18. Maya
18
MAYA
S hit. What the hell happened?
I mean, I’m glad I’m alone in the bed when I wake up with my head pounding and my stomach churning every time I try to move. Funny how it’s easy to forget the concept of a future hangover when every sip of liquor tastes better than the last. I’m paying for it this morning.
But I would be paying a hell of a lot worse if Tucker was still here. Considering nobody came storming in here with a gun in hand or anything like that, I’m guessing he got away before Dad came home. At least he did that much without me having to ask.
But what else did we do?
Think! Right, and maybe for my next trick. I’ll learn how to fly. Thinking is not exactly easy when my brain feels like it is wrapped in cotton, studded with glass shards. But I need to think. I need to remember. Closing my eyes, shutting out as much light as I can, I force myself to relax. It’s easier to let the memories come back on their own rather than trying to dig them out.
I know one thing for sure: the soreness between my legs tells me we had sex. I can barely remember it. Everything’s dark after the point where we were kissing, while he was touching me. I was fully dressed then, even if his hands were moving under my clothes.
Little bits and pieces come at me in flashes, memories that are half-formed. Being aware of him lying beside me afterward. Feeling something rubbing against me down there, something warm and wet. Maybe a washcloth or a towel. He even made sure I was dressed before he left.
I don’t know what to think or how to feel. If I should blame him or thank him for taking care of me.
One thing I do know: I need to get out of this house today, even if the idea of moving makes bile rise in my throat. I feel dizzy just turning my head from one side to the other while it’s still on the pillow. But I need to get out. I’m afraid the longer I stay, the easier it will be for Dad to keep me here.
That’s why I drag myself through getting out of bed and slowly showering; by the time I’m finished, I feel a lot more human. A couple of aspirin and a bottle of water help, too. Once I’m dressed and creeping out of my room, my head only thuds weakly. Maybe I’ll stop for a greasy breakfast sandwich on the way to campus, since that will probably fix things the rest of the way.
First, I need to get out of here.
It’s rare for me to be glad my father is home, but today is an exception. He is in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and reading something on his phone when I walk in. “Don’t think I didn’t notice all the bourbon missing from that bottle,” he says. His version of good morning . The bottle was missing from my dresser—I guess Tucker must have put it back, unless I did, in a total state of blackout.
“I need my keys,” I announce, rather than letting him drag me into an argument I don’t have the capacity for. “I have to go to school.”
“Right. I’m sure you’re so committed to your education that you absolutely have to go.”
“What’s so wrong with that? Come on,” I whisper, careful to keep my voice low. I can’t give him any reason to get mad and do something drastic. “I still have to live. And I have an exam today.” It’s not true. What, is he going to check?
“Only because I don’t feel like wasting the tuition money I’ve already shelled out for you.” He dips his hand to his suit jacket and pulls out my keys, sliding them across the granite topped island between us. “But don’t think you can get away with sneaking off. I know things you don’t. I can track you.”
Is that true? Dare I find out? No, it’s probably a lot safer to get out of here while I still have the chance and be glad I managed it. I snatch the keys off the counter before he can change his mind and hurry out of the house. I’ll never take this feeling of freedom for granted ever again, that much is for sure. Now I know how easily it can be taken away.
Rather than meet up with Wren in the cafeteria or somewhere else on campus, I settle for going straight to class, the way I did when we weren’t talking. It’s a lot easier to keep to myself when I’m really not in the mood to provide a bunch of explanations for what happened last night. I’m still not sure I could if I tried.
That doesn’t mean she’ll leave me alone. There are half a dozen texts from her by the time I check my phone between classes, where I only sat in the back and counted the minutes, anyway. I’m too tired and still a little woozy to give much brain power to anything besides trying to stay awake.
Wren: Are you OK?
Wren: What can we do?
Wren: Were you able to come to school? I didn’t see you. I’m worried.
Wren: Come to the house after class. You can stay there now. Don’t worry about bringing your things. We’ll find a way to get them.
She makes a point. I could figure something out. I could go to an ATM and take out some cash in case Dad decides to cut off my bank card when he realizes I’m not coming home. I should do that. The possibilities make my skin tingle.
My mind is made up by the time the last class of the day is finished, and I text her.
Me: Ok I’ll come to you .
On the way, I swing by an ATM and take out five hundred—the max I can take in a day—for any essentials I need to pick up. I’ll be fine living in cheap leggings and T-shirts so long as it means being able to get away from him.
The thrill of freedom starts to leak into my veins as I pull away from the bank. I’m finally doing this. I’m finally standing up for myself, taking control of my life. Everything looks a little brighter and sunnier throughout the last few miles to the big house I’m going to live in for the foreseeable future. After that, who knows? I’ll figure it out. I am not alone anymore.
I’m never alone. Not really. I learn that when my phone rings as soon as I’ve parked in front of the house, next to Wren’s car. For the first time in hours, nausea grips me, this time because of the word Dad glowing up at me from my screen. “Shit,” I whisper, covering my eyes with one trembling hand. Does he know I’m here? How would he know?
As it turns out, it’s not even that deep. “I see you took a nice amount of cash out from the ATM a few minutes ago.” He manages to sound friendly, like this is nothing more than a casual conversation, when we both know it’s anything but. “You wouldn’t be thinking about running off, would you?”
Staring at the house, my heart sinking further with every beat, I murmur, “Of course not.”
“Because I am logged into the account and prepared to shut your card down with a single click,” he continues, his voice deceptively smooth. “I will then call the bank to inform them your card was stolen, and that withdrawal should be considered theft. They can look up your car on the security footage at the bank you withdrew from, and things will only get worse from there. At least you won’t have to worry about going to school tomorrow, because I’m going to withdraw you from the university.”
I was so close, too. It’s stupid of me to think I can get away. I know Wren wants to be helpful, but she doesn’t quite understand what’s going on here. And I can’t keep letting myself get caught up in these fantasies of freedom. It’s not going to happen.
“Do you understand me?” he asks after I’m silent for too long. “Get home. Now. Before I start making good on my promises.”
What am I supposed to do? He could call the police on me. I fully believe he would if he doesn’t get his way. I fully believe he would say whatever it takes.
Calling Wren, I explain, “I need to go home. He saw me take money out of the ATM and knows I’m planning something.”
“You don’t have to go!” she insists. “You know Briggs would help you through anything that happens.”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” I tell her. “This is my problem. I have to figure it out on my own.” Maybe if I say that enough, I’ll actually believe there’s a way to do it. How much more of this can I take? Being pulled back-and-forth, believing then having my hopes crushed.
I have to prepare myself once I come to a stop at home. He’s probably going to be furious, full of threats and rage. Maybe I should remind him he’s not the only one who can call the police. If he hurts me, at least I’ll have evidence. That’s how desperate he’s made me.
Instead of hearing his enraged shout once I’ve stepped through the front door, I hear noise in the kitchen. A lot of noise—pots and pans clanging, the oven door opening and closing. When I tiptoe in the direction and peer around the edge of the wide doorway leading inside, I find a pair of women loading aluminum pans into the oven, like they came from a restaurant or catering company. What the hell is this?
“There you are.” Dad’s sudden appearance behind me makes me jump, a yelp lodged in my throat. Rather than the violence I expected, he treats me with what seems like nerves. Like he’s worried about something. “It took you long enough. Go upstairs, get yourself dressed up for dinner.”
I’m starting to seriously wonder if he’s got a split personality.
Whatever his problem is, I’m having a hell of a time keeping up with him. He’s freshly shaven, hair neatly groomed, adjusting his cufflinks. “We’re having dinner here?” I ask.
“Good to know all the money I shell out on your tuition is well spent.” Rolling his eyes, he replies, “Yes, we’re having dinner here. We have an important guest coming. I need you to look your best.”
A guest. Not this again. “Clark?” I whisper, and now I wish I had stayed at Briggs’s. Nothing Dad could do to me would be worse than having to spend a meal with that creep. Could I make a run for it?
He scowls, shaking his head. “No, and enough questions. The clock is ticking. He’ll be here in an hour, and you need a lot of work.” Scoffing, he breezes past me on his way into the kitchen, where he gives orders on how he wants the table set in the dining room. We’re eating in the dining room? This must be important.
I swear if I didn’t know better, I’d think I never woke up this morning. This whole day has been a dream. Only dreams are this disjointed and difficult to make sense of. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I need to stop trying to make sense of things. It’s a waste of time.
As soon as I’m in my room with the door closed and locked, I pull out my phone and call Tucker. Why Tucker, of all people? I don’t know. Maybe because he was here last night. Because I haven’t talked to him yet today, and he’s come to my rescue in the past. I need to be rescued, dammit. I need somebody to help me.
When his voicemail picks up, I have to bite back a groan of pure dismay. “I need your help. Please, call me back.” After ending the call there, I fire off a text.
Me: Please, call me. It’s an emergency.
When I get the read receipt, my heart soars. Good, at least I know he saw it.
Yes, he saw it, but what did he do? Nothing. There are no blinking dots to tell me he’s typing out a message. No phone call. My message sits on read as one minute follows another, punctuated only by the heavy beating of my heart, and the sounds coming from downstairs as the people Dad hired get dinner ready. I’m not even sure I want to know who we’re eating with. Who would require this level of preparation? And why?
I’m going to find out soon enough, whether I want to or not. Tucker won’t help. Nobody will, because nobody can.
By the time Dad calls out for me downstairs, I’m wearing a black dress and flats, my hair pulled back in a clip, makeup accentuating my eyes and lips. The way I know he wants me to look tonight. It makes me want to get in the shower, turn the water on as high as it will go, and scrub my skin off. But no amount of scrubbing could possibly make me feel clean.
Pulling back my shoulders, I force my typical fake smile, knowing he’ll expect me to display it downstairs. Here goes nothing.
I’m halfway down the stairs when Dad crosses the foyer with an unfamiliar man dressed in a black suit by his side. Great, another suitor, I assume. The two of them come to a stop when they see me descending, and Dad has the nerve to smile like he’s actually glad to see me. “There she is. My princess.” The nerve of him. Only we know what a joke that is, I guess.
I have to force myself to return his smile, grinding my teeth together hard enough to make my jaw ache. “Hello,” I murmur, nodding at the unknown man before I continue my descent while holding onto the banister for dear life. If only I could run. If I could fly down the rest of the stairs, out the door, to my car. I would run down the street if I had to; I would keep running, screaming for help. He wants me arrested? Fine, let the police arrest me. At least I would be safe there.
“Maya. I’m Lucian Black. It’s a pleasure,” the man says, and I almost choke on my spit. Dammit, I should’ve known. There’s only one reason Lucian Black would be here—my memory takes me back to the night when I overheard their conversation, when Dad promised me to him. What kind of person runs the sort of club he runs? Who would profit from an underage girl losing her virginity without her consent?
I try to compose myself as he shakes my hand, his practiced gaze moving over me. Sizing me up. Wondering how much money I’ll make him? Maybe. Probably.
“Why don’t we go to the dining room?” Dad suggests, bright and chipper. “Dinner is all set up. Lucian, I hope you like prime rib. I managed to find a beautiful bone-in roast just for tonight.” As if he had anything to do with it. As if he did more than picking up the phone and placing an order.
The headache I finally managed to get rid of earlier this morning is coming back, egged on by my brittle smile. What a joke all of this is. What a sad, pitiful joke I have to go along with.
It’s a joke that continues after we’ve sat down, where the men enjoy wine while I sip water, my thoughts clicking as I consider my options. Somehow, they are able to make small talk, though Lucian doesn’t bother hiding the way he keeps looking at me. Studying me, almost. Making sure I’m worth it, I guess.
I just want to die. I want to die and get it over with. That has to be better than this, with me going through the motions of eating when really the most I’m doing is moving food around on my plate and taking a bite every once in a while. What a shame. The food is actually tasty. But I can’t possibly enjoy it.
I’m sure Dad notices, since he reaches out to pat my arm from the head of the table, while I sit on his right. “I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about,” he says, and there’s almost a note of paternal concern in his voice. It’s all for show, of course. He doesn’t mean it.
“I am sort of curious,” I admit. “I know the sort of business Mr. Black is involved in. I guess I’m wondering if he’s here on business tonight.”
“Smart girl,” Lucian murmurs, smiling briefly in approval before swirling the red wine in his glass. There is something calculating about the look in his eyes. Something ugly that clashes with his polished facade.
“Mr. Black is more than willing to offer a substantial amount of money for you to spend the night in his club, entertaining one of his customers.”
I want to laugh at the way Dad phrased it, like there’s anything admirable or civilized about what he’s describing. Basically prostituting his only child because he needs money. It’s maybe the lowest thing a parent can do, or close to it, and he has the nerve to sound loving.
“Entertaining?” I ask, turning my gaze on Lucian, holding it, noting the way his lips twitch like he’s trying to keep a smile from taking hold. “What would that mean, exactly? What would I do?”
“It’s pretty simple. In my club, there is heaven, purgatory, and hell.” He exchanges a look with Dad, who nods slightly. “In your case, you’ll be going to hell.”
Wow. Could he have possibly found a worse way to say that?
I’m still trying to follow along when he continues. “Elsewhere in the club, we use safe words that can bring a stop to any and all activities if things go too far. In hell, however, no such safeguards exist. In hell, there is an understanding that your body belongs to whoever bought you. They can do whatever they want. They only stop when they’re satisfied. Of course, they pay a lot for that sort of freedom, and a portion of that goes to you.”
“To me,” Dad is quick to correct. The briefest frown passes over Lucian’s face before he composes himself and inclines his head in agreement.
Leaving me gaping at them, ready to throw up what little I managed to eat. So he still hasn’t gotten rid of that idea. “How much?” I ask, since out of all the questions clanging around inside my skull, that’s the one ringing out the loudest.
“That’s my business,” Dad assures me. I can tell he wants to snap at me, he wants to be nasty, he wants to threaten. What he doesn’t want, though, is to do that in front of a man like Lucian. He has to maintain at least some of his complete bullshit image. Wouldn’t want anyone knowing what an absolute monster he really is.
“I was only curious,” I murmur, looking down at my plate, the wheels turning as I process all of this. He is still determined to sell me.
When Dad’s hand closes over mine, I have to fight against the impulse to cringe and pull away. “It’s either this, or we revert to the plan we discussed after your birthday dinner.” In other words, either I let him sell me to the highest bidder at Lucian’s club, or I marry Clark. I can be stuck with him for a lifetime, or I can suffer through a single night. There’s no telling whether Clark would treat me well, no matter how nice of a guy Dad tries to make him out to be.
At the same time, there’s plenty that could happen over the course of a night that would echo through the rest of my life. I could be permanently injured and carry the scars for all eternity.
Then again, I’m already scarred, and my memories haven’t killed me yet.
“What’s it going to be?” he prods, his fingers tightening briefly, almost brutally, before he lets me go. Reminding me of the power he has over me.
It’s Lucian I turn to. Lucian whose eyes I look into. “If I do this,” I murmur, careful to avoid Dad’s penetrating stare. “I want half the money for myself. Dad can get the other half.” I’m trembling now that the words are out of my mouth. I can’t believe I stood up for myself.
Neither can Dad, who chokes on his laughter before shaking his head.
Lucian’s not laughing, nor is he shaking his head. “That’s a lot of money,” he allows. “You must need it if that’s your stipulation.”
“It is. Do we have an agreement?”
“Hang on a second,” Dad murmurs like he just picked up on the fact this is for real. “The terms are the terms.”
“If those are your terms, I’m not doing it.” Turning to him, I see the rage in his eyes, but I also see the desperation. “I want something for me if I’m going to put myself through this. I think it’s only fair.”
This way, I can get away from him forever. One night in exchange for freedom. When I think about it that way, it only makes sense.
“That sounds fine by me,” Lucian agrees, returning to his beef.
Leaving Dad staring daggers at me. I can’t bring myself to care much. I’m a little more concerned with psyching myself up for what I’m about to go through.
It will be worth it. I have to believe it will be worth it.