Page 3 of Vow of Revenge
I rolled my eyes heavenwards. “Are you serious? This place is a haven for random fucks and diseases.”
“Sweet Jesus. You, my sister, are sexually deprived. Just get laid and chill out.” Syrah’s elbow nudged my ribs.
“Does Danny know you’re here?” I half yelled, leaning in towards her cheek.
She nodded. “Yeah. He’s cool with it.”
“Seriously?” I clung to the sticky stainless bar when a rowdy group of lads flocked around us for more drinks.
“Don’t worry about me, Freya.” She tilted the shot glass to her lips and sank the clear repulsive poison. “Down the hatch!”
Following her lead, I quickly gulped the small measure of alcohol, wincing with the burn in my throat. It quickly mixed with waves of acid in my stomach, teasing its return to my mouth. My eyes watered. “Ugh! I hate that stuff!” I sucked the sour slice, waiting for the tart citrus to banish the after taste.
“Are you and Danny still together? You don’t talk about him much?” I asked, seeking the moment to pry into my sister’s love life.
Syrah rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about him tonight. We are still together but…” She paused, raising the right side of her mouth into a force half smile. “I’m bored. I don’t know if I’m bored with him, or just life in general. I want some fun, Freya. We’re only twenty-three. Look at you, writing all day for the magazine, locking yourself away in your room like Herman the hermit.”
Yeah, I had deadlines to meet that wouldn’t be achieved if I went out and slept with random guys every night. It was called taking responsibility for my own life.
A tequila burp made my eyes squint. “I’m not a hermit. I have a job, and I go to the supermarket.” I knew she was right, but I tried to defend my recluse ways regardless.
Her brows shot up. “Come on, Freebie, you’re a total nerd.” Her lips pouted with sass. She’d given me the endearing pet name when I walked into her family with tear streaked cheeks. My name is Freya Beaumont – the sister she got for free.
“So, what do you suggest we do, Syrah? Because I want to earn my own money – make my own way in life. Cal can’t foot the bill for everything, all the time!”
“You know, Dad would pay all of your bills. I don’t know why you’re so stubborn?” Syrah grabbed another Tequila, sinking it without flinching. “I just want some excitement in my life,” she said before sucking the life out of a lime segment.
Don’t we all.
“Right then, let’s dance and try to enjoy ourselves in this god forsaken place.” I hiccupped, the second shot still riding the waves of bile in my gut.
The dance floor was a heaving mass of bodies, mostly entwined, grinding against one another to the deep beat of the music. I let myself give in to the exhilarating riff spewing from the surrounding speakers. The alcohol warmed my veins, but, on the outside, I was as stiff as a pole and reluctant to make eye contact with anyone.
Arms wrapped Syrah’s waist. She didn’t pull away, allowing her backside to gyrate shamelessly into her captor’s groin. Together they moved with sexual whispers and promises. My heart sank. I didn’t want her to ruin a life, that was almost perfect.
Syrah was the first daughter of Calvin Beaumont, the owner of Beaumont Wine industries. The Beaumonts were rich beyond anything I could have ever imagined. I was lucky to be under their powerful protective wings. Her drive and determination to succeed in life was suffocated by a doting father’s constant need to spoil. If Syrah wanted a pony - Cal bought her thoroughbreds. If she wanted a new outfit - he bought her the entire contents of her favourite boutique. Syrah was blessed with money and parental love - we both were. However, unbeknown to Cal, his constant need to provide, dulled her passion in life. She tried, half-heartedly, to follow my almost frugal lifestyle and got a job as a retail manager in a boutique clothing store – all in the name of experience. The idea of budgeting was utterly alien to her and an emptiness still haunted her soul.
Calvin and Wendy Beaumont were my adoptive parents. I arrived in the Beaumont household at the tender age of eight, after my mother died in an accident. Apparently, Cal knew her and felt it was his duty to take me in, given I had no other living relative. They accepted me with open arms, treating me like a second daughter, but it was Syrah who held the lion’s share of his devotion. I never resented her ability to wrap him round her little finger, probably because she did the same to me.
I was super lucky to be saved from entering the fostering system, protected from the heartache of moving from family to family. The whole family welcomed me into their hearts, and I was forever indebted to each wonderful Beaumont.
I watched on the periphery, drinking in the seductive scene unravelling before me. Syrah was fluid, free and fun. Her body melted into the stranger’s large frame with ease.
Just over a year ago, Syrah and I moved from Belfast, North of Ireland, to Dublin in the south, after I secured a job writing articles for a southern Irish magazine. It was the first step to earning my own income and making it as an independent woman. When Calvin finally agreed to let us move down to Dublin, he bought us a high-end penthouse in the most prestigious part of the city. He refused to let me pay him rent. As far as he was concerned, I was a Beaumont and therefore his money was my money. In reality, I wasn’t a blood Beaumont, not deep in my soul, yet I was eternally grateful for a belonging in life.
The tall handsome man, with eyes the colour of coal, wavy ebony hair and a fitted sage green shirt, cinched her waist and nodded upward to the VIP gallery, known as The Gods. She smiled widely, letting him drag her away. Syrah yelled through the sea of bodies, waving for me to join them. I didn’t want to go upstairs and watch a guy slobber all over my sister, nor did I want her to make any messed-up decisions. So, I smiled through gritted teeth and shoved my way to the staircase, trailing behind them like a lost sheep.
Heat clung to my exposed skin and glistening beads of moisture twinkled. I was the polar opposite of Syrah’s physical form. She was long and lean whereas I was short and curvy. I had a good set of breasts that were squeezed into a tank top, laced up the front, gapping open at my ample cleavage. At home, I lived in flip flops, but when I actually ventured outside the realms of written fantasy, I wore sky high heels, so I didn’t look like a Hobbit beside my modelesque sister. Tonight, I donned my favourite soft leather knee boots with a towering stiletto heel. The sexy boots were an expensive gift from Wendy on her return from a shopping trip to Milan last year. They fitted my calves to perfection, snuggling against the black leggings that I bought for less than ten pounds in the supermarket.
I teetered up the narrow staircase, rising to The Gods, watching as Syrah slipped past two slim suited men with earpieces.
One of the men stood forward when I reached the top. “VIP only. Turn around, miss.” He pulled back his shoulders.
I smiled. My inner voice was calling him all sorts of stupid names. “I’m with the girl you just let through.”
His expression remained unphased. “She’s with, Mr. De Courcy. You. Are. Not. Now please return back down the stairs.”
The music swirled in my ears, anger sparked in my belly, awakening my temper – an untamed beast. I hated how these hostile men were so cock sure of themselves.
