Uncovered
Authors: Emily Snow
Uncovered
A novel by
Emily
Snow
Uncovered
Copyright © August 2014 by
Emily Snow Books
Cover
designed by Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
This
book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or
real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events
are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events
or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the
publisher in writing. For information message [email protected].
Standalone:
Tidal
Wrecked
The
Devoured
Series:
All Over You
(Book 0.5)
Devoured
(Book 1.0)
Absorbed
(Book 1.5)
Consumed
(Book 2.0)
The
Savor Us
Series:
Savor You
(Volume 1)
The Playlist
“Seven
Devils” by Florence + the Machine
“Empire”
by Shakira
“Words
as Weapons” by Seether
“Three
Wishes” by The Pierces
“Shush”
by Rachele Royale
“The
End Where I Begin” by The Script
“Love
the Way You Lie” by Eminem & Rihanna
“Here
In My Room” by Incubus
“Rev
22-20” by Puscifer
“Mz.
Hyde” by Halestorm
“Everybody
Wants to Rule the World” by Lorde
“I
Want You” by Halestorm
“Criminal”
by Fiona Apple
“Desire”
by Meg Myers
“Shatter
Me” by Lindsey Stirling
“West
Coast” by Lana Del Rey
“House
of the Rising Sun” by Five Finger Death Punch
“Sail”
by AWOLNATION
“Whatever
You Like” by Anya Marina
“I’m
a Mess” by Ed Sheeran
“Hello”
by Evanescence
“Howl”
by Florence + the Machine
“Money
Power Glory” by Lana Del Rey
Four Months Ago
"I might not be one of your sugar
daddies, Gemma Emerson, but I’m someone you’ll want to listen to. You don’t
want to end this call," the man said before I could murmur a hello. His
stab at my job, the mention of my
name
, caused my fingers to freeze
around my phone.
"Everything you’ve been
told about your story, your father's story, is a lie. It's up to you to uncover
the truth."
Hearing the stranger’s voice
rasping in my ear, I sat up straight on my couch, strands of my blond hair
flopping over my face. The lazy grin still spread across my face from my last
call gave way as a tidal wave of uneasiness washed over me. "What did you
just say?" I whispered, receiving a response of heavy breathing, which
creeped me out even more. "A-are you there?"
It wasn’t like me to stutter.
Before I began working at what my best friend jokingly called, “half-naked
concierge”, my line of work was solely phone sex. It hadn’t taken long for me
to discover that the girls who couldn’t find their words were the ones who were
hung up on instantaneously. My caller on the other end, however, was a
different story. Something told me that my speechlessness gratified him.
“Hello?”
“I’m here.” This time he
didn’t completely catch me off guard, so I tried to pinpoint his voice. It was unquestionably
male, which I’d already surmised, and intentionally low and gruff. Other than
that, though, I was at a loss. “And you heard me the first time, Gemma.”
I’d heard him—loud and
confusingly clear. The mystery behind his words, on the other hand, had me
desperate for him to say it one more time.
Everything you’ve been told about
your story is a lie.
I couldn’t think of a single person who wouldn’t
demand a repeat after someone dropped a bomb like that. Grabbing the remote to
mute the
E! News
exclusive I’d turned on after my previous call, I pushed
off my leather couch.
"Who is this? Ja—"
But I swallowed hard. Saying the name of the client I’d spoken to a few minutes
before this guy’s call came through was a big no-no. If anything, I was professional,
even if the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. “Who is
this
?”
Tiptoeing quickly through my
apartment, I checked the locks on the front door and wiggled the knob. Everything
was secure, thank God. "Alright, have it your way. This has been fun,
but—"
The man spoke up, his
satisfied smirk evident in his gravelly voice. "You don't know anything
about your father or his death. Up until now, you haven't given a shit, but
that needs to change. Tonight. Unless you want to be stuck in the loop you’re
in for the rest of your life. Your body will only get you so far.”
Whoa.
His words were a powerful
fist right to the center of my chest. I slumped against the white-painted steel
door behind me, trying to gather my bearings.
If this guy hadn’t crossed
the line before, he had just officially slithered across.
“You must have me confused
with someone else,” I spat out. Infuriated, I crossed an arm under my breasts
to stop the waves of red anger crashing through me. "Obviously, you don’t
know a damn thing about me.”
If he knew me, truly knew me,
he’d realize I thought of my father each time I passed the last photo I had of
us together—the picture Dad’s driver had taken of us at the Empire State
Building when I was eight. He’d know that I purposely avoided going to Los
Angeles with my best friend every time she suggested it because it brought back
memories and regrets that shattered me.
No, he didn’t know me, and for
this man to accuse me of feeling any different pissed me off.
“Then why haven’t you ever
looked into your father’s passing?” he challenged.
I scowled. "Are you a
reporter?” My question earned an indignant snort from my caller, but I
continued, “Is that what this is? Because if you are, here's a story for you:
Of course, I gave a shit about my father’s death.” My eyes flashed to the muted
celebrity interview on the flat screen TV. “You just won't ever see me in the
news battling over an inheritance he didn't want me to have. So, now that I’ve
gotten that out there for you … I think I deserve to know who you are before I
hang up on your ass," I sneered.
"I'm not a reporter, but
I’m also not giving you a name.”
“Look, asshole—”
“But, since you mentioned the
money, do you really think your dad left you with nothing? Or is that something
you convinced yourself of, because you became too comfortable with putting your
past behind you, and you’re just too lazy to go digging around for
answers?"
I flinched. Deflated, I slid
my back down the door until my butt hit the plush Berber carpet, the
overwhelming aroma of linen-scented carpet powder rushing up my nostrils.
"My father died of a heart attack, and he left everything to his
wife," I whispered, nodding, attempting to assure myself all over again.
When I was younger, I was bitter about my dad’s decision to name his wife his
sole heir. At one time, my mother had been his wife too.
I
was his only
child. Still, none of that had mattered.
When I stopped worrying about
the hand I was dealt, I’d found equanimity —at least somewhat. I was
comfortable
.
But now, I was experiencing
all those old emotions—doubts I hadn’t let plague me since I was a teenager
were brought to the surface. It stung, and I knew I should hang up. Disconnect
the call and immediately contact the phone company to change my number. For
some reason, though, I couldn’t.
I pressed the heel of my palm
to my forehead. "He did leave everything to Margaret,
right
?"
"Figure out the truth,
Gemma. Figure out what happened before
and
after he died." At the
sound of me opening my mouth to ask more questions, my ominous caller shut me
down. "Good luck."
"If this isn't a joke,
why don't you just tell me what the truth is?” I questioned brokenly, squeezing
my eyes shut, quelling the tears of frustration threatening to spill out.
"Why don't you stop insulting me for five seconds about what I didn't do
and—"
The phone buzzed against the
side of my face, and I forced in a breath that crushed my ribcage. He had hung
up on me. He had called me to rile me up only to cut the call short on his
terms. An animalistic growl tore from the back of my throat.
"What the—" Anxiety
bubbled up from my stomach to settle in the back of my throat, choking my
words. Dropping the phone on the carpet beside me, I pressed my fist against my
mouth and bit down on one of my knuckles. It was the only thing I could do to
hold back the inevitable scream. And the vomit.
What the hell just
happened?
I scrubbed my hands back and
forth over my face before pushing my hair away from my flushed cheeks, tucking
the straight locks behind my ears. Staring across the room and letting the
tears flood my vision and fall unchecked, I started the messy process of trying
to decipher the cryptic words from the stranger’s phone call.
He’d claimed there was more
behind my father's death. And then he’d insinuated that I shouldn’t be so sure
that my dad, with all his money and power, had left me with nothing. Whether
the call was a joke or not, I felt like the scabs had been ripped right off old
wounds, exposing all my vulnerabilities to the world.
Releasing a tremulous breath
that seemed to take some of the pressure off my chest, I focused on the
watercolor painting depicting one of my favorite movie kisses. Thanks to my
tears, Buttercup and Westley had morphed into something unrecognizable. I ran
the back of my hand over my eyes. Hobbling to my feet, I fisted my hands and
counted to ten. I was never much of a crier—emotional, yes, but never one to
sob—yet here I was giving a man I didn’t know the power to render me
speechless.
"Pull yourself
together," I admonished myself as I crept down the narrow hall to the
bathroom. I splashed a handful of cold water onto my face and laid my palms to
my cheeks. My skin was still on fire. "It
had
to be a joke.”
I returned to my living room,
powering off the TV as soon as I saw the headline about Margaret Emerson
hobnobbing with an infamous editor at a fashion show in New York. Normally, I
wouldn’t let it bother me too much. Tonight, however, I couldn’t handle looking
at my former stepmother’s smug expression after having my brain thoroughly bent
over and screwed.
“Oh, déjà vu, you nasty
bitch,” I muttered as I threw the remote toward my couch. It landed right side
up on the sable brown knit throw blanket I’d bought at Pottery Barn a couple
months ago. Crossing the room, I swooped up my phone from where I had left it
by the front door, and then, just for good measure, I checked the locks once
more.
As I padded toward the
bathroom to take a hot bath to calm my nerves, I couldn't resist taking a peek
at my call history. I shook my head in disbelief. The idiot hadn't blocked his
number. There it was, nine-digits right in front of me, practically begging to
be called.
Tapping the green icon in the
center of my screen, I temporarily gave up on the bath and slammed down on the
couch. "I'll figure out the truth," I gloated, "I'll figure out
the—"
"Thank you for calling
Emerson & Taylor, this is Claire. How may I direct your call?" a
saccharine-sweet, female voice chirped.
I opened my mouth to speak,
but I couldn't quite figure out what to say over my sudden shortness of breath
and the icy cold fingers of shock stroking my spine. Finally, perhaps perturbed
by my silence, the receptionist introduced herself again.
“Emerson & Taylor, Claire
speaking. Can I help you?”
"I-I'm so sorry.” There
was the stuttering again. “Wrong number,” I managed, disconnecting the call
before she could get another word in.
I folded my arms over my
stomach, leaning forward. It did nothing to help the harsh churning, but
thankfully, there were no tears this time. Maybe I was too numb for that,
though.
Whoever had called me
wanted
me to have the number.
He’d wanted me to call him
back, so I would know whom the number belonged to.
And, most importantly, he
wanted me to know that it was from Emerson & Taylor—the fashion company.
The company that, before his death fourteen years ago, had belonged to my
father.
