Prologue
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 is 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
From
the
Beginning…
* * *
Five years earlier…
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 Its walls haven’t seen a coat of paint since the day I first breathed air; the bathroom is more outdated than my grandma’s petticoat she wore on her wedding day, and that roach isn’t the first one I’ve seen.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 snipper. 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” in this fine establishment. 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 wooden 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 his head 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?” questions a voice to the side.
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 expensiveHugo Bosssuit, polished dress shoes, and one-hundred-dollar haircut that gives away the fact he is a fly-in visitor. It is the expensive watch on his wrist that is 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,” he informs me.
