Hell to Pay

By Boone Brux

When ultra-shy pushover Faye Albert decides to live a little, she inadvertently binds her sould to Satan by following him on Twitter. Overnight her dreams of being confident, beautiful, and adored by men are coming true. No longer is she pushed out or pushed over.

But it comes at a price. If she doesn't figure out how to break the contract, she'll lose her soul to the Dark Prince forever.

With time running out, and no idea how to unfollow Satan, she enlists the help of Christopher White, a gorgeous photographer from work. All the while, Satan's little helper dogs her every step and offers her things she's only dreamed of, tempting Faye with a lifetime of earthly pleasures. and unconditional love. But is the love she's only imagined worth the price of her soul?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boone Brux
• Release date: Sep 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393545569

Book preview

Chapter 1

I jangled my wad of keychains, charms, and other assorted bling, trying unsuccessfully to coax my door key out of hiding, but the mass coalesced into a tighter ball.

Damn it.

My drab green canvas grocery bag tottered precariously on top of my ever-present stack of work files, but I was determined to win this battle. I shook my keys again and was rewarded with a whack on the knuckles from the heavy plastic peace sign I’d purchased from a street vendor last summer.

Ouch!

Clearly, I had a bit of a bobble obsession. A beaded angel wing tightly wrapped itself around my house key, holding it prisoner. Not to be outmaneuvered, I lifted the metal blob to my mouth and bit the wing, giving it an extra yank.

POP!

The string snapped, sending a spray of tiny pearls into my mouth and eyes. I gasped, inhaling several airborne beads. They coated my newly applied lip gloss like lint balls on a static-filled sweater. Even my best slew of raspberries didn’t dislodge them. However, I was successful in spewing saliva against the door. I spit again, rolling my lips, but the beads refused to be unseated. This was just par for my day.

Well, crap. The plink of pearls bouncing down the wooden spiral stairwell ricocheted behind me. Double crap.

I turned my attention back to the door and violently rattled the metal glob again—I would not be defeated—but before I could free the key, the door jerked open. Whitney, my super-model roommate from hell, filled the doorway.

Oh, it’s only you. With a flip of her ponytail, she pivoted and flounced into our apartment.

Nice. I scowled at her retreating back. Who else would it be?

We’d been roommates in college, and for some reason I couldn’t recall anymore, I’d agreed to share an apartment once we graduated. I mean, it wasn’t like we were besties. We had nothing in common.

After Whitney rocketed to model stardom, I’d expected her to move out and get her own fancy apartment. That hadn’t happened. It didn’t take a genius to realize she was using me. Born with beauty—and enough brains to know she didn’t have any—Whitney had kept me close. And why wouldn’t she? Where Whitney was scattered and vain, I was organized, dependable, and a plain Jane. All in all, the perfect companion for an attention whore.

I slid my load onto the kitchen island, and then tore off a paper towel and swiped it across my mouth, finally displacing the beads I hadn’t swallowed. When I bent to toss the paper towel away, a high-pitched yelp erupted from under the counter.

Flash! I squatted and was greeted by a wagging tail and a set of adoring brown eyes. Flash was my neighbor’s dog, and dare I say, my regular companion. What are you doing here?

The old hag dropped him off, Whitney said, not looking up from her fashion magazine. Said you’d agreed to watch him.

Huh. I scratched his head. I don’t remember that.

Flash had the coloring and markings of a Rottweiler, but his body was all Welsh Corgi. He reminded me of a footstool on toothpicks. His owner Mrs. Perkins was our nosy neighbor, and I usually watched him when she went out of town. Sometimes his visits were planned, but most, like tonight, were drop-ins. Sadly, this rarely disrupted my plans. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on a real date and I was pretty sure Mrs. P capitalized on that fact. Old vulture.

Whitney gave a disapproving grunt.  I straightened from my crouch and glanced across the counter. Her perfect body stretched across the pages of the magazine she was reading. She bent closer to the page, her brow furrowing, and harrumphed again.  

Wanting to avoid a night of scrutinizing every detail of her photoshoot, I grabbed my quart of milk and turned toward the refrigerator, purposely giving her my back. The slap of a second magazine hitting the island sounded behind me. I resisted the urge to ask what was wrong and focused on shoving the milk into our nearly empty refrigerator. The sad state of our groceries wasn’t unusual. Unless I went to the store, food didn’t get bought. A consequence of living with a model.

Behind me it sounded like a flock of crazed chickadees attacked the magazine as Whitney frantically flipped through the pages.

The routine was nothing new. It’s what I called The Five Stages of Validation, and Whitney was tits deep in it. From her frequent grunts and snorts of disgust, it sounded like she still hovered on step one: Denial.

I stared at a moldy block of white cheese, praying my night of binging on junk food and surfing the web wasn’t about to get usurped by Narcissistic Barbie.

I can’t believe they used this photo of me. I look huge.

How long could I stare into the refrigerator before she clued into the fact that I was ignoring her? Or would she even realize it? Probably not. Her ranting droned on. I shut the refrigerator door and opened the freezer. Maybe hypothermia would work. Surely if I passed out, she’d stop long enough to call 911.

I mean, look at this, she whined. It’s horrible.

"I really need to fill out one of those Do Not Resuscitate forms," I muttered to myself.

They may as well have stuck me in a pig costume.

This hypothermia thing was taking too long. Damn it.

Faye, Whitney barked. Look at this. Tell me if I’m wrong.

I sighed and shut the door. Maybe my life wasn’t all glitz and glam like Whitney’s, but that didn’t mean I was jealous. Quite the opposite. Yes, she was gorgeous and successful, but sometimes I questioned whether her elevator went all the way to the top. Pasting on an insincere smile, I turned. Did you say something?

I’m sure this is a breach of contract, Whitney said.

Good, she’d started accusing somebody else for her perceived crappy photos. That was step two, blame.

The magazine whizzed across the counter and rebounded off my stomach. I slammed my hand onto the glossy pages, stopping it’s rocketing trajectory to the floor, and then spun it to face me. Perfect teeth, flawless skin, and sculpted muscles I was sure didn’t exist in nature stared back at me. I think you look beautiful.

Whitney rolled her eyes and reached across the island to snatch back the magazine. Beautiful? Are you blind?

No. But being deaf would have definite benefits right now.

A high-pitched whine squeezed from Flash. I glanced at him, and he tilted