Chapter 8
8
Quinn
F or a horrible few moments, the darkness in the room reminds me of home—the perpetually closed drapes that hid the filth and degradation of our house from the outside world. There was light, but it hurts to think of those times, and once my father was deep into his addiction, we lived under dead lightbulbs.
I dreamed of Uncle Julian again. I’d do anything to banish those nightmares, but they always come to me; memories of his beatings and, worse, his apologies. The cloying lies stung the way cuts and bruises never could. Why can’t I dream of Mom and Dad and the before times when my future was full of sunshine?
So how does someone like me find herself in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel as an actual guest? Oh, right, that’s it. Because a sexy, scary guy abducted me and brought me here to his suite.
I dreamed about him, too. His breath was on my skin, close enough to kiss. Or kill. Both are so intimate.
I shift my legs and sigh in dismay. My panties are wet at the crotch. It’s probably for the best that I can’t remember much of my dirty dream. How else could I look Roman in the eye?
It’s around midday. I’m unsure of the exact hour, but I feel it in my bones, like an animal. Jeanette hasn’t texted me yet. If I want a shot at keeping my job, I must open the bakery, but that seems ludicrous. How will I get out of here?
I get up and head for the shower, rinsing yesterday’s stickiness off my skin. I never thought I’d be a prisoner in a place as luxurious as this, but that’s the Big Apple for you; full of surprises.
I came to New York because I’d seen it in movies, the city dreams were made of. What a shock it was to realize that a fifteen-year-old girl, alone and afraid, was easy pickings on these mean streets. I sometimes wonder where I’d be now if it weren’t for Carrie.
She was in her sixties but strong as an ox. When she saw me getting mugged, she didn’t hesitate to swing her purse into my attacker’s face and send him scurrying. She took me to her apartment in a faded Garment District brownstone, fixed me some coffee and a sandwich, and the rest was history.
We were inseparable. Carrie was long since widowed, but she knew many people and got me a job washing dishes in a restaurant. I stayed with her and moved on to better jobs in time. I paid my way, but she refused to take much from me.
As I was beginning to think I’d be able to stand on my own two feet and get out from under hers, Carrie started having pains. She tried to hide them from me, but it got too tricky, and I made her go to the ER. She wasn’t surprised by what the doctor said, but I cried until I threw up.
The oncologist outlined Carrie’s plan and laid out the odds. To my horror, she had no insurance, and the apartment became a prison of steep stairs and humid air that set off her cough. She refused to have the treatment—too stubborn and too ready for it to be over. But I knew about the dream she held in her heart.
Years ago, she met her beloved husband Winston at Rockaway Beach. When she walked by in the rain, he darted out of his house with an umbrella for her. She wanted to go back and listen to the ocean as she slipped away.
Hospice is free, but without funds to access better care, Carrie had to make do with dedicated but harassed nurses who visited her daily and checked her medications. They asked her to go into a residential setting, get her out of the noise, and away from the small apartment. She wouldn’t go.
“What about you, my Quinn?” she’d ask, wringing her birdlike hands. “You have nowhere to go and can’t afford this place. It’s my tenancy. The rent would go straight up.”
I assured her I’d be fine, but she knew better, so I lied. I told her I was leaving to move in with friends: cheaper, ideal location, and decent work.
“That sounds wonderful.” Her eyes shone with relief, and I averted mine, afraid she’d see the deceit in them. “I’m so glad, sweetheart. I can go to a lovely little care home and have a pretty room to myself, knowing you’re happy and having fun. You’ll come to see me now and again?”
“Of course I will,” I said, keeping my voice light despite my heartbreak. “When I get a minute between my job and my social life, that is!”
When the day came, I waved her off on the resident’s bus that took her to Two Pines Care Village. I packed a few possessions and moved in above the bakery the week after.
When I return to the bedroom, I find my work things on the bed, freshly laundered and pressed. Housekeeping must have sneaked in and left them. Does this mean I can leave?
I open the suite door an inch to find the corridor empty. The guards are gone. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I imagined them.
My gaze lands on the other clothes neatly folded on the chair—the clothes Roman got just for me. I regretfully run my fingertips over the silky fabric but decide to leave them behind. Something tells me that owing a debt to a man like Roman Kazanov is a bad idea. I dress in my uniform, fashion my hair into two braids, adjust my name badge, and check the corridor again. Still all clear.
I make a break for the elevator, and in less than a minute, I’m on the street and mingling with the commuters as they bustle through Columbus Circle. I can’t believe how easy it was to walk out. Is that the end of it? I can go back to my life?
A strange, weighted thud hits me deep inside, a palpable feeling of…what? Disappointment? Confusion? I don’t know. But as I scan the surging crowd, I can’t help but look for Roman’s bottomless eyes, fixated on me as no one else has ever been.
A girl could get used to it. That’s all I’m saying.