Blood, Sweat, and Desire, page 1
BLOOD, SWEAT, AND DESIRE: A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER
BRITNEY KING
CONTENTS
Prologue
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
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
A note from Britney
Also by Britney King
Sneak Peek: The Sickness
The Sickness
Prologue
COPYRIGHT
BLOOD, SWEAT, AND DESIRE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact http://britneyking.com/contact/
Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
Hot Banana Press
Cover Design by Britney King LLC
Cover Image by Snapwire
Copy Editing by Librum Artis
Proofread by Proofreading by the Page
Copyright © 2023 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.
First Edition: 2023
ISBN 13: 9798223022060
ISBN 10: 8223022060
britneyking.com
“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.”
― Rumi
PROLOGUE
A dream can die so quickly. That's what Michael would later realize, but now he is only thinking how lucky he is, how he's waited his whole life to be here, how this is his time.
Sunlight pierces the delicate veil of dawn, casting a golden hue across the luxurious room. Michael, dressed in his pristine, white chef's uniform, blinks against the harsh light as he studies himself in the mirror. It had been a restless night. He had gotten little in the way of sleep, and it shows in his reflection.
The weight of responsibility bears down upon him; his wealthy clients have paid handsomely for his culinary expertise. This weekend he’s been tasked with impressing their friends, and Michael is not one to disappoint.
He glances at the clock—6:30 a.m.—same as always, to meet the Browns’ high breakfast expectations.
As Michael enters the kitchen, the scent of yesterday's indulgence still lingers: the rich aroma of garlic, butter, and red wine intermingling with the subtle notes of fresh herbs. He takes a moment to appreciate the quiet solitude before the chaos of the day begins—the soft hum of the refrigerator, the gentle ticking of the clock.
Michael cracks his knuckles and rolls up his sleeves. His movements are precise and efficient, like an orchestra conductor—every tool has its place, and every step is choreographed. This is Michael's domain and sanctuary.
He reaches for the industrial-sized pepper grinder, but whips his arm back at the sight of a crimson stain on the pristine white tiles. His pulse skyrockets and his neck tightens with trepidation as he follows the trail of droplets that lead him to the pantry door.
Please let it be nothing.
Michael knows whatever lies beyond could disrupt his life entirely, yet the compulsion to investigate is too strong to resist.
Gritting his teeth, he grabs the cold metal handle and eases open the door, revealing a scene that sends his heart into his throat.
A man, one of the guests, is slumped against the shelves, a butcher knife lodged in his neck. Blood stains the walls and floor of the pantry like a gruesome masterpiece.
Michael gasps in horror, paralyzed as the metallic scent of blood mingles with the aroma of fresh coffee and pastries, bringing bile up the back of his throat.
"Help!" he cries out, his voice cracking under the weight of shock. “I need help down here!”
Michael's pleas echo through the grand house, and soon doors burst open.
“Michael?” a woman's voice says. He whips around to see his boss standing behind him, her face racked with worry as she clutches a ratty robe tight against her slim frame. Even in chaos, her beauty is undeniable. "What is going on?"
But before he can answer, a guest rushes into the room and gestures toward the grisly path leading to the pantry. "Is that—blood?"
"Everyone, stay back!" Emily's hands tremble as she attempts to remain composed despite the overwhelming situation. Dark circles beneath her eyes show the emotional turmoil she's been put through over the weekend.
Another woman shoves past the others, her lips pursed with determination. But when she reaches the pantry, she stops dead in her tracks.
The guest standing behind her gasps, “My God.”
He lunges forward, attempting to cover his wife's eyes from the grisly sight in front of them, but it's too late. She whimpers and stares, aghast at the macabre display. Her gaze scans her friend's faces, trying to comprehend how something like this could have happened.
Michael watches as Jack Brown moves closer, his steely stare evaluating the situation with a businessman’s clinical precision. He squats down beside his friend's body and applies two fingers against his neck, feeling for any hint of life beneath the still skin.
The room seems to hold its breath, clinging desperately to hope that this is all a terrible mistake.
"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "He's dead."
The words drop like a guillotine, slicing through the fragile veneer of denial. Disbelief turns to dread, and Michael can feel the tension in the room ratcheting up another notch, a palpable undercurrent of fear now mingling with their shock.
Emily bursts into sobs. “I don’t understand. Who...who would do this?”
She wraps her arms around herself, as though seeking protection from an unseen threat. But just as soon as the sobs start, they subside, and Emily straightens her spine. “Are you sure he's dead, Jack? Check again.”
"Trust me," he replies, "you don't fake that kind of injury."
A jolt of panic rushes through the crowd as someone gasps, “Oh my God…there’s been an intruder—a home invasion!”
Everyone turns toward the source of the shriek, only to find her frozen in place, wide-eyed and pale.
Michael strides forward. "It's okay," he says confidently, though his voice wavers. "I checked all the doors when I got up. They're still locked."
Emily looks stricken. "What if they're still in the house?"
"That's a possibility," Jack says. “We need to call the police.”
Michael swallows hard as he pulls out his cellphone, his fingers hovering over the numbers as if they are burning hot. He wants to make the call—it's the obvious thing to do—but deep down he knows it will change everything.
Will he still have his job? His dream? Everything he has worked so hard for? The Browns' lives will be forever changed, but they will still need to eat, right? So many questions swirl around his mind as he presses the call button.
Michael forgets he’s holding his breath until a calm voice on the other end of the line says, "Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
He exhales long and slow before speaking. "Hello? Yes, we need help. There's been a murder."
1
Emily
Dead men cannot tell tales. My husband’s words bounce around my mind as I stand transfixed at the floor-to-ceiling windows of our ostentatious, yet tranquil, living room. I push the thoughts away, turning my attention to the golden hue the setting sun has draped over our manicured lawn. A woman pushing a stroller passes, followed by a little boy on a bike, and my heart swells with a sense of contentment so powerful it borders on overwhelming.
God, I love this house.
I imagine what it will be like, knowing that soon that woman will be me.
Jack's footsteps echo from the hallway, reminding me of the life we've built together—outwardly successful and surprisingly easy, at that.
"Em, they're here," he anno
Rachel's electric blue convertible arrives first, followed by Lucas's practical sedan, Sarah and Will's sleek black SUV, and finally Ava's modest hatchback. I watch as my friends converge on the driveway, each bringing their own distinct energy.
"Time to play hostess," I say to Jack, wearing a sly smile on my lips as I open the front door. We’ve just made love in the guest bathroom, and the flush still lingers on my husband’s cheeks. Instinctively, my hand brushes my stomach, and I wonder if this will be the time it happens.
"Emily!" Rachel squeals as I throw open the door. Her eyes scan me up and down before she pulls me in for a tight embrace. "You look fabulous, as always," she gushes before taking a deep whiff of the air around us. "And whatever that smell is," she closes her eyes and looks heavenward, "my God! It's divine!”
"Thanks, Rach," I reply, easing out of her embrace. “But I can't take credit. It's all Michael's doing.”
"Michael?" She cocks her head. "Who's Michael?"
"Our new chef." Jack grins proudly. "My wife can't stop raving about him. I keep telling Em she’d better keep it down or someone's going to steal him out from under us."
My best friend's lips curl into a smile. “That someone might be me.”
I scan the group of faces. Lucas is beaming warmly, Sarah’s clinging to Will like a lifeline, and Ava is standing alone, her expression unreadable.
"Come on in," I say, gesturing them inside. Voices and laughter surge through the living room as they settle in, while I observe the interactions between them; an invisible weight presses against their words.
Lucas nods in approval. “Emily, you’ve outdone yourself—but then you always do, don’t you?”
"Thanks, Lucas,” I reply with a shrug. “It’s not me; I just hire well.”
I catch a hint of skepticism in his eyes, but he says nothing more.
Will jumps into the conversation with enthusiasm, producing a bottle of wine from behind his back. "Jack mentioned you got a new car? How's it treating you?" His blue eyes sparkle with anticipation as he sets the bottle on the coffee table.
A glow spreads across my face as I remember the test drive; the rapture of speed coursing through my veins like an electric current. "Like a dream," I say breathlessly.
Will’s lips spread into a wide grin, his eyes alight with understanding. I see the same excitement I feel in my chest reflected. “Ah, the thrill of speed. I know that feeling.”
“Will finds a new method of speed every month,” Sarah says flatly. She fidgets in her seat, her eyes darting around the room like a frightened animal looking for an escape route.
“Don’t be too jealous, Sarah,” Ava says. “The car is just Jack’s way of distracting Em from her bout of baby fever.”
“I’m not sure anything could distract my wife,” Jack says with a shake of his head. “Not even a beautiful car. You know how it is—when Emily gets something in her head, watch out; nothing better get in her way.”
He leans down and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Right, honey?”
Not really, I want to say. If that were the case, I’d be pregnant instead of feeling like a failure month after month when it doesn’t happen. But this is not the time or the place for this conversation. Everything still feels too raw. Panic surfaces, and instead of responding, I blurt out quickly, “Would you guys like something to drink?”
Ava shatters the silence first as expected. “Something strong for me, please.” She puts up a steely facade, but I’ve known her forever. I can see the heartache that glazes her features. It fills the air like foggy moisture. She misses Brian. We all do. Our gatherings feel emptier—quieter—without him.
“Well, I wish you guys would get on it,” Sarah quips. “Will and I are tired of being the only ones with kids.”
“We’re working on it,” I say, handing Ava a full glass tumbler. “That’s the fun part, right?” When our fingers brush briefly, I see relief wash over Ava’s face before she looks away.
“She wouldn’t know,” Ava says. “It happened for them on the first try.”
This time it’s me who looks away, who searches for a way out. “Excuse me. I’d better check on dinner.”
The smell of garlic and rosemary wafts through the air as I step into the kitchen to check in with Michael, simultaneously watching Jack and Will from the corner of my eye. When I walk back out into the living area, it’s clear their conversation has taken on an unmistakable edge as they discuss their latest professional accomplishments. I can't help but roll my eyes at their thinly veiled competitiveness; it's almost as if they're comparing the size of their...paychecks.
"Of course, the real key to getting the deal was anticipating their counter-arguments ahead of time," Jack says, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction.
"Ah, yes," Will responds, studying the glass of wine in his hand. "That's always been a strength of yours, hasn't it? Thinking three steps ahead."
"Speaking of thinking ahead," Lucas interjects, his voice soft yet firm, “what’s the plan for this weekend?”
I’m not surprised Lucas brings it up first. He likes gaining his wife’s approval just as much as the rest of us. Rachel has spent innumerable hours planning this getaway, and these weekends are important to her—always have been, since college. We’ve skipped a few years due to various life events, including Will and Sarah having a baby, but Rach is adamant that this getaway will put us back on track.
I’ve tried breaking it to her that we’re not in college anymore. We’re not twenty-somethings with all that time on our hands and all that life yet to be lived. We’re in a different stage now, with busy careers and real adult responsibilities. It’s not as easy to break away as it once was. And I do often worry it may never be again. My best friend, as well intentioned as she may be, seems to be the only one who can’t—who refuses—to see that.
“It’s just one weekend,” Rachel quips. “You all act like I’m asking for a kidney or something.”
“No, seriously,” Lucas says, coming to her aid. “What’s everyone thinking?”
A silent tension fills the room as we anxiously await an answer that never comes.
2
Jack
Everyone's buzzing about the plan for this weekend, and all I can think about is how to get out of it.
But that's not the only thing I’m thinking. There's a lot on my mind. Like how I’m going to slowly dismember the idiot who’s sitting on my couch, seducing everyone with his charm. Next, he’s going to devour my food as though he doesn’t already owe me enough as it is. The audacity.
I knew better than to have trusted him, but I went against my instincts, just like I’m doing now by having that snake in our home. When I mentioned this to Emily, she brushed me off and said, “A snake doesn't know it's a snake, Jack. It just is.”
“So?”
“So, sometimes you have to let it be.”
I was annoyed, but it reminded me why I love Em. It’s nice to have a voice of reason. Where I like to move fast, my wife moves slow. She takes everything into account, whereas I say done is better than perfect.
“What’s the plan for this weekend?” Lucas probes once more.
