Chapter 21 #2
Inside is remarkably tame. Mirror, sinks, stalls. Looking at myself in the reflection, I see someone who is way over their head. Despite the liberal amounts of blush I’d applied earlier, my skin has gone pale and a bit clammy.
I’ll just hole up in here a good amount of time, enough that Elevator Man gets bored enough to find another drug companion, and then I’ll rush back up the elevator and marathon home!
The plan is very valid and would have worked if the time I have to wait in the bathroom didn’t make my thoughts wander to Sistine. Luke’s much younger sister.
Is she at this party? Is she safe? Did she know what kind of event this was?
Was she too accosted by another partygoer and told to take drugs?
Or maybe she took them voluntarily and can handle herself?
My teeth make indents on my lips. There’s no way I’ll know the answers without confirming it with Sistine herself.
I think I have to, I think with frustration. I can’t leave without knowing for sure she is okay because if something were to happen, I don’t want to come back to this moment and regret not checking up on her.
Looking at myself once again in the mirror, I woefully utter a very despairing, “Fuck.”
One option is to go outside and try looking for her, but I have no idea how far this underground portion extends for.
I pull out my phone.
If only I could call Sistine, but I can’t because I don’t have her number. Why didn’t we exchange contact information? Oh yeah, because of our rocky start and recent truce. There’s been no time.
I go through my phone, partly praying a solution will spontaneously appear before me and partly because scrolling is mindless and makes me feel cocooned and brainwashed at the same time, a temporary salve to my growing stress.
My finger stops at my contact list.
That’s it. I might not have Sistine’s number, but I have a way to get it.
I message Luke.
LUKE
Hey. Hope your business trip is going well.
What is your sister’s phone number btw? I want to ask her about some girl stuff.
There. Casual. Unalarming. And it doesn’t invite him to ask for more details. He’s usually quick at responding, so this shouldn’t take long?—
The phone rings .
My hip knocks into the sink.
Shit.
It’s him.
I pick up on the fourth ring. “Hey, you.”
“Rita.” His voice is a low rasp. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Why do you assume anything is going on? It’s all fine. Nothing is going on. I’m all good. So good, actually. Just relaxing .”
“Where are you?” asks Luke, ignoring my bumbling.
“Home. Your place, I mean.”
There’s a pause where I hear a few clicks in the background. “Not according to my security system,” he mutters.
“Wait, you have cameras? Like everywhere in your place?”
“Of course not,” says Luke. “The front door logs when a person comes and goes. If I pull up the video…” He clears his throat. “You left an hour ago. Wearing a dress. It’s blue.” A long pause. “Tight.”
“ So ? It’s a free country?—”
“I’m going to repeat the question again. Where are you? And why do you need Sistine?”
I grip the phone tighter.
He’s using that tone. The bossy, domineering one. But we are not at work. I don’t have to listen to it. And any shivering and nipple tightness through my dress is related to a sudden draft in the bathroom.
“Give me her phone number first,” I demand.
“Rita.”
“Luke.”
“Rita.”
“Saying my name won’t work. I’m highly trained in hostage negotiation.”
“No, you’re not.” He lets out a growl. “Must you be so frustrating all the time? I’m asking for your benefit because I want to know you’re safe.”
“I am—” Technically I can’t say safe. “It’s fine. Just please give me Sistine’s number.” Then I can ditch this drug and weapon-friendly party, go home, and berate my friends about leaving the sanctuary of one’s pajamas for a mystery venue where rich people wear animal masks.
There is another silence. I can imagine the steel blues of his eyes, the grinding of his teeth, the way his generous palms must be fisted on top of whatever king-size desk he’s manning at his business meeting.
Or maybe it’s late and Luke is already in bed, leaning against the frame, hair rumpled and mood pissed.
My phone beeps. It’s a text.
“I messaged it to you,” he snarls. “Now tell me where you are and what is going on.”
“Nothing, we went to this party, got separated. But I’llcallhernowthankyouforthenumber.”
“Don’t you dare hang?—”
I end the call, forgetting to say bye.
Oops. Oh well.
If Sistine isn’t in trouble, I don’t want to rat out her evening proclivities to Luke. It’s not my place to do so. At least, not until I talk to her and learn more about what is going on.
Another call from Luke comes in.
I decline it and call Sistine instead.
She doesn’t pick up. I call several times.
And then, my night gets worse because I finally decide to leave the bathroom, and Elevator Man is still there. But he’s not alone. There is another topless server with him, this time a woman in a fox mask.
Fox Woman tells me I have a friend looking for me.
( Sistine ?!)
Against my best judgment, I follow them.
We’re in a gamblers suite, a smaller den of impropriety that is an offshoot from the main hall.
Most people filter out when we walk inside, leaving two men behind.
A bald man twists an olive martini in one hand.
His burgeoning stomach is squeezed into a silk shirt.
Sausage stuffed into a casing , I immediately think.
His purple shirt has a few buttons open at the throat to allow furry chest hair room to poke out.
Eyebrows are heavyset, and the top of both ears have a row of golden hoops pierced through the skin.
Elevator Man addresses him with a hawkish grin. “Dmitri.”
The other man is thin and oily. His face shines all over, but the top of his nose is the brightest. In contrast, his neck and the collarbones are all ruddy and irritated, as if he’s experienced too many sunny vacations stacked on top of each other.
Deep wrinkles pull at the corners of his mouth.
He has no facial hair to hide those, and even the hairs of his head are lifelessly blonde, thinning to the point of transparency in a few spots.
“Daniel,” says Elevator Man, going over to shake his hand .
These introductions happen within a few seconds, and at the same time, I’m turning around to dash out the exit because Sistine is nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, Fox Woman has shut the door and has set herself up as a sentry.
“Who is she?” asks Dimitri, pointing at me.
“I don’t know,” says Elevator Man, “but I’m about to ask her how she’s gotten a hold of one of our special invitations. She was upstairs trying to get the concierge to help her.”
Three sets of eyes narrow at me.
Panic slithers down my spine. What kind of special invitation? Can I admit I’ve messed up badly? Is that how I can get out of here?
“Who are you?” Daniel asks now, hissing the words out.
My hands slowly go up, and I take a step back. “I…make cakes for Luke Abbot.”
Now, I have their attention.
“I’m his chef. He is outside, looking for me.” I point to the door. “So I should leave?—”
Elevator Man circles me, using his body to block the exit. He is grinning as if he’s won all the money being gambled in this building in one hand. “Luke Abbot? Let him come find you here. I’ve been trying to set up a meeting with him for far too long.”
“Oh.” The back of my dress is damp with sweat. “I—let me call him, then.” I pull out my phone, and then let out a cry when Elevator Man yanks it out of my hand.
“I’ll call him for you,” he says. “Tell me the number.”
With no other choice, I do. Is this a kidnapping? I’m not breathing the whole time my phone rings. And rings some more.
What the fuck, Luke? Now you don’t answer?
“He’ll c-come,” I stammer. “Meanwhile, I’ll?—”
I’m about to say, wait outside, but Dimitri has another idea.
“Go make us a drink,” he orders.