2

Laikyn

“I can’t believe you dragged me to a sex party,” I whispered, feeling my cheeks flush but not from embarrassment.

If I were anyone else, I would’ve been appalled that the guy I’d been dating for nearly two months would be so presumptuous as to bring me to something as depraved as this.

I wasn’t for two reasons.

One, my mother was the one who had introduced me to Wes Carver, the son of one of her unsuspecting acquaintances—or future victims, as I liked to call them. He was the third guy she’d attempted to set me up with since I turned twenty-two nine months ago. I hadn’t yet figured out what she was up to—it wasn’t like Monica to play matchmaker for anyone, least of all me—but I was sure I would find out sooner or later. In the meantime, I was playing along.

And two … well, let’s just say depraved was right up my alley. I’d spent the better part of the past seven weeks attempting to get Wes Carver between the sheets, to no avail. He was holding out, which was the only reason I was still dating him—although I used the term loosely. It was more like hanging out while biding my time. If and when I fucked him, I would move on. It was what I did.

“It’s a party,” Wes argued with a smile.

“A sex party,” I corrected because, come on. No way could you look around this place and not think Sex!!! Seriously, it was everywhere. In some cases, quite literally. I mean, shit, the girl on the couch, riding that guy’s dick … Even though they were both fully dressed, there was no pretending it was anything but fucking. The sad part was I actually envied her. Too bad Wes wasn’t as accommodating as the frat boy currently gripping her hips and moving her on his dick.

“You said you wanted to get out of your comfort zone.”

True, I had said that. “I was thinking more along the lines of zip-lining.”

Wes laughed, flashing his perfectly straight pearly whites down at me.

Although I was only in this masquerade of a relationship for sex, I found I enjoyed being in his company. Wes was charming and funny, even if he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Handsome in the traditional sense with his dark blond hair, light brown eyes, and clean-shaven jaw. He dressed like a Tommy Hilfiger ad—casual prep, I called it. With his button-down shirt and his khaki shorts, the white sneakers, and no-show socks, he looked as though he was ready for vacation or class, neither of which he was going to.

Most of all, I liked Wes because he was normal, and my only objective in life was to obtain a sense of normalcy that would drown out my very abnormal existence. There wasn’t anything mysterious or daring about him, and I found that … nice. Probably had something to do with the fact that I was lacking nice in my life. Mainly had to do with my mother, who acted more like a rebellious teenager at forty than I ever had. Considering I’d just turned twenty-two, I probably should’ve been the one acting out, embracing my youth. Instead, she was the one who partied all night, drank too much, snorted even more, and lived like royalty.

Granted, Monica Quinn was royalty. Hollywood royalty. I blamed her millions of adoring fans for her inability to grow up. Everyone thought Monica Quinn didn’t give a shit about anything because she ensured that was the face she showed the world, but I knew better. Behind closed doors, she was insecure and needy, and she would do anything to ensure she was the center of everyone’s universe. Everyone but me, that was. If only they knew the woman I knew, they wouldn’t fawn all over her like she was some sort of princess.

Tell me, princess. What’s it like to be the daughter of a Hollywood queen?

I shivered as Diggy’s voice sounded in my head. I fought the urge to turn around to look for him. He wasn’t there. He was merely a figment of my overactive and quite traumatized imagination. Ever since I’d been rescued from that hell hole, I’d heard his voice often. Five years, five months, twenty-three days, and counting, and I was still looking over my shoulder for ghosts that didn’t exist. And the word princess was a surefire way of triggering my paranoia.

“Where’d your thoughts go?” Wes’s adoration had morphed into concern, evidenced by the little wrinkle across his forehead.

I shook off thoughts of Diggy and the hole I could still see vividly in the middle of his forehead.

“Laikyn? You okay?”

I nodded, then came up with a lie. “Sorry. Just thinking about my mother.”

And just like that, it wasn’t a lie. I was thinking about my mother.

“She okay? Your mom?”

No. “Always.”

Although Monica was the one who introduced us, I had yet to bring Wes around her, figuring he was better off staying far, far away. I had learned my lesson the hard way when I opted to introduce my last boyfriend—Rory of the hot sex in the locker room—to my mother over dinner.

That particular encounter was shortly after I’d been delivered back home by the white knight who’d put another hole in Diggy’s face. Despite being hounded by reporters and kids at my school, I was determined to go back to normal. Granted, normal was relative, and since I’d never been, I wasn’t putting too much thought into what I was doing. Case in point: introducing my boyfriend to my mom. I learned the error of my ways after she jerked off my seventeen-year-old boyfriend at the dinner table. Her dinner table. In her house.

It didn’t matter that Rory had actually liked it—ick—because Rory-of-the-hot-sex-in-the-locker-room had been a minor. Needless to say, he’d received a ridiculous payout to keep his mouth shut and a promise that he would never come around again.

Too bad because Rory really had been a good fuck.

Until this year, when my mother started setting me up, I hadn’t dated anyone since him. Not by the traditional definition, anyway. I’d had sex with plenty, exploring my youth and using sex as a coping mechanism for all my issues. Whether that was true or not, I didn’t know, but it seemed to appease my therapist. She didn’t force me to dig deeper once I’d admitted it. Yes, I preferred to keep my interactions with men casual. One-and-done worked well for me since I seemed to have a short attention span and a diva mother who had no business around men my age.

Not to mention, I had an aversion to relationships. I had no desire for anyone to get close enough to figure out I was fucked up in the head. I preferred being the only one who knew about the nightmares or the ridiculous amount of time it took me to scope out an area—including my own driveway—before I could simply get in my car.

“Perhaps I could come by tomorrow. We could take your mom to lunch,” Wes suggested.

Perhaps not. “Mmm. Maybe.”

I accepted a shot glass from a passing waitress who was wearing baby doll lingerie and high heels, her nipples visible to all with eyes.

And Wes said this wasn’t a sex party. Uh-huh. Right. Then again, every party I’d ever been invited to had been a sex party. Like my mother, Beverly Hills wasn’t known for its discretion or calibrated moral compass.

“So, how’d you wrangle an invite to this place?” I asked as we stood together and looked around at the kinky chaos taking place.

“Chastity,” he said quickly, his eyes not meeting mine for the first time tonight.

I turned to face him, concerned. “Your ex-girlfriend?”

“It’s not like that, Laikyn. We’re friends.”

Yeah, friends. So why couldn’t he look at me?

As though he heard my inner question, his gaze skimmed my face before scanning the room again. “I told her you wanted to get out and try new things, so she invited us.”

And by us, he really meant him, but Wes was far too nice to admit it.

“You talk to her about me?”

“Of course. She’s my best friend.”

I knew Wes and Chastity were “best friends” because he had a picture of them as his screensaver on his phone. When I’d asked him about the girl whom I had purposely called his sister, Wes snorted and admitted they’d become close since their breakup nearly six months ago. He then patted my hand and told me I had nothing to worry about as long as I didn’t have a problem with him being friends with a girl.

I was fairly certain Wes was delusional because, based on my understanding of the situation, Chastity was the girl stringing him along, and he’d resorted to calling her his best friend because she was no longer spreading her legs for him. Or so he said.

If I had a jealous bone in my body, perhaps I would’ve been worried about her. Chastity was one of those little blonde tarts. Petite, bouncy, with big tits and a tiny ass. We had absolutely nothing in common. I was tall to her short. Dark to her light. And though I wasn’t overweight—although I had been prior to my time with Diggy—I would never have the ideal female form by Hollywood’s standards. According to my mother, my forced diet had been a good thing (yes, she actually said that), but now she insisted I needed breast and butt implants—neither of which I would be getting—and I could use a nose job when I was ready to go under the knife.

I happened to like my nose, and I didn’t have a problem with my tits or my ass—or my narrow hips, for that matter—but I wasn’t sure Wes was on board. I was having no problem keeping the weight off, especially in the two months since I started seeing him because all the dates we went on consisted of some sort of cardiovascular activity.

Everything except for sex, that was.

We had yet to consummate our relationship, and for the life of me, I didn’t know why. He said he wanted to take things slow and get to know me before we moved things to the next level. I respected that. Mostly. I hadn’t been raised to see sex as something sacred shared between two people who would spend the rest of their lives together. From my experience, it had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with a physiological response to stimuli. I wasn’t sure why Wes was making a big deal out of it, but I was hanging around to see if I could unravel him.

My abstinence was made a little more difficult when so many things sparked that dry kindling deep inside me. How long I could hold out was yet to be determined. For the time being, my vibrator was getting a good workout.

“And how did Chastity learn about this party?” I asked, dragging my thoughts back before they face-planted in the gutter.

Wes frowned. “This is her dad’s house.”

Well, that was definitely news to me. “Her dad? The doctor?”

“Yes.”

Based on Wes’s stories, Chastity’s dad wanted her to follow in his footsteps. Evidently, she fainted at the sight of blood, so she opted for the next best thing: pharmaceutical sales. According to Wes, that was the be-all, end-all of careers. A far cry from my desire to pursue my passion for art in place of a dollar. According to Wes, I didn’t understand what it meant to have to work for a living since I came from Hollywood royalty.

Did I mention his father was a high-profile defense attorney, his mother one of the most sought-after plastic surgeons in the country? Yeah. Like he knew what it meant to work for a fucking dollar.

“Did she warn you it was a fucking orgy?” I asked, unable to stop staring at the partially naked bodies moving through the room.

“Language, Laikyn,” he mumbled.

Right. Wes didn’t like foul language. Or meat. He lived on vodka and fruit—he was a self-proclaimed fruitarian who liked salmon on occasion and refused to believe me when I told him the vodka he preferred was made from potatoes. While he would never win any awards for dedication to one diet, he was pretty consistent, and I wasn’t dating him for his common sense.

I didn’t bother apologizing for the F-word because I wasn’t sorry. Not even a little. I’d spent my entire life being judged by others. From the first pictures of me, people felt it was their due to share their opinions of my clothes or my haircuts, what toys I was photographed playing with, the people I chose to talk to. I’d long ago stopped giving a shit what people thought I should be doing and decided to live my life how I wanted.

Truth be told, I didn’t care to be at this party, yet here I was, mixing it up with the Gen Z-ers looking to progress themselves socially by recording their daring acts of debauchery for their TikTok followers to rave about. Everyone here was donning a designer label, whether in T-shirts and jeans or short skirts and skimpy tops. There was no theme, but they likely claimed that was the theme.

Wes nudged my shoulder to get my attention. I followed his gaze to a guy finger-banging some girl in the corner.

“She said it would be eye-opening,” Wes said with a chuckle.

If he considered that “eye-opening,” perhaps someone needed to sit him down and have a conversation about birds and bees. That someone was not going to be me.

He grabbed my hand and tugged. “Come on. Let’s go talk to her.”

Sometimes, I wondered if he was helping himself to whatever drugs Chastity was hawking because his idea of a good time was having me and her hang out together.

“Chastity? You found her?”

I didn’t hear his response because he was moving at a fast clip, weaving between bodies. I did my best not to dig my heels in and refuse. I didn’t want to see the girl who was stringing Wes along to the point he’d become abstinent. I’d already had the displeasure of being in her company more than I ever cared to be.

And no, I wasn’t obtuse. I knew Wes wasn’t embracing abstinence to build a stronger relationship with me. He was saving himself for the woman who had stomped all over his heart while at the same time giving her the illusion that he was moving on. I would almost say that was sweet if I weren’t the one suffering from his no-sex rule.

“Well, hello, handsome,” Chastity greeted Wes when she spotted him.

Wes dragged me to his side before releasing my hand and accepting Chastity’s hug. I watched, wondering if this was the moment the green-eyed monster was supposed to make an appearance. After all, the man I was dating just had his chin nipped and his dick rubbed by the flouncy blonde whose tits were about to fall out of her barely-there tank top.

Oddly, I felt nothing.

“It’s when you dress like this that I wonder why I ever let you go. Smokin’.”

Oh, yeah. Smokin’. If someone sprinkled him with ether and lit a match, maybe.

Wes set her back from him, then motioned toward me. “Laikyn’s here.”

Why did that sound like a warning more than an acknowledgment?

“Of course she is, silly. She’s your boo.”

Uh, no. No boo.

When Chastity met my eyes, I saw her smile falter but knew she had hidden it from Wes. That was what she did, but when I mentioned it to Wes, he shrugged it off. Said Chastity was one of those girls who got along much better with men than women. It was the reason they’d become such good friends after their break-up.

Or… Chastity didn’t want Wes, but she didn’t want anyone else to have him.

Yeah, that was the more likely explanation. However, since I didn’t care enough to look deeper, I simply rolled my eyes at Chastity and cast a sweet smile at Wes.

Chastity put her hand on his arm. “I hate to do this to you, Lauren—”

“Laikyn,” Wes corrected.

“Yes. Sorry.” She batted her tarantula eyelashes. “I need to drag your boyfriend away for a minute. There’s someone I want him to meet.”

My guess was that was code for I’m going to blow him in a dark corner and remind him where his loyalties lie.

“Chas, that’s not—”

“Hush it, Mr. Gonna-be-a-screenwriter-one-day. This is important. For your career.” Chastity batted her lashes my way. “You understand, don’t you?”

I considered causing a scene simply because it would liven up this party. Then I thought better of it because the last thing I wanted was for Wes to develop the same one-sided affection for me that he obviously had for Chastity. Unlike her, I had no desire to lead him on or let him believe this was anything more than a potential hookup somewhere along the way. If and when his virtue could ever step aside so he could have a little fun.

Unfortunately, I’d long ago lost my passion for causing a scene. I’d dealt with too many of my mother’s meltdowns to run headlong into another on purpose. Instead, I tended to stick to the fringes of the room, trying to disappear into the shadows.

“Go on,” I urged. “I’ve got to use the restroom anyway.”

It was a lie, of course. One of many I used to placate Wes because he was just so sweet. I hated to rock the boat with him, so I tended to hold my tongue when what I wanted to do was cut my losses and move on.

However, this was the version of me that was making an effort to fit in. The girl tailor-made for a guy like Wes. Accommodating and patient. Neither of which I had an ounce of on a good day.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” he said, smiling before Chastity dragged him off to make all his dreams come true.

If he were lucky, maybe he would get his dick sucked simply because she thought it would piss me off. At least one of us should be getting some satisfaction.

Did I mention I hated women like that?

While Chastity dragged him off, I took advantage of having free rein to look at what the party had to offer. It reminded me a lot of the time my friends and I had snuck into a strip club when we were sophomores in high school. Fake IDs proved invaluable when you lived in a town where kids were spoiled by parents who would rather be in the limelight than actually doing the job of instilling morals and urging their children to make good choices. Unlike that club, there were no naked men or women dancing on poles, nor was anyone throwing money at them, but based on the industrial music thumping through the space, it was only a matter of time.

Granted, every now and then, someone would drop trou, and someone else would end up on their knees. Guy, girl, genderfluid, it didn’t matter.

Or … as was the case over there, a happy mix.

“Laikyn? Laikyn Quinn? Is that you?”

Hearing my name, I turned to scan the faces, then did a one-eighty when a hand curled around my wrist.

“Oh, my God, girl! I can’t believe you’re here!”

It took a moment for her face to register, but then I smiled. It was forced, of course.

Jennifer Ashstrom was a girl I’d gone to high school with. After graduation, I had severed ties with all my acquaintances, mainly because they went off to college while I’d opted to hide out in my mother’s twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion, reducing the risk of getting snatched again while telling my mother I was focusing on my art. Since Monica didn’t care about anyone but herself, I didn’t have to come up with a convoluted story to make it believable. She did her thing; I did mine.

I accepted Jen’s hug and returned it. She pulled back, stared at me with a wide grin.

“I cannot tell you how glad I am that you’re here.” She sighed dramatically. “I don’t know a soul, and it looks like my boyfriend’s abandoned me.”

More like she was looking for some gossip, and I was the bullseye. Didn’t matter how hard I tried to stay out of the public eye, that was where I often found myself, thanks to my mother. She used me as a platform to boost her popularity. Everyone loved a doting, adoring mother, and thanks to my very public kidnapping, she’d effectively created the lie for the world.

“In the same boat,” I told Jen. “Where’s Mandy and Mindy?” I asked, referring to the girls who used to be attached to Jen’s hip back in the day.

She sighed again. “They couldn’t come. They’re in Greece for a month. Family vacation. They are so bored! Said they’d much rather be here, but no.”

Oh, yes, those poor, poor spoiled, rich bitches off in Greece, likely “suffering” on a yacht the size of a small country.

“Heather and Addy are around here somewhere.”

So much for not knowing a soul, Jen, but nice try.

Jen’s upper lip curled, and her voice lowered. “They’re trying to get Kash Miller to fuck them both at the same time.”

I nearly said, “Hashtag relationship goals,” but caught myself just in time. At least they had goals.

Jen’s smile amped up a few megawatts. “So, I say the single girls should enjoy.”

She linked her arm to mine, grabbed us two more shots, and proceeded to tell me what she’d been up to for the past four years while not-so-discreetly tossing in questions about my time in captivity. Didn’t matter how many years passed, people still wanted to know the details since I had refused to talk about it. I hadn’t even told my mother. Not that she’d really asked. Monica Quinn wasn’t known for her empathy toward others. In this case, I think she was too scared to know what might’ve been done to her sweet, innocent daughter. In her eyes, I’d been away at fat camp for a couple of weeks. Nothing bad could possibly happen at fat camp.

For the record, I was neither sweet nor innocent, and I had absolutely no desire to rehash the worst two weeks of my life, so even I was starting to pretend it had been fat camp.

The rest of the night was mildly boring. As was the case at most of these parties. Wes stayed gone, so Jen and I spent our time being voyeurs while she went off on a tangent about recent kidnappings, another attempt to get me to spill.

“I’m not talking about it,” I reminded her, trying to keep my tone civil.

“About any of them?” she asked, a hint of a plea in her tone.

“No.”

“You know you could write a book. Call it The Most Kidnapped Girl in the World.” Her eyebrows popped like it was a brilliant idea. “You’d make a lot of money.”

Yeah, that wasn’t happening. The last thing I wanted to do was share with the world how I’d been used as a pawn for my mother’s doting fanbase.

The sad thing was Jen wasn’t exaggerating. I’d actually been kidnapped four times in my life, none of which had resulted in any harm done to me. I probably should’ve been more traumatized than I was, but it wasn’t really an option since my mother insisted I was never in danger. Monica claimed her fans would go to any lengths to get her attention—which had been the case the first three times. And like I said, we didn’t talk about the last one.

I didn’t think Monica was actually clueless; she merely chose to turn a blind eye, which was what she’d done when the nurse had taken me from the hospital when I was two days old. And again, when my nanny took off with me when I was four. I didn’t remember either of those, but I did recall the time when I was eight. Some crazy fan had been seeking a way to get close to my mother, so she managed to get me alone on the playground while my nanny was deep in conversation with her other nanny friends. It took the stranger no time to convince me my mother was hurt and she needed to take me to her.

I know what you’re thinking—don’t take candy or pet puppies because those people are bad. I got it. But I did take the bait. That woman had known all the right words to say, and I’d gone willingly, only to learn that the woman was bartering an autograph for my safe return.

Some people.

The fourth one had been real, though. A sincere ransom for money. No one had ever found the person responsible, and without me telling them anything that would lead them to whoever was behind it, they never would.

I chose not to tell Jen any of that because I fought hard to keep my private life private. That wasn’t the case for my mother. She wanted people to talk about her, so she did whatever was necessary to keep the attention on her. Including dragging out the kidnapping long after I was home, claiming to have suffered PTSD from the event.

Evidently, that was over because she was currently entertaining the idea of a reality show. I had no doubt people would tune in to watch Monica Quinn unravel on a daily basis. It happened. I’d seen it more times than I cared to admit.