26. Blue
26
Blue
Z eke tells me the following day about the charity dinner taking place at The Society that night. I’m not exactly thrilled by the idea, especially of potentially seeing the man who attacked me, but it’s the only way to know for sure if it was him which will tell us something about who wants what my father stole.
This whole thing is a little insane. The fact that the gun was registered to IVI, that it is someone from inside this creepy secret society who’d hired my father to steal whatever files he stole. It’s a lot to take in.
“I need something from you,” I say to Zeke once we’re finished discussing the event.
“What’s that?”
“I need you to move Wren and Rudy.”
“I have guards stationed?—”
“I’d feel better if she was somewhere new. Someone could have followed us to the care facility. I saw you checking the rear-view mirror after we left them and, well, I’d rather not take a chance with her. You said you’d help us. I’m asking you to help.”
It takes him a minute, but he nods. “Where?”
“There’s another facility nearby. It’s called the Margaret Stone Center. It’s supposed to be good.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Do you think we could get her in there? And Rudy as her private nurse? Could you get that done, I mean, you being a St. James and all,” I say that last part loftily.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I nod. Thank him. The day passes remarkably slowly and, in the evening, when I return to my room from wandering around the house, I find a stunning black satin corset gown hangs on the back of my bedroom door. Soft feathers line the low bodice, and the dress is cut to accentuate every curve. The skirt is split high along the front of one thigh and a pair of heels with feathers matching those on the dress sits on the floor. It’s all very beautiful and also very much not me. At least nothing I’ve ever worn before or could imagine myself in, but looking at it, it makes me want to put it on.
“Your hair wasn’t blue when you were sixteen, right?” Zeke asks as I gently brush my fingers along the delicate feathers, the soft satin.
I shake my head. “I dyed it when I got to New Orleans. I don’t think he’d recognize me. I was a late bloomer so I looked like a kid. What about Craven or any of the men from The Cat House seeing me?”
Zeke shrugs a shoulder. “Let them.” He checks his watch. “Get dressed. We’ll leave in half an hour.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“You’ll be safe.” His phone rings and he walks out of the bedroom to take the call, closing the door behind him.
I pull the dress off the hanger, lay it on the bed and strip off my clothes. The tag is still hanging on the dress. It’s from an exclusive boutique I have walked by once or twice in town. One of those places I’d definitely feel awkward to walk into. My eyes bulge when I see the price. Did he buy this for me? For one night? Did he spend this much money on such an impractical dress?
“Rich people.” I shake my head but there’s a part of me that’s pleased. That’s excited to put the dress on. To wear the heels and to feel beautiful.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the dresser, take in my short, blue and black hair, the scar that is not quite invisible although well camouflaged.
I am not beautiful. And this is not a date. I need to remember that. I strip off my things and slip the dress over my head. It’s a perfect fit, as I knew it would be. He has a good eye for size. The cut of the dangerously low bodice accentuates my breasts, pressing them from beneath to make them swell over the top of the dress.
A small clutch that matches the dress sits beside the shoes and I pick it up, dig the flash drive out of my jeans pocket and stash it inside.
In the bathroom, I reapply my makeup, paying extra attention to the scar on my cheek. That’s one way Wyatt, if it was him, might recognize me. Although it was bandaged then. I apply thicker eyeliner than usual, dab matte crimson lipstick on my lips and, since all I have are a few pins, arrange my hair in a sort of messy up-do which, coupled with the collar and the neckline of the dress, isn’t bad actually. Not elegant, not Society, but not horrible.
The bedroom door opens. I brush a lock of hair that’s too short to be pinned behind my ear and walk into the bedroom, weirdly nervous about him seeing me like this.
Zeke is looking at his phone, so I have a moment where I get to take him in unobserved. He’s dressed in a tuxedo. He is elegant. He was born elegant. Black on black, he looks exactly like the anti-hero he is. Dangerous. Dark. And so fucking sexy I’d like to climb him.
Fuck.
I shake my head.
What the hell is wrong with you, Blue?
Zeke looks up. Our eyes meet and, for a moment, we stand just like that, staring at each other. He appears taken aback and I’m first to look away, feeling the heat of a flush creeping up my neck to my face.
He recovers himself more quickly. I forget how much more experienced he is than me. “Dress looks good on you, Blue,” he says, approaching.
I don’t have shoes on yet, so I feel shorter than usual and have to crane my neck back to look at him.
“You too,” I say, not quite meeting his gaze.
He raises his eyebrows.
“I mean the tux. It looks good.” God. I’m an idiot.
His eyes narrow, one corner of his mouth curving upward. I take in the sharp edge of his jaw, the neatly kept five o’clock shadow. I breathe in aftershave as he touches the collar at my neck, then dips his hand into his pocket and produces a small lock of brightly sparkling fine crystals—at least I think they’re crystal because it can’t be diamonds, surely. He attaches it to my collar.
“And,” he starts, and from that same pocket he pulls out two dangly earrings, also crystal I guess. “The earrings are on loan,” he says. “Don’t lose them.”
I take them from him, put them on, and try to act casual as I cross the room to pick up the shoes. I slip the strappy things on my feet. They’re uncomfortable but so pretty. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser once more and, for a moment, I just take in the reflection of myself, of us when he comes to stand beside me.
We look like a couple. A good-looking couple, actually. Like we fit.
Zeke’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. My gaze falters. He’s too experienced, too confident. A man who knows what he wants.
I clear my throat, step away. “Do people in your world often spend a month’s salary on a dress they’ll wear once?” I ask, disrupting whatever was happening.
“That’s not a month’s salary for people in my world,” he says with a wink. “One thing.” He pulls me close by my hips, and, eyes locked on mine, slips his hands under the dress.
“What are you doing?” I ask, capturing his forearm.
“Panty lines,” he says, dragging my panties down and off.
“I’m not going without?—”
He backs me against the table, lifts me to deposit me on top of it. “You’re nervous.”
I nod.
“Relax,” he says and, keeping his hands on my pelvic bones, crouches down between my legs, pushing the dress up, my legs wide. He sets his hands on either side of my sex and, with his thumbs, draws me open. He looks up at me with a dark, hungry look in his eyes.
With that he closes his mouth over my pussy, and I gasp. My hands come to his head, weaving into his hair as he licks the length of my pussy. I close my eyes and moan when he circles my clit with his tongue, then nibbles it with his teeth.
“Oh God. That’s.” He closes his lips over the nub then and sucks and oh my God. His mouth is so warm, his tongue so wet and him sucking on my clit like he is takes me over the edge in seconds. I close my thighs, hugging his head to me and press myself into his face, moaning as I come, biting my lip so hard I taste my own blood.
When it’s over, and my knees are wobbly, he straightens, holding me up as I stand. He looks down at me with a satisfied grin on his face.
“What was that?”
“Me helping you relax.”
I nod, in some stupid trance as I shudder, coming down off my high.
“You taste good,” he tells me, helping to steady me once I stand. “Sweet.”
“Thanks, I guess?” What am I supposed to say to that.
“Ready?”
“Don’t you want to, um, brush your teeth or something?”
He laughs outright. “I prefer your taste on my tongue.”
“Okay then.” I shake my head, unsure what to make of this, of him, and wipe my palms on the sides of my dress. “Oh. One sec.” I hurry to the nightstand where I left my phone and unlock it. I make a weird face and snap a selfie, noticing how flushed my cheeks are. I start a knock-knock joke to Wren, telling her I’m going to sleep and will tell her the punchline in the morning. I put the phone into the clutch. “Ready.”
Zeke sets the light cashmere wrap around my shoulders and we walk into the hallway, down the stairs and out the front door where Dex is waiting by the Rolls Royce. I’m nervous. I don’t know why. It’s not like I care that I will probably stick out like a sore thumb. I have a feeling Society folks can smell an interloper a mile away.
But as I get into the car with Zeke right beside me, I remind myself that this is not a date. We’re going to see if Wyatt is the man who broke into my house to steal the laptop. Because that will answer some questions although it will undoubtedly raise new ones.
What will I do if it’s him? If he’s the man who tried to rape me. Rape. God. I shudder at the memory. My heart races and that ringing starts in my ears.
Zeke puts a hand on my knee as if he senses my nerves. His skin is warm, his hand solid.
“Steady, Blue.”
I nod, unsure how he realized where my head had gone. I’m safe, I remind myself. I’m not sixteen anymore. And I’m with Zeke and he’s not going to let anything happen to me. He promised me that and I believe him.
“So do you know everyone there?” I ask once the shrill pitch in my ears settles into a low, manageable hum.
“Know them and don’t like them. Not that they like me or my brother much. I don’t give off warm fuzzies, remember?”
“Why don’t they like you? I thought you were all, I don’t know, connected or bonded or something through your Secret Society secretness.”
He snorts. “Our Secret Society secretness?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Brethren?”
“Well, for one thing, my family, the St. James’s, were not born into The Society. We bought our way in.”
“Wait, what?”
“We bought our way in. Well, my father did.”
“You can do that?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “When you have enough money and enough hate you can do anything.” His eyes go flat momentarily before he blinks and shakes his head. He turns to me. “You don’t slip away tonight, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I salute.
“I mean it.”
“Believe me, I don’t hope to run into Wyatt Hoxton on my own ever again. Hell, I don’t even want to run into him with you there.”
“My brother’s wife, Isabelle will be there. I think you might actually like her.”
“As opposed to your brother?”
He grins. “Jericho can be difficult.”
“No!” I feign shock.
“You like me better than my brother then?” he asks, and I think he regrets it the moment the words are out. I don’t know how to answer but just then, we pull into the IVI compound along with a string of expensive Rolls Royce’s. My anxiety rises as the car slows to a stop. Zeke climbs out and Dex opens my door as Zeke walks around. He extends his hand to help me out.
I take it, step out into the breezy night. I tug my wrap closer and look around. We’ve entered on the courtyard side. I’m used to the employee entrance of The Cat House which is not front and center. We step past the line of cars and through the gates into the courtyard. It’s huge, the walls surrounding the compound high. Several trees are hung with lanterns and it’s almost as though the entire area is lit by thousands of candles and the stars in the sky. Flowers add drama at every turn, and the sound of a violin comes from inside the double French doors that stand open. Waiters circulate with trays of champagne, and I wonder what is housed within the buildings. The one I do know, one I heard rumors about in my time at The Cat House is behind me. It’s the circular Tribunal building. I turn to glance over my shoulder and shudder at the imposing shadow it casts. A small window high up, one of few, is the only one with light burning inside.
“Is that really… I mean, do they have trials and… things there?” I ask Zeke.
He nudges me forward. “And things,” he says to me then turns to Jericho. “Brother.”
Jericho reaches us, nods to Zeke and turns his untrusting gaze to me. Beside him is a stunning woman who is smiling wide, her face bright and open and welcoming. The absolute opposite of her husband.
“You must be Blue,” she says, coming to give me a hug.
An actual hug.
I’m so taken aback, it takes me a moment to hug her back. The St. James family are not huggers.
“I’m Isabelle,” she says, pulling back, but keeping hold of my hands.
“My wife,” Jericho says, his voice dark as he wraps his hand around the back of her neck. Is that a St. James thing?
Isabelle glances at him. “I think she probably got that, Captain Obvious.”
He narrows his gaze at her, tugs her close. The action is, in a word, tender, and I can see the affection between them. He whispers something into her ear that makes her blush.
She clears her throat and blinks several times.
From the satisfied grin on Jericho’s face, he got the last word on that one.
Zeke leans toward him and says something I don’t hear.
“How are you doing over there at the house?” Isabelle asks after clearing her throat.
“Okay, I guess.” Does she know exactly how I came to be at the house?
She looks over her shoulder at Zeke. “He’s not so bad,” she whispers. “More bark than bite.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I say. “He has plenty of bite.” My face burns as I realize how literal that is even though that wasn’t my intent.
Isabelle doesn’t seem to catch on, though. “He should come to the house. Angelique would love to see her uncle. She adores him. I don’t see why all this secrecy?—”
“Isabelle,” Zeke interrupts. He smiles down at her, kisses her cheek. “You look lovely, as usual. I understand congratulations are in order.”
She glances at her husband, flushes and sets a hand on her stomach. “Thank you. We’re excited.”
Oh. She’s pregnant.
A waiter comes carrying crystal flutes of champagne. I take one. Zeke doesn’t.
“One of those sparkling water?” Jericho asks.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter says and turns the tray slightly. Jericho takes the glass and hands it to Isabelle but doesn’t take a drink himself.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” a woman’s voice carries across the courtyard. The waiter disappears into the crowd.
Zeke groans beside me.
“Christ,” Jericho mutters under his breath.
Isabelle giggles.
“Is that you, Ezekiel St. James?”
We all turn to find three women, I’d say all in their mid, maybe late-twenties, approach. They’re decked out in designer everything, all swaying hips and boobs and heels too high for anyone to be able to do anything but sit and look pretty. And pretty they are, beautiful, without a doubt. Their leader, the tallest of the trio, pours herself against Zeke and kisses his cheeks three times.
Are we in fucking Europe?
I’m tempted to grab his arm or something but manage to keep my hands at my sides. I remind myself that he’s not my boyfriend. This isn’t a date. Instead, I watch, and I’m sure my expression shows exactly what I’m thinking which is WTF?
“Vivien,” Zeke says, not even attempting to pretend to smile.
“How long have you been away?” she asks, pulling back but holding onto his arms, her claws curled around his biceps. Is she feeling him up? I’m the one he just ate out, I remind myself but then wonder why the fuck I am jealous. “You know I tried to look you up when I was traveling through Amsterdam. Figured I’d stop to see an old friend on my way to the French Riviera, but you never returned my calls!”
“Didn’t I?” Zeke asks, bored.
The women who flank Vivien glance at me then at their leader. “Viv, looks like Ezekiel brought a friend,” one says.
All three turn their attention to me. These women are not friends. Or I guess they’re what you’d call frenemies? I don’t know, this is not my world. The ice in their eyes as they take me in, looking down their noses at me, lets me know exactly what they think of me. I usually don’t mind my height, but this is when I wish I were taller so at least I wouldn’t have to look up at them.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Vivien says, turning her gaze to Ezekiel, her smile wide, all bright, shiny, too-perfect veneers.
“No,” Zeke says, and I can’t help my snort and apparently, Isabelle can’t either and she turns away, pretending to clear her throat.
The women glance at Isabelle, giving her pretty much the same hateful glance as they did me.
A gong chimes and I jump.
“Excuse us,” Zeke says. He wraps his hand around the back of my neck exactly like his brother had a moment ago with his wife and we turn to follow Jericho and Isabelle into the procession heading to the double French doors.
“I think she likes you,” I whisper to Zeke.
He squeezes my neck. “She’s a viper.”
“She’s pretty.”
“If you like snakes.”
“Her boobs alone?—”
“Careful. I might think you’re jealous,” he says, giving me a dark glance he replaces quickly with a generic smile to someone who greets him.
“Not jealous. But I am curious if you’ve fuc?—”
He turns to me. “Women like that are utterly uninteresting to fuck.” The line comes to a stop, and I almost crash into Isabelle, but Zeke tugs me backward in time.
“But have you?” I ask, turning to him, seeing Vivien and her friends watching me from where they’re still standing.
Zeke’s gaze follows mine before returning to my face. “She sucked my dick once. Exactly once.”
“Oh.” Why am I bothered? Why would I care?
“It was years ago. I was drunk. That was the end of that. I did not fuck her. I had no intention then of fucking her and have no interest now. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m fucking you now. I don’t bed hop. And besides,” he leans in close. “I can still taste you on my tongue.”
I flush hot and red and look around. I’m pretty sure the couple behind us heard that.
Zeke chuckles. Before I can say anything, the line begins to move again, and he nudges me forward. I don’t know what I think about what he just said. It’s strange. Unsettling. But a glance back at the glamorous, beautiful, confident Vivien does do something to me. I am none of those things. And on top of it, she’s Society. She belongs here, same as him. I do not.
Jericho drops his hand from Isabelle’s neck to her lower back and I gasp because her dress is cut low and her hair, which is twisted into an elegant braid over her right shoulder, leaves her back fully exposed. There, along her spine, is a tattoo. Two dragons intertwined. A smaller version of what I saw on Zeke’s back. I glance at Jericho’s hand, see the ink that matches Zeke’s. Do they both have the same tattoo? Is it some sort of family thing? Isabelle’s is beautiful. Much smaller than on the men. It’s intricate and utterly gorgeous.
We enter the large ballroom and people disperse to find their tables. I look around, taking in the mirrored walls, the ornate paneling, the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, their light reflecting off floors polished to a high shine. Large round tables are draped with floor-length tablecloths in cream, breathtaking bouquets of deep red flowers drip from tall centerpieces upon each. There are more plates and silverware than I can count and several bottles of wine on each table. A twelve-piece orchestra plays something vaguely familiar, and I gather from the dance floor, which is empty now, there will be dancing later. Along a side wall, long tables are set with expensive looking items. A silent auction, I guess.
We reach our table and Jericho pulls a chair out for Isabelle. Before anyone can decide where to put me, I pull out the one beside Isabelle and sit.
“The Councilors,” Jericho says to Zeke.
They both turn and Isabelle and I follow their gaze to where, not too far from where we are, three men enter. One is much older than the other two who look to be in their late forties or early fifties.
“Who are they?” I ask Isabelle.
“The first is Councilor Montrose, he’s the oldest. Councilor Hildebrand is next, and Councilor Augustus is the last one. He’s holding the cane which is for show, mostly.”
Following them are four men, two who stand beside the door from which the three entered. They clasp their hands in front of them and I can see they’re security from their posture, the way they move, the way they take in the entire room.
More guards follow, and just before the door closes, he enters. I gasp. Because all of a sudden, just like that, I’m back in that little broken down house and I’m sixteen years old and he’s there. That man. On top of me. His hand inside my panties. His gun in my hand.