Page 51 of Upon Blooded Lips (Vengeance #1)

PRESLEY

“ W hat are you staring at?” I snap at one of the neighbor’s kids.

The boy gives me a wide-eyed double-take before riding off on his bike, wobbling on the cobblestone street.

I hope he falls off and breaks his neck.

Breeders should keep their spawn locked up where decent people don’t have to see them.

Waves of anger wash over me when I spot the prominent foreclosure notice tacked to the front door.

I rip it off and tear it to shreds with a shriek, tossing the little pieces into the air like confetti.

They settle on the once-pristine walkway, now lined with overgrown grass and a weed or two.

It’s not my fault the gardeners disappeared.

They should be honored to work on my house.

And now the fucking HOA is threatening to charge me, like I don’t have more important things to deal with.

Just two weeks since Robert’s funeral, and my entire life is crumbling around me. What did I do to deserve such treatment? I go to church, sit on the board of several charitable foundations, and entertain Willowmen’s elite. This shouldn’t be happening to me.

And David’s ignoring me, after everything I did for him. We even rented him that apartment and lied to the feds for him, and he can’t pick up the phone?

I’m so mad I could scream. It’s not fair. None of it.

I know that little cunt is behind all this.

Ever since that ungrateful girl disappeared, things have gone to shit.

First, the Martinellis canceled the engagement and turned their backs on us, refusing to take our calls and destroying my dreams of moving to New York.

The business started having problems, and clients accused Robert of embezzlement.

Then he kills himself, leaving behind that asinine suicide letter.

I don’t fucking believe it. Robert would never do that to me. He worshipped the ground I walked on.

The media are making up all sorts of lies about me too. Where the hell did they get those pictures of Tessa? And how dare they accuse me of kidnapping her? One station even had the nerve to wonder if I’d killed her.

I should have.

It’s all her fault. She ruined my goddamned life.

Ever since Robert came home and prostrated himself in front of me, begging for forgiveness for sleeping with his whore, nothing’s been right.

That slut even had the audacity to die in childbirth, leaving me to raise her spoiled, snot-nosed, whiny little brat.

My life was supposed to be glamorous, filled with dinner parties and champagne, exotic vacations, and designer shoes. Not changing shitty diapers and scrubbing spit out of Chanel.

And now? Now I have to be out of my house in two days because, apparently, my husband hasn’t paid the mortgage in six months. Our bank accounts are frozen, and?—

“Mrs. Harrison?”

Now what? I spin around and paste a pleasant smile on my face. Two men stand before me with serious expressions and clipboards in their hands. “Yes?”

“Bailiffs, ma’am. We have a court order.”

He holds out a piece of paper. I snatch it from his hand and glance at it before my fist tightens around it. “Come on in, gentlemen,” I manage between gritted teeth while unlocking the door. “How about you start upstairs?”

I wait until they’re at the top before I dash into the office and rip the painting off the wall. If they find the safe, I’m fucked. Without money, I have nothing.

“Mrs. Harrison?”

My heart almost leaps out of my chest, but it’s only Ms. Carson. “I’m a little busy right now. What do you want?”

She lifts her nose like she just stepped in dog shit. “You are the most disgusting, evil, and cruel woman I’ve ever met. I only stayed as long as I did because someone had to look out for that poor girl. Hell is too good for you. I quit.” She tosses her apron on the desk and turns on her heel.

“You can’t quit, because you’re fired!” I shriek back, but the only answer is the front door slamming behind her. Never mind. When I get back on my feet, I’ll hire fifty maids, all of them more qualified and loyal than her.

I punch in the code and swing the safe door open. It takes me a moment to process that it’s empty. A frustrated scream rips from my throat, shattering the silence of the house.

My stomach grumbles, the unbearable ache of hunger gnawing at me.

I fidget from one foot to another while trying to fix my greasy hair into some semblance of a bun.

Just because no one would let me sleep in their guest room doesn’t mean I have to look like the undesirables around me.

My nose wrinkles in distaste when a man with filthy clothes and a flea-ridden beard tries to cut the line.

I shove him away and wipe my hands on my once-spotless Dior pantsuit.

He smells like he hasn’t washed in months.

“Next,” a voice calls, and I trip the woman in front of me, stepping over her prone body so I’m first in line.

I give the man working the food truck a sultry smile. “Can I get a little extra?” I ask, batting my eyelashes. “It’s my only meal today.”

“Sorry, lady, you get what you get.” He pushes a bag toward me, and I take it with a huff. Doesn’t he know who I am? I used to sit on the board of this charity!

Someone bumps into me, and I twirl around, mouth open to berate them.

A light mist falls on my face, and for a split second, I wonder if it’s starting to rain.

But then the pain sets in, the most brutal and indescribable thing I’ve ever felt.

The coveted food drops to the ground as I gently touch my face, my heart stopping at the ooze covering my hands when I draw them back.

I drop to my knees, screaming. Right before everything goes black, I swear I see someone resembling my nephew laughing at me.

“Good morning,” the nurse says, striding into the room I share with five others.

“I don’t see why I can’t have a private room. The moaning and crying kept me up all night,” I whine. The bitch ignores me. I guess I can’t expect much from someone who works at a free clinic instead of the more prestigious Northwestern Memorial Hospital.

She checks my blood pressure before grabbing my chin and turning my face to the side. I suck in a breath at the pain that radiates up my jaw. “I think it’s time to check your wounds.”

I hold still while she peels the gauze from my face, fisting the blanket in my lap as each strip lands in a bucket on the bed beside me. “I want to see.”

“Now, Mrs. Harrison, we spoke about this. I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“It’s my fucking face! Let me see!” She heaves a sigh and helps me out of the bed and over to the tiny bathroom we all share.

The room spins as I gaze at the grotesque creature staring back at me.

I look like Freddy Krueger. I gently prod at the mangled skin.

This has to be a mistake. A trick. Some kind of sick prank.

A scream tears itself from my throat, and I race out of the bathroom, flipping over the tray holding my breakfast. It clatters to the floor, spilling oatmeal and canned peaches everywhere.

The woman in the bed beside mine screeches when I yank the IV out of her arm before I dash to the other side of the room and rip a newborn out of its mother’s arms.

The hideous little thing wails, the sound like a screwdriver punching into my skull. Four large men pour into the room, waving stun guns around. I back away, holding the screaming infant in front of me like a shield. “Don’t touch me. I’ll rip its ugly little head off.”

“Ma’am, put the baby down,” one of them demands, aiming the gun at me.

Tears well in my eyes. It’s not fair. I’m beautiful, dammit! Beautiful! I wear designer clothes, and brunch at the club. I don’t belong here among the trash. I sleep in a mattress fit for a queen with sheets flown in from London, not curled into a ball under the bushes in the park.

The words vomit from me. They have to understand who I am. They all do.

I’m Presley Anne Bannerman Harrison.

“You can’t put me in here!” I scream. The orderly ignores me, dragging me down the dimly lit hallway like I’m a rag doll.

Bare lightbulbs swing from the watermarked ceiling while peeling paint and faded inspirational posters decorate the walls, doing nothing to cheer up the misery saturating the air.

My feet slide across the worn linoleum floor, desperation setting in. This can’t be happening. It can’t. I won’t allow it.

The orderly stops at a thick metal door with a small pane of wired glass and shoves me inside. I stumble backward, my arms outstretched for balance as he locks me into my new room at the state-run psychiatric hospital.

“Who are you?” a crackly voice asks. I spin around and spot a woman behind me dressed in a yellowed nightgown with long, unkempt hair. She takes one look at my mangled face and starts wailing, calling me a monster.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I yell, but she backs into the corner and points a bony finger at me, still screaming. She doesn’t react when I slap her or stomp on her foot. But she goes blessedly quiet once my hands circle her throat and choke the life from her.

She drops to the floor in a boneless heap, and a smile spreads across my face. I brush my hands down my Dior dress and sit primly on the edge of the luxury mattress covered in Egyptian cotton sheets and a Laura Ashley comforter.

I really must remember to call Marilyn later and invite her to lunch. We have so much to catch up on.