23. Ella

23

ELLA

O ne Month Later

Things are going well with my four firefighter lovers. Boyfriends? It still sounds so odd when I say it aloud. Not much better in my head, either, but at least the memories of our intimate moments and the contentment in my body and soul push away the guilt over taking what seems like the last four eligible men off the market. I'm keeping them all for myself.

Beyond the enormous bouts of sex, the long shifts caring for and bonding with Lily, and the intimate dinners—and breakfasts—I've made decent progress on my own, personal project. Nap time is a godsend, let me tell you. The extra software on my laptop makes my job easier, too. Thank you, former computer science classmates who didn't mind sharing some of that freeware all those years ago.

I've kept myself updated on them ever since, and they all helped me with my new vendetta against Marcus's ex, Vanessa. The way I've seen her treat him and Lily heightens my fury every time, but it seems impossible to keep her at bay.

Her threats to get him back for whatever she made up in her head about him has me laser focused on her past and present behavior. It's easy to start with. Vanessa plasters her image all over social media—especially Instagram. I've thumbed my way through an ocean of bird's eye views of her cleavage. Every shot is also filtered to smooth out her skin and put some life in her eyes.

Or maybe it's only me that can see the gold-digger zombie underneath. It's like the only thing she can think of is Money. Money. Like the old-time zombies used to groan for brains.

Her personality is far too common. I can't even list the number of cases like hers I've worked over the years. They're always the hardest to crack but also the most satisfying. Social media is only the first stop—sexy selfies overloaded with praise in the comments, cheesy inspirational quotes with luxury items in the background, tone-deaf complaints about how difficult her life is.

Yeah, right. Marcus already gives her $150k a year, which is more than the forty percent he's required to give her in their alimony agreement. But he throws another couple thousand on it when she makes a big stink in order to get her to go away.

It's not working.

How can she go through all of that money? I need a third of it to survive.

Actually, I don't need any of it to survive now. My roof is paid for. My food. My internet. Other than clothes and hair care products, and maybe a few apps on my phone, I don't buy anything for myself.

Anyway, that wasn't something I had to go searching for. Marcus freely told me about it the second time she showed up at the manor unannounced. The time I begged him to change the damn locks. And he did.

Oh, the fit she threw over that one—all mock concern about being free to come see her baby, even though I haven't seen her reach for Lily once during any of her visits . The poor girl is usually crying in my arms the entire time her mother is in the house. At least she hasn't shown up when I'm home alone. Probably because I can't grant her any more money.

She doesn't like my being here, though. That much is obvious. I try not to relish in making her lies more difficult. In fact, all of the men have been there. I didn't realize they all lived so close by, but our current circumstances mean they're here a lot more often.

I hope that crams a hair right up her ass.

However, none of that specifically has me out tonight. Online data can only get me so far if I don't know what to look for. I need more information, so I use one of her Insta posts to track her up along the coast. The bar is high-end enough that if I were still scrimping and saving to pay rent, I wouldn't be able to afford the single finger of bourbon from the bottom shelf.

Seeing as I can afford it, thanks to Marcus's generosity—and I do see the irony in that—I get a lone serving of mid-shelf Knob Creek. The nutty flavors mixed with pepper and tobacco, ending with a vanilla caramel note, tempt me into more, but I'm driving myself tonight, and I don't need another.

Vanessa's low-cut, red cocktail dress is getting her the attention she craves, lots of compliments that have her flashing that fake smile and fluttering her false lashes. And lots of free drinks, too. Top-shelf liquor for this delicate flower's martini.

I've snapped a few pictures of her with various men, accepting a shitload of drinks and dancing at the center of a circle of men. While she's suitably occupied, I take the chance to investigate her car out in the back lot. Twisting and tucking my hair under a hat, I slide through the employee entrance off the back by a set of bathrooms. No one's lingering, so it's easy to sneak through.

The parking lot is much less busy now than when I arrived, so locating her flashy red BMW is easy. Inside is littered with valuable items that any other parking lot might tempt a thief to break her windows. The gates help keep honest people honest, and the security guards already are easy enough to fool since my car is also somewhere in this lot.

Our cars are on opposite ends, but as long as I'm confident, no one will question me too much. It's what's always gotten me through tense situations. I dangle my purse from a finger before dropping it behind the back driver's side wheel. I have a tracker up my sleeve—literally—and it takes me seconds to attach it to the undercarriage before I stand and wipe my hands off on the back of my skirt.

A light hits me in the face, and I squint at it, blocking the glare with one arm. "Hey, what are you doing over there?"

I stumble, faking inebriation. "Looking for my car. This isn't it."

"Do you have a tag?"

I do, so I open my purse to riffle for it, although I neatly tucked it in the side pocket the moment I parked. Brandishing it a minute later, I hold it up like a winning ticket. The guard lowers the light and waves me forward.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Only a couple, but I didn't have any… anything to eat."

The guard, dressed in a suit that costs more than a month's rent, peers at me for a few tense seconds before he examines my tag again. "You shouldn't drive."

I slap his shoulder playfully and lean in. "I don't plan on it. I just needed my other credit card."

"And you left that in your car?"

"Locked in a box in my boot." I giggle then cover my mouth, like I spilled a deep secret. "But don't go telling anyone."

"Your property is safe, ma'am."

"Oh, ouch. Ma'am ."

That finally cracks a smile on the overly stoic guard, and he points to the opposite side of the lot. "Your car is over there. Third row from the back."

"Mmm, that's right. Left on the way in. Not on the way out ."

"Go on and dig your card out, then go in and order some pasta or rice. They'll help with the alcohol."

"Okay." I spin a little too hard and take a few odd steps before I recover, find my car, and dig in my trunk. I actually pull out my laptop and connect with the tracker, turning it on and checking that it works before I close up. Producing the one credit card I already have in my bag, I hold it up like I'd found a prize and saunter back to the guard.

"Go on and have a good night, Miss ." He opens the back door for me and waves me inside.

"Now, that's better. Thank you."

Once the door closes behind me, I stop the act and walk back to my corner. I order a second drink once I locate Vanessa grinding between two men. Doesn't she realize that this isn't the kind of establishment for those moves? Other women glare at her from around the room, noticing her obvious lack of class.

I want to say, you can take the girl out of the trailer park … but she didn't grow up in one. She was raised in a decent middle-class family in the northern California suburbs. Her parents divorced when she was a teen, and both tried to buy her love instead of paying her attention. Or giving her ground rules. Or teaching her how to be a well-adjusted adult.

Not that they're completely to blame. Vanessa made her own choices. And I've seen so, so many kids overcome their upbringing. Vanessa's likely inflated an already self-centered personality.

Nothing important is happening, and I'm nearly ready to call it when a gentleman twice her age sidles up to her, wrapping an arm possessively around her waist. Her head tips back, and she lets out a squeal that no one our age should let out in public. I decide to take a video this time, catching the way she spins and throws her arms around him, how she smashes her body against his, how she greedily kisses him in the center of the dance floor.

It makes me sick that so many of her admirers don't immediately flee at the display. After their kiss, he pulls a box from the inside his jacket—a luxurious dark blue, custom-made bespoke suit. I can spot them a mile away after the many, many high-class homes I nannied within. And I know the signature navy blue box of Astteria, an old-money luxury jewelry brand. The length says necklace.

If Vanessa expects a ring, she hides it well. Another shrieking squeal pierces the room's smooth live music. I capture her turning and lifting her hair for the necklace. It perfectly fits to accent her decolletage. Her hand strokes it the moment the large stone touches her skin.

After another five minutes of their reunion, the newcomer has put an end to her steady stream of drinks. She stumbles a bit, but it's obvious she's had practice in these heels with this level of drunk. The man's slowly guiding her toward the door.

Does this man know how many others have been buying her things tonight? How many men shower her with expensive gifts to have her on their arm and in their beds? This is at least the third I've seen give her a gift today. Although none of them seem to overlap. She's smart enough to play them all in different restaurants and bars in different cities around Harborview.

They're halfway to the door. It's my time to shine. Out the back door like earlier, I smile and wave at the security guard on my way to my car. His head cocks, but I call back, "The pasta really helped. Thanks!"

I slide behind the wheel before he has time for a retort. It's easy to navigate my car out to the street, then I wait down the street from the front door in case Vanessa leaves in her lover's vehicle instead of her own.

When they emerge, the fatherly figure hands a ticket to the valet, and his black Bentley is pulled forward only a minute later. Vanessa plops into the front passenger seat, still idly stroking the stone hanging from her neck. Her suitor hurries to the driver's side, unbuttoning his jacket and looking around before he sits.

I pull into traffic before he does, giving me an excuse to slow and let him in front of me. Makes it look like I didn't mean to follow him. As we weave toward the highway outside of town, I've let a car between us, but I stay close enough that I can track his brake lights.

But there's a few sharp turns to get on the 101. I lose sight of the car for a precious few seconds, and it's gone. Where the hell did he go? No one's turning onto the highway. Both sides of the onramp are clear.

This just isn't possible.

I really wish the guy drove her home in her vehicle. At least then, I could find them again.

Sighing, I turn to go south and head for the manor, for home with Marcus and Lily, and likely any combination of Will, Theo, and Ethan. Most nights, it's all four of them with me. Once I'm on the 101 for a minute, headlights approach fast. They grow larger and larger, blinding me in my mirrors. I try to shield the glare with my arm.

My heart races. There's plenty of room for them to get around me. No one is coming, and no hills hide anyone on this stretch. But as that glare begins to dip below my back window, my foot instinctively presses on the gas.

By the time I'm speeding eighty-five down this fifty-five mile an hour road, I'm seriously scared. All I know is I can't slow down, or they'll catch me.