54
TWILL
Twill heard birds.
That made little sense because she was at a private party at the Dewberry Hotel in downtown Charleston, surrounded by the South’s most wealthy elite.
Her escort (she refused to call him a date, even though he’d paid two thousand for the night) was a tech mogul who founded his first startup while still in college at Stanford and went on to fund half a dozen others, each more lucrative than the last. Now in his mid-forties, he was worth some ungodly sum of money and somehow knew Stash.
Twill wouldn’t have gone if he hadn’t—not even for three thousand, not after what happened the other night.
She’d told herself she was out. That had been the last time.
She was ready to take her savings and go.
Maybe New York or someplace deep south like Houston.
Someplace other than Charleston where she could start fresh.
Then Lou had asked if she’d be willing to do this one last date.
Stash had vouched for the guy. And she found herself worming into a slinky dress with heels a few hours later.
Perfect makeup surrounding her best fake smile.
When he had arrived in a limo to pick her up, Twill had nearly spun on those high heels and run back to the Quick, memories of those same assholes bouncing around her head.
But he was alone in the limo, and she forced herself to climb inside.
His name was Langdon.
She told him her name was Rose. She never gave the Johns her real name, nickname, or anything else personal. She kept that for herself.
Langdon’s smile didn’t look fake; it was nice. He was nice. Fit, too. Lean and hard.
Off to the ball she went with her pay-by-the-night Prince Charming.
She was surprised to find he was socially awkward, but he certainly was.
Immediately after plucking drinks off the tray of a passing waiter, he began a not-so-nonchalant journey toward the corner of the large ballroom.
He spoke to those who greeted him, nodded and smiled at others, but each encounter only hastened the retreat.
Through it all, Twill held her arm in his and kept her smile.
That was her job, of course. Well, at least part of it.
She knew Langdon had a room upstairs—a suite, from what he told her—but he didn’t make a big deal out of it, and neither did she.
That came with the territory—jobs like this always had a first half and a second half.
Twill had learned to take advantage of the first half and enjoy every possible second, because that made the second half far more bearable.
They stood in their quiet corner drinking champagne and eating hors d’oeuvres for nearly an hour.
Twill made it a point to laugh at his jokes, as lame as they were.
She nuzzled up close to him and made sure the men in the room—the ones who couldn’t stop looking at her—saw her do it.
She let the slit in her dress ride a little high on her exposed leg, let Langdon see the beginnings of her thigh, just enough to put a blush on his face until he had to turn away.
She giggled when he did that and whispered in his ear.
She told him she couldn’t wait to feel his hands on her.
She did what she was supposed to do.
Twill did the job.
Twill did what was expected for two thousand dollars a night.
Twenty minutes later, when Langdon told her he wanted to go upstairs, Twill finished her champagne and let him lead her from the ballroom to the elevator, to the suite, through the door.
Twill heard birds.
And that made little sense.
It wasn’t until she realized she was no longer at the Dewberry Hotel that the truth clicked. The memories came back to her.
She remembered walking through the door into the suite.
Langdon’s startled gasp.
An arm around her waist from behind.
A needle in her neck.
Blackness.
Not a single bit of light.
And now birds.
Twill didn’t realize her eyes were closed until she opened them.
And when she did open them, the blackness didn’t go away.
She was surrounded by it. It had swallowed her whole.
She was sitting on a concrete floor, her back against—were those bars?
When she twisted around, when she reached for them, she confirmed that they were.
Each bar was at least an inch thick, and they were spaced close together, no more than four or five inches in between.
When she grabbed one and gave it a good shake, it didn’t give.
It didn’t budge at all. She traced the cold metal down and found it disappeared into the concrete.
Hoisting herself to her feet, she ran her palm up as high as she could reach but found no top, no ceiling.
Those bars could be eight feet tall or a hundred feet tall, for all she knew.
The birds came from somewhere up above. A caw-like chatter. The click of little feet on metal. Twill had no idea how many, but they were trapped in here, too. She wondered if they could see any better than she could.
“Rose?”
The voice startled her. Twill actually jumped. She tried not to breathe. Went completely silent.
“Rose, are you there?”
She recognized it then; she knew who it was. “Langdon?”
He coughed. His voice sounded rough. Throat dry. “Where the fuck are we?”