Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set Read online

  Wicked Games Series Box Set

  Books 1-3 in the Wicked Games Series

  J.T. Geissinger

  Wicked Beautiful

  Wicked Games Book One

  Wicked Beautiful

  By

  J.T. Geissinger

  Contents

  Wicked Beautiful

  Wicked Beautiful

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Wicked Sexy

  Wicked Sexy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Wicked Intentions

  Wicked Intentions

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by J.T. Geissinger

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by J.T. Geissinger, Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-7338243-1-6

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  To Jay, for always being there.

  Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,

  nor hell no fury as a woman scorned.

  – William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

  1

  Victoria

  Bitch: noun a slang pejorative for a woman who is belligerent, unreasonable, malicious, a control freak, rudely intrusive, or aggressive.

  From behind a Plexiglas podium on the vast, lighted stage in the Broadway Ballroom of the Marriott Marquis hotel in Times Square, I stand looking out, scanning the faces of the twenty-five-hundred women in the audience.

  Pride suffuses me. Even after raising the price to two hundred dollars a ticket, I’m still packing these seminars to standing room only.

  Man-hating is big business. I’ve built my entire empire on it.

  I lean forward and speak into the microphone. “Ladies, a show of hands, please. How many of you have ever been called a bitch?”

  Over two thousand hands shoot into the air.

  “Well, congratulations. You’re doing something right.”

  Scattered laughter from the crowd. Smiling, at ease because I’ve given this particular speech dozens of times before, I unhook the mic and stroll out from behind the podium, smoothing a stray wrinkle from the perfectly tailored waist of my white Armani suit.

  “Let’s take a closer look at this definition of bitch for a moment.” I turn to the large projection screen on the wall behind me. “Belligerent. A word meaning hostile, combative, warlike. We all know what unreasonable means: uncooperative, unhelpful, difficult.”

  Grinning, I turn back to the audience. “So far, so good.”

  More laughter.

  “Then we have malicious. That’s a real baddie. It means intending to do harm, cruel, or unkind. No bueno, right? And how about control freak? A person who attempts to dictate how everything around her is done. Not so great. Rudely intrusive is self-explanatory, and then we come to my favorite one. Aggressive.”

  The smile fades from my face. For a silent beat, I examine the audience, enjoying watching them watching me. I get such a charge from being up in front of so many people, having them hang on my every word. It’s almost better than sex.

  Definitely better than the sex I had last night, anyway. I left Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury lying sprawled on his back in his bed without a backward glance. I should’ve known it would be a disaster when he claimed to be packing a python in his pants. I have heels bigger than his dick.

  “The word aggressive is commonly only used in reference to rabid dogs, savage dictators, or a woman with an opinion. If a man is aggressive, he’ll be described as a go-getter, or ambitious, or even simply masculine. In fact, every word in the definition of bitch that you see here is a masculine attribute. Warlike? Difficult? Unkind? Controlling? Those are all the antithesis of what society tells a woman she should be, because they are inherently masculine traits. So when a man calls you a bitch, he’s really saying you’re acting like a man.”

  I pause for effect and then say forcefully, “And I’m here to tell you that acting like a man is the only way you’ll ever get what you want out of life.”

  In the ballroom, it’
s silent as a graveyard. Everyone stares at me, waiting.

  “This is a man’s world, ladies. It might be cliché, but it’s the truth. Women are born at a disadvantage. We lack testosterone, the hormone responsible for the urge to build skyscrapers and fly to the moon and go to war. We are conciliators, peacemakers, nurturers. We are self-sacrificing, which is not only ridiculous, but also a ridiculous waste of potential. What we need to be in order to live truly fulfilled, productive lives is powerful. Can anyone tell me how a woman becomes powerful? Just shout it out. You don’t have to raise your hands.”

  There are a few calls of “Education!” and “Self-knowledge!” and even “Weight lifting!” which brings on laughs. I laugh too, loving the energy of the room.

  “Those are all good examples. But none of them get to the heart of the matter.”

  I always make sure to use the word heart. It’s every woman’s Kryptonite. Well, that and love. But that word is strictly verboten in my seminars.

  And in every other part of my life.

  “Here’s a quote from Roseanne Barr. ‘The thing women have yet to learn is that nobody gives you power. You just take it.’ Sounds simple enough, right? The problem with that is that it assumes the source of power is outside you. It isn’t. You already have all the power you need, but you’ve been giving it away. You’ve been trading it, bartering it, squandering it, because your need to be liked is stronger than your need to honor yourself. Every time you don’t speak up if you’re disrespected, every time you say ‘yes’ when you should say ‘no,’ every time you put someone else’s needs or desires ahead of your own, you give away your power. And what do you get in return?”

  I wait. The audience leans forward, a collective held in thrall.

  “Frustration. Resentment. Anger.”

  Heads nod. I’m preaching to the choir. Picking up energy, I turn and stride stage right. Every eye in the auditorium follows me.

  “Here’s a fun statistic. Women are nearly twice as likely as men to suffer from depression. Twice as likely. Do you think that’s fair?”

  When I hold out the mic toward the audience, I get a blistering shout in return.

  “No!”

  “Of course it’s not!” I pace back the way I came, my legs eating up the stage, my hair tumbling over my shoulders, a lioness going in for the kill. Agog, they watch me.

  “And can you tell me who NEVER suffers from depression?”

  Right on cue, hundreds of voices cry out. “Bitches!”

  “That’s RIGHT!” I roar. “Bitches never suffer from depression! They don’t suffer from anything, in fact, because if it makes them unhappy, they move on! They don’t try to change it, or whine about it, or spend hours with their girlfriends analyzing why. They simply open their hands and let it go!”

  Clapping. Ah, how I adore the sound of clapping. It takes a great deal of effort not to break into another grin, but I manage it. I stand with my legs shoulder-width apart in the center of the stage and gaze lovingly at my audience.

  Even in my thoughts, I’m careful not to call them my “minions,” as my best friend Darcy does. The word is far too disrespectful for a group of people who are putting half a million dollars in my pocket for a few hours of listening to me talk.

  “The bitch’s motto is, ‘After me, you come first.’ Whether it’s a man, or a job, or a family member, the priority is always her own happiness. In this way, and in this way only, a woman controls her own destiny, and realizes and safeguards her power. She’s never at the mercy of anyone else.” I pause briefly to let that all sink in. “What you need, ladies, is simply a new interpretation of that old insult for a strong woman. A definition you can truly embrace.”

  A new graphic flashes on the large projector screen on the wall behind me.

  Bitch: noun a woman in control of herself, her life, and her destiny, who always gets what she wants.

  Shouts of “Amen!” and raucous hoots of approval erupt from the audience. Now I can’t help myself. My mouth breaks into a huge smile.

  “That’s right. A bitch always gets what she wants. A bitch isn’t bossy. She’s the boss. In life, in work, and in relationships, bitches always do better. Now let me ask you ladies…”

  I throw my shoulders back, lift my hand to the sky, and raise my voice to the rafters.

  “Are you ready to become a BITCH?”

  The answering screams are deafening. Applause thunders. The audience leaps to its feet.

  And I stand laughing on the stage, soaking in the adulation of over two thousand women, thinking there’s no way life gets any better than this.

  Well, if Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury had turned out to be Mr. Four Hours of Foreplay, it would’ve been better, but because men are men, we women can’t always get everything we want, despite the claim of the empowering graphic projected on the wall.

  Which is precisely why I own so many vibrators.

  Seven hours later, after the seminar is finished, all the questions have been answered, all the books have been signed, and the last of the audience has finally filtered out the ballroom doors to wreak havoc on the men in their lives with their new, enthusiastically embraced titles of capital-B Bitches—and they have the lapel pins, mugs, and bumper stickers to prove it—I’m exhausted.

  Unfortunately, I committed to dinner with Darcy tonight at Xengu, the new hot spot in Tribeca, and there’s no way she’ll let me off the hook, no matter how tired I am. Calling her a foodie would be like calling Jesus a rabbi: accurate, but completely missing the point. Darcy has turned dining out into an art form, and a highly lucrative business. She’s one of the most successful food bloggers in the States.

  She’s also the only woman I’ve ever met who can make a grown man soil his pants in fear at the mere sight of her. If a restaurant gets a thumbs-down review from her, its owner might as well close the doors and start over. She’s utterly, unapologetically ruthless.

  And brilliant. And loud. And hilarious. If there’s anyone in my life I’d use the L-word for, it would be her.

  I’m back in the lobby of my high-rise, awaiting the private elevator that will take me to the penthouse level, when my cell rings. My assistant, Tabby, is carrying it, along with my Hermès bag, my laptop bag, and my rolling travel bag.

  Rule #1: Bitches don’t carry their own luggage.

  I don’t have to ask Tabby to answer the phone. She fishes it from her pocket, blows her fire-engine red bangs off her forehead, eyes the readout, and holds the cell out to me.

  “It’s Darcy.”

  I take the phone and say cheerfully into it, “Yo, girlfriend!”

  In response, I hear a sigh. “I take it by your lame attempt to sound gangsta you’re running behind schedule?”

  “I could be gangsta!” I say defensively.

  Beside me, Tabby raises her brows.

  Darcy, who is 5’10”, African-American, and weighs somewhere in the vicinity of two hundred fifty pounds, says sweetly, “Sure you could. And I could be Taylor Swift. Now if we’re done living in a fictional universe, can we please talk about how late you’re running? Because I’m not walking into Xengu late. They won’t hold the reservation, even for me.”

  The elevator doors slide open. Tabby and I step inside, and the doors close behind us.

  “They wouldn’t dare give away your reservation! Don’t they know who you are?”

  “Right?” agrees Darcy, reveling in her bulldozer reputation. Her voice turns sour. “But apparently the owner isn’t fond of food critics, because I was told in no uncertain terms that if I were more than ten minutes late, my reservation would be given away, no matter who I am. This place is totallo en fuego, girl! They can afford a few bruised egos.”

  When speaking to me, Darcy enjoys peppering her speech with trendy little Spanish phrases, most of them botched. My mother is El Salvadorian, and my father was from Mexico City, and they both spoke Spanish to me when I was growing up, so I speak the language as well…and Darcy thinks she does too. Her Spangl
ish is atrocious. It’s also highly amusing.

  “FYI, Gloria, if you mean ‘completely,’ you just say, ‘total.’”

  I call her Gloria when she butchers the language, after Sofia Vergara’s character in Modern Family. Though Gloria’s butchering English, so it’s not really the same, only it is because I said so.