Say the Word (30 page)

“Lux, I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “My father, he’s—”

“Shh,” I breathed, reaching a finger up to press against his lips. “Don’t.”

“The Princeton thing, it’s not definite. It’s just what he wants. And the way he looked at you…” Bash pressed his eyes closed at the thought and his upper lip curled in disgust. “I don’t know how to make this up to you, but I swear I will.”

“Bash,” I said, rolling onto my side so we were face to face. “Stop. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“But my family—”

“So they aren’t perfect. Think about who you’re talking to.” I smiled at him. “The only reason you haven’t met my parents is because they’re always at the bar, or passed out drunk on the couch. ‘Dysfunctional’ is inscribed somewhere on our family crest.”

A small smile crept across Bash’s face.

“You aren’t your family. You aren’t your father,” I told him, leaning in to press a kiss against his lips. “I love you because of who you are — not because of them. You could’ve been raised by a troupe of con artists or circus performers and I’d still love you.”

“Yeah?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me.

“Yeah.” I kissed him deeply, twining my arms around his back and looping one of my legs around his waist. He pulled me flush against him, rolling onto his back so I was sprawled across his chest.

“You know what I think
, Freckles?” he asked, his hands skimming down my back in a possessive gesture.

I shook my head.

“Babies have no say about which crib they end up in. I didn’t pick my parents anymore than you chose yours. I think real family is the family you get a say in — it’s the family you build with someone you love. And I know one day, when we’re married and you’re the size of a house, pregnant with my baby inside you…” His hands stilled on my sides as he stared into my eyes. “I’ll have made my real family.
Our
family.”

My heart fluttered in my chest and my eyes began to tear, but I forced a stern expression onto my face. “Maybe I don’t want babies with someone who thinks I’ll be the size of a house.”

Bash grinned. “Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t like you,” I informed him, trying my best to maintain a glare.

“I know,” he whispered, cupping the back of my neck and guiding my lips against his. “But you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, smiling as our kiss deepened and we forgot all about the party still going on inside, and the parents we’d had no choice in.

“I’ll grab your coat. Meet me by the car in five minutes,” Bash said, leading me back toward the house.

“Okay,” I agreed, squeezing his hand tightly as we approached the dark mansion. The party guests had all gone home, but I didn’t want to chance an encounter with either of Sebastian’s parents. “I just want to say goodbye to Greta.”

Bash smiled. “She likes you.”

“I like her,” I countered, bumping my hip against his.

He kissed my forehead quickly, then headed for the side door into the house. “See you in a minute.”

“Not if I see you first!” I whispered, grinning as I made my way across the patio toward the back entrance to the kitchen. The glass paneled door swung open on soundless hinges, and I stepped into the dim room. Only the faint light above the stove was left illuminated — all of the other kitchen lights had been switched off for the night. I scanned the space for Greta, hoping she was still awake, and my eyes caught on the light creeping out beneath the crack of the ajar pantry door across the room.

She must’ve gone in there to put away the party leftovers, I thought, skirting around the kitchen island and heading for the small entrance. The sound —
a terrified, mewling protest — reached my ears just as I reached the door. What I saw through the open crack made my blood run cold.

Greta wasn’t alone in the pantry.

Andrew’s hands roamed the maid’s body freely, despite her cowering. She didn’t attempt to fight him off, but her distress was clear on her face. He groped at her breasts and though his back was to me, I imagined the lascivious look on his face.

“Shh,” he muttered, moving one of his hands down to the bottom of her uniform. “Be a good girl, Greta. It’s only me. I thought we resolved all this, the last time.”

When his hand moved beneath her skirt,
Greta cried out in despair and her wide blue eyes flashed with horror. My mind reeled, searching for an explanation, seeking some kind of justification for this, but there was none. This was no tawdry dalliance between master and maid — no secret affair between two willing partners. This was rape.

I watched my hand like it belonged to a stranger, as it lifted and pushed the door open with enough force that its impact against the
pantry wall set the cans rattling on their shelves. The loud bang was enough to stop the progression of Andrew’s hands. When he turned to me, his eyes still swirling with lust, I saw surprise flash in his expression.

He hadn’t expected it to be me at the door.

Greta’s face showed both terror and relief, and as her hands worked to smooth her uniform back into place, she cast a grateful look in my direction.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, my cold tone saying otherwise. “I was just looking for
Greta. I promised her a ride home.”

“How odd —
Greta usually drives herself home,” Andrew said, still panting slightly as he stared at me with a challenge in his eyes.

“Her car battery died,” I added, lying through my teeth with my furious eyes locked on the senator.

“Well, that’s very generous of you to offer, Lux, but I’m happy to drive Greta home. After all, she is mine.” He smiled at me and I thought I might be sick. “My employee, that is.”

“I insist,” I bit out between clenched teeth. I kept my eyes on the senator, but extended my hand into the open space and spoke to the frightened woman. “Come on,
Greta. Let’s go.”

I waited until I heard her hesitant shuffle and felt her hand slip into mine.

“Goodnight, Senator.” I took a step backwards through the doorway, unwilling to turn my back on this man even for a moment. He was evil.

His grin never faltered, but his eyes had gone cold the moment he was forced to release his victim. “Goodnight, Lux. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again. Very soon.” His gaze moved to the woman at my side, and I felt fury boil in my veins as his eyes drooped down to half-mast and scanned her trembling body. “
Greta. Always a
pleasure
.”

I squeezed the maid’s hand and pulled her behind me, practically running for the patio door that would take us out of this house and away from these people. When we reached the side garage, I looked around for Sebastian, but he hadn’t arrived yet.

“Thank you,” Greta whispered, her eyes filling with tears as she stared at me. “Thank you so much.”

I took her by the shoulders and stared into her face. She was only a few years older than me — maybe in her mid-twenties — and I suddenly saw how fragile she was. “Listen to me,” I whispered fiercely. “You get in your car and you go. Don’t come back here.”

“But my job…the money…” Greta bit her lip and her anxious expression tugged on my heartstrings.

“There are other jobs,
Greta,” I said, staring into her eyes. “There’s only one of you. This is your life. You can’t live it here — not under the same roof as that man.”

Her tears spilled over and she nodded weakly in agreement.

“Here,” I said, reaching into my small clutch bag and pulling out my tattered wallet. There wasn’t much — just what little grocery money I’d managed to save for next week — but I pulled the bills out anyway. Pressing them into her hand, I knew in this moment, she needed them more than I did. “Take this.”

“I can’t—” She began to protest, but I stopped her.

“It’s not much, trust me. I wish I could do more for you.” I used my hand to curl her fingers closed around the wad of money. “Just promise me you’ll get away from him.”

Greta
clung to the money like a lifeline, then wrapped thin arms around me in an unexpected embrace. Her wet, tear-stained cheek brushed mine as she hugged me. “Thank you.”

“Go,” I ordered, fighting off my own tears as I stepped away and pushed her lightly toward the small, beat-up Honda she’d parked next to the garage. She nodded and hurried for her car.

When her taillights disappeared down the long driveway, I brushed the dampness from my cheeks and turned away.

“Good luck,” I whispered into the night.

Sebastian emerged from the house a few minutes later. He draped my jacket over my shoulders and led me to the car, staring at me with worry in his eyes. Three times during our ride home, he asked why I’d gone so silent. I shrugged off his concern and stared out the passenger window, lost in my thoughts, until he dropped me off at home.

I couldn’t tell him.

Not tonight, anyway. This was his father, after all. Plus, it hadn’t escaped my notice that his father was an important political figure. If this got out, it wouldn’t only ruin the senator’s career and reputation, it would set off a media storm that would shatter Sebastian’s family — and, in all likelihood, his future.

But, at the same time, I couldn’t
not
tell him.

His father was the worst kind of man — one who abused his power to exploit the innocent, who used his strength to force others into submission. Bash had a right to know.

I’d tell him in a few days, I reasoned. I needed time to process and figure out the right way to break it to him. For now, as I remembered the crazed look in Andrew’s eyes when I’d led Greta away from him, all I could think about was the fact that I’d just made a very powerful enemy — one who’d stop at nothing to protect himself.

And destroy me.

The boards groaned beneath my sneakers, each step sending up a plume of dust into the stale air of the warehouse. This was, by far, the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my entire life. Did that stop me from attempting this insane quest?

Of course not.

After work on Monday, I’d hurried to the lobby bathroom and performed another quick change into sneakers, jeans, and a sweatshirt before boarding the subway to Brooklyn. As I rode to Red Hook, I distracted myself from thoughts of what I was about to attempt by replaying the day I’d had over in my mind.

I’d arrived at work purposefully late, figuring a tardiness reprimand was better than another early morning elevator ride with Sebastian. Walking in while the daily briefing was already in progress, I avoided any possibility of being cornered alone. I weaved through the group and headed immediately for the Jennys, shamelessly using them as a human shield to protect me from the hazel eyes that roamed the gathered team. Sebastian had stood at the center of the circled workers, discussing the 1950s and 1960s sets he’d be shooting today and doling out responsibilities to the design crew.

“I’ll be up on the fourteenth floor most of the day, shooting,” he’d informed us.

Thank god
. I smiled as I listened to him hand out assignments, cowardly relieved I wouldn’t have to see him all day.

“Tech support, you’re with me. Models should already be in hair and makeup upstairs. Costume design, you ca
n head up there immediately to ensure everything’s set up.” Sebastian glanced at his watch. “I want this to go as smoothly as possible. Set design, be on standby to set up the ‘60s set as soon as ‘50s is done. Last week it took too long to roll out the ‘40s set after we finished with ‘30s and we were here late.” Sebastian’s eyes abruptly cut through the crowd straight to me, where I’d ducked partially behind Jenny S.’s petite frame. Apparently, he hadn’t missed my stealth entrance or been fooled by my makeshift hiding spot. He smiled when our eyes met.

“I don’t want to be here late tonight,” he continued, his eyes locked on mine. “I’ve got plans.”

Shit.

His grin widened as he turned his head away, scanning the crowd a final time before he broke up the meeting. “The rest of you, continue working on whatever research or writing projects Angela has assigned for the upcoming shoots. Any questions, ask her — she’s in charge while I’m gone. Let
’s have a good day, people.”

When
everyone began to disperse, I made a point to engage the two Jennys in a conversation about their troubled love lives — they always had plenty of weekend horror stories to share — and studiously avoided looking in Sebastian’s direction again until I was sure he’d disappeared upstairs for the photo shoots. My own weekend had been blessedly quiet after his visit Friday night — I’d locked myself away from the world, researching and drafting the beginnings of my story on sex-trafficking, watching old movies, and eating so many Cool Ranch Doritos I was sure the chip company was going to write me a thank you letter for single-handedly helping them meet their third quarter sales quota.

Work on Monday flew by and as soon as the clock struck five, I was on the elevator, heading down to the lobby with my black backpack in hand. I didn’t know what “plans” Bash had in mind, and I had no intention of sticking around to find out.

When I finally reached the waterfront, plucking my way across the dilapidated pier as I approached the warehouse, I was having serious doubts about my plans for espionage. Armed only with my total lack of experience, Fae’s borrowed binoculars, and the disposable camera I’d picked up at
Swagat
yesterday as a backup in case my cellphone ran out of battery, I grew increasingly nervous as the brewery came into sight. I snapped a few pictures from a safe distance, leaning around the corner of an adjacent warehouse to keep my body out of sight from any lookouts — as I’d seen any number of Hollywood-manufactured spies do. Instead of approaching the brewery directly, like I had last week, I slipped down an alleyway on the far side of the abandoned building next door. The adjacent warehouse was a cannery, long fallen into disrepair, and not somewhere I’d normally want to explore. But, unlike the neighboring brewery, this cannery was special.

Its windows weren’t boarded up.

It had come to me last night as I tossed and turned in bed, mulling over possibilities for breaking into the brewery. I wasn’t a complete idiot — I knew a petite blonde woman with no covert training would never be able to sneak into such a place, especially with thugs like Smash-Nose and the Neanderthal patrolling the grounds. In a face-to-face altercation, I wouldn’t be able to overpower or evade them and — even on the off chance that I did — there was nothing to stop them from calling their friend Santos, who could issue a warrant for my arrest faster than I could say “in over my head.”

But then, as I conjured an image of the brewery in my mind, I had a realization.

I didn’t need to get inside. I just needed to
see
inside.

While the ground level windows were thoroughly boarded up to keep out prying eyes and looters, the upper floors’ panes had been left unbarred. If I could get into one of the adjacent buildings, climb to the third floor, and see through the windows, I’d have an all access pass to whatever was happening inside the brewery.

So here I was, spending my happy hour climbing a termite-eaten stairwell to reach the third floor of a dusty, decaying cannery. Simon and Fae had each called me twice already. Either they were pissed I’d been avoiding them all weekend, or they’d finally caught on to the fact that I’d shut them out of my investigation after our Santos surveillance run last week. They may’ve let the presence of the sex-trafficking storyboard in my apartment slide the other night, because I was in the midst of a Sebastian meltdown, but now that they’d had time to reflect, their worries about my sanity had probably reached DEFCON 1 levels.

After everything I’d learned, I didn’t want them involved. If something went wrong, I was going to land in a world of trouble. Plus, if I were trapped in a car with those two for any amount of time, the saga of Sebastian would inevitably come up — and for that conversation I’d need to fortify myself with at least a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Possibly two.

I froze as a loose floorboard creaked loudly underfoot — I’d reached the top of the stairs. Stepping onto the third floor of the cannery, I tried to be light-footed as I crossed to the bank of windows that faced the brewery. There were faint signs of life here on the upper floors — a candle burnt down to a stub, a dusty blanket riddled with holes, a discarded book. Remnants of squatters long gone from here, if the thick coating of dust was any indication. My sneakers left a trail of footprints in the grime, like walking through a fall of snow on an early December morning.

When I came to the windows, I spent several minutes using the cuff of my sweatshirt to wipe the dusty residue off one of the panes at eye level. Peering out, I could just discern the building across the street through the smudged glass. From what I could see at this distance, the room directly across from me inside the brewery
appeared to be an office. There was a wooden desk stacked high with papers, a laptop computer, and a small lamp that helped to light up the gloomy room.

About twenty minutes passed without any activity inside the brewery.
I was about to head down to the second floor, to test my view from there, when the office door swung inward and two people entered, the dim lighting illuminating their figures in shadowy profiles. As they walked closer to the window, I strained my eyes to make out their faces.

I lifted my phone to eye-level, made sure the camera flash function was switched off, and snapped a few pictures through the dirty glass. Pulling back, I used my fingers to zoom in on the photos I’d just taken. As I zoomed, the resolution blurred and the images became grainy and useless. I couldn’t make out much of the figures insid
e the room, though I thought one of them might be a woman — the smaller stature was apparent despite the fuzzy quality.

Reaching into my backpack, I rummaged around until my fingers grazed Fae’s mini-binoculars.  I popped off the lens caps, raised them to my face, and leaned closer to the pane. They were poorly crafted out of cheap plastic — I think Fae had purchased them at Duane Reade as a spontaneous two-dollar add-on item— but they
magnified the room enough to see the larger of the two figures, who was standing closest to the window. It was definitely a man — a hulking one at that. It could easily be the Neanderthal I’d seen the other day or another like him.

I cupped my hands around my eyes to block the light and pressed the binoculars to the glass, squinting to bring him into better focus. His shirt was black, but there was something written in bold green script across the back of the garment.

What was
Labyrinth
? My mind spun with possibilities.

A restaurant? A club? A business? 

Before I could delve further into speculation, I felt it — that slow awareness that overtakes your system when you sense that someone is watching you. The tingling instant of time in which all the fine, feathery hairs on the back of your neck rise because you know, with instinctual perception, that you have ceased to be the hunter and are, instead, the hunted.

The hand clamped down over my mouth before I could take a single step away from the window, or even turn to face my attacker. My phone and binoculars clattered to the floor, and I began to struggle — my hands came up to tear at the fingers blocking my airway, my torso thrashed violently, my feet fought for purchase against the dust-coated wooden floor.

None of it mattered. As soon as his mouth brushed my ear and his whisper registered in my mind, the struggle was over.

“It’s me,” he said, his voice hushed. “There are two men in the alley directly below us. If you scream, they’ll hear you.”

All the fight left my body and I hung limp in his arms, relief coursing through my bloodstream and chasing the terror from my system. Though the relief was short-lived — anger took its place in matter of heartbeats.

“I’m going to take my hand away now,” he added. “You good?”

I nodded and his hand slipped away from my face. Whirling around on the balls of my feet, I planted my hands on my hips and glared at him.

“You followed me!” The outraged whisper flew from my mouth with enough heat to sear the flesh from his bones.

Bash nodded. His face was set in stone and there was no humor in his eyes — they were flat as two greenish ponds on a windless day.

“What the hell, Bash?” I glared at him.

Without saying a word, he bent over and grabbed my phone and binoculars from the ground by my feet.

“What are you— Hey!” I yelped as his free hand shot out and grabbed hold of my arm just above the elbow with a fair amount of pressure. His vice grip didn’t loosen as he began to stride across the room toward the stairs.

“I’m not finished here!” I struggled against him, but made no progress. “Bash, let me go! This is crazy!”

He stilled so abruptly, I had no time to slow my forward momentum and crashed face first into the broad planes of his back. I winced and rubbed my forehead with my free hand. Turning his head slightly over his shoulder, so his face was visible in profile, Bash’s icy words were enough to stop my protests.

“Those men in the alley? They’re armed. So you can either walk out the back entrance with me, or I’ll carry you out. Your choice. But either way, we’re leaving. Now.”

I
t took me about two seconds to evaluate my options and realize that he wasn’t kidding around. Admitting defeat, I nodded to signal my cooperation and allowed him to pull me to the stairwell.

Sebastian walked
quickly, leading us down to the exit and out onto the pier in less than a minute. Before I knew it, we’d left the row of warehouses behind and were back on the streets of Red Hook, heading for a small alleyway around the corner where a parked black Land Rover sat waiting. He yanked open the passenger door, shoved me inside, rounded the hood, and settled into the driver’s seat in a series of aggressive movements that betrayed just how angry he was.

“I don’t know why
you’re
mad,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive maneuver.

Sebastian turned over the ignition and pulled out of the alley with such speed my body pressed back against the cushioned seat and my stomach turned over.

“So dramatic,” I muttered under my breath.

He didn’t bother to acknowledge that I’d spoken, but his fists clenched tighter around the steering wheel as we sped along Brooklyn’s waterfront toward the bridge. Realizing he likely wasn’t going to speak to me until we reached our destination — wherever that might be — I sighed and flipped on the stereo system. Strains of familiar classical music filled the car and I immediately regretted my decision.

Vitali
. Of course.

My hands itched to turn it off, but that seemed a far too obvious show of discomfort. I tried to appear unaffected as the violins crescendoed, though the desire to fidget in my seat was nearly irrepressible. Sensing my distress or perhaps feeling some of his own, Sebastian reached forward and flipped off the music, sending us back into a weighty silence. I turned my eyes out the window and allowed my attention to drift for a while. My thoughts were so wrapped up in the brewery and whatever “Labyrinth” might be, I didn’t notice that we weren’t heading for my apartment in Midtown until we’d slowed to a crawl on the streets of SoHo. Several blocks from Simon’s loft — and several hundred thousand price-points higher, in terms of real estate value — the converted brick factories here were upscale lofts, complete with climate controlled underground parking and security systems.