Rock Bottom (20 page)

Chapter Forty-three

“This way.” Without waiting to see if I’d obey her command, the woman strode away.

The black leather sofa and expensive artwork all looked vaguely familiar, but without bodies crammed into every available inch or the buzz of a high rolling around in my brain, the space transformed. The most noticeable change . . . the view. How I had missed it the night of the party was beyond me. I suppose I had other things on my mind, but now it was impossible to ignore the floor-to-ceiling windows making up an entire wall overlooking the city skyline.

“Wait here.” I was given my orders and then she turned and marched back the way we’d come.

With no clue what I was supposed to do next—other than ‘wait here’—I wandered across the room, drawn to the dizzying sight. Concrete peaks and metal spires stabbed upward at the clouds. Cold and unforgiving, the city suddenly seemed a horribly brutal place.

Sidestepping a glass coffee table, I tried not to catch my heels in the long stone-colored threads of the throw rug in front of the fireplace. Far below, cars inched along crowded roadways like children’s toys. People hurried here and there, following preset courses, one right after the other. Strangely, it reminded me of the ant farm our teacher had brought in to show us in fourth grade. 

“Star.”

I spun around to find Damien leaning casually against the wall. He radiated tailored masculinity in his pressed slacks and black button-down. The kind of power and confidence that no doubt had women falling all over him everywhere he went. I hated him for it. Couldn’t the monsters of the world at least have the decency to look the part?

“Welcome to my home.”

He turned to the woman who’d escorted me in and exchanged a long string of rambling Spanish. I’d studied the language for six years and yet he spoke so fluently, I only picked up a few words.
Feed. Clean. Room. Guest
, maybe? Or maybe that was just my wishful thinking. I was no ‘guest’ here.

In case I needed a reminder of that, the woman’s head bobbed in an abrupt nod and Damien returned his attention to me. “Rosita’s English is minimal and she’s been instructed not to speak to you. She needs this job for her green card. She’ll do anything to keep it, so don’t bother looking to her for help.”

The fear that had been coiling in the pit of my stomach all afternoon struck out, flooding my veins and clouding my vision, but I did what I’d been trained to do. I locked it all away and plastered on a smile. “Why would I need help?”

A devastating smile. The man was dangerous in more ways than one. “Oh, Rafe has taught you well. I’m going to enjoy having you here, my dear. Very much. But first . . . you must be hungry. Come, let’s eat.”

Ebony granite countertops and stainless steel appliances gave the kitchen a utilitarian feel. No drawings or photos hung on the fridge, no clutter marred any surface. The faux weathered gray cabinetry would have given the room an almost cavernous appearance if not for the sliding glass door, letting in the last of the late afternoon light. Beyond it, several tall, leafy plants and a small iron dinette set gave the private patio a tropical appearance.

“I hope you like Italian.” Damien reached around me to pull out one of four black leather stools tucked away beneath an island counter. “Rosita makes an incredible garlic and basil sauce.”

My fingers creaked when he removed my clutch from my near vice-like grasp and deposited it on the countertop with a heavy
thud
. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. All of my thoughts centered on that bag and what lay hidden inside. My focus was so intent that I feared Damien would read my mind—or my body language—and be pointed straight to it.

Redirecting my attention to the meal in front of me, I took a cautious bite. The sauce was as good as he claimed. Nothing at all like the canned pasta I’d been picking at for months. “This is delicious.”

“I’m pleased you like it.” The sentiment struck me as odd. I was his prisoner—his
property—
I wasn’t going anywhere. Why should he care what I thought of the food?

All I had were questions about this man. If I started asking myself them, I’d never stop. To occupy my mind, I watched noodles wrap around my fork again and again in near hypnotizing spirals, until, before I knew it, there were none left.

I was aware of Damien’s eyes on me the entire time I ate. The weight of his regard was difficult to ignore. He was waiting for me, even now, with a patience I hadn’t expected. Fingers running along his jawline, idly stroking his neatly groomed beard, he had a hint of a smile playing on his full lips.

I couldn’t understand it. He was a handsome man, painfully so. Educated, charming, more money than God . . . Why on Earth would he have to resort to buying a companion when he could clearly have any woman he chose? Was it the power? Because there were women that were into that sort of thing, weren’t there? Why
me
?

A burn started in my chest and traveled upward to settle in my cheeks when I realized his bowl was still more than half full. I must have looked like some kind of wild beast, devouring its prey.

“Come, Star.” Pushing away from the island, he offered me his hand. “Allow me to show you around your new home.”

The golden chain-link strap of my bag was wound so tightly around my fingers I was beginning to lose feeling in the tips of them as he ushered me down a hallway that led away from the kitchen and living room, past the door where I’d entered.

“I’m sure you must have questions, concerns, so let’s set a few things straight. I didn’t bring you here to be my slave. You’re not here to do the cooking and cleaning. That’s Rosita’s job. You’re more like my . . .” Damien came to a sudden stop outside of a closed door. Barely an inch apart, his eyes traveled over my face, my lips, my shoulders, my chest, and lower. I felt like goods on display. Approval mixed with blatant lust in his gaze as he fingered the strap of my camisole. “My
pet.
There are a few rules you’ll be expected to follow, but you’re a smart girl. I’ll have you house trained in no time.”

His pet? House trained?

The absurdity of it was not lost on me—after all this man had
purchased
me, expected to
keep
me, to do with as he pleased—but the designation made my skin crawl worse than any of that. This was how he was able to buy and sell women like commodities. He didn’t see them as people. He saw them—
me—
as ‘pets’. Animals. Lesser life forms.

I vaguely registered some of the ‘rules’ he was laying out as he continued to guide me down the hallway. “My office . . . off limits . . . No phone . . . Password protected internet.”

I got the point. Escape was futile. Good thing I wasn’t trying to escape.

“In here.” Firm pressure applied to my lower back propelled me across a threshold until my steps faltered.

The room was decorated lavishly in burgundy and deep purples, giving it an almost . . . regal feel, but it was the king-sized four-poster bed draped in black silk that commanded my attention.

A delicate touch skated down the side of my neck, over the curve of my shoulder and along my arm to my fingertips. Goose bumps sprang up along the path and a shiver traveled inward. “Lie down, Star.”

My heart slammed up against my ribcage. I think it wanted to make a run for it on its own. At the rate it was galloping, it might have stood a chance.

The drugs had gotten me into this mess, but they were also my escape from it. Without them . . . I had no defenses, nowhere to hide. The memories—the blurs of sight and sound and color—suddenly snapped into focus. Not a day of my life would go by that I wouldn’t remember every last detail of this moment with perfect clarity. 

The chill of the smooth sheets sliding beneath my palms and shins. The quiet
chink
of the clutch chain hitting the floor between the headboard and the wall. The taste of bile creeping up the back of my throat. The deafening sound of my own blood whooshing in my ears. The tang of citrus filling my nose.

I tried to hold onto thoughts of why I was doing this—the nameless, faceless girls counting on me to earn their freedom, to purchase it at the expense of my body and soul. It was a far greater payoff than anything I’d earned before, and yet they kept slipping away, overshadowed by the darkness of my current reality as I stared up at him standing over me.

“Ah,” Damien crooned. “What a sight. But this isn’t the view I’m craving right now.”

His fierce grip on my ankle startled me, and before I knew it, I found myself face down in a black silk pillow.

“There it is.” His voice grew deep and husky as his hands traveled slowly up the backs of my calves, my thighs. “You may not enjoy the things I do to you, but you’ll grow used to them.”

All at once, I was glad my face was buried in a pillow because I could no longer conceal the pure terror raging through me when his firm hands cupped my ass. What had I done, giving myself to a man I didn’t know? Trusting him not to hurt me when I knew exactly what he was capable of?

You may not enjoy the things I do to you? What things does he plan to do?
My imagination ran wild, taking me to the depths of depravity. But in the end, he was a man. He wanted what they all wanted and he was no more creative about how he got it than any of the others.

Given the size of the room, I knew it couldn’t be the master suite in such an extravagant home. But if that wasn’t clue enough as to whom the room belonged, the distinct click of a deadbolt—on the outside the door—when Damien exited, left no doubt.

Chapter Forty-four

There was a small lake in the park across the street. The sunlight slanted off the water and every time the wind blew, tiny ripples disturbed the surface, causing it to shimmer like liquid gold. Heavy branches swayed in the surrounding trees. Every once and a while a leaf would tear free and float along until, finally losing its futile battle with gravity, it would come to its final resting place in the grass. I watched it all from behind the glass encasement, perched on the window seat of my gilded cage.

When I signed up to play ‘Undercover Spy’, I’d honestly expected it to be a bit more exciting, but mostly I was just . . . bored. I spent hours upon hours locked away in my room, unable to roam freely around the apartment unless Damien was home, and even then, he kept a close watch over me. Rosita was around throughout the day. I could hear the crisp slap of her sensible shoes along the floor as she went about her business, but I only saw her when she delivered my breakfast and lunch.

I rarely spoke to her, and when I did it was always benign statements like, ‘thank you’ and ‘when will Damien be home?’ As instructed, she never responded, but I think my simple communications—and the fact that I used her native language coherently—raised her opinion of me. At least she didn’t scowl every time she laid eyes on me anymore.

In the endless hours of utter boredom, however, I’d piece together broken phrases and a few of the million or so questions I wanted to ask her. Not easily accomplished, even with years’ worth of straight A’s behind my efforts. I could ask where the bathroom was as fluently as any native speaker, but phrases like ‘I’m being held against my will’, ‘Please help me escape’ and ‘How can you work for such a man?’ weren’t exactly part of the course vocabulary.

If things were different, I might have tried to use them anyway, even knowing the futility of it. As it was, I didn’t beg for her help because I didn’t need it. Freedom didn’t come in the form of escape for me. There was a key to my freedom. A key that I had to
find
. The only problem was I had no clue what it looked like or where it was hiding.

A lazy fire crackled in the electric fireplace warming the floorboards beneath my feet as I wandered along the walls of books. Some were so old the pages were yellowed, frail as skin, their covers curling outward. These were the ones that drew me in. They smelled of ink and coffee and tobacco, and told me a story of a time and place far from this one, without ever having to read a single word.

I ran my fingers reverently over the three-hundred-sixty-one titles. I’d counted them.
Twice.
Almost enough to read a book a day for a year, and at the rate I was going that was beginning to look like a distinct possibility. Three weeks and I hadn’t laid eyes on so much as an unpaid parking ticket.

Hours would pass where I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop moving, pacing my room like a caged animal. And I guess that’s what I was. For the first time in almost a year, I felt the urge to run. To break free of my confinements and soar. Feel the wind on my face, the pavement under my feet, the burn in my muscles. 

When I’d finally force myself to stop and sit, my mind would drift, and I wouldn’t even notice how much time had passed until my body started aching—from lack of exercise, from sitting in one position for too long, I don’t know, but my brain kept insisting it was the drugs. I needed them.

I knew I didn’t, rationally. They were bad, the root of all my problems. The physical craving shouldn’t even exist anymore. It was all in my head. The heroin, itself, had cleared from my system, but the memories of it lingered. Of the peace it provided. The escape from the anxiety and regret. Things that plagued my every waking hour. I craved that peace so intensely sometimes that it hurt.

The sound of Damien’s smooth voice dismissing Rosita for the evening brought with it the stupidest of reactions . . . relief. Again my rational mind rebelled against these thoughts, but he was home and if I was lucky, I’d have a distraction for a couple hours. A change of scenery.

Rafe hadn’t been wrong when he said that men like Damien Cross wanted more than a fuck-buddy. In the time that I’d been with him, he’d been so consumed with his work that I barely even saw him. Some nights he’d come home and I’d hear him go into his office. I ate alone in my room those nights with no one for company but myself. I wasn’t very good company. Other nights, he wouldn’t come home at all. But on the rare occasion he’d unlock my cage and invite me to step outside, to join him for dinner, conversation. The rest of the apartment was really nothing more than a bigger cage, but it tasted like freedom to me.

I shouldn’t have
wanted
to be around him. Shouldn’t have
craved
his presence. But I was desperate. Starved for human interaction.

I sighed when I heard the lock on my door click open, rationality be damned.

“Star.” Damien stopped near the couch, a boyish grin tugging at his lips. I swear that smile was more deceitful than any words that flowed from his mouth. It was a weapon. A
very effective
weapon. “Would you care to join me for dinner?”

The untouched chicken pot pie from lunch still sat on the small round table flanked by a pair of camel-back chairs. I hadn’t had much of an appetite earlier, but now . . . “Yes. Please.”

Neither of us spoke as I trailed him from the room. I wanted to say something. Say
anything
. I hadn’t spoken to another person in days. But a conversation with Damien Cross felt a little like crossing a minefield. I had no idea where it was safe to step.

“I owe you an apology.” He detoured into the living room. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit neglectful. Things have been . . . complicated. I hope you understand.”

“Of course.” His kind of work must have all sorts of ‘complications’.

“Relax, pet.” Damien lowered himself gracefully onto the sofa and angled his body to face me where I continued to hover in the doorway. “Dinner is in the oven. It should be ready in about twenty minutes. This is your home now. Make yourself comfortable. There’s no need to hide in corners.”

Despite knowing better, I let the warmth of his smile lure me into a faulty sense of security. I stepped farther into the room and when he made no move to stop me, I wandered around the periphery, keeping a wide berth as I stretched my legs.

He watched me with barely concealed amusement. “How was your day?”

As though I hadn’t spent the entire thing locked in a room. “It was fine. How was . . .”
Am I allowed to ask questions?
“. . . yours?”

I braced for his response, but he merely sighed. “Long.”

Near the window I came to a stop, my attention snared by a framed photo sitting on a small table in the corner. His hair was longer than he kept it now and there was a bit more baby fat in his cheeks, but his eyes . . . there was no denying those striking blue eyes.

“Is this you?”

“No.”

I glanced at Damien and back at the image. He was lying. He had to be. But
why
? What had happened to that happy little boy to turn him into the calculating man behind me? I was so curious about that man. Not just for the sake of the investigation, but for my own personal sanity. I couldn’t figure him out.

I’d come into this expecting . . . I don’t know what I’d expected. A monster? Someone cold and dismissive? Someone cruel? So far, he hadn’t proved to be any of those things. So far, he’d been polite, considerate, almost . . . kind.

“What did you want to be when you were little?” I kept my eyes glued to the picture, half hoping he hadn’t heard my question.

“You mean did I always aspire to be a criminal?” His words made me wince, though his voice remained even. Curiosity had always been one of my greatest flaws. Under current circumstances it was likely to send me the way of the cat. “It might surprise you to know this, Star, but I haven’t always been this way.”

I risked a peek in his direction. He didn’t look angry, arms stretched across the back of the sofa, legs crossed knee to ankle. His brows inched up, daring me, wordlessly, to come closer.

Dare? Order?
It didn’t matter. Cautiously, I perched on the far cushion.

Humor lit his eyes. “A doctor.”

“What?”

“As a child . . .” He folded his hands and tipped his head as though he were trying to make up his mind about something. About
me.
“I wanted to be a doctor. A pediatric oncologist, to be precise.”

“How did . . .?”
Am I overstepping my bounds asking what happened?
After all, it was a hell of a leap—pediatric oncologist to criminal overlord—but, then again, were we so very different?

“The boy in the picture . . .” He nodded at the image I’d been examining. “That’s my brother. My twin, actually. Marcus.”

Two of them?
Lord, help the planet.

His hands twisted and his expression turned flat, emotionless. “He died less than a year after that was taken.”

“Oh.” I took in the boy’s smiling face again and felt the loss as though I’d known him personally. “I’m sorry.”

“So were the hospitals that turned him away. The doctors that refused to treat him because my father couldn’t afford insurance. He was a good man, my father. Hard-working. Honest. Loyal. What did that ever get him besides a shitty place to call home and a dead son?” Bitterness tinged his words, but the mask of indifference remained in place as he studied the picture of his brother. “He had leukemia. I thought I could change things. Thought I’d become a great doctor and help all the people no one else would. I was a
child
.” The word was spit from his lips as though it were something to be disgusted by. “Ideals and good intentions do not change the world, Star. The world
doesn’t
change. It never will. And good men never come in first.

“I was surrounded day and night by shady men and women working the streets near my house. Pimps, prostitutes, dealers . . . killers with more money than they knew what to do with. When I was old enough to truly understand how the world works, I swore to myself I’d never lack for anything I needed or wanted ever again. And I haven’t.” His arms swept wide to encompass the extravagant apartment surrounding us and a huge smile broke across his face.

I could see his point—he’d proven it—but at what cost?

His soul
was the only answer I could conjure.