Beneath the Secrets Read online

  Beneath the Secrets

  Part One

  Shandi Boyes

  Contents

  Want to stay in touch?

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  Dear Reader

  From the beginning…

  1. Hugo

  2. Hugo

  3. Ava

  4. Hugo

  5. Ava

  6. Ava

  7. Ava

  8. Hugo

  9. Ava

  10. Ava

  11. Hugo

  12. Ava

  13. Hugo

  14. Hugo

  15. Ava

  16. Ava

  17. Hugo

  18. Ava

  19. Hugo

  20. Ava

  21. Ava

  22. Hugo

  23. Hugo

  24. Ava

  25. Ava

  26. Hugo

  27. Ava

  28. Hugo

  29. Ava

  30. Hugo

  31. Ava

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  Dedication

  For my crazy family.

  Chris, Haidyn, Clayton, CJ, Mason & Mackenzie

  Thanks for putting up with me.

  Want to stay in touch?

  Facebook: facebook.com/authorshandi

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  Instagram: instagram.com/authorshandi

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  Email: [email protected]

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  Reader’s Group: bit.ly/ShandiBookBabes

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  Website: authorshandi.com

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  Newsletter: https://www.subscribepage.com/AuthorShandi

  Also by Shandi Boyes

  Perception Series

  * * *

  Saving Noah (Noah & Emily)

  Fighting Jacob (Jacob & Lola)

  Taming Nick (Nick & Jenni)

  Redeeming Slater (Slater and Kylie)

  Saving Emily (Noah & Emily - Novella)

  Wrapped Up with Rise Up (Perception Novella - should be read after the Bound Series)

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  Enigma

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  Enigma (Isaac & Isabelle #1)

  Unraveling an Enigma (Isaac & Isabelle #2)

  Enigma The Mystery Unmasked (Isaac & Isabelle #3)

  Enigma: The Final Chapter (Isaac & Isabelle #4)

  Beneath The Secrets (Hugo & Ava #1)

  Beneath The Sheets(Hugo & Ava #2)

  Spy Thy Neighbor (Hunter & Paige)

  The Opposite Effect (Brax & Clara)

  I Married a Mob Boss(Rico & Blaire)

  Second Shot(Hawke & Gemma)

  The Way We Are(Ryan & Savannah #1)

  The Way We Were(Ryan & Savannah #2)

  Sugar and Spice (Cormack & Harlow)

  Lady In Waiting (Regan & Alex #1)

  Man in Queue (Regan & Alex #2)

  Couple on Hold(Regan & Alex #3)

  Enigma: The Wedding (Isaac and Isabelle)

  Silent Vigilante (Brandon and Melody #1)

  Hushed Guardian (Brandon & Melody #2)

  Quiet Protector (Brandon & Melody #3)

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  Bound Series

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  Chains (Marcus & Cleo #1)

  Links(Marcus & Cleo #2)

  Bound(Marcus & Cleo #3)

  Restrain(Marcus & Cleo #4)

  Psycho (Dexter & ??)

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  Russian Mob Chronicles

  * * *

  Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance (Nikolai & Justine #1)

  Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine (Nikolai & Justine #2)

  Nikolai: What’s Left of Me(Nikolai & Justine #3)

  Nikolai: Mine to Protect(Nikolai & Justine #4)

  Asher: My Russian Revenge (Asher & Zariah)

  Nikolai: Through the Devil's Eyes(Nikolai & Justine #5)

  Trey (Trey & K)

  K: A Trey Sequel

  The Italian Cartel

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  Dimitri

  Roxanne

  Reign

  Mafia Ties (Novella)

  Maddox

  Demi

  Rocco

  Clover

  Smith

  * * *

  RomCom Standalones

  Just Playin’ (Elvis & Willow)

  Ain't Happenin' (Lorenzo & Skylar)

  The Drop Zone (Colby & Jamie)

  Very Unlikely (Brand New Couple)

  * * *

  Short Stories

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  Christmas Trio (Wesley, Andrew & Mallory -- short story)

  Falling For A Stranger (Short Story)

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  Coming Soon

  Skitzo

  Dear reader,

  * * *

  I know you have fallen in love with Hugo from the Enigma series and that you know and love him as he is now - but Hugo didn’t become the man he was overnight. Certain events and people in his life influenced the man he has become today. So, in saying that, I feel it's important to show you how Hugo became the man he is. To do that, we need to go back to the very beginning. Only by showing you who he was in his past will you truly understand why he made the mistakes he has made, and the consequences that followed his massive decision.

  * * *

  Are you ready? Because it’s time to dive beneath the sheets and learn about the real Hugo. The Hugo Marshall only those closest to him know.

  * * *

  I hope you enjoy his story.

  * * *

  Cheers

  * * *

  Shandi xx

  One

  Hugo

  I loosen my tie in the mirror, ignoring the roach devouring the crust of a sandwich on the cracked vanity in front of me. With my failure at securing a job today, I may very well be scavenging for food alongside him next week. My desperation to find a job had me arriving for an interview at a piece of shit club on the outskirts of New York City.

  Calling this establishment sleazy would be an understatement. Its walls haven’t seen a coat of paint since the day I first breathed air; the bathroom is more outdated than my grandma’s petticoat she wore on her wedding day, and that roach isn’t the first one I’ve seen, but I’m so desperate to add a few more digits to my scarce bank balance that I’m open to any opportunities available. When your options are limited, you take what you can get.

  Unfortunately for me, even a crack dime bar in the middle of whoop whoop is too dignified for an ex Air Force sniper. After a brief five-minute chat with a guy who looks like he stars in seventies pornos, I was told there were no suitable positions available for a “person like me.” I drove over an hour to be blown off in five minutes. Even my brother would have lasted longer than that.

  Laughing off the fact I’ve been rejected by a Ron Jeremy wannabe, I amble out of the bathroom. My black wingtip boots click along the cracked, uneven floor as I make my way across the room. I throw my jacket onto the counter and sit down on the grime-covered barstool for a beer. I may as well down a cold beer and wait for the peak hour traffic to lessen before heading home. The bartender with a sleeve of home-botched tattoos on his left arm nods at my request for a Bud Light as he sets a scotch on the rocks down in front of the gentleman next to me.

  “Leave the bottle,” my nameless companion requests. The bartender doesn’t blink an eye at his demanding tone.

  I toss back half the bottle of beer placed in front of me before lifting my eyes to the grainy image on the small TV hanging from the ceiling. The picture is so blurry, I can’t tell if it’s the LA Dodgers or the Chicago Cubs playing.

  Deciding the eye strain isn’t worth the hassle to know the score, I shift my gaze to the dance floor. Although the bathrooms are severely outdated, and the beer isn’t as cold as it
could be, there are still at few dozen patrons crammed onto the four-sizes-too-small dance space.

  After tipping my beer in greeting to a trio of girls at the side of the dance floor, batting their eyelashes excessively, I turn my eyes back to the TV screen. Even dolled up in pretty dresses and wearing more makeup than Prince wears on stage, their demeanor screams stage five clinger.

  Since I do not want and am not looking for any type of relationship right now, bed companions who are reluctant to leave in the morning are not on my radar. My prime focus is on securing a job. Once I achieve that, my motivation will return to washing away the two years of hell that still plague my dreams every night.

  “Are you a regular?”

  A brief chuckle escapes my lips. “Normally, you wouldn’t catch me dead in a shit hole like this.”

  I swing my eyes to where the voice is coming from. The more my gaze roams over my drinking comrade, the more my brows join.

  “You?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to my question.

  It’s not just the expensive Hugo Boss suit, polished dress shoes, and one-hundred-dollar haircut that gives away the fact he's a fly-in visitor. It's the expensive watch on his wrist that's the biggest indication. That piece, no doubt, costs more than I made my entire time serving in the Air Force.

  Shaking his head, Mr. Trust Fund throws back a three-finger serving of scotch before pouring himself another generous helping. When he lifts his eyes to mine, the uniqueness of their coloring gathers my interest, but it’s the shroud of secrets hidden in their darkness that holds my attention.

  “I was considering buying this place.”

  “Why?” My tone is blunt and straight to the point. “If you want to throw your trust fund into an empty pit, toss it this way.”

  He smirks against the rim of his dirty glass before downing another nip. After running the edge of his hand along his mouth, he says, “Unless you look past the surface, you’ll never find the diamond hidden beneath the rubble.”

  “Hey, I’m all for finding a diamond in the rough, but this place isn’t it. Even if you throw a bucket load of money into this project and had her sparkling like Mariah Carey in a sequined mini dress, you'll still be throwing money away.”

  He places his glass onto the countertop and angles his body to the side. “Why?”

  “For one, the demographic is all wrong. The average age in this region is twenty-five to forty-seven. Even if they haven’t been tied down with the standard two point five kids most people in this county have, they’re either unemployed or financially strangled by the housing market. Before the stock market crashed, house prices in this area were astronomical. People went nuts, buying any partial of land they could get their mitts on. Once the market crashed, so did the land value. You may get people walking through the doors, wanting to escape the misery of life for a few hours, but they’ll be the patrons who arrive already drunk, and leave once the buzz wears off.”

  I wave my hand around the space. Even with fifty plus people on the dance floor, including me and the mystery stranger, only four people are gathered around the bar, ordering drinks.

  “This place will never be anything more than a money pit. In my opinion, you’d be better off investing in another fancy watch than this dump.”

  My scotch-drinking comrade gathers his suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, and places a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter before turning his eyes to me.

  “Do you have any plans tonight?”

  I grin before taking a swig out of my bottle of beer. “I’m sorry, but you’re not my type.”

  I nudge my head to the ensemble of girls formed at the side of us. Their lips pucker when they noticed they've secured our attention.

  “I’m sure walking up with one of them on your arm would still give your mommy dearest the shock factor you're after.”

  My focus is pulled from the pretty brunette in the middle of the group when a low chuckle rumbles out of my drinking companion’s lips. “I’m not gay, but I can assure you if I were, your long-haired, Mills and Boons romance book cover appearance you’re trying to pull off isn’t tickling my fancy.”

  My mouth gapes, surprised by Mr. Trust Fund’s witty comeback. I knew there was something hidden in his eyes, I just had no clue it was a personality.

  He puts on his suit jacket and adjusts the gold links on the cuffs before his gray eyes lock with mine. “So what do you say, Fabio, five hundred dollars for an hour of your time?”

  I leap off the barstool. “Hell, if you’d mentioned the five hundred dollars at the start, I wouldn’t have even made you buy me a drink first.”

  Winking farewell to the gathering of women floundering around the bar, I follow the smirking stranger out to an awaiting black town car idling at the curb.

  “Corner of 57th and Welsh,” he instructs the driver as he gestures for me to slide into the backseat before him.

  Forty minutes later, we're pulling into another nightclub on the other side of the city. Since Mr. Trust Fund isn’t the talkative type, preferring to interact with his cell phone instead of the real-life person sitting next to him, the entire trip was made in silence.

  “Go inside and have a look around; I’ll meet you in there in a few minutes,” he instructs.

  I nod, acknowledging I heard him before exiting the vehicle. My eyes lift from the cracked white pavement. Although not as rundown as our previous establishment, this club has still seen better days. After the driver of the town car has a quiet word with the rake-thin gentleman standing at the door, I'm ushered inside the building, forgoing the moderate size line waiting to enter.

  My lips purse as my eyes absorb the space. With the poor lighting, dark furnishings and black carpeted floors, it feels like I’m entering a seedy strip club more than a dance club. Although the floor space surrounding the bar is crowded, the dance floor is nearly empty. It's only once the jukebox music alters from a slow, lazy song to a club thumping beat do partygoers emerge from the dark corners of the room like vampires coming out after sunset.

  After using the clean but stark bathroom facilities, I make my way to the bar. On my way, I spot Mr. Trust Fund sitting in a stool at the very end. His suit jacket has been removed, the sleeves on his light blue business shirt have been rolled up, and he has a 25-year-old bottle of Cragganmore scotch sitting in front of him.

  He raises his brows in silent questioning as I approach him.

  “Is this another potential purchase?”

  He lifts a crystal glass to his lips while curtly nodding.

  My eyes drift around the space. “It’s better than your last selection. What’s your aim? More profit or better clientele?”

  He hides his smirk beneath the rim of his glass. “You tell me?”

  “Approximately eighty percent of the crowd here tonight are college-aged students. College kids are ideal for a nightclub, but they’re cheap drunks, rarely spending over ten dollars a night on drinks. This club could benefit from charging an entry fee. That way you get the ten dollars out of them before they walk in the door, easily doubling your profits, because they will still spend their stingy ten on drinks once they enter. At this age, their focus is on the head in their pants, not whether they will have enough money to pay the heat bill.”

  Mr. Trust Fund leans over the counter and snags a glass from the wire rack. Remaining quiet, he pours a generous helping of scotch in the new glass before sliding it across the counter. Expensive whiskey spills over the rim and lands on the faded wooden countertop.

  I dip my head in thanks before lifting the shot and downing the significant serving in one hit. A fire of warmth slides down my throat and settles in my gut, but even knowing they charge in excess of $35 a nip for Cragganmore, my taste buds can’t tell the difference between its high price tag and a standard old bottle of scotch.

  “If I were to charge an entry fee, what would the impact to the clientele be?”

  I shrug. “I'd say maybe sixty-five percent would cont
inue to come here even if a cover was charged, but you'll easily gain back the lost clientele within months. At the moment, the ratio of females to males is sitting at around forty, sixty. If you get rid of the cheap drunk males, the female ratio will increase, which in turn will bring back the more reputable male clientele. Girls expect guys to buy their drinks, not spill their drinks on them or puke on their shoes.”

  Mr. Trust Fund’s smirk forms into a full smile. “Business major?”

  I chuckle. “Nope,” I say with a shake of my head. “I just frequented these types of places a bit during my college days.” And now, but I keep that snippet of information to myself.

  Nodding, Mr. Trust Fund stands from his chair and produces a leather wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. After removing two business cards, he hands one to the pretty blonde waitress, completely oblivious to the fact she's making kissy gaga faces at him.