Chapter 6 – Blue （February 10）
Waking up warm and wrapped in strong arms is close to heaven and my sleepy brain is all soft and telling me we could have this everyday if I want. The thought has me waking fully and panic so sharp it almost cuts races through my body. Fuck, no, just stop with that nonsense, girl. This is not that.
I stare at the high, crown-molded ceiling of the bedroom, my heart racing a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The morning sun struggles through the San Francisco fog pressing against the bay windows, illuminating the aftermath of last night.
Clothes scattered like debris from a storm.
The tangled sheets. The faint, musky scent of sex and sandalwood that clings to my skin.
For a few hours, I let myself burn. I let Marcus do what he wanted to me, and I let the other two watch when they came in after round one, their presence a heavy, comforting weight in the room.
I let myself be theirs. But now it’s morning and in the cold light of day, "theirs" feels a lot like "trapped. "
I carefully slide out from under Marcus’s arm.
He grumbles in his sleep, his hand grasping at the empty space where I was, but he doesn't wake. I grab his discarded t-shirt from the floor and pull it on, the fabric smelling like him, all trouble and comfort at the same time and it makes me even more pissy when I can’t help but pull the neck line up to my nose and breathe it in for another hit.
I creep out to the living area and find Andre and Damon are already up. Andre is standing by the window, staring out at the grey city street below, a mug of coffee in his hand. Damon is at the dining table, surrounded by monitors he’s set up, typing furiously.
They both look up when I enter. Damon stops typing and Andre turns from the view. Both of them look at me with a softness that makes that panic I felt earlier surge again.
"Coffee?" Andre asks, lifting a carafe. He says it so easily like it’s now our normal. Domestic. It’s so damn domestic it makes my skin itch. So I fall back into a role I perfected long ago.
"I need to go," I snap. "I have to get to work."
Damon frowns, glancing at the digital clock on his screen. "Demi, it’s 7 AM. You don't have to go back to that soul-sucking office this early. In fact, you don’t really need to go back at all if you want. We can run the con without you playing secretary."
"I’m not fucking playing." I walk over to the espresso machine and ignore the mug Andre tries to hand me.
I need to make my own. I need to do something for myself.
"Martha is the only invisible access point we have.
If I don't show up, Gary starts asking questions. Questions lead to scrutiny. Scrutiny leads to Thorne’s security team looking too closely at my fake background check. "
"We can handle Gary," Andre scoffs. He walks over, leaning against the counter, blocking my path to the sugar. "Stay here. Let us handle the logistics today. You look..." He reaches out, brushing a thumb under my eye. "You look tired, Demi."
I flinch back. "Don't."
His hand drops. The hurt flashes in his eyes, quick and sharp, before he masks it with that stoic calm.
"I’m fine," I lie, grabbing a sugar packet. "I’m going to the van to change. I can't walk into Horizon wearing..." I gesture to Marcus' t-shirt and my bare legs, "...this."
"I'll drive you," Damon offers, standing up.
"No." The word comes out too hard. I try again, softer. "No. I’ll take an Uber. I need... I just need a minute. Okay?"
I turn away from them, my gaze landing on the plush dog bed near the fireplace.
Skipper is sprawled out on her back, paws in the air, snoring softly.
She looks completely content. Safe and warm.
If I take her with me, she’ll spend the day locked in a van in a sketchy parking structure while I play office drone.
If I leave her here... she gets gourmet treats and three men who clearly dote on her.
I walk over and kneel beside the bed, stroking a finger over her soft head. She opens one sleepy eye, licks my finger, and sighs, settling back into the expensive cushion.
"You stay here, Skip," I whisper, my throat tight. "Guard the fort."
Leaving her feels like leaving a piece of my heart behind, but taking her would be selfish. And I’m a lot of things, but I’m not that.
I stand up, avoiding the guys' eyes. "Watch her for me."
"With our lives," Andre vows quietly.
I retreat to the bedroom, grabbing my clothes from the corner where I kicked them last night.
Marcus is still asleep, sprawled on his stomach, the sheet pooling at his waist to reveal the dimples in his lower back.
I feel a tug in my chest, a physical pull to crawl back into bed and hide in his warmth.
Weakness, I tell myself viciously. Attachment gets you distracted. Or worse, it gets you left behind.
I dress quickly, shoving my feet into sneakers, and grab my bag.
I don't bother saying goodbye, I just walk out the door before I can change my mind. The Uber ride to the industrial district is a grim transition from the wealthy hills to the gritty reality I’ve been living in.
The gray sky spits rain against the window, blurring the city into a watercolor of concrete and steel.
Betty is where I left her in the parking structure, tucked in the far corner, a rusty, hulking shadow.
I unlock the back doors and climb inside.
The air is stale and cold, a stark contrast to the climate-controlled luxury of the Airbnb.
It smells like loneliness. I roll my eyes at myself at the thought.
I shiver as I strip off the comfortable clothes and pull on the Martha costume.
Ill-fitting grey slacks, a blouse that buttons too high and orthopedic shoes.
I tuck my red hair up under the itchy brown wig, pop in the brown contacts and slide the thick, smudge-prone glasses onto my nose.
I built Martha to be forgettable. I built her to be the kind of person you look at and immediately look away from because she’s just…
beige. Beneath that beige is a minor masterpiece.
I spent weeks setting up her digital footprint with fake references, the dead-end address, the clean but boring social media presence.
It’s solid. It has to be. I look in the rearview mirror and nod at what I see.
Demi Barlow is gone. The woman who writhed in Marcus's arms last night is gone.
There is only Martha, the invisible cog in the machine.
"Showtime," I whisper to the empty passenger seat.
The Horizon Wellness office is buzzing with the frantic energy of a hive that knows the queen bee is on the warpath when I get in.
"Martha!"
Gary’s voice grates against my eardrums like sandpaper. I turn, plastering on the shy, slightly terrified smile that Martha wears like a shield.
"Good morning, Gary. I have those expense reports you asked for. Just give me a second to log in to the system."
Gary is wearing a tie that is too short and a cologne that smells like he got it at a gas station. He leans against my cubicle wall, invading my personal space.
"Forget the reports," he says, waving a hand. "I need to talk to you about the staffing for next week."
I keep my face blank, but inside, I’m fucking smiling. Finally. I’ve been maneuvering Gary toward this conversation for ten days. I’ve been the most organized, most available, most pathetic doormat of a temp he’s ever had, specifically so he’d think of me for exactly one thing.
"Is something wrong?" I squeak, clutching a file folder to my chest. "Did I mess up the filing?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Gary beams, showing off teeth that haven't seen floss in a decade. "Actually, Dr. Thorne’s executive assistant is having a... meltdown. The prep for the Heart of Gold Auction is overwhelming her."
"Oh, that’s terrible," I say, injecting just the right amount of concern. "Is there anything I can do to help? I know I’m just a temp, but I’m very good at following instructions."
"That’s exactly what I told them," Gary says, looking like he thinks he’s a genius. "I told them, 'Martha is a machine. She doesn't complain, she doesn't need breaks, she just gets it done.' So, I volunteered you."
My heart kicks a rhythm against my ribs. Hook, line, and sinker.
"Volunteered me?"
"For the auction," Gary says, leaning closer, his halitosis hitting me full force. "We’re going to Napa, Martha. We head up on the 13th for setup. You’ll be a runner.
Checking coats, directing traffic, making sure the champagne doesn't run dry. Basically, you’re the grease that keeps the wheels turning so the important people can bid on items they don't need. "
"Napa?" I widen my eyes behind the thick lenses. "The estate?"
"The very one. It’s a huge opportunity. Overtime pay, plus you get to see how the other half lives."
This is it. The "In."
Thorne’s circle is tight, elite. But staff? Staff are invisible. Staff have access to the service corridors, the kitchen, the back rooms. Staff are the ghosts that can go almost anywhere.
"I... I don't know, Gary," I stammer, playing the part of the overwhelmed subordinate. "I don't have anything fancy to wear. And security..."
"Uniforms are provided," Gary interrupts dismissively. "Black slacks, white shirt. Boring stuff. And don't worry about security. I’ve already sent your file over to the team. Since you’re already in the system here, it’s just a formality."
"Oh. Well, if you think I can handle it..."
"You’ll be fine," Gary says, pushing off my cubicle. "Just don't embarrass me. We need to make sure Dr. Thorne has a perfect night to launch her new initiative."
"You can count on me, Gary! I'm excited for this opportunity."
He walks away, and I sink into my chair with a small, smug grin. Oh, I won't let him down. I’m going to make sure Dr. Thorne has a night she’ll never forget. Adrenalin has my hands starting to shake, just a little. I clasp them together under the desk, squeezing until my knuckles turn white.
I’ve been consumed by this goal for so fucking long and now it’s finally, finally going to happen.
I’m in but now the reality sets in. I’ll be inside.
I’ll be serving drinks to the woman who made my mom’s death so much worse.
I’ll be walking the halls of the house built on the bones of people like my mom.
I look at the dark screen of my phone. I think about the warm Airbnb.
I think about Damon’s calm intelligence, Marcus’s fearless charm and Andre’s solid strength.
Yesterday, the thought of doing this alone felt right.
It felt like the penance I had to pay to truly bring justice to my mom and all the other families that were made to suffer.
Today? Today, the thought of having three sets of eyes watching my back, three brains helping me navigate the shark tank. .. it feels like oxygen.
I pull up the encrypted chat app Marcus installed on my phone.
Me: The fish took the bait. I’m confirmed as a runner for the Auction. Heading up on the 13th for setup.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Red: Good work, Martha. We knew you’d nail it.
Green: A runner? Does that mean a sexy little uniform? Asking for a friend.
Black: Focus. We need to coordinate our entry. Meet us at the house at 6? We can go over the plan. And Demi?
I watch the typing bubbles appear and disappear.
Black: Drive safe.
I stare at the messages as I chew on my lip.
They aren't telling me what to do. They aren't taking over. They’re waiting for me and letting me be the lead, just like I asked. A weird feeling settles in my chest. It’s not the panic from this morning.
It’s warmer, steadier. It feels like backup, like we’re a team.
"Okay," I whisper, opening the information packet Gary just emailed me. "Let’s go to Napa."