The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2) (25 page)

He sighs. “Hang on.”

I watch as he strides to the back of the classroom, pokes his head out the door, looks up and down the hallway five or six times, and comes back.

“Okay. All clear.” He grins. “I can never be too careful when it comes to protecting my precious baby.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll be right back.” I kiss the top of his head. “And when I come back, I want you to move to the back of the classroom, okay? This whole I-can’t-go-anywhere-without-my-hot-boyfriend thing is starting to embarrass me.”

Chapter 23

Sarah

“Oh jeez,” I mutter aloud, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. Despite what Jonas said, my face does, in fact, look like an oil slick.

That check from Jonas really threw me for a loop. I can’t remember the last time geysers spontaneously shot out of my eyes like that. It was like I’d been crowned Miss America, received a marriage proposal, given birth to quintuplets, and won the power ball lottery all at once. I’ve got so many emotions bouncing around inside my body right now, I can’t think straight. The only coherent thought I can muster is, “I love you, Jonas,” over and over. Damn, that boy is a dream come true.

I turn on the faucet and splash cold water onto my eyes and scrub the errant mascara off my face. I grab a paper towel and wipe my face dry and then blow my runny nose. I’m a train wreck. A mushy pile of goo. The luckiest girl in the world.

I pull a tube of lip gloss out of my purse and apply a little shimmer to my lips. Meh, I think I’ll skip reapplying mascara—at the rate I’m going, I’m sure that wasn’t my last good cry of the day.

I head into one of two empty stalls, lock the stall door, and sit down to pee.

I hear the bathroom door open. Footsteps enter the room and stop. No one enters the empty stall next to me. That’s weird. Whoever she is, why is she waiting on my stall when there’s an empty one?

I bend over to peek underneath the partition, but I can’t see all the way to the door from this angle. I’d have to get down on my hands and knees to see that far. But there’s definitely another human being in this bathroom with me. I wait. No more footsteps. Why is my bathroom buddy standing just inside the door? Did she stop to look for a tampon in her purse? Or is my stealthy bathroom visitor my gorgeous but highly paranoid boyfriend checking up on me?

“Jonas?”

There’s no reply.

“If that’s you, wait for me outside, you creeper-weirdo.”

I hear the lock on the bathroom door click.

“Jonas?” I’m suddenly uneasy. “Is there someone there?”

It’s got to be Jonas. Is he sneaking in here for a quickie—inspired by our bathroom escapades last night? I roll my eyes. That was a one-off. I’m not planning to make bathroom-sex a habit. And, anyway, we can’t do it right now—class starts in five minutes. Although who am I kidding?—with the right persuasion, Jonas Faraday could convince me to have sex with him anywhere, anytime, even in a gross bathroom stall five minutes before class.

The footsteps walk slowly toward the stall.

My chest constricts. I swallow hard. Those footsteps don’t sound like a woman. And they’re definitely not Jonas’ footsteps, either. That’s a shuffle. Jonas doesn’t shuffle. Jonas is grace in motion. I pull up my jeans and flush the toilet, my blood pulsing in my ears. I clutch my purse and open the stall door.

Holy shit. It’s John Fucking Travolta from
Pulp Fiction
, ponytail and all. A small knife glints unmistakably in his hand. I’m too terrified to make a sound or move a muscle.

In a flash, he yanks me out of the stall by my T-shirt. The knife glints as his hand moves toward my neck.

“Oksana!” I scream. “Oksana!”

He’s intrigued enough to pause. He presses the knife into my throat.

But he doesn’t slice.

“You’re supposed to talk to Oksana,” I blurt. “You have new instructions from Oksana!”

A terrified squeal rises up out of me. I try to suppress it, but I can’t. I’m a quivering mess. My knees buckle, but he holds me up, holding the knife roughly against my neck. Good thing I just peed, or else I’d surely wet my pants.

“You know Oksana?” He has a thick accent of some kind.

“Yes, Oksana—the Crazy Ukrainian.” I try to smirk conspiratorially, but I’m sure I just look like I’m having a seizure. He’s not amused. Oh shit. Maybe he’s Ukrainian, too. “Oksana in Las Vegas—at headquarters. She has new instructions for you. You’re not supposed to hurt me. Things have changed—Oksana will tell you.”

“My instruction is to kill you.” His eyes are hard.

At this last statement, my knees go weak. He grabs me and holds me up, still holding the knife firmly against my throat—but, still, he’s not slicing.

I keep babbling like my life depends on it—because, surely, it does.

“You were supposed to get new instructions last night or this morning. No kill.” In my terror, those last two words come out like I’m talking to Koko, the sign language gorilla.

He stares at me blankly, pressing the knife into my neck.

Oh shit, he’s got no effing idea what I’m talking about. Stacy hasn’t conveyed last night’s message to anyone yet—or, if she has, word hasn’t made its way up (or down) the totem pole to this guy. He’s pressing the knife so hard against my throat, the blade is breaking the skin. My skin under the knife burns.

He grits his teeth and his eyes flash like he’s made a decision—and not a good one.

“Two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars!” I scream.

He pauses yet again, just long enough for me to keep talking.

“Right here in my purse. From the rich guy. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars! Look in my purse. You can have it. And I can get you more.”

He pauses briefly, processing what I’m saying, and then puts me in a suffocating headlock while he gruffly opens my purse. He pulls out the check, grunting with pleasure or surprise or malice, I’m not sure which.

“I’ve been scamming the rich guy all along. He gave me this money, and there’s plenty more where that came from. I just sent The Club an email about this earlier today. I want to be partners with you. That’s why I emailed you. Call your boss, you’ll see. I sent an email. I’m scamming this guy—and I can do the same thing to other new members, too. We can make money together. Lots of money.” I’m panting. I’m light-headed.

He holds up the check and leans into my face. “You can get more?”

Oh God, his breath is foul.

“Yeah, lots more—lots and lots and lots and lots and lots.” Oh God, I’m rambling. “And not just from him. I can get it from other guys, too. I’ll split everything with you. That’s what I emailed about this morning—ask them about my email, you’ll see. This guy paid his membership fee and now he only wants to fuck me—he wants a GFE . . .” I mentally say a prayer of gratitude to Stacy the Faker for providing this helpful bit of prostitute lingo. “These kinds of guys love a good GFE. They think I’m breaking the rules to be with them—we’re Romeo and Juliet. We can do this with all the new members. I’ll tell them a sob story about my law school tuition and throw in a sick mom with cancer and they’ll fork over big money to feel like my knight in shining armor. We’ll split the money.”

He’s considering. Or, at least, he’s not killing me yet.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone about The Club—why would I do that? That’s the last thing I want to do. This is my ticket to big money. I love what you’re doing to these rich assholes—I want in. Let me be your partner. I’ll give these guys the Intake Agent GFE before they ever start using the other girls. I’m the girl they’re not supposed to have, the forbidden fruit. This first stupid guy gave me two hundred fifty thousand bucks—and I can get lots more. Call your boss—ask if I emailed this morning like I’m telling you. You’ll see—I’m telling the truth. Call and find out. I sent an email this morning.”

I’m going to faint. I can’t keep talking like this. I’m seeing spots. My chest is jerking and jolting from the exertion of trying to take air into my lungs and speak at the same time. I’ve never felt so much adrenaline coursing through my veins in all my life. There is no doubt in my mind this man is a heartbeat away from plunging that knife into my chest. I’m shaking.

“Call your boss. Come on, Hugo.”

He scrunches his face, amused. It’s the first flicker of humanity I’ve seen from him during this whole exchange. I take it as a positive sign.

“What? Don’t tell me Hugo’s not your name? Oh man! And you look like such a Hugo, too.”

One side of his mouth hitches up.

“When we start working together, I’m gonna call you Hugo. That’ll be my pet name for you. You’ll always be my Hugo.” I smile at him. Or, at least, I try to. I’m sure my face looks more like a raccoon caught in headlights.

He looks at the check in his hand. “You can get more?”

“Much more. I put on a big show last night when the rich guy was at a check-in with Stacy. He
loved
it. Fucked my brains out in the bathroom afterwards and gave me the money. We can do that kind of thing all the time to new members.” I try to laugh. “These guys love a good GFE—they’re all just diehard romantics underneath it all. Go on—call your boss. Ask about my email this morning. You’ll see.”

My breathing is fitful. Sweat has broken out over my brow.

Without warning, he puts me into a headlock again, smashing my face against his body, and pulls out his phone. I can’t see what he’s doing, but I hear the condensed sound of an automated outgoing voicemail message followed by a beep. He leaves a gruff, staccato message in another language. Russian?

I’m going to die at the hands of a James Bond villain.

He yanks me back up by my hair and presses the knife into my throat even harder than before. I feel blood trickling down my neck. My skin is on fire.

His nostrils flare. He jerks his face right into my mine and I squeal, flinching, certain this is it for me—but he holds up the check.

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll come back and slit your throat.”

My neck burns sharply as he lets go of my quivering body—did he just nick me with the knife? Just as I bring my hand up to my neck, a shocking pain in my ribcage burns hotter and fiercer than anything I’ve felt in my entire life. The intense pain makes my knees buckle and takes my breath away, literally. My legs give way. As I fall, the bathroom spins and twists before my eyes.

A crashing jolt of pain slams the back of my head.

I love you, Jonas.

Darkness.

Chapter 24

Jonas

I move to the back of the classroom, just as she instructed. I’m Sarah’s puppy dog, after all—a fucking Maltese named Jonas. Sit, stay, come. Whatever the hell she wants me to do, I’ll do it.

The classroom’s almost full. A guy takes the seat I just vacated, the one right next to hers. I glance at her open laptop and notebook on her empty desk and feel a pang of envy. I want to be the one who gets to sit next to her—damn, I shouldn’t have moved.

I look at my watch. Still a couple minutes before class starts. She’d better hurry the fuck up. What’s she doing in there all this time? Putting makeup on? If so, I wish she wouldn’t. She doesn’t need it.

The professor enters the room and heads down the aisle toward the front of the class. Before he makes it to his destination, a student stops him to ask a question.

I reach into my jeans pocket and fish out the flash drive she gave me this morning. Let’s see what songs my baby’s compiled for my mix tape. I’ve never gotten a playlist from a girl before, ever, and I have to admit, I’m excited about it.

I reach into my computer case for some earbuds and shove them into my ears.

The first song is “Demons” by Imagine Dragons. I smile. Oh, Sarah, aren’t you clever? I get it. I’ve got demons and you’re going to save me from them. I don’t need to listen to this song—I’ve heard it a million times.

The next song is “Not Afraid” by Eminem. I’m sensing a theme here. This woman is bound and determined to “heal” me, huh? I guess I’d better get used to it. It’s just the way she’s wired.

“Come a Little Closer” by Cage the Elephant. I’m not familiar with this one. I listen to the song for about thirty seconds, through the end of the first chorus. Love the song. And, yes, definitely a theme. She wants me to “come a little closer”—or, as my various past girlfriends have fruitlessly demanded, to “let her in.” Not very original, but surely heartfelt.

The professor moves to the podium at the front of the class and organizes his notes. I look at my watch. She’s got maybe another minute, if she’s lucky. If she doesn’t come in the next thirty seconds, I’ll knock at the restroom door and tell her to get her butt in gear. She’s so anal about not missing even a minute of class—she made us get here twenty minutes early, for Christ’s sake—I’m surprised she’s taking so damned long.

I change the page view on my screen so I can see the rest of her selected song titles all at once. My heart explodes. The remainder of her song list forges a decidedly different theme than her initial “let me save you from your demons” campaign: “She Loves You” by the Beatles. “Crazy In Love” by Beyoncé. “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” by Jennifer Lopez. “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” by Michael Jackson. And on and on and on. “Love Can Build a Bridge.” “All You Need Is Love.” “(I Can’t Help) Falling In Love With You.”

Oh my God.

I bolt out of my chair to a manic stand, wringing my hands, hopping from foot to foot. I need to touch her, kiss her, make love to her. Maybe I’ll sneak into that bathroom right now and take her in the stall—no, what am I thinking? We can’t have bathroom sex at a time like this. Oh my God. She loves me. We’ve already told each other this, of course, in oh so many clever and coded ways, but seeing the actual magic word over and over and over on my screen, so starkly, so honestly, so unequivocally—an explicit love letter from my baby to me—it’s the greatest feeling in the whole world.

Love is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the gods.

“Good morning,” the professor begins. “Let’s start with the landmark U.S. Supreme Court case of
Lawrence v. Texas
on page one eighty-three of your casebook. Miss Fanuel, will you tell us the holding of this case, please?”