Page 3 of Crazy Rich Monsters (Necessary Evils 1)

I trail behind Addison as she makes her way down a wooden ramp that leads to the beach. It’s darker down there, away from the streetlights that light the boardwalk in a pale, yellow glow. Soft light filters through the railing overhead, casting ominous shadows onto the sand.

She walks in the shadows, her hands stuffed into the front of her hoodie.

It’s imperative that I keep enough distance between us so that she doesn’t notice that I’m following her. The last thing I need is for her to take off running to safety. I’d have to make the split-second decision to commit to whatever the hell I’m going to do to her or split and call it a night.

I know that’s what I should do. I should stop what I’m doing, go home, get some sleep, and wake up refreshed without the guilt weighing me down. I’ve always been impulsive though, and being impulsive leads to being reckless, and being reckless is nothing more than being stupid. I come to a stop and take a step sideways, taking refuge behind a wooden support beam.

And then I just watch her as she slinks away into the shadows just ahead.

* * *

It’s a quarter till eleven when I enter the front door of Calloway Manor. The floor is checkered marble as if the grand foyer was built for a life-size game of chess built for the rich. That’s the way my parents look at life, as if it’s some kind of game.

In the Hamptons, you are defined by two things–who you know and how many zeroes are in your bank account. There is a swarm of the social elite running around on empty, on the edge of bankruptcy, but they still rule this town with an iron fist because of who they know. I’ve watched countless families fall into the category of undesirables because they refused to live amongst their means while trying to cling to their social circles.

It’s an unforgiving place, but nobody is more unforgiving than my mother.

The sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor enters the room before she does and she’s almost always the one who enters the room first. She’s a tall woman who towers over people like a giant, especially when she’s wearing four-inch stilettos. She’s dressed in a tight black dress that hugs the fragility of her frame tightly. The dress matches her pitch-black hair that’s carved into a razored bob that threatens to slice across her chin.

I once told her that the bob only served to make her look cold. Her response was to cut it a half inch shorter, as if to prove a point that she’d no qualms with coming off as cold as an icicle. She’s a fucking winter storm wrapped up in dark clothing at all times, contrasted against the paleness of her skin.

“Do you know that your mother worries about you?” She approaches in a straight line, lifting her hands to my cheeks when she nears me. Even the way she touches me is cold, the friction of her skin not daring to land fully against mine. “Only trouble awaits being out this late.”

I lean away from her touch. “You know what they say, the devil never sleeps.”

“He should.”

“Who says I was talking about me?” I chuckle under my breath. “Why are you even up at this hour?”

She smirks and I swear we have the same exact fucking expression. There’s no denying that she’s my mother. “Like you said, the devil never sleeps.”

Then, she’s off, her heels threatening to shatter the hard floor beneath us as she makes her way to the towering staircase that’s split into two on each side of the foyer. She goes left and I go right.

To say that she wasn’t a hands-on mother would be the understatement of the century. Carter and I were raised by countless nannies, none of which ever stayed too long. Back when I was young, I figured they were always leaving because my brother and I were intolerable. Now grown, I understand exactly why they were always fleeing. My parents aren’t easy people to please. I gave up trying to appease them so long ago.

The lights flicker on as I make my way into the bedroom I’m residing in for the summer. It’s the same bedroom I grew up in. The only thing that’s changed is that childhood decor has given way to a montage of boring greys and nothing more. Not that I ever had a say in what the room looked like. Mother has always been in control.

To the back of the room are white French doors that lead out onto a private balcony that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a private beach, our own little slice of heaven. Everybody around here knows not to step foot on that sand.

I make sure the bedroom door is locked before making my way over to the desk, ripping my hoodie and tee over my head in one go. Mother usually doesn’t have the energy or the desire to bother me–out of sight, out of mind–but I’m not willing to gamble on her walking in on me.

I power up the laptop and get to work searching for Addison Davis. The first three pages of search results are all articles about what happened with Carter. It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. I click on the first link I find on the fourth page, directing me to a private Facebook account. The profile image is of Addison when she was back in high school. There are no public posts to see, but since the picture is at least four years old, I reckon she hasn’t touched that profile since the night she killed Carter.

That’s a dead end, so I go back to the search results and power through a few more pages, none of which come up with any information about this specific Addison Davis. There’s one girl I find with the same name. That girl has a million-dollar smile and a life worth living, judging by the very public profile. People can be incredibly stupid, naive, or both. There is absolutely no reason anyone in the world should have a public identity online these days, not with all the weirdos and psychopaths out there.

Finally, I come to an Instagram page that belongs to Addison. There are only seven photos, the most recent dating back to a little over two years ago, when she would have been a sophomore in college. From what I can gather, she attempted to have a normal life while she was away. She’s even smiling in one of the photos with two other girls, both of them looking like social rejects. The guilt must’ve eventually thrown her back into a dark place.

The oldest photo catches my eye. She’s tanner than I can ever remember, wearing a white crop-top that cuts just above her belly button, and there’s something about the way tight jeans hug her hips that causes my cock to jump in my jeans.

That’s the second time tonight she’s made me hard and I’m not going to ignore the thoughts this time. I swiftly undo the belt buckle and slip my hand into my underwear, grabbing at my stiff cock. My gaze shifts to the sight of Addison’s breasts, outlined so perfectly under the white crop, the lighting of the bar she must’ve been in painting shadows under the curves of her titties.

I shift in my chair to get enough leverage to push my jeans and underwear down my thighs, allowing my cock to spring free. My mind goes wild, tearing off her shirt. I grab onto each breast with one hand as my tongue flicks at her swollen red nipples. Then she’s on top of me, the friction of our jeans scruffing each other as she mashes her lips violently against mine. My hand drops to her ass as I toss her onto my bed, ripping off her jeans. She’s begging me to fuck her, needing me inside of her just so she can stop the voices in her head.

There’s no resistance from me. I pull black panties down the length of her legs before flipping her over onto her hands and knees. There’s no time wasted as I line my cock up with her aching pussy. And when I thrust in, she gasps for air, her hands clawing into the satin sheets. I’m merciless, driving in and out of her recklessly, my own fingers digging into her flesh as I hold her still. And just as my eyes roll into the back of my head, I come back to reality… shooting hot ropes of cum onto my own stomach and hands.

It takes a full minute to come back down to earth, my swollen cock twitching from aftershocks and my breathing labored as if I’ve just ran a marathon. I take a glance at Addison’s profile once more and it fills the entirety of my being with rage. I reach for the laptop and throw it against the wall.

She’s going to pay for what she’s done to me.

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