Chapter 11
ANNA
Survive.
The word repeated in my head over and over again. It was what I said to myself when I pulled the shard of glass out of my hand and stopped the bleeding with the only thing I could find close at hand—my ruined panties.
I pressed against the wound the best I could. It was shallow but a bleeder.
Both were words my mother had used to describe me at one point or another.
In the few minutes it took for my blood to clot and the bleeding to stop, I came to some decisions about my situation.
The most important thing was getting through this, with whatever scars were necessary. My goal—my only goal—was survival.
I was going to do whatever it took to get beyond whatever this was.
Darius was temporary.
As soon as my mother gave him whatever he wanted, he would be gone, along with this massive diamond collar bomb.
Once I survived this, I was going to live my life on my terms, not the half-assed teenage rebellious bullshit that I was doing by hiding out in a record store.
I was going to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and I was going to do it. Edith, the record shop owner who was more of a mother to me than my own, would help me figure out whatever that was. She'd do it without judgment, giving me only support.
But I'd never tell her about this. She wouldn't think less of me for it but telling her would make it real. And could put her in danger. I couldn't allow that.
I tossed my ruined panties into the nearest garbage can and found my dress hanging in the closet. I stepped into it, carefully zipping it up in the back.
The fabric scraped against my raw skin, and I hissed through my teeth. Every inch of me felt bruised, used, like my body had been wrung out and hung to dry.
In the bathroom, I tended to the cut and cleaned myself up, then ran my fingers through my hair. Five minutes later, I could barely tell I was doing a walk of deep, soul-searing shame.
Though when I swallowed, my throat ached, a phantom reminder of his hand there, his control. I forced myself to look away from my reflection.
Darius's men were waiting for me in the living room in matching suits and blank stares.
"I'm ready to go home," I said.
My voice came out steadier than I expected, but my pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out everything else.
They nodded and said nothing, but one offered me a polite smile; the other moved to the coffee cart that had been brought up. He poured me a cup, leaving room at the top for me to add the milk and sugar I needed.
"What does a girl need to do for some French vanilla syrup?" I said to myself under my breath as I added a little sugar and half-and-half to the coffee.
After I stirred it, the man handed me a lid. I secured it, and they both led me out of the hotel room.
Each step sent a dull ache radiating up my thighs. I focused on walking normally, on not limping, on not showing them how much last night had taken from me.
The hallway walls were a delicate cream color, hung with surprisingly beautiful artwork. Art was so subjective, so the paintings in hotels always tended to be of the least offensive styles. Seascapes, mountain ranges, florals — but that wasn't what I was looking at.
These walls were decorated with pieces that felt real, raw, beautiful. I loved the artists’ use of bright, vibrant colors in the paintings, but my mother would have called them tacky.
I wondered where she was. Had she called the cavalry?
She must have been worried sick.
My chest tightened at the thought. Any moment now, we'd round a corner and there they'd be, the police in tactical gear, weapons drawn, shouting orders. I braced for it with every step, my shoulders rigid, my breath shallow.
The men led me to an elevator. With the three of us, it was cramped, but both men pressed themselves against the wall to give me space.
I sipped some of my coffee. The surprisingly rich brew was soothing, and it made this entire episode seem almost normal.
But my hand trembled slightly as I brought the cup to my lips, and I had to grip it with both hands to keep it steady.
The weight of the collar seemed to increase with each passing second, pressing down on my collarbones until I wanted to claw at it.
The elevator doors opened to a parking garage, and they led me to a luxury sedan, one man opening my door and gesturing for me to get into the back seat.
I hesitated for just a moment.
Did I really want to go to a second location with these men? Everything in my mind screamed no, but wasn't I already at the second location? Darius said my job was to go home, to act normal. He told me his men would take me home, and I couldn't really see any other options but to believe him.
I slid into the back seat, and my body protested every movement. The leather was cool against my bare legs and I flinched, images from last night flashing through my mind unbidden. His hands, his mouth, the way he'd positioned me exactly how he wanted.
I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to three before opening them again.
We pulled out of the parking garage, and it looked like a surprisingly normal day in Washington, DC. The leaves were turning oranges and yellows, the jewel tones a bright contrast against the deep, beautiful blue of the sky dotted with white, fluffy clouds.
The people on the street were an eclectic mixture of men and women in suits scurrying to get to their jobs, others dressed more casually, sipping coffee at bistros while chatting with friends, or already typing away on their laptops.
It was so normal.
It didn't make sense. How could the night I’d had lead to such an average morning? It was so surreal when the everyday world was so completely at odds with everything in your life.
At every intersection, my muscles tensed.
Black SUVs would appear—they had to. Any second now, multiple vehicles would box us in, agents would pour out, and this nightmare would escalate into something even worse.
The fingers of my free hand dug into my palm, nails biting crescents into the skin.
But we kept driving. Past the Capitol. Past busy coffee shops. Through traffic lights.
Nothing.
Where were they?
I sipped my coffee, watching the world pass by, trying to understand and unpack everything I had been through. No, that wasn’t true. I was trying to come to terms with the explosive locked on me. It was impossible not to think about the weight that was so heavy around my neck.
My heart skipped at every bump in the road, wondering if that would be enough to trigger it. Every turn had me gripping the door handle, knuckles white, preparing for impact, either from a collision or an explosion.
I reached up to touch the smooth center stone. It was cold, heavy, and as my fingers ran up the edges of the diamond toward the fitting, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw one of the men watching me.
His eyes were on my necklace as well.
My hand dropped to my lap. I didn't really know who Darius was, so I didn't know how loyal his men were. How much did they know?
Did they know it was an explosive? Was that why he was watching me? Did having a woman with a bomb strapped around her neck in his car make him nervous?
Or was it just the value of the diamonds?
Could Darius be the type of man who didn't tell his employees everything?
I set my coffee cup down in the cupholder in front of me.
My hand shook, and I didn't want them to know how scared I was. So I laced my fingers together in my lap, pressing them, squeezing them hard in spite of the flash of pain.
My knuckles turned white, but they didn't tremble.
We passed another intersection.
Another block.
Still no black SUVs.
No tactical teams.
No mother standing on the sidewalk with the full weight of federal protection behind her.
My confusion was almost as terrifying as my fear.
Why wasn't she coming for me?
We finally pulled up to the record store, and I was ready to leap out of the car before it even stopped and race up the stairs. I put my hand on the handle, about to do just that, when the man in the front passenger seat turned around and said something in Russian.
His words were harsh and guttural, but I had no idea what they meant.
I stared at him wide-eyed, my lower lip quivering.
My entire body went rigid, every muscle locking up. My throat closed, and for a horrible second, I couldn't breathe.
He looked at me, then pointedly looked at my hand, and then back at me with another stern expression.
I guessed that guttural Russian was something along the lines of “get your hands off of that door or else.”
I put my hands back in my lap, lacing them together again tight enough to ache.
My injured palm throbbed where the glass had cut it, the makeshift toilet paper bandage damp with fresh seepage. I welcomed the pain. It gave me something to focus on besides the bomb and the absence of rescue.
But I didn't shake, I didn't cry, and I didn't break. That had to count for something, right? One more step toward surviving.
When the car came to a stop, the men got out first. That was when I noticed that the one in the front passenger side had a very telling bulge beneath his suit jacket just under his arm. It was the same one most Secret Service agents had.
He was armed, and I would bet anything, so was the other.
This was it.
This had to be it.
As soon as I stepped out of the car, agents would emerge from the record store, from the surrounding buildings, from unmarked vehicles I hadn't noticed. My legs trembled as I prepared to move, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
The one in the passenger seat opened my door and motioned for me to step out, smiling kindly. The smile even reached his eyes, and there wasn't a hint of malice in them, but the effect was ruined by the black ink crawling up his neck. And the tattoo of the eye behind his ear.
I gave him a tight smile and climbed out, clenching my coffee to give my hands something to do.