3. Blue
3
Blue
I grip the edge of the counter, eyes closed while I wait for the dizziness to pass. Wait for the ringing in my ears to subside.
Everything is building on top of everything else. All the emails? It’s a matter of time until my dad catches up with me and no matter what, I can’t let him find Wren.
Now there’s this on top of everything else. Ezekiel St. James depositing a dollar into my account and sending that middle finger emoji before showing up here, where I work. Granted it’s a part of IVI, but he lives in Amsterdam. I know that. He shouldn’t be here. I’d never have taken this job if there was any chance I’d run into him.
I know and you’re fucked. That’s the message he’s sending. And I am well and truly fucked if I don’t come up with something fast.
I bend down to splash cold water on my face. When I meet my reflection in the mirror, I see how red my eyes are, how dark the shadows beneath. I try to rub away the black eyeliner that smeared as I puked up the pasta I scarfed down before my shift. My stomach is in knots, and when I hold up my hands, they’re shaking.
His silence in the beginning, when he first would have received my message, that was him taking his time until he figured out who I was. A man like him isn’t just going to hand over a-hundred-grand when threatened with exposure. I overshot this, choosing him. I should never have targeted a man like him. He’s powerful. I knew that, didn’t I? All of the men who frequent this private club, who are members of The Society, you don’t fuck with them.
But I wasn’t exactly flush with options.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Someone bangs on the locker room door once before pushing it open hard, the impact of the door against the wall making me jump even as I expected it.
Craven stands there looking furious and something else. Satisfied.
“You’re on the clock, Blue.”
I take a breath in, shift gears. Craven I can deal with. He’s the kind of man I’m used to dealing with.
“I just puked. I don’t think those men out there want me puking on them, do you?”
He was crossing the room toward me but pauses. I would laugh at his apparent fear of the word puke, but I can’t.
“I must have had bad shrimp for dinner,” I lie. I lay one hand on my stomach and cover my mouth with the other as if another wave is coming.
“For fuck’s sake, that’s disgusting,” he says, turning away.
“It passed. It’s okay.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll just brush my teeth and get back out there.”
“No, that’s fine.” He hasn’t moved closer and is regarding me differently than usual. Not leering. If only I’d known he was so squeamish from day one. “Go home. I’m not cleaning up puke.”
“I’m just glad I didn’t hurl all over Mr. St. James,” I say, feeling a chill when I say his name out loud.
“Christ. Like I needed to deal with that.” He shakes his head.
“Which one was he anyway?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Both. They’re brothers. Jericho and Ezekiel. They don’t come in here often. I guess they won’t be back since your little incident.”
“Brothers?” I knew he had a brother but didn’t know they hung out together.
He nods. “They left. I sure hope they’re not going to file a complaint.”
“They’re both gone?”
“Yeah.” He turns toward the door but stops before he walks out. “Get out of here. If it wasn’t the shrimp and you have some bug, I don’t want you infecting the other girls.”
“Thanks for your concern.” Asshole.
“You can make up your time this weekend,” he says as he walks out the door.
I flip him off. Well, I flip off the door as it closes behind him. I won’t be back this weekend. Or ever. Tonight’s incident changes things. My plan was Canada but without that money, it’s not happening. I can’t take Wren. If it were just me, I wouldn’t care, I can sleep on the street. But Wren can’t fend for herself. Not after what happened, how she is now. Canada was going to be more permanent. I can’t just keep moving her. She won’t understand and she needs stability. Some sense of security and safety. The facility she’s at now, Oakwood Care Center, it’s a decent place and Rudy is great with her.
Does she remember or even understand what’s happened anymore? Or has her brain shut that part of her life off? Has it erased the memories? God. I fucking hope so.
I rinse my mouth once more and pull my hair out of the tight bun. I rub my scalp and ruffle my hair. I cut it shorter, so it just brushes my shoulders. I turn my face a little, touch the scar that’s still somehow visible beneath the thick layer of foundation. I finger-comb my hair toward my face a little. It’s not for the sake of vanity. I’m not vain. I just don’t like looking at it. So, I turn away, slip off my heels and scoop them up on my way to my locker. I pull my sweatpants back on and put on my raincoat, then step into my sneakers. Grabbing my bag, I walk out of the changing room and toward the glass doors where I watch rain coming down in sheets. I guess I can’t ask Craven for another ride, so I push the door open and hurry out meaning to run to the bus stop across the street. But before I’m even a few steps away, the Rolls Royce pulls up. The same chauffeur climbs out of the driver’s side and hurries to open the back door for me.
“Oh, thank you!” I say gratefully. Maybe Craven has a tiny bit of humanity in him after all. He has nothing to gain by having me driven home, that’s for sure.
I get in, my feet wet in my ratty shoes, my hair soaked and sticking to my head. I push it back from my face as the driver pulls out.
“God, I’m drenched. Thanks again,” I say, but get no answer which isn’t unusual. I notice the men of The Society, even staff in most cases, don’t talk to us women. We’re not quite first-class citizens here.
I push my hand into my bag and rifle through it to get my phone. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Ezekiel St. James had just made a mistake and has actually made the deposit and I’m just being paranoid. That could be it, couldn’t it? I covered my tracks.
My bag is overfull of junk mostly, and as I rummage, I notice the driver take a left where he should take a right.
“You should go right there. It’s faster. Just take the next turn. The roads connect,” I say.
He glances into the rear-view mirror and it’s the same man, I’m sure, but he doesn’t give any indication he’s even heard me. Well, I guess he gives one. A divider tinted a smokey black begins to go up from a pocket behind the front seats.
I watch it, confused, my mind slow to catch up as my body begins to pump blood faster, sending adrenaline through my veins, sounding an alarm I’m too slow to hear.
Danger.
Second time tonight I feel that word in my bones.
“What are you doing?” My arm shoots out, fingers curling around the glass to stop it rising. It’s almost to the roof of the car and it doesn’t stop neither does the man answer. I pull my fingers back, grabbing for the door handle, pulling and pulling, knowing it will be locked. Some stupid part of my brain that hasn’t quite caught up tries to tell me it’s just because we’re in Drive. The locks always engage. It’s a safety feature.
“Shit.” I dump my bag out on the seat, my hands shaking hard. Half its contents spill onto the floor. My wallet, lipstick, powder, pens, gum, a half-eaten granola bar. Shit. The driver takes a turn and I look out the window but recognize nothing. Nothing except the lights of the city fading as we drive out onto quieter roads. Where houses are bigger. Where twelve-foot stone walls with tall iron gates cut them off from the rest of the world.
Where is it? Where the fuck is my phone?
I undo my seatbelt, listen to the ding ding ding alerting the driver as I drop down to the floor of the Rolls Royce to search for my phone. It’s not here. It’s gone. But who would I call anyway? Who could I call?
I climb back up to my seat, gather up my things and watch as we drive farther and farther away from any lights. I shiver not from cold but fear, loading my things back into my purse like that matters. Like anything matters. He’s going to kill me. Ezekiel St. James is going to murder me. It’s not like it’s his first time. He’s done it before. And that was his own father.
The car finally slows as we approach the open gates of a house set so far back from the road, I can just make out the light in a distant window. One light in a house that is so big, it can swallow up the apartment building I live in three times over and have room for dessert.
From what I can see, the grounds are meticulously maintained and vast and I don’t need to glance back to know that the gates behind me have sealed shut.
I fucked up this time. Well and truly fucked up.
The car comes to a stop at the stairs that lead to the front doors of the house. House. No, not a house. It’s a fucking estate. The driver kills the engine, climbs out and he opens my door. Just opens it and stands there like he had earlier. Still formal in his uniform although the black leather gloves he’s wearing give off a menacing vibe now.
“Miss,” he says when I don’t move.
I’m going to be sick again. I would be if there was anything left in my stomach. I think about the pot in the sink of my shitty apartment. The lone fork.
“Wh…” I clear my throat because I’m struggling to form words. “Where am I?”
“Miss.” He gestures for me to climb out.
I do. Because what else am I going to do? I’m sure he’d have no qualms about dragging me out of the vehicle and into that house.
But if Ezekiel St. James was going to kill me or have me killed, he wouldn’t bring me to his house. DNA. He’d be better off having me run down when I cross a street or something. It’d be easier and less mess for him to clean up. He needs something from me, at least before he kills me.
That’s what I tell myself as I walk in the direction the chauffeur points and enter the vast, cold house. From the little bit of light in the hallway, I see all the furniture is covered with dust cloths. Maybe he had that done since he’s living in Amsterdam now. If this is his house, it would sit empty I guess while he’s away. What do people as rich as Ezekiel St. James do when they go away? It’s not like he’s going to list it on Airbnb or something.
I keep glancing behind me at the driver who still has the collar of his coat turned up, his hat drawn down low on his forehead, those gloves on his big hands.
“Where are we going?” I hear myself ask. I know he won’t answer.
He just tilts his head toward the stairs, and I begin climbing and once I’m on the second-floor landing, I walk down the dark corridor toward the last door, the only door that is ajar, a dim lamp burning inside. I stop just outside of it, every hair on my body standing on end, every instinct on full alert, in panic mode. I’m not sure how I’m keeping it together, actually. Like a duck, on the surface I may look calm but just beneath, I’m paddling like crazy to stay afloat.
“In,” he says.
I look over my shoulder at him. The man is a giant. A solid beast I know I can’t outrun let alone get past. So, I enter the room and before I can even turn around, he’s closed the door and I hear a lock engaging.
A lock on the outside. Of course.
I turn to my surroundings again, a small, sparse room. It’s not a basement though, right? That’s something? There’s carpet here. If he was going to kill me, he wouldn’t do it where there’s a carpet.
It’s a corner room with three windows. Decorative drapes stand open on each. I glance out of one window and regret it instantly when I see the garden’s atmospheric lighting, the vast area beyond dense with trees. That stone wall.
My purse slips from my hand, and I slide my jacket off with it. I’m freezing and sweating at once. I turn my back to the outside and grip the windowsill, squeezing my eyes shut and telling myself to breathe. I wrap my arms around myself and force my eyes open, make myself take it all in, to figure out an exit. An out. Some strategy for when he comes for me. Because he will come, Ezekiel St. James. He’ll want to know how I found out. Where I got my information. If anyone else knows.
And then what? What will he do? Let me walk away? I don’t think so.
Wren.
Does he know about Wren?
Would he hurt her?
Before I can go into a full blow panic, I make my leaden legs move, taking in the sparse furnishings. An armchair. An ottoman. A table and a chair against the wall. That single lamp on top of it. It has a glass base.
I go to it, pick it up. Hold it in two hands. I’d prefer a heavier base, something I can get my hands around and swing. But this, the glass, it’s something. I set it down for now and head to the door that ends up leading to an empty closet. Another one opens into a bathroom. I switch on the light. Only one bulb over the vanity works but it’s enough to show off the marble in the small room, the shower, no bathtub in here. A lone pedestal sink and no cabinets to search. There’s an empty towel rack and an old-fashioned looking toilet, one of those with the bowl high up and a long chain to flush.
I switch on the tap and it hiccups before water spurts out, then begins to pour ice cold. I guess no one has used this bathroom in a while. I cup my hands and drink some then switch it off, wipe my hands on my sweats since there’s no towel. My hair is drying. It’s no longer stuck to my head. There’s no cleaning up the smeared eyeliner. I look like I’ve been through it, and it hasn’t even begun yet.
I walk back to the outer room and try the door. Still locked, as expected. Still silent beyond it, too. I look back at the lamp. It’s my only option. Switching the bathroom light back on so I’m not left in complete darkness, I unplug it, carry it into the bathroom. I close the door behind me and, without overthinking it, I hit the base against the sink hard enough to crack it. The glass is strong, that’s good. I do it again, careful not to shatter it, cringing at the sound, hoping if the driver or St. James are in the hallway, they don’t hear it.
This time, the glass breaks into multiple large shards. I bend to pick up the best one, test the edge. Like a knife. Good.
I walk back out into the bedroom carefully carrying the lamp. I’d rather leave it off but it’s too dark and I can’t see anything without it, so I plug it back in, turning the part of the base that’s not completely destroyed toward the room for when he comes for me.
My purse and coat are on the floor. I dig out some tissues from inside my bag and wrap them around one side of the glass, so I don’t cut myself when I cut him. I guess he had someone look through my stuff and take my cell phone while I was working.
I stand, look at my makeshift dagger, a shiv, I guess. I feel calmer for it. Carefully tucking it into the pocket of my oversized sweats, I walk to the door. I need to get out of here. I need to figure out some plan for Wren and me. I can’t just sit here and wait for him.
“Hey!” I call out. “Hey! Let me out of here!” I slap my hands against the door. It’s loud and it hurts my palms, but I do it again. I want this over with. I need it over with. I need him to come. This was a mistake. Blackmailing a man like Ezekiel St. James was a huge mistake.
There’s nothing though. No response. He doesn’t come. I’m not even sure the driver is outside my door or in the house at all. Hell, maybe he’s just going to leave me here to starve to death.
I pace the room, try the windows, but they’re sealed tight. Not sure what I’d do if I could open one anyway, scale the wall? Not likely. I’m not Spiderman.
Again, I go to the door and bang and holler. Again, nothing. The image of the brothers at The Cat House comes to mind. How they’d looked in their cloaks and masks. How big they were when they stood. How strong the one who wrapped his hands around my arms just a little tighter than necessary in the guise of helping me when I would have fallen.
Tears threaten but I wipe the few that escape away and tell myself to stop it. It’s pathetic and I’m scared, yes, but I need to think about Wren. What will happen to her if I don’t get out of here?
“Let me out!” I scream again, the words ending on a sob as I slam my fists into the door and this time, this time, there is something. Someone slams their fist into it from the other side and I jump backward, my heart hammering. I think it was better when there was no response.
It happens again, that fist slamming so hard the door rattles in its hinges, and I back up, wondering how long someone has been out there. Wondering if he was just listening. Waiting. Getting in my head.
The lock disengages and I hurry away from the door, my heart in my throat. I slide my hand into my pocket and close it around the shiv, wincing when it slices my palm because those few tissues wrapped around it don’t offer much protection.
I back up as the door opens. Light from the hallway illuminates his dark form, making him appear bigger. Darker. More menacing as he stands in his cloak and mask and I swear he’s taller and bigger than he was at the club, eyes on fire with power, and fury, knowing his dominion over me. I hear the pathetic sound my throat makes. I’m sure he hears it too.
There’s a part of me that wishes it was the driver. It’s not. It’s Ezekiel St. James. He steps inside and he doesn’t stop until he eats up the space between us and backs me into the wall. He towers over me and the sight of him in that cloak and mask is fucking terrifying. I’ve never been this scared in my life. Not even the night that changed my life forever. The night that sent us on the run.
The sheer size of him, his presence larger than life, his fury a palpable thing in the room with us, it’s all too much. It’s all too fucking much.