You Turn Read online

  You Turn Copyright © 2014 by Marion Croslydon

  Published 2014 by Carlux Publishing

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover art by Najla Qamber @ Najla Qamber Designs

  First Edition: October 2014

  ISBN: 978-0-9930716-0-7

  To Love…

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by the Author

  About Marion

  Sneak Peek: No Reverse

  Prologue

  ZACH

  East Hampton ~ 3rd September, five years earlier.

  The only pain my mom wanted to kill was the heartache my father inflicted the first time he fucked a woman who wasn’t his wife.

  Over the summer, I’d noticed the little orange jars popping up here and there. In her bedroom, her handbag, the glove compartment of her Range Rover. I didn’t bother asking her about them. I didn’t care. The only thing I cared about was myself, my anger, and my lifelong daddy-issues.

  And now she is rotting in the Murdoch family plot. For the rest of kingdom come.

  “Short and black.”

  Lenor’s voice and the bitter aroma of coffee drag me back into the reception room. The dark polished wooden floors match the wall panels from which pictures of former Murdochs hang. It’s crowded today, but not with the Middle America you find nearby at Sagg Main Beach. To attend Ashton Murdoch’s funeral, you need a Black Card and DNA stretching back to the Founding Fathers.

  “Thank you.” I take the porcelain cup from Lenor. Her hands are just like the rest of her. Long, lithe and distinguished. When they touch me, they make me believe I’m like her. A loyal friend. Someone with a good heart. But I’m nothing like that.

  I should stop her from falling for me.

  She sits down next to me. “Half the East Coast has turned up,” she whispers before taking a sip from her own porcelain cup. Her spine remains perfectly straight and her eyes scan the room. She does it in the detached way she inherited from Louise.

  The coffee tastes sharp on my tongue and I wince. “A pity Mother can’t be here. She’d have been relieved to see my father’s taste for BDSM hasn’t completely sullied the Murdoch’s name...”

  “Don’t be like that.” Her fingers brush my thigh. Gently but enough to make my muscles tense. I shuffle away from her. “Your mother was much-loved.”

  For the first time since the police found my leather-clad father in an underground club, I don’t want Lenor near me.

  “Are you going to mingle?” she asks, her sweet face tilted sideways. “That’s what Ashton would want.”

  I shrug. “I’ve never done what she expected. Why change now?”

  Damn. I sound like a self-pitying dickhead. But whatever I do, whatever bullshit I give her, Eleanor is always there. By my side. Like an eager puppy.

  Another sip of coffee and I put the cup back on the table next to the Chesterfield we’re both sitting on. I don’t need coffee. I want the rough taste of bourbon. I can’t share that with Lenor because she’s barely eighteen. She doesn’t do booze, or drugs...

  … Or sex. She’d like to, but I won’t be a selfish bastard.

  “Do you want to go for a stroll on the beach?” Lenor takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Fresh air will do you some good.” The smile she gives me reminds me of the little girl she used to be, the little girl who was glued to my ass for all those summers.

  I have to get the fuck out of here or I’ll end up being an asshole to her, and hurting Duchess is the last thing I want.

  I jump to my feet. “I need to be alone.”

  Eleanor’s hands flop into her lap. Her lips tighten. She’s hurt, but she doesn’t want to show it. The girl has pride. You can’t take that away from her.

  “I will be here when you need me.”

  My heart falters a bit. I need Lenor to remind me I still have one.

  I zigzag between the guests, ignoring their searching gazes. They’re no better than vultures waiting for a sign of weakness. Me breaking into sobs? Or me getting totally hammered?

  The latter is a strong possibility. That’s why I head toward the library. As a kid, I used to hide here under my grandfather’s billiards table. I loved the man because he didn’t swallow any of the trash my father kept throwing at us.

  I push the door open and step inside my secret retreat. The shutters are half-closed leaving the room dimly-lit. That’s the way I like it. The thin curtains flutter in the gentle breeze. I breathe in the salty scent of the sea, which makes me long to sail away from this place on Renegade. I shut my eyes and let the air relax the tight muscles of my face.

  “They’re here to suck up to the last drop of your blood.”

  The words startle me. I don’t need to look for who said them. The husky voice gives it away.

  I turn toward the plump leather seat in the corner of the library where I know I’ll find her. She’s curled on the seat like a cat begging for a saucer of milk. Her legs go on forever, their muscles long and taut. Her small breasts point under the silk of her black dress.

  “Help yourself to some bourbon, darling. Something tells me that’s what you’re looking for.” She waves her own glass toward the side table where a decanter filled with the amber liquid stands.

  I grab it and fill a glass to the brim. I knock it down. My throat burns but it helps. It helps bring on the numbness.

  “Don’t be so selfish. I’m not a saint like her. Top me off.”

  Her arm extends and I re-fill her glass and mine. I collapse on the seat opposite her and the leather squeaks under my weight.

  “They’re here to see you fall,” she says after a long sip. “At least your father didn’t turn up. It could have been entertaining though.”

  She’s been enjoying the company of my grandfather’s bourbon for a while, judging by the slow tempo of her voice. She doesn’t get pissed though. She doesn’t slur, she savors her drink like she does her men… and her pills.

  “Next time, it’ll be you we bury if you keep on popping pills like gummy bears.” I look at her over the rim of my glass.

  An arch of the eyebrow is her only reaction before she again brings the glass to her plump lips.

  “I should hate you.”

  “Because I helped your mother
find a little escape from her pain?”

  “Because you helped her kill herself.”

  “But you don’t.”

  I let out a short laugh. “I don’t. I’ve no idea what that says about me.”

  She leans forward while uncrossing and re-crossing her legs slowly. I catch a glimpse of the top of her stockings. My fingers tighten around my glass. Another gulp of the bourbon and I start forgetting about the funeral, the crowd outside the library door, myself.

  About Lenor.

  She sets her glass on the round side table next to her. Slowly she unfolds her legs and starts crossing the space between us.

  “It says that you and I are very much alike.”

  Chapter 1

  LENOR

  Paris ~ Present.

  Memories start taking shape in my pounding head. The duplex overlooking the Seine. The slick crowd. Champagne on tap, and me…pretty much on tap too.

  The morning light filters through my closed and heavy eyelids. I crack one open and it hurts. I grimace and it hurts even more because my lips are parched. My tongue feels like sandpaper scraping the roof of my mouth.

  I groan and shuffle over the unfamiliar bed linen. I’m stark naked. My eyes shoot wide open. Shit!

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I sit up slowly, shifting my legs over the edge of the bed. So far, so good. Stomach still holding on. I stand and cringe. My toes are as bruised as my head. Why do I wear those stupid stilettos?

  Behind me I hear the ruffling of a body under the duvet.

  Do NOT look back!

  I pick up my scattered clothes, finishing with that ridiculously tiny G-string I bought yesterday. At least I’ve put it to good use I pronto.

  That’s when the acrid taste makes it up to my mouth. I’ve used the bathroom the last time I came here so I know where to run. And thank god it’s an en-suite. I bend over the toilet and puke up what feels like liters of Dom Pérignon.

  When the retching finally stops, I flush the toilet and grab the edge of the sink as a support and heave myself back up onto my feet. I catch my reflection in the large mirror. If my naked body still looks the same, my face tells a different story. Mascara smeared under my bloodshot eyes. My hair all tangled up. I’ve said au revoir to my signature blow-dry. I don’t even want to register how gaunt my cheeks look.

  Josh would be in for a shock if he saw me like this. Would that make him change his mind about me? Gone is the East-Coast Princess…

  I shake my head. I have to turn the page on him. But I have turned so many pages that surely the book of my life is close to its epilogue. I splash some water over my face and rinse the foul taste away using my index finger as a makeshift toothbrush. Classy.

  I slowly open the door, preparing to pick up my clothes and make a swift getaway. But that isn’t meant to be. A lean, tanned man stands in my way. His hair is a wild tangle, stubble covers his chiseled cheekbones and he’s only wearing boxer briefs.

  By reflex, my arms cross over my bare breasts. That still leaves my lady parts down below fully exposed. But who am I kidding? The guy has already seen all of me. Twice.

  He hands me a glass of water. I take it, gulp it down and swear to myself that I will never, like never, drink alcohol again.

  “Tu allais disparaitre comme la derniere fois.” You were about to leave like last time.

  “Non, pas du tout,” Not at all, I lie.

  I’m half-French and still sound like a freshly-landed Yank.

  Accent or not, his arched eyebrow tells me he doesn’t believe me. As he strolls away, I hurry to gain strategic cover, starting with the infamous G-string. He lies down on his bed, his left arm under his head, and lights up a Gauloise. So French. Unfortunately the cigarette smell stirs things in my stomach I’m desperate to keep settled.

  How can he smoke that early in the morning? Surely, he must be hung over. How early is it anyway? My eyes shoot to the bedside table and the alarm clock that stands on it.

  7.13 a.m.

  Shoot! I have to make it back home by eight.

  “I must go,” I say in French.

  Pierre—that’s his name—shifts onto his side, his eyes lingering over the length of my—now fully-dressed—body. He takes another drag at his cigarette.

  “Are all American girls like you? Do they always leave without saying good-bye? We made love all night…”

  Did we really fait l’amour toute la nuit? I don’t know much about the dating scene in France, but I’m pretty sure back home, Pierre and moi qualify as no more than fuck-buddies.

  “I need to take someone to the doctor this morning,” I mumble, not answering his question.

  I have no intention of telling him that, non, it isn’t my habit to leave without a goodbye. The conversation might venture into me blurting out that he’s only the third man I’ve slept with. At twenty-four.

  Pierre waves for me to sit next to him. I can give him that much. As soon as I do, his arm winds its way around my waist and pulls me against him.

  “Can we see each other again?” he asks.

  I fight my stiffness and let his lips tease mine. I pray I taste more of toothpaste than puke, but it must be acceptable because his tongue ventures inside my mouth. Pierre fulfills all the expectations a D.C-native like me has about a Frenchman. And it’s part of my newly-devised life plan after all: sleeping around, no strings attached, and absolutely NO falling in love. On my part at least, because my deflated ego could do with a man or two going crazy for me.

  “Can we see each other again?” he asks. This time with a pout.

  I choke on a chuckle. None of the men I’ve loved were pouters.

  “How about I call you?” I give in before jumping back on my feet.

  “You don’t have my number.”

  “I’ll ask Charlotte.”

  “Or maybe I’ll ask her for your number,” he says with a smile before bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

  Charlotte, aka Charlie, is my cousin and my newly-appointed mentor. She’d have no qualms about sharing my cell number with a man because she’s set on making a slut out of me. Her own words. I’m far too coincée—stuck-up—for her taste.

  I grab the clutch that matches my little black dress and leave Pierre with one last smile. The duplex is in a state of disarray after last night’s party. Given my present headache I fear I’m guilty for half of the empty Champagne bottles, but I don’t linger. A quick glance at the clock on my cell makes me rush to the elevator. It’s one of those teeny tiny ones typical of Paris.

  A minute later I have made it to the sidewalk. Pierre’s flat is in le Marais on the Right Bank. The de Launet townhouse—my family home—is in the sixth arrondissement, on the Left Bank. I have thirty minutes to get there. With some luck, Parisians will be sleeping a bit longer—it’s August after all—and I might avoid the morning traffic.

  God must have forgiven my night of debauchery because a taxi turns the corner of the street where I’m standing. I hail it, New York-style. Except that taxis are far scarcer in Paris than in the Big Apple, so it feels like sheer luck. Five minutes later, we drive through l’Ile de la Cité, a tiny island on the Seine. My eyes are drawn toward Notre-Dame cathedral. In the light of a Parisian summer morning, its grey-stone statues and almost-scary gargoyles mesmerize me. The seagulls are like little Christmas balls decorating the edges of its twin towers.

  I relax against the back seat, shut my eyes and let out a big sigh. This is my life now. The life I have chosen after the total shit show of my year in Oxford, after Josh broke our engagement and went back to his true love to make a family with her, after… after that summer in the Hamptons oh-so-long ago.

  I shake myself and force my mind to focus on the here and now, not on the past and all its screw-ups. The present is my dear mother, her pill-popping habits, and the bi-weekly doctor’s appointments I’ve dragged her to since she got out of rehab.

  My father hasn’t taken too well her decision to divorce him and doesn’t want anythi
ng to do with a woman who dared to defy him. So that leaves me alone to make sure she’s cleaning herself up for good. I love my mom but, apart from our shared passion for Chanel and Ralph Lauren, we have nothing in common.

  I check my cell and the texts she’s bombarded me with. I told her I was sleeping at my cousin’s flat, but she hunted me down. For once, I’ve avoided her and left her messages and voicemails unanswered. Guilt springs up from my tummy to my heart.

  “Nice place,” the taxi driver comments after pulling over to the curb. He whistles and leans forward looking up at the embossed wooden gate of the hôtel particulier where my maternal family has lived for almost two centuries.

  I force a smile and hand him the cash. Outside, I dial the code to open the gate into a classical looking courtyard, la cour d’honneur. My mother’s Bentley only fills a small portion of it.

  Despite the size of the mansion, we don’t have any full-time staff. Something Mom intends to remedy fast. So this early in the morning, it’ll only be my mother and I.

  7.50 a.m. I might even have time to change into something decent without her witnessing my walk of shame. Another code and I make it inside the townhouse. I check the kitchen where my mother likes savoring her café serré every morning. Empty with only the buzz of the fridge filling the silence. She’s been good so far and has woken up on time for each appointment.

  Frustration propels me up the staircase. I make it to the second floor landing where she has her room, a full-on apartment by most people’s standards. And I stall.

  Someone is talking. A man. The voice is familiar. I swear my blood stops running through my veins and my organs freeze. This can’t be. That voice. Here in Paris. Speaking in French. In my mom’s bedroom.

  I step inside without knocking on the door. My brain struggles to assemble the pieces of the puzzle in front of me. My mother lying on the floor. Her face so pale with vomit dribbling from her gaping mouth. The man kneels by her side, holding a cell against his ear, repeating our address, while the fingers of his other hand check the pulse at her wrist.