Page 1 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

ChapterOne

ADDISON

There are two sides to every story–the truth and then whatever the hell lies people choose to believe.

The truth is infinite and forever, nobody alone holds the power to irrevocably alter it. It never changes, no matter how much people try to distort it with lies. I know what happened that night and the only other person in the world that knows the truth is dead.

Because I killed him.

I killed the prom king.

This town’s greatest legacy.

And I’d do it again.

But I’m not a monster, and the truth isn’t simple or pretty. Ask anyone else though, anyone who wasn’t there, and they’ll tell you a version of events that is now embedded in the public consciousness as the truth.

I don’t remember who I used to be. I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast this morning, let alone who I was before the world came crashing down all around me. Trauma does that to people. A few years back, I had a psychologist. On most fronts, he was a complete quack, but he once told me that the only way to recover from my own traumas was to face them. I’m about to find out if there was any wisdom to anything he ever said to me, because here I am, back at that one place I swore I’d never fucking return.

Home.

The Hamptons is nothing more than a playground for the rich and the people that serve them. Growing up, I wasn’t rich so naturally, I was a servant. I was trash, someone to look down upon. The people I grew up with understood their place in the hierarchy, never dreaming for a life on the other side. I had hopes and dreams. From the time I was a little girl, I believed I could have a good life, a better life.

I couldn’t and I can’t.

It was all a lie, and it took being run out of town to finally realize the truth.

Daddy built his life on hard work and dedication. He spent thirty years running Tauk Tavern, a dive bar close to the pier down in Montauk. Thirty years of hard work and dedication and it only took my mom six months to run it into the ground after he passed. Daddy was a saint who deserved all the finer things in life. Mom was the noose around his neck, dragging him down to the depths of despair.

She’s the reason I’m back in town, the reason I just hopped off a Greyhound bus just after sunset. There’s only one person in this town I still talk to, and it isn’t her. I had to find out from an old friend that mom was off the wagon again, drinking and injecting shit into her arms. After everything she put me through, after everything I put myself through, I know better than to step foot in the Hamptons, but I’m addicted to trauma. I’m drawn to the danger like a moth drawn to a flame. The cuts on my thigh are enough proof that I’m a sucker for self-inflicted pain.

I’m not naive though. I’m not ready to face the same people I left behind all those years ago. I can handle my mother. I have two decades of experience dealing with her problems. It’s the looks and the stares from complete strangers that terrifies me the most. It’s the reason I’m hidden within the safety of a loose-fitted black hoodie with the hood draped over my head. It’s better if I remain in the shadows for as long as possible.

I take a deep breath as I reach my destination at the end of the boardwalk. It’s Tauk Tavern, but it doesn’t belong to the family anymore. Mom was forced to sell it after my father died because she blew what little cash he had saved on drugs and booze. It’s the only place in this fucking place that still feels somewhat like home.

When I open the front door, my heart skips a beat. Nobody seems to pay any attention as I make my grand entrance, so I quickly make my way to an empty seat at the bar and order a whiskey neat. Just one drink and then I’ll be on my way. Just one drink to find the courage to do what I came here to do.

There’s some obscure song playing on the jukebox. It matches the mood of the bar. It’s a Tuesday, so it’s quieter than on the weekends. I’d never step foot in this place anytime past five on a Friday. The more people there are, the higher chance somebody notices or remembers me.

I don’t even think about looking around the place, even if it’s just to satisfy the curiosity of who’s here. The truth is that it doesn’t matter who’s here. If someone recognizes me then there’s nothing I can do about that other than to run as fast as humanly fucking possible.

The bartender places a glass in front of me and pours liberally. I came here for one drink but looks like I’ll be leaving with at least three. I force the fakest of smiles, praying he doesn’t want to sit and chat. That’s the problem with visiting an establishment on a slow night, sometimes it makes the loneliest of people want to strike up conversation.

I’m lonely, but I like it that way.

But I catch the man’s gaze on me. I’ve dealt with enough stares in my lifetime that it’s almost like I’ve been blessed with a sixth sense to know when someone is looking at me without needing visual confirmation. I angle my head slightly, rubbing at the arch of my brow nervously as I await the mic drop.

“Are you from around here?”

I avoid eye contact and answer not with words, but with a shake of my head. Growing up, I was always the honest one, the one who’d pick up a hundred-dollar bill off the ground and return it to the owner. Trauma has turned me into a liar. My psychologist told me that lying was a defense mechanism, but once again, he was a quack and tried to slip his hand up my skirt, so what the hell does he know?

The man seems to get the hint that I do not want to be bothered as his shadow passes over my field of view. When he’s gone, tending to an old man at the end of the bar, I finally find the courage to take a glance. He’s tall and clean shaven, dressed casually in dark jeans and a black tee with the wordTaukprinted on it. He’s younger, maybe a year or two older than me.

He knows me.If he’s from around here, if my estimate of his age is right, then he has to know. My instinct is to run, to flee what used to be my father’s bar without even paying. Hell, a part of me wants to get back onto the same damn bus I just got off and go back to Carolina. It’d be easier that way, but I’ve never made the easy choices.

I toy with taking my drink, to help calm my nerves, to help coat the dryness at the back of my throat, but the image of my mother stops me. I’ve had a complicated journey with alcohol. I’ve always been careful when it comes to drinking for fear of turning into my mother. Alcoholism is rooted in genetics, and because of my mother’s struggles, I know I’m predisposed to addiction. Maybe I’m more my father than I am her, but sometimes it’s not worth taking the chance.

I look to my left and notice some guy sitting at the other end of the bar in a hoodie. We’re dressed the same, out of place in the middle of the summer with our autumn attire. He looks familiar, too much so for my liking. I force myself to look away as I try to remember where I’ve seen his face before. I come up empty on answers and settle that it’s better to not know because knowledge isn’t power, it’s permission to make decisions out of fear.

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