I have a sick, twisted, fucked up mind. Hey, I’m Leo Maddox. All that comes with the territory. But I am who I am…and it’s not really who I want to be. I’ve been trying to break free from my own personal stereotype my entire life. Nothing ever seems to change. But I’ve come to my breaking point. Either change or give the fuck up.
And I will never give the fuck up.
So here goes…
* * *
I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for a decent breath. One brutal image played on repeat in my mind. The girl I loved—the girl I’d loved my entire life—with her plump little lips circling another man’s…
Well, you get the idea.
And he wasn’t just any man. In the dream, the man was her husband. Somehow that made this vision even more brutal for me. He was a dorky husband too. Glasses. Not that there is anything wrong with glasses. On occasion I wear them myself. Polo Shirt—that he still wore during their horrific love-making act. Silver Prius parked outside in their moderately sized driveway. Why the Prius stood out in my mind? Who knows? Like I said, my mind can be a weird, strange place.
And Clara was happy. She was happily married to this dorky sap from my dream. They were trying to get pregnant. She wanted to start a family. Meanwhile, my life was exactly the same—boring, repetitive, and painfully empty. Painfully lonely.
But I guess, on the bright side, I still had tons and tons of money.
Ugh. I crawled out of bed—distraught, angry, and sick to my stomach—and I stumbled across the penthouse room, my bare feet on hardwood floor. I despised this floor. Hardwood was for dining rooms and entry ways, not bedrooms. It pissed me off, as many random things always tended to do. I reached the bar cart, but, fuck me, it was empty. Of course it was empty. I never kept liquor in my room because I couldn’t handle that sort of temptation. But in this moment, I regretted my personal rule. Well…maybe the ‘no alcohol thing’ was more of a personal guideline. Still, I never kept it where I slept.
I glanced out my window, scratching at an old scar on the underside of my arm. The shining lights of New York City were pretty damn amazing. Pouring myself a glass of water instead of the vodka I really craved, I stared at everything in miniature form. Looking at it all almost calmed me. Almost, but not really. The city was too fast paced and I always felt fast paced while here. I needed something slower before I snapped.
Reaching for my phone, I called my personal assistant, Regina.
It was late. (Or early?) But she answered after only one ring. “Morning, Mr. Maddox. What can I do for you?” her groggy but polite voice asked.
“I need the jet ready for Blue Creek.”
“Blue Creek?” she repeated as if I’d told her I wanted her to go to fucking Jupiter. “But the reopening is Sunday,” she urged.
I didn’t bother responding. Frankly, it bothered the shit out of me that she even questioned me. After a moment, she must have understood why she was getting silence and she muttered, “I’ll make the arrangements, sir.”
“Thanks. Call me when we can leave.”
I clicked off my phone, tossing it on the bed. I needed to pack. But what do you pack to impress a girl who fucking hates your entire existence?Suits. You pack suits.