answering his question, the would-be killer moved into the room and shut the door behind them. They went to the side of the bed and shouldered the leather messenger bag filled with a little less than one hundred thousand dollars in cash before returning to stand in front of Cyrus.
Falling to the floor, Cyrus reached for the knife and pulled it from his chest. He felt a gush of blood spray from the wound, splattering against the floor. The killer—that's certainly what his visitor would be in a matter of seconds—picked up the knife with gloved hands and slipped into a black duffle bag Cyrus hadn't noticed before. "Why?" Cyrus asked again, his world quickly going dark.
The visitor smiled. "I always get what I want."
Up until this moment in time, Cyrus would have said the same thing about himself. Faced with the cold, hard truth, he understood his fatal error. With one last exhale, his eyes closed forever.