Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
Stella
W aking up before anyone else gives me room to breathe and just be.
I’ve already let in the breakfast delivery, and Max’s cat sits next to me on the loveseat while I drink coffee and pick at a blueberry muffin.
Mel put in a standing order that’s delivered every morning at nine. She said the early hour forces someone to roll out of bed to let them in, and that someone is usually Max.
He’s always up early investigating and writing articles to submit to the Chronicle. His editor was thrilled he’d been at the right place at the right time to write an eye-witness account of the shooting, and the piece he did on my death was the most popular byline of his career. Because of the article, Max’s editor gave him proper permission to look into Lark’s and Kagan’s deaths, and now he has approval to travel to the NTSB offices in DC. He’s been researching and writing as much as he can from the hotel, but sometimes he works at the newspaper’s offices and Zarah sits sullen, waiting for him to come back.
One afternoon I was looking for Quinn, and I overheard Denton ask Mel why I’m going with Max and not him or her. Mel replied I was locked away for five years and she wanted me to start experiencing life again. Her thoughtfulness brought tears to my eyes until Denton told her I would have plenty of time after the Blacks were behind bars and I heard her response.
“What do you want her to do? Hide here until it’s safe to come out? We have no idea how this is going to go down. None. She might end up in the Witness Protection Program, or worse, living as Kendra Lovelace for the rest of her life. What’s she going to do then? Keep running? Keep hiding? She’s not going to care about seeing the Louvre if she doesn’t know if she’ll live to eat her next meal. I love Zane, he’s a great guy, but come on. He’s not the brains behind this operation. If we pull this off, it won’t be because of him.”
Denton scoffed. “You’re not wrong.”
“You need to talk to him. You two circle each other like lions about to go head-to-head for a mate. You talk to him and let Stella be. Max will keep her out of trouble.”
“I have more faith in him than I do in Zane.”
From where I stood, I couldn’t see Mel, but I pictured her rolling her eyes. “Leave Zane alone, too. There’s only so much apologizing the poor man can do. We’ve all made mistakes, even you, Richard. Instead of investigating behind Zane’s back, maybe you should have told him your suspicions. We’ve been up his ass about everything, but what about you? You claim you were one of his father’s best friends. Maybe if you would have spoken to Zane and told him your thoughts on Clayton Black, none of this would have happened. Stella wouldn’t have had a reason to snoop through your email. Zane wouldn’t have had a reason to fire you. There would have been no reason—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Denton snapped.
“Then you see where I’m going. You could have said something after the plane crash. Maybe we shouldn’t be blaming Zane for this. Maybe we should be blaming you.”
I stifled a gasp behind my hand and ran off, Denton’s expletives chasing me down the hall.
Neither of them found out I eavesdropped, and I’m afraid to say anything to anyone.
I pinch a bit of muffin off my plate.
Though, there’s nothing to say. Shifting blame won’t help—we don’t know what would have happened back then. Zane had been younger, grief-stricken. Had he listened, what would they have done? The FBI still would have been working for the Blacks. They still would have buried the black box’s existence. Maybe Zane wouldn’t have believed I ran off with Sergio, but maybe he would have. We didn’t know each other very well. Ash still would have sold Zarah, and she still would have believed what he told her.
No, shifting blame wouldn’t do any good. None at all.
The morning crawls by, and I keep Quinn company during her physical therapy.
The guy’s cute, but he has two strikes against him as far as Quinn’s concerned. He’s male, and he plays for his team, not ours. He works her over hard enough she cries from the strain, but he’s not very sympathetic. It’s his responsibility Quinn has full mobility of her arm after she heals and he’s not slacking off because of a few tears. To help her smile through the pain, he invites us out to the clubs, but his kind of place isn’t ours. “Too-da-loo, kittens,” he always calls on his way out the door, and Quinn crawls into bed, her entire body shaking.
She’s covered in sweat, but she’s too exhausted to wipe down. I offer, but teasing, she says she’d like it too much. She falls asleep and I lie next to her, rubbing the furrowed skin between her eyebrows the way I would when we were kids and she had a bad dream. It brings me back to when we wouldn’t know where we would end up the next day, where we’d sleep. I hated the uncertainty of it, and even though Zane tells me he loves me and that he’ll protect me, I can’t stifle how this life parallels that one.
This life and that one. It’s all one life, and I don’t know why I separate them. I want my life to be better. Before the instability, and after, when I’ve found it.
The only problem is, do any of us really find it?
Zane looks in on us, and I meet his sad brown eyes across the bedroom. He’s wearing khaki pants and a white dress shirt. No tie. He looks tired, but he smiles at me cuddling Quinn. “Do you want to go for a drive?” he whispers. He dangles his keys, raising his eyebrows like maybe I didn’t hear him.
“Is it safe?” I ask, though in a normal tone. Unlike me, Quinn can sleep through anything. Or at least pretend to. You never know who’s going to think they have the rights to your bed...and what’s in it.
“Mel wants us to go somewhere.”
It doesn’t matter where Mel told us to go. I want to see something new, but leaving the hotel will be scary, too. I associate the Crowne with safety, which is stupid, but still.
I don’t need to change to go on a drive, and I leave on my pair of black shorts and a black and teal floral blouse. At the last minute I snag a pair of black sandals off the floor, but I doubt I’ll get out of the truck.
“You look nice,” he says, leading me down the hallway, a hand to my lower back.
“Thanks.”
It’s always like this between us, when he’s spent more time with Nathalie than with me. They’ve been together since yesterday afternoon to dress for the party and of course they spent the night at the penthouse, a necessary precaution in case the paparazzi followed them.
I no longer think they’re sleeping together, but they played at being engaged last night and I’m sad and anxious. There will always be a chance he’ll decide he wants her instead of me.
He stops me instead of pushing the door open to the staff parking lot. The sun shining through the glass warms the tiles, and the heat soaks into the bottoms of my feet. It’s too bright, and I turn away.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice rough.
My breath hitches, and I nod, unable to resist.
Zane lifts me up off my feet, trapping me against his chest. I wrap my arms around his neck, loving he can pick me up like he would a kitten or a puppy. No work at all, simply lifts me up. He searches my eyes for a moment, but he’s never needed permission to touch me. He can feel the space between us, the distance Nathalie causes.
What this whole thing shoves between us.
Slowly, he tilts his head and presses his lips to mine. I sigh, letting my feet dangle. It’s romantic, and I let him sweep me up in it.
Too soon, he puts me down and brushes his thumb over my cheek. “You should wear your glasses,” he says, and I try not to bristle at being told what to do. I should get used to wearing them, used to having them on my face.
“What does it matter?” I ask to start a fight. I’m moody, let’s just call it my period, and it’s another reason I agreed to go on this drive.
“Because you matter to me, and I want to keep you safe. This is already hard enough, Stella. Don’t make it harder.”
I scowl on my way to the truck. He opens the door for me and ignoring him, I climb in. I feel like a reprimanded little kid, and I angrily jerk my seatbelt. I latch it, and even the click sounds annoyed.
Settling behind the wheel, Zane sighs. “You don’t have to be like that.”
“I know.”
He starts the SUV, the one he likes to drive because the windows are tinted, and we need them as dark as possible. “There are sunglasses in the glove box. Will you put them on?”
Without saying anything, I comply, but only because the sun’s bright and it’s more comfortable wearing them than squinting. “Where are we going?”
“Mel said she bought the plane tickets.”
“Yeah, she did. My ID looks really good.”
“I know. I saw it.” He swallows, hard. “We’re going to the airport so you can get a feel for it. Mel doesn’t want you overwhelmed when you and Max are there.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
Seeing the city, and interacting in it, is surreal. Things have changed while staying the same. For example, the bus system. The routes they follow are all the same. The night I met Zane for dinner downtown, I didn’t have any trouble finding my way to the restaurant. The sounds were the same, the smell of diesel fuel and dirt, but the bus I rode was newer and I’d never seen the driver before. So, little things, the same, but different. Same enough to give me security in the world I missed for five years, but different enough I’m constantly thrown off balance.
“Mel did, and she doesn’t want you drawing attention to yourself if you’re acting nervous or twitchy.”
He doesn’t hold my hand as he drives and I miss his touch, but I don’t reach out to hold his hand, either.
Because of the separated captain’s seats, I can’t lean into him, and I concentrate on looking out the window, counting how things have changed and making note of the things that haven’t. I haven’t seen much of King’s Crossing since escaping Black Enterprises, and I’m grateful Mel suggesting this outing.
Zane patiently navigates the busy streets to the airport. Planes are taking off and landing in a choreographed dance to prevent them from colliding. Traffic is everywhere, and he parks in a huge parking lot labeled Departures.
“We can’t go through security, but there’s plenty to do and see,” he says, holding the truck’s door open.
I slip my sandals onto my feet, push the sunglasses to the top of my head, and let him lift me out and set me onto the baking pavement. He slams the door shut and I follow him across the enormous parking lot.
He ushers me inside first, and the air is a lot cooler. Curiously, I glance around. I’ve never been in the King’s Crossing airport before. There are signs directing travelers where they need to go and posters advertising vacation destinations, but it’s the stores that confuse me. I feel like we’re in a shopping mall instead of an airport. Bookstores, souvenir shops, kiosks that offer massages and eyebrow threading, and of course, a ton of places to eat and buy a coffee.
“All of this before security?” I ask. What would a person traveling need with all this stuff?
“There’s more after, to give people who are stuck on long layovers something to do. Come on, you can look around, get a feel for the place.”
We walk to a bookstore, and the current bestsellers are displayed on a counter near a wall of any magazine you could want to flip through.
Tentatively, I pick up a current number one romance novel by an author I like. It just came out, and I haven’t purchased it for Zarah. It’s hardcover, a luxury I’ve never been able to afford. It’s the last in a trilogy, and they’re all here, beckoning me to buy, sit down, and lose myself in a story where the characters’ problems are worse than mine.
“Do you want them?” Zane asks, watching me handle the book like it’s made of glass.
Airport prices are crazy, and if he buys me all three, it would cost over eighty dollars.
But, oh, how I want them.
“I shouldn’t,” I say, not wanting to say no.
“It’s okay.” He grabs the other two off the counter and yanks the first one from my greedy grasp. “Keep looking. Maybe find a magazine or two for Quinn. There might be something here that Zarah doesn’t have. She likes looking at clothes, too, right?”
“Yeah.”
I wander the bookstore and there’s more than books and magazines. Coffee mugs stamped with the King’s Crossing city logo, water bottles, key chains, t-shirts, and sweatshirts.
Whatever I stop to brush my fingers over, Zane adds to the pile, and when he peels a magnet shaped like Minnesota off a metal display, I learn to stop touching things. We don’t have a place to put a magnet.
“Done?” he asks, his arms full.
I nod. He pays and I drift away. I don’t want to hear the total.
We roam the airport and he carries the stuffed bags. There’s a leather goods store at the opposite end of the corridor from the bookstore, and I stop to admire a purse and matching wallet.
“We’ll buy those too, and you’ll need a suitcase,” Zane says, handing me the bookstore bags and lifting the purse and wallet off the display table. I don’t object. I’ll need them and there’s no point in arguing.
“Are you hungry? Let’s find something to eat,” he says, shoving the receipt into his wallet, the plastic bag’s handle hooked over his wrist.
“Yeah, that sounds good. What is there?”
“There’s more variety past security, and you and Max will have a good selection to choose from. But for now, there are sandwiches, burgers, pizza, that kind of thing. If you’re prone to motion sickness, don’t eat anything greasy before flying. It might not sit well in your stomach.”
“Do you get motion sickness?” I ask curiously. I’ve been in love with him for five years, but he’s barely more than a stranger.
“No,” he says, his voice clipped.
Somehow, I made him mad.
I choose a Mexican restaurant that has seating positioned along the concourse. It feels strange to sit in the hallway, but I like it, too, watching people rush by. One man angrily jerks on a woman’s arm, shouting, “Because of you, we’ll be lucky to get through security on time.” The hair on my arms stands up, and I feel sorry for her as she rushes not to fall behind.
They disappear into the crowd.
“Traveling can be stressful,” Zane says, watching my reaction to the arguing couple.
A waitress serves us virgin margaritas and a huge basket of chips and salsa to munch on while we wait for our meals.
It strikes me as such a normal thing to do, like Zane isn’t one of the richest men in the world. Like we’re a normal couple wandering the mall on a Saturday afternoon and eating a snack before going to a movie.
I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve never had an afternoon like that with a man.
With anyone.
I suppose you could say that Zarah and I had an afternoon like that, but her secrets didn’t let me enjoy the experience and Hector creeped me out. I wonder if any of this would have come to pass had she confided in me at the vintage boutique.
Maybe this is what I should look for when this is over. Normalcy. A partner who’s willing to waste an afternoon people watching while we browse for things we don’t need. Zane can’t give me that. The activity is probably too mundane and he wouldn’t enjoy it.
The waitress serves our lunches and asks if there’s anything else we need. I shake my head and Zane says, “No, this looks great, thanks.” She walks away holding our empty chip basket and salsa cups.
Zane waits until she’s out of earshot and then says, “Nathalie’s meeting Vance Huxley tonight.”
I know that’s the plan, and I wish she didn’t have to do it. “Is she going to be okay?”
My enchiladas swim in a lake of sauce, and I think Zane’s right—no eating before flying—but it only takes one bite to stir my appetite. It’s not delivery from the five-star restaurant where Mel orders our meals, but it’s good, nonetheless.
“She says she will, and she doesn’t have to sleep with him. Just talk, try to get a little information.”
It’s disgusting, knowing the mayor of King’s Crossing uses a prostitution service when he’s supposed to be protecting the citizens of his city. When he’s supposed to be fighting crime, not contributing to it. The FBI is dirty, too, but the mayor of the city I call home is closer to me, more easily identifiable, and I’ll enjoy revealing what a slimeball he is.
“Mainly, I want her to collect as much proof as she can he’s been participating in illegal activities. I could have taken pictures of him groping her last night, but I don’t want to expose her part in this if I don’t have to.”
My lunch curdles in my stomach.
I hate myself for being glad it’s not me. That Ash didn’t do that to me. I push away from the table, wiping tears off my cheeks. “I can’t do this.” I don’t give him time to flag the waitress and pay the check. I gather the bulging bags and run down the corridor.
He swears behind me. “Stella, wait.”
I sit on a bench in an open area so he can find me. Planes are waiting on the runway, huge ones that carry a hundred people at a time. It’s amazing they can stay in the air.
Sometimes they don’t.
“Don’t run off like that,” Zane says, sinking onto the bench next to me. He anchors his elbows on his knees and rubs his jaw. “You freaked me out. I can’t lose you, Stella.”
He can’t lose me how? Lose my love, or lose my help? I can’t stop thinking about Nathalie in Zane’s arms. I can’t get the picture of Vance Huxley pawing at her out of my head. I’m glad it wasn’t me, but it is, isn’t it? Zane stopped loving me the moment I disappeared and I let him fuck me in my apartment for currency. Only it wasn’t cash he paid me, it was touch, and I’m still in the red.
Shame burns my heart. I’m so selfish. This isn’t about me.
“I’m not pregnant,” I blurt out.
Zane stiffens and then blows out a breath. “I can’t lie. I’m glad. I’m not ready to be a father. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. We have no idea what’s going to happen after Ash and Clayton are arrested. What kind of damage control we’re going to have to do. What Zarah will need to completely recover. On top of all that, you still need to run your company. I’m going to need time, Zane.”
“You said you’d marry me,” he reminds me harshly, the growl coming low and deep, and God, does it sound like he hurts.
“Did I? I was high on drugs and amazed I wasn’t dead.”
A flight attendant walking by rolling a black carry-on gives us a sideways look, but she keeps going.
He rests his forehead against mine and tightly grips my shoulders. “I love you, Stella.”
“I love you, too, you know that, but you can’t deny life is really fucked up right now.”
Zane stands and practically the whole airport looks our way. He’s handsome, commanding, and pissed. “You’re right. I can’t. But you know my life will be even more fucked if you leave me. Let’s go.”
He carries the bags, and I trail behind. I guess this isn’t what Mel had in mind when she suggested our field trip.
We’re quiet in the truck, and Zane turns on the radio to fill in the silence. He’s happy I’m not pregnant. I’m not carrying a piece of him inside me. I can say he gave me his heart, that his love is inside me, but that’s stupid. People walk away from each other all the time. Love means nothing.
Maryanne would be appalled at how I’m acting. I can’t take care of a baby. I’m not even taking care of myself right now, and that was the number one rule she taught all her girls. Look out for yourself. Don’t worry about anyone but yourself. I’m the last person who should be thinking about bringing a poor defenseless life into this world.
I should be ecstatic I’m not pregnant.
I’ll try like hell to convince myself I am.
Mel pins a wig over Nathalie’s hair and suggests she wear a large pair of black sunglasses. She asks why she needs a disguise, and Mel says she’s engaged to one of the most prominent men in King’s Crossing. If someone were to find out she’s cheating on Zane, and with the mayor of King’s Crossing, no less, it could ruin the whole thing.
Quinn helps me step into a slinky dress that’s cut high in the front to cover my fading bruises but low in the back exposing my shoulder blades and spine, buckles high-heeled sandals onto my feet, and applies a thick layer of makeup to my face. The last piece of my outfit is a camera Mel attaches to the strap of my dress that’s shaped like a black disk. It looks like a small button, but no one will see it except Nathalie. My job is to find a place to hide and film the entire thing, and Mel will pick through it and choose the stills we can release at Ash’s fundraiser. Mayor Huxley’s campaign platform consisted of family values and opportunities for children. Better preschools, free lunches for kindergarten and elementary school kids. He even created a program for foster kids, and I admired him until I found out he uses Ash’s prostitution service.
It will be a pleasure to help scrape that scum off the street and out of office.
Zane doesn’t want me to go, but though no one will say it out loud, no one trusts Nathalie to meet Mayor Huxley alone. Mel needs to monitor the footage the camera I’m wearing will film and Zarah’s in no condition to help. Max and Denton would look out of place at the Black Cat. Had this happened later, Quinn could’ve gone, but she’s still recuperating and tires easily. I’m the only one left, and scantily clad, I’ll fit in as Nathalie’s partner.
She’s met Huxley many times, and she’s calm, doing her makeup and fluffing the wig. “Hux will get a kick out of this,” she says, applying lip gloss.
Zane doesn’t know how to act around either of us, and agitated, he only says a terse, “Good luck.”
The plan is to arrive at the motel before Huxley, and Douglas will park out of sight and wait in case things turn ugly and we need backup or a fast escape. Normally, her jobs would send a car or she would use a car Ash made available for his girls, but that won’t work now that she’s engaged to Zane.
“I’m sorry you have to do this,” I say, sitting in back of the town car, crossing my legs then uncrossing them. I feel like I’m showing off all my bits, and in the heat, my stockings and garter belt scratch at my skin.
“Nothing I haven’t done before,” she says, jerking her shoulder and dismissing me.
“Well, I still am.”
She scoffs. “I’m sorry Ash chained you to a desk for five years. Does that help?”
I look away. “No,” I murmur.
“Then maybe it’s best we keep our thoughts to ourselves.”
I do what she says and shut up.
The Black Cat Motel is pay-by-the-hour and located on the outskirts of the city. That’s a nice way of saying it’s in the slums. It’s not far from Fischer Boulevard, and the hookers who demand a higher price can afford the hourly fee instead of giving blowjobs in the backseats of cars or using the gas station’s public restroom across the street.
The lobby reeks of the sweet scent of pot. At least, that’s what I think it is. A dirty plastic plant sits next to the check-in desk.
A prostitute and a businessman pass us on their way out the door. She’s clutching a room key, and he keeps patting her ass telling her to hurry. He shoots Nathalie a look out of the corners of his eyes, but even if he did well, I doubt he could afford her while she was on Ash’s payroll.
Huxley pays Ash’s prices. I wonder where he says his money goes.
“He wants two this time, huh?” the front desk woman asks, curling her upper lip as she studies Nathalie. “You dye your hair?”
“Wig. He wants to play,” Nathalie says, rolling her eyes like they’re sharing a joke.
“Blech.” She hands over a key attached to a piece of maroon plastic, the number in gold rubbed off leaving only the outline behind. “I wish you’d kill that fat fuck in his sleep. We’d all be a lot better off.”
Nathalie winks and jiggles the key. “We got something else planned. Keep an eye on the news.”
The woman grins. “I’ll send him your way.”
“Thanks, but no need. I’ll text him. Have a good night.”
“You too. Be careful.”
I follow Nathalie down the cracked sidewalk, weeds poking through the gashes in the cement. The sun set hours ago, but it’s still sticky and warm and the crickets chirping add to the eerie atmosphere surrounding the derelict building. Old, rusted cars are parked in front of some of the rooms. A TV glow lights up one window, and screaming—not the good kind—from another room echoes across the parking lot.
I don’t see Douglas, but he’s patched into the camera’s audio feed and he’ll hear if things go south.
Nathalie unlocks a door and flicks on an old lamp, the cream shade stained and dusty. The room smells like pee and stale cigarette smoke, and I wrinkle my nose. The carpet is a crusty burnt orange and the dark brown paneling on the wall leeches what little light there is. A dingy floral dark green, orange, and brown bedspread covers a king bed and matches heavy drapes hanging in front of a large window that looks out to the back of the U-shaped building.
“Why does he want to meet you here?” I ask, grossed out. I don’t dare to touch anything.
“He likes to feel sleazy,” she says, placing her bag on top of a cheap dresser. She pulls out a burner phone I didn’t know she had and quickly sends a text. She shoves it back into her purse without waiting for a response.
“I don’t think he has to try that hard,” I say, and she laughs.
“You better find a place to hide. He’ll be here in five.”
“Right.”
The only place to hide is a tiny closet across from the bathroom near the door we just came in. It’s filled with bent wire hangers, an ironing board, its padding ripped, and an iron older than I am. I can’t picture anyone staying here needing to iron anything. Maybe killing someone, its solid weight turning it into the perfect weapon.
I wish the photos Zane had a chance to take of Nathalie and Huxley would have worked, but he doesn’t want her implicated. I don’t want her to sacrifice her safety either, but whenever we talk about what we’re going to do once all this goes down, she pouts and runs off in a temper tantrum. Sometimes I think she likes this life and that she’s actually proud men will pay thousands of dollars to have sex with her.
Someone knocks on the door and I quickly dart into the closet. Through the crack, I watch Nathalie let Huxley inside. He speaks, and his voice is just as sleazy as the room. My skin crawls.
“God, you look fabulous.”
“You say that to all the girls.” She’s amused and a little sarcastic.
“There’s only been you.” He sounds sincere, the lying piece of shit.
They walk past the closet without giving it a second glance. Praying the hinges don’t squeak, I nudge the door open a little more and twist ever so slightly allowing everyone to hear their voices more clearly. The device is equipped with one-way communication only, and no one can tell me anything. All Zane would say is to be careful, and I don’t need the reminder.
“What are you going to do without me?” Nathalie asks. They were quiet for a second. Maybe they were kissing.
“I’m still hoping I can convince you to give me some sugar every once in a while.”
“Hux, I took a chance meeting you tonight. Zane’s fucking chauffeur wants to drive me everywhere. I asked him to drop me at a club downtown then I had to run out the back and grab a taxi without him seeing me. Do you know what a pain in the ass that was? If he finds out, he’ll tell Zane I gave him the slip and then what am I supposed to do?”
Silently, I lean against the doorjamb and peer around the corner, hoping my angle gives Mel a clear shot of the bed. She needs to find a good still of them, but right now Nathalie faces me.
He doesn’t answer and she continues, “There’s no way I can keep doing this after I’m married. And I won’t need to, no matter how much you pay or how good your cock feels. Zane’s good in bed, too.”
I bite my lip and try to ignore what she says.
Huxley reaches his chubby fingers inside her dress and kneads her breast. “Black will have to set me up with a new bitch,” he says, “but no one has pussy like you, Nat. It’s why Maddox wants you, you know. He wants your fine cunt all to himself.”
Nathalie’s still turned toward me, and Huxley’s in profile. The shots I’m getting now won’t work, but then he drops to his knees and smooths his hand up her thigh.
“How wet are you, baby?” he asks.
“Find out, honey,” she says, widening her legs.
Huxley shoves his fingers inside her, and she moans. I want to call out and tell him to stop—it shouldn’t have gotten this far. Zane promised she wouldn’t have to let him touch her, and he’s fingering her.
“Ah, Rachel.”
Rachel? Maybe it’s some kind of role-playing game. I like sex, I love sex, but I enjoy it more when it means something to me and the man who’s making love to me. I close my eyes and slightly shake my head. What am I thinking? I’ve only had two sexual partners in my life and one of them is Zane. Lies whispered in a bed sound exactly the same as promises, and I’ve believed my share.
“Daddy,” Nathalie whimpers.
Yuck.
Suddenly she says, “Let’s have a drink,” and steps away.
“You’re such a tease, Rachel.”
“I know. You like it.”
Huxley unknots his tie and unbuttons his white dress shirt. He’s wearing a wife beater tank underneath, and the material stretches over his belly. He leaves his shirt hanging open and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. His boner pokes under his pants, but in the dim light, the camera won’t pick it up. It doesn’t matter. I have enough. When Huxley went down on his knees, that was a gift from God. It’s clear he was fingering her, and it’s clear the woman from the shoulders down isn’t his wife.
Nathalie pulls a bottle of Zane’s scotch and two plastic cups out of her bag. “I stole it out of Zane’s bar. You can have a drink on him.”
“The son of a bitch always knew a good single malt. Got that from his dad. Too bad he didn’t inherit his old man’s smarts too,” Huxley says, reaching for the cup.
“He’s done okay for himself.” Nathalie sits on the bed like a little girl, her knees bent, her feet flanking her ass. It looks uncomfortable, but she doesn’t seem to mind the awkward position.
“Pfft. He never would’ve been able to do it alone. That British asshole did most of the work. Now, Ashton Black, he’s got the smarts and the balls. He’ll have no trouble running Black Enterprises after Clayton kicks the bucket.”
“Clayton’s legit, isn’t he?” she asks, leading Huxley on. She knows Clayton Black is anything but honest. “Ash has fun playing on the illegal side of things, that’s why he took over the escort service.”
Huxley sips. “Fuck. Clayton’s as dirty as they come. He was busy frying bigger fish and he handed it over the second Ash was old enough to run it. Clayton’s been cheating people for years using those foundations as a front. They launder his money, too. There’s nothing legitimate about Clayton Black, and his son is the same way. He made sure of it.”
She tilts her head exuding little-girl innocence. “Why does Clayton need to launder money?”
“He’s neck deep in some very nasty shit, but that’s above my pay grade, doll, and definitely above yours. I think it’s time you take off your clothes.”
“Now, Daddy,” Nathalie whines. “How about you strip first this time?”
“I will if you fill up my cup. That prick has good taste. I’m fucking his beautiful fiancée, might as well drink his booze, too.”
Nathalie pours more into the plastic cup, and he knocks it back.
I’m starting to get jittery, and I’m ready to leave. I don’t want to watch the sleazebag strip, but Nathalie pushes his shirt off his thick shoulders and he pulls his wife beater over his head. She kneels and goes to work on his belt buckle and the zipper of his pants. This would be another good shot for Mel to pick out of the video. Nathalie’s back is to me, and arousal flushes Huxley’s face an unflattering shade of red.
“What are you going to do to me, Daddy?” Nathalie whimpers, peering up at him.
Huxley kicks his pants across the floor and tugs his white briefs down his thighs. His penis protrudes from beneath his stomach like a turtle’s head from its shell. “I’m going to shove my dick into your tight little cunt,” he says, grabbing a fistful of Nathalie’s wig and yanking her to her feet.
She flinches.
“And you remember what I say. Your daddy’s going to get you into big trouble if you tell your mama what I do to you in the middle of the night.” He sits on the bed.
“It’s our secret,” she promises in a little-girl voice, nudging him onto his back.
She wouldn’t appreciate it, but my heart breaks in sympathy. Huxley’s pretending Nathalie is his daughter, and they speak as if they’ve done this several times before. It’s horrid she fed sick men’s fantasies for several years only to make Clayton and Ash even richer.
Nathalie digs handcuffs and a red satin blindfold out of her bag. “Let’s play, Daddy,” she says, and he lifts his head just enough to give her room to slip the blindfold over his eyes. She licks his lips, and he twists the straps of her dress around his fingers, trapping her on top of him.
They’re positioned well—Nathalie’s wig hangs perfectly to hide her face—and Mel will have a goldmine of shots to splash at the guests at the fundraising gala. She sits up and fastens his wrists to the cheap wooden headboard. Once he realizes she tricked him, he might be able to break free if he’s mad enough, but hopefully we’ll be long gone. She kisses him again, and I can’t wait to leave. I’d throw up in his mouth if I had to do that. I need to give Nathalie more credit.
“You’re being a naughty girl, Rachel,” Huxley huffs, testing the cuffs. “Daddy’s going to spank you.”
“I’d like that,” Nathalie says, crawling off him.
“Where’re you going, baby?” he whines.
“I want another drink.”
She motions at me, and I step out of the closet and deeper into the room. I pause on his whale of a form. He looks ridiculous, and I would laugh if he wasn’t so dangerous.
Nathalie quietly shoves the scotch bottle into the bag and hikes it onto her shoulder. She jerks her head toward the door. “Let’s go,” she mouths.
I’m glad to do what she says.
“Rachel, baby, where’d you go? I want your mouth on my cock right now, you sweet little whore.”
“Just a second, Daddy. I need to visit the little girls’ room.”
“Be fast. Daddy’s horny.”
Slowly, without moving her gaze off him, she backs toward the door. As quietly as I can, I turn the knob and open it, letting in a welcome gust of sticky evening air. Right at that moment, a car horn blares.
Huxley starts yelling. “Nathalie, where the fuck are you? Get your ass back here or you’ll get my fist in your face instead of my cock in your mouth.”
Startled, I suck in a breath.
Nathalie laughs. “He sounds worse than he is. Come on, Stella, let’s get out of here.”
We leave Huxley’s angry shrieks behind.