BEAUTIFUL
LITTLE FOOL
by
KK Hendin
April 2015
BOOK BLURB:
Eighty seven billion dollars.
One dead New York business mogul.
No heirs.
No wives.
No relatives.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
Not hers yet.
He doesn’t deserve them.
He doesn’t know what to do with them.
She does.
She always has.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
He’s overwhelmed.
She’s prepared.
That will should have had her name.
Not his.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
His looks are a bonus.
Her looks are her weapon.
He’s fighting a losing battle against his heart.
He doesn’t know it yet.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
She gets everything she wants.
He’s what she wants.
Love has nothing to do with it.
To get to where you’re going, sometimes you need to
step on a few people to get there.
Good thing her heels are sharp.
Excerpt
It was raining on the day of
Harold’s funeral. Everything was overcast, and just gloomy enough to drop a
layer of grey on the city. “Appropriate weather,” said one sober news anchor
the morning of the funeral, “to mourn the death of one of the biggest men of
New York.”
It was appropriate, and it
worked wonders for the mood, but it did nothing good for Cedar’s hair.
She had
her makeup artist come over early in the morning, and helped her with a face
that said “I’m mourning the loss of a person very dear to me, but I look
fabulous while doing it”. Her outfit was going to be reported in every major
newspaper in the country, because that’s who she was. And so she dressed
appropriately. And had memorized the eulogy she was going to give, which was
mostly lies. But nobody really cared. The funeral wasn’t actually a place for
people to mourn the death of
Harold Feingold. The funeral was a place for
people to reassure themselves of their importance and their place in society.
Not just anyone was invited to Harold Feingold’s funeral, because not everyone
was worthy. The journalists had a separate corded area to watch and observe but
to never forget for even a second that they were never going to be good enough
to actually be invited to anything like this. Cedar had made sure only the
reporters she approved of were coming to the funeral, and the rest of the
paparazzi were located behind a line of the best security guards money could
get.
It wasn’t just a funeral. It
was an event.
And even though nobody
attending the funeral would ever admit to it, going to Harold Feingold’s
funeral was the same as going to a showing at the Gallery. It wasn’t for the
reason they said they were going, and even if it was something they normally
wouldn’t have ever done, they were more than happy to go. Get dressed in an
outfit that people wouldn’t forget, mingle with the right people, and glory in
where you were in life.
If you had to buy an
extraordinarily expensive piece of art or cry a few tears, well, that was the
price of admission for these kinds of things.
The casket was there when
Cedar made her way into the church, followed by the insistent flashes of the
paparazzi, silently clamoring for the best angle of her. Cedar Reynolds was a
commodity, and even the paparazzi knew that. So, she wasn’t an actress or a
singer, or anything else like that, and even though she wasn’t a Rockefeller or
Astor or Thames, she was Cedar Reynolds, and everything she touched turned to
gold. They all knew she wasn’t to be trifled with, and none of them had the
guts to even try. They knew what happened to those who did, and none of them
wanted to go down that road.
Cedar had made sure to have
the photographers positioned to get everyone’s best side and angle, and after
she discretely posed for the pictures on the way into the church. Harold wasn’t
Christian, but there was something about the Thames-Harrison Church that felt
like it was the best place for him to be eulogized.
It was the most exclusive
church in the city, and nobody could just come to the church, let alone throw a
last minute funeral. But Harold was Harold and Cedar was Cedar, and the church
was more than happy to offer the building for the occasion.
Stained glass windows
filtered in murky light, lending the whole building a feeling of slight gloom.
Candles flickered, and it seemed like the building itself was mourning the loss
of Harold Feingold.
Cedar walked slowly up the
aisle of the church, toward where Harold’s body was lying in its casket. It was
a closed casket funeral, because Harold did not believe in death, or dead
people. He was cremated, because he didn’t believe in organ donation, either,
but there was a casket, nonetheless.
It was something large to bury, because
tossing ashes in the wind was crass and hippy, and Harold had been neither of
those.
Cecil rushed up to Cedar.
“Everything’s under control,” he said quietly. “The Mayor is running a little
bit late because of traffic, but he’s supposed to get here soon.”
“He damn well better get here
soon,” Cedar snapped. “Fuck traffic, he has a eulogy to deliver, and I will not
delay the funeral because he decided not to leave early enough. Doesn’t he have
a police escort or something?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s only
the president,” Cecil said. “I’ll check.”
“You do that,” Cedar replied,
and, remembering where she was, continued down the aisle in search of the
preacher.
Cecil sighed and texted the
Mayor’s secretary. Not on his private cell, where Cecil would send dirty texts,
but on his official Mayoral phone. The things he did for Cedar, seriously.
Going through the back door of the church instead of the front, and didn’t even
get photographed by anyone. Which was a damn shame, because he had dressed to
the nines today. He better get a serious bonus for this shit. He wouldn’t,
though, because that wasn’t how Cedar worked. Which sucked, but on the other
hand, he was probably one of the best paid personal assistants in the city.
Cedar wasn’t necessarily nice to him, but she sure as hell paid enough to make
up for it.
His phone buzzed. No police
escort. Fuck, Cedar was going to rip off his balls.
About the
Author
KK
Hendin’s real life ambition is to become a pink fluffy unicorn who dances with
rainbows. But the schooling for that is all sorts of complicated, so until that
gets sorted out, she’ll just write. Preferably things with angst and love. And
things that require chocolate. She’s the author of the NA contemporaries HEART
BREATHS and ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG.
THIS
MUCH SPACE is the second book in her new series, TWELVE BEATS IN A BAR.
Author Links
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