A.K.A. Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Books By TL Alexander

  About AKA

  The Game

  Prologue

  The Opening

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The Middlegame

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Endgame

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Books By TL Alexander

  About AKA

  The Game

  Prologue

  The Opening

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The Middlegame

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Endgame

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  The Layers Series

  Layers

  More Layers

  Beneath Layers

  Beyond Layers

  Life’s a Bitchwad Novelette

  Law Inc. Cassandra Marcella Mystery Series

  Life on Top

  Between a Rocker and a Hard Place

  Girlfriends, Goddesses, & Barflies Series

  One More Shot

  Bottoms Up

  Last Call

  AKA

  A Romantic Suspense

  Morgan Steel is a rising-star ADA from LA. When her half-sister is brutally murdered her world spins off course, tilts off its axis. Seeking justice, she commits the unthinkable and finds herself no longer living in a world of right or wrong, black or white. She finds herself living in a reality within a false reality of love, lust, betrayal, and murder.

  He looks into my ambers eyes, and I wonder what he sees in them. They were my eyes, but she’s the woman he’s falling in love with. He’s falling for a woman who isn’t real. She’s a script, a character I play. I don’t want to accept this. I want to continue to bathe in my temperate pool of false reality, a false reality within a reality that is beginning to slip away from me.

  The game of chess is a two-player strategy game played on a checkered gameboard. Each player has sixteen pieces: one king, one queen, two rooks, two bishops, two knights, and eight pawns.

  The objective of the game is to checkmate your opponent’s king. When the king cannot avoid capture, it is checkmated and the game is over.

  To play you must have a definite plan and knowledge of each aspect of the game. To win you must master three phases, the opening, the middlegame, and the endgame.

  “Life is like a game of chess, changing with each move.”

  Chinese Proverb

  When I was in grade school, my dad insisted that I join the chess club. I didn’t want to of course; I had better things to do with my after-school time, like sailing, surfing, and more sailing. But his mind was made up and I was just a kid, so every Wednesday afternoon from three fifteen to five I could be found sitting at a table in the back of the library with a dozen or so geeks.

  After the second Wednesday, I understood why he’d been so adamant. The game was more than just moving a bunch of white or black chess pieces around a checkered board; it was about strategy, tactics, and planning.

  I learned all the things he said I would: discipline, logic, concentration, and patience. These were all good things, but not the three most important things I learned.

  The first most important thing I learned was that it’s you who control or determine the moves you play. You are in control of your destiny; there is no luck in chess or in life.

  The second most important thing I learned was that every move you make has consequences. Everything that happens in life and in chess is a reaction to your action or inaction. You are responsible.

  The third most important thing I learned was that chess, unlike life, has set rules. But if you live your life within these rules, as if playing a game of chess, you will always be in control. So if you find yourself playing outside of the rules…

  The opening is the initial moves in a chess game. These moves set the foundation for the rest of the game.

  There are three main aims in the opening: develop pieces, control the center, and shelter the king.

  THE PAWN HAS THE FEWEST OPTIONS OF ANY CHESS PIECE

  I sit on an outcropping of rocks and look out at the Pacific Ocean. As a cool breeze blows my dyed honey-blonde hair into my face, I reach into my hoodie pocket, remove a band, and pull my hair into a ponytail. My hair has never been so long. Not good at cutting it myself, and not wanting to risk any close contact with a nosy barber, it’s grown nearly to my ass.

  As I look out into vast blue-green endlessness, I can’t help but relate to the ocean. Every day is the same. Every day the moon’s gravitational forces pull it out, and every day as the earth rotates, it’s pulled back in. In between the tides is just… being. That’s how I feel, as if I’m living between the tides. Never being pulled out or pulled back in. Leaving me forever floating in the in-between, the nothingness.

  I know only I am to blame for who I’ve become. I’ve come to terms with not being in the spotlight, not shining like the star I wanted to be. I’ve found a way to blend in. In a way, I’ve become a human chameleon. I was once okay with this camouflaged life, but I’m not anymore. I’m tired of it. So very tired.

  Tired of the hiding and the running. Tired of the hair dye, the wigs, the eyeglasses, the contacts, the layers of makeup, the body padding, and the shoddy discount store clothes. Tired of cheap Barbie-sized rental cars, urine-reeking train stations, bus seats wet and sticky from sweaty fat asses and greasy, lice-matted hair.

  I’m tired of seedy, small towns and their cockroach-infested, cum-stained fuckpad motels. Tired of always looking in the rearview mirror, scanning my surroundings, and being constantly on edge. Tired of the aliases, so many, I can’t keep track. So many, there are moments I’ve forgotten my real name, who I once was.

  I’m tired of the aching isolation and the silent loneliness that takes up space in my head. Tired of holding my breath, waiting for the next page to turn, the next chapter to begin, the unknown cliffhanger ending.

  I miss my dad, my friends, and my job. I miss my dog Hank, my house, my boat, and my Porsche. I miss sleeping between lavender-scented, fifteen-hundred-count, Egyptian-cotton sheets. I miss warm lips pressed into mine before gliding down to my tits, pausing to lick, suck, and bite my needy nipples. I miss big, strong, man fingers rubbing and drawing circles on my throbbing clit before parting my sex and diving in. I miss being fucked by a cock that isn’t made in China, molded in plastic, and covered in latex.

  I’m no longer the hot piece of ass who everyone wanted but very few got. I was and still am a bitch, but I’m no longer the bitch in designer suits and heels. No more am I the hardass LA County Assistant District Attorney who was on the fast track to somewhere. I’m no longer the woman who had her whole life ahead of her, a life full of endless possibiliti
es.

  Once I was somebody, and now I’m nobody. I’m nothing. I’m a tourist, a drifter, a forever wanderer without the lust. I’m one face in millions, one insignificant blip on a radar screen. I’m a homeless murderer forever on the run because I murdered a sick bastard who brutally killed my half-sister and her unborn son.

  I did it with honor, with pride, and with zero shame or guilt. I killed with heartless cunning and in the coldest of blood. And it had been so easy—too easy. I felt… let down, disappointed even. It should have been harder to seduce and kill a man like Terrance Thomas Caldwell III.

  To the outside world, Terrance Thomas was just another cocky, spoiled, daddy-ass-licking, trust-fund boy, darling of the South. But this darling just happened to be a serial rapist and murderer. For him, abusing, raping, and murdering naive young women was as simple and as casual as adding apples to his Happy Meal, ice cream to his peach pie, or choosing the red paisley tie over the green and blue striped.

  Terrance Thomas was clever, charming, and handsome; I’ll give him that. But the poor darling had become sloppy and overconfident. He thought he was untouchable, he thought he was a god. But even gods falter and fall, stumble and die.

  I remember his falling and subsequent death as if it were yesterday, maybe even only hours ago; it’s so clear in my head. His irises clouded over with desperate want. A slow, cocky grin wrinkled his cheeks, pushing dimples to the surface. The smell of his wintergreen breath as his nose scanned down my throat. His full lips, how they swept over my collarbone before his tongue flattened and lapped over my hardening nipple.

  I remember the smell of his Armani aftershave, or maybe it was Dior. Whatever the designer fragrance, it seemed to seep out of his pores and blend with his own, turning it toxic. I remember the musky smell of sex—no not sex, the stench of animals fucking their prey. I remember the feel of his hot, damp skin and how it pebbled under my fingertips as I ran them down his arms and then up his spine.

  He entered me with one hard thrust. I knew immediately he was one of those—a greedy lover, a lover who never cared or thought about anyone’s pleasure beyond his own.

  The only sounds in the room were the low hum of the air-conditioning, the staccato of hearts beating, the slapping of damp flesh against flesh, and the inhales and exhales of hot air. It was as if nothing beyond the hotel room existed, so acute my senses and so intense his fucking.

  His eyes were like none I’d ever known, gray-blue, flecked with green and gold. How ironic I thought—he too possessed uncommon eyes; eyes that taunt and haunt. If eyes are windows to the soul…

  His gray-blues never left mine; they were studying me, searching, or maybe asking a question—a question that had no answer or something he didn’t want to know. And then there was a flash of… I wasn’t certain. Maybe the lights had flickered or a cloud had paused in front of the sun casting us in a moment of shadow. He didn’t seem to notice or care as his fucking kicked into a near frantic pace.

  I remember watching the veins on the side of his neck pulse and swell as beads of sweat sprouted from his shadowed philtrum. Then I felt his body tense, and I knew he was close to his release, on the verge of the best and last orgasm of his life.

  I kegeled his cock, and his upper lip rose in a fleeting smirk. He didn’t ask if I was close; he didn’t care. It was all about him. His conquest. His release. His kingdom.

  God, I was turned on. It wasn’t the sex that had turned me into a wet, hot mess. The sex was part of the trap, the next to final move in my game. I was wet with anticipation, anticipation of the blood about to be shed and the light in his eyes that would be forever doused.

  When his eyelids fluttered, I knew it was time. He was at the point of no return, the cusp of the petite death. I reached out, my hand gliding over the mattress then slowly sliding under the crumpled sheet. Finding the object I desired, my fingers surrounded it.

  I had hoped to be milking his cock, riding him. But he fought me for control every time I tried to push or buck him off. Although this scenario, this position, wasn’t what I had desired, I’d prepared for it. But even with all my planning and preparation, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. As my grip tightened around the handle, there was a second of hesitation and doubt. But I had prepared for this as well, expected it even. My years as an ADA, prosecuting rapists and murderers, listening to them confess their sins, had taught me that even the most sinister sociopath had a brief moment of uncertainty right before the crime.

  As my hand slid from underneath the sheet, it was as if my mind had separated from my body and I’d become an observer. I watched my hand hold the knife sure, not too tight or too loose. It seemed to float into position and rest against my right thigh. Seconds later his eyes closed and his head tilted back as he began to ride out the last orgasm of his life. I remember thinking how odd and yet how wonderful. He’d put himself in the perfect position. One swift slash across the carotid artery and…

  The deed was done in seconds. His head flopped forward as if it were a rag doll’s before his eyes popped open and he looked down at me. There was no shock, hurt, or pain in them. Pure bliss, unadulterated ecstasy shined clear and bright, spilling over me faster than the blood seeping from his artery. Had he known what I was about? Had he let this happen? No, I told myself, again and again, so wanting my revenge, my act of cold-blooded murder to be an unfathomable shock.

  When the bliss in his eyes was nearly extinguished, that’s when I began to see the truth. As the fire dulled to a mere ember, his pupils dilated, turning his eyes black. It was as if a door had been opened, and I was beckoned to step in and over the threshold. I couldn’t resist the invitation, even if I had wanted to. I stepped in and immediately fell through a dark, endless crevasse. He was empty. There was nothing left to salvage, no hope of redemption, no soul left to patch. He was living in a hell that he’d created. A hell that had eaten his soulless flesh, and he wanted it to be over. He knew. He’d let this happen. This angered me, yet at the same time made it moral. Made it just. Made it perfect.

  When his body stilled and slumped to his right side, only then did I dare take a breath. And God help me, I couldn’t stop the smile that brushed over my lips.

  As I pushed him off me, a ting of worry pebbled my flesh. My clothes. Keeping them on hadn’t been in the plan. I had hoped we’d be free of clothing, making cleanup faster and easier. But I’d teased him and strung him along; he couldn’t wait to sink his fat cock into me. I was lucky to have gotten him to pause and roll on a condom.

  But the ting quickly faded, and my skin smoothed out. I had planned every possible scenario and had planted a change of clothes earlier when I’d hid the knife.

  After I pushed him off me, I didn’t dare pause. I knew I was riding high on adrenaline, and it would soon dissipate, pop like a balloon. So without skipping a beat, I pulled and stretched out his semi-hard cock and sliced it off. I remembered thinking two things at that moment. One, thanking God it had remained semi-stiff. And two, so glad I’d read that book, Basic Knife Skills and Techniques for the Beginner.

  After I cleaned up the scene, leaving no possible trace of evidence, I placed his penis in a padded prepaid overnight envelope, addressed to Mrs. Toddy Maryellen Caldwell. I don’t know why, but her first name, Toddy, brought a smile to my face. I had decided to send it to her, because unlike her husband’s mail, it would go directly to her with no filters or screens.

  I imagined her smile as she looked down at her son’s return address. Would she think it was a birthday present or early anniversary gift? Did she love receiving unexpected gifts from her precious son? Or did she know who he was and what he did and shudder at the thought of opening a package from him. It was something I’d never know.

  I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to say I feel terrible. That guilt and remorse are eating away my soul. But I am not going to say it. It would be a lie. I simply did what had to be done. I killed a monster, and in doing so, set my half-sister’s soul free and gave all t
he other women a silent justice.

  But life is full of lessons and irony. And the irony to setting my sister’s soul free is that mine will forever be caged. I will never be Morgan Ann Steel, the woman who once owned a carefree heart full of wonder and joy. I will no longer be the woman who had a conscience and sense of duty worn respectfully and proudly on the cuff of her custom-tailored sleeve. I will never be an attorney again or practice law, and I will always be an aka. But maybe, just maybe, I can stop and take a break. Maybe I can own my pillow and sleep in my own bed for six months, a year if I’m blessed.

  The sky darkens and the tide rushes in, nearly touching the rocks. I retreat and sit on a fallen log that’s closer to the trail leading to a pullout and my parked rental car. While I sit, my mind drifts again, but this time to better, happier times. Back to my childhood, back to the white-sand beaches of Spain and Costa Rica. Back to the days spent sailing during school breaks with my dad. Back to the days spent combing the beaches for that perfect shell with my half-sister, Tara.

  Ten years ago, Dad and I sailed from Cabo San Lucas to Seattle. We dropped anchor in many small coastal towns as we made our way up the US West Coast. One of those small towns was Pine Rock, Oregon. I remember walking its rocky beaches with my dad’s dog, Hemingway, and the bakery on Main Street whose marionberry muffins were to die for. I remember the quaint centuries-old cottages on Shoreline Drive that seemed to beckon one to stay awhile. I felt oddly at peace and at home in this small coastal town, oddly because small towns weren’t my thing. I was a big-city girl who’d always been more comfortable surrounded by a large gathering of strangers than I did with a small group of friends. And oddly because “home” wasn’t a label I’d been able to apply in years, if ever.

  My phone rings, startling me, bringing me back to the present. I dig it out of the front pocket of my hoodie and look at the screen. As I look at the number, I shake my head. I do so because it’s silly that I look. It’s not necessary being only two souls know I exist or care I’m alive.