Chapter 8
With purpose, back straight and stiff, Kara quickly makes a beeline to where she vaguely recalls parking her car earlier in the morning. The lights above in the underground lot are morbidly dark, in bad shape, shedding a miserable greenish light across the concrete flooring.
Her feet are shredded in her heels, wounds from partying in those uncomfortable shoes from days ago still unhealed. She feels her mouth twist with pain as she quickly strides towards her vehicle, distantly hearing the click of a man’s shoes echoing elsewhere.
Feeling her heart race, Kara tries to not feel like she’s being chased in a horror flick. But.
It’s hard not to feel that way.
She concentrates on balancing as she walks, because she’s moving fast and the ground isn’t perfectly even. Wouldn’t that be lovely, to trip or lose a heel while flouncing out of that elevator. God, what if he saw? Kara’s insides cringe; it’s bad enough having anyone witness a stiletto mishap, but it’s far worse to have your nemesis see it!
Nicholas Havenwood-Calais probably lives life surrounded by women who easily float about in those absurd six-inch, name brand heels that cost hundreds of dollars. Absurdly expensive and absurdly painful looking. Okay, so her ass is in a twist over the price, not the pain of such sky-high heels, but no doubt she would tip over in those iconic stilts.
Within the last few feet of her car, she quickly grabs the handle and practically throws herself inside, heart in her throat. Like a deer that expects to be caught, she freezes in her seat and slowly looks to the left, almost sagging in relief when she realizes that no one was behind her at all.
She’d been scaring herself over nothing. Calais likely got in his own car already and drove off.
But. To be sure, she locks her doors even as she starts the ignition.
Her car rumbles…and rumbles. Then, it graciously doesn’t turn on.
Kara blinks. Tries again. Gets the same odious result. Because, how dare her car do this on the absolute worst day? Her headache creeps back as her stress level rises, a vein throbbing in her temple. She inhales deeply, trying to calm her rising anger, her fuse always short.
Something she inherited from her father, something that always made her wonder if she was sane or not, as a result.
Her teeth grind together as she tries to not burst out with the red-hot emotion clawing its way up her throat, but she can’t keep it in.
She curses viciously, screaming the words out in her silent car. Kara’s been told her mouth is terribly foul and it’s true.
With lingering hangover aches and about as much energy as her pinky finger has muscle, she knows waiting around is not an option. I’m not sitting here waiting for a tow truck. I’m exhausted. I just want to be home. I’ll call tomorrow.
Cab it is. Kara twists to see if her flats are in the back seat and groans when she sees empty space. No luck. She’s going to have to keep grinning and bearing it.
Her feet hurt, the old cuts on the backs of her heels screaming under the pressure of being contained in her tight stilettos all day. Walking to find a cab hurts every step of the way, but Kara bears it, pretending her best that there’s no pain.
It’s a fine art, actually. Walking in heels that are literally making her feel like abandoning all sense of pride and simply walking through the filthy streets barefoot while everyone watches on, judging. Walking like every step isn’t making her insides wither and die in agony.
Torture. That’s what it is. Except, she’s pretending it isn’t torture, in fact, she might even keep a lovely, serene expression on her face even though her pain receptors are firing at will.
Yup. She’s in that mood at the moment, living that life in these heels. Kara curses herself for forgetting to pack her flats in her car, but regardless, the flats would have hurt too. Anything with a back on them would hurt.
Once she gets out front of the building, she stands on the curb and holds up her hand, whistling for a cab. The street is already jam packed with traffic, everyone trying to get home after a long day. The cabs at this time are usually full up, which is a nightmare in the making.
One by one, cabs slowly drive by, their occupants on their phones, oblivious to Kara’s envy of their seat. Another cab drives through the light and Kara curses after him. Bastard had been empty. Never try to get a cab during rush hour. Your luck will always be shit.
As she continues glowering, stretching up as tall as she can to be seen, a car, something nice, something deep red and shiny, pulls up beside her on the left. The light is red up ahead, so Kara thinks nothing of it, refuses to sit and gawk at the car that she doesn’t even recognize, so she continues scanning up the street for a cab, mentally squealing over her aching feet.
Will she be crippled? Are her toes going to crunch up? Is she bleeding? Why, why did she wear these shoes?
Oh, because she not the tallest flower in the field and high heels make her stand out a bit more. Yeah. That’s why. Stupid reasons earn stupid outcomes.
Cars start to move again, the only cab in view currently occupied. Kara scowls, letting her hand drop down to her side. The car beside her still hasn’t moved and she distantly wishes they could have decided to idle elsewhere, not beside her, witnessing her abject failure to hail a cab in rush hour.
There’s a slight whine as the passenger window rolls down. Alright, what’s the deal here? Huffing out angrily through her nose, Kara lets her eyes cut over to the driver.
“Are you working?” The utter shithead asks, a deceptively bland expression on his stone-cut face, in his fancy ride.
Kara blinks, squinting at Nicholas Havenwood-Calais in abject confusion, mixed with the absolute loathing that’s leaking out of her heart like a disease. “Am I…?” She shakes her head as soon as she realizes what he’s inferring. Ah. Funny. Jokey jokes. Working. Hooking. Same difference. “What the fuck!?”
His lips twist wryly. “I beg your pardon.”
Making a sound of anger fueled frustration, Kara feels her fingers clench around her work tote. It’s like he lives just to torment her, making small talk, threats, or cryptical nonsense for no good reason. “Excuse me?”
Calais is rolling down his driver side window now, gesturing with his left hand to the honking asshole behind him to go around. He turns back to her, peering at her through the passenger window. “’Excuse me’ is an improvement. Just trying to teach you better phrases to express your obvious confusion. You sound like an illiterate trollop every time you speak, you know,” he comments idly, like this is the most normal conversation to be having.
Kara stares at him, then stares some more. He’s got an ivy league, old money way of talking. Like he’s been beat over the head to talk nice, all the time. Even when he says something insulting, it sounds completely pleasant, like he’s complimenting her on her on a job well done instead of calling her an uncultured swine from the bottom of the pig pen.
It's a skill , she thinks darkly as her eyes narrow on him. “Not all men assume I’m working the street just because I’m standing here, looking for a ride. Stop projecting your perversions on me, thanks.”
His gaze is chilly, left hand casually resting on the wheel. “You’re right. Besides, you have that sad waif look about you right now, especially with those glasses. Not really compelling ‘lady of the night’ material. The comment was in bad taste.”
“What’s wrong with my glasses?!”
His mouth twists, his head tilting to the side slightly. “Nothing. You just look lost, is all.”
Trying to look down her nose at him imperiously, Kara grouses, “I’m not lost, but you need to get lost , like yesterday. Shoo, troll.” She flaps her free hand at him.
“What are you doing out here? I just saw you a few minutes ago in the garage.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but my car won’t start,” she utters, feeling her neck heat as she scans the street again, looking for an unoccupied cab. “No big fucking deal. You’ve gloated and laughed at my misfortune; isn’t that enough for one day? Or do you thrive on the misery of others? Is that a thing for you?”
There’s no options in the street. The cars are nearly bumper to bumper, snailing by. Kara mentally curses herself, because she knows better than this. Never get a cab during rush hour. It’s a battlefield.
“Do you want a ride?”
The hand she has in the air falls an inch, surprised.
Is he joking? He must be. Another laugh at her expense. “Are you mad?” Kara says in disbelief as her hand comes back to her side, useless. “Do you remember the last time we were in a motorized vehicle together? I may be hungover, but I’m not an idiot.”
He groans, running his hand over his face in a manner that bespeaks his aggravation with her. “Text Derrick and tell him you’re getting a ride home from me. Since you’re probably sleeping with the guy, I’m sure he’ll give me a thrashing if anything befalls you during a car ride.”
He’s absolutely foul. Not even his offers of help come without a verbal insult.
Furious, she snaps, “I told you already! I’m not sleeping-!” She lowers her voice then, realizing how that would sound to the bustling people walking on the sidewalk. “I’m not sleeping with him. I told you already; he’s happily married!”
Calais is fiddling with his stereo, dismissive of her reply. “Yeah, I’m still not convinced about you not sleeping your way to the top. You were terrible in court today, absolutely terrible. 10/10 would not recommend hiring you, sweetpea.”
The barb stings and Kara already feels awful about her showing today. He’s not wrong; if that performance gets around, she’ll not be high on the list for anyone to hire. “Everyone has their off days. I’m just having an off week, thanks to a certain asshole on a power trip.”
His face hardens. “Get in the car,” he drawls finally, an edge creeping into his tone.
She’s not standing here listening to this anymore. Kara turns to storm back to the building looming behind her, hissing, “The hell I will.”
Then, the sky above rumbles with thunder.
Oh, lord. Not again. Please, not tonight, Kara thinks in dismay, glancing upward in dread.
The first drop hits her glasses, splattering outward like broken glass. Then, the sky opens up and unloads. Not the kind of rain that can sort of soak a person after ten minutes of exposure. Nope. Not this.
This godforsaken deluge…
Kara can’t stop the shiver that runs up her spine, the chill so immediate. Her coat isn’t thick and it isn’t water proof. Hunching over her work tote, she mentally prays her documents are shielded from the assault of water pouring from the heavens.
No way she gets a cab in the middle of rush hour in a downpour; she’s had no luck already. She shifts to look behind her, back at the court building. She’ll have to wait it out. She lives too far to walk.
Calais must see her intent, because he leans over and pushes open the car door for her. “You want to walk in this downpour? Don’t be ridiculous.” He shouts it over the din of the rain. “I’m not letting a young girl sit out in this. Stop being stubborn, Kara.”
Her nerves are set aflame with…something. Kara looks at him sharply, confusion marring her features. He knows her name? Of course he does. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out. Still, hearing him say it makes her insides twist.
Steeling herself for her next action, Kara sneers mockingly, “What a gentleman.”
Inelegantly, she dives into the passenger seat, out of the pouring rain. He sits back immediately, giving her space to get comfortable. Awkwardly, Kara holds her large tote on her lap, wrapping her arms around it as if it will protect her from him.
The interior of the car smells like his cologne and the weight of it presses down on her, surrounding her. She huddles against the car door, leaning away from him the best she can. If Calais finds her actions amusing, he doesn’t comment.
He pulls out into traffic slowly. “Where am I going,” he asks finally, staring through the front window, flicking his wipers on.
Kara tells him an intersection about a block away from her building. No way she’s having him drop her off at home. She may be in his car, which is risky enough, but she doesn’t trust him a wit. He’s a predator and nothing is going to let her forget that.
Not even a downpour and painful heels.
The only sound in the car is the sound of rain. The windows are blurry with water, lights from cars spreading like star lights. The drive is slow, but the ride itself is smooth. The car seems to glide over the asphalt.
He doesn’t talk to her, which gets her hackles up even more. She feels like a child, like she’s in the car with her father. Then again, that isn’t completely accurate; it wouldn’t have been this tense, fueled by an undercurrent of…
She shakes her head, abandoning her thoughts. “Just drop me off on the corner, up here.” Kara points to the intersection.
Kara needs to get out. Her eyes drift over to his form, noting the relaxed way he has his legs spread, left hand on the wheel, right elbow resting against the center armrest. Anytime he shifts position, the scent of him grows stronger.
As much as she hates to admit it, her mouth salivates. The gourmand cologne is everything she generally loves. Just not on him.
She’s sweating. Is it hot in his car? Is he sweating? No. He looks fine. Cool even. In control. Always distant and in control. A perfect picture of power. Kara feels like a mouse, trapped in a room with no exit with a cat sitting, waiting nearby.
He makes a noise, something derisive. “In front of the coffee shop? This isn’t like, a second job or something, is it? Derrick must be paying poor these days.”
“I don’t feel safe with you knowing where I live,” she utters, hating the way her voice quivers on the last note. “This is close enough.”
She doesn’t want to seem weak or afraid. Kara’s tougher than that, made of tougher shit. But, she can’t deny what he so easily did to her. He’d taken advantage of her…and it didn’t matter that he had been sure she was a hooker at the time.
That didn’t excuse him of anything. It wasn’t like she was going to tell him he could go say ten Hail Mary’s and call it a day. Or whatever Catholic boys do for forgiveness. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, deciding he looks like a Catholic sort of boy.
Her family had considered themselves Protestant and rarely ever went to church when she was a girl. She figured they’d decided on Protestant because there was no way her daddy was getting in a confessional booth in the lovely Catholic church up the street from her childhood home.
Her father could do no wrong, after all. What would he ever need to confess? It would probably be something like- I punched my wife and backhanded my eleven-year-old daughter, so what, they deserved it, didn’t they? The house wasn’t clean enough, the casserole was slightly burnt, and my parents were visiting; didn’t they realize how embarrassing that was for me? Kara shudders, almost hearing his extremely persuasive voice in her head.
Calais turns his head to look at her momentarily before pulling over to the curb. “I really have no interest in where you live. Don’t you think I have better things to do than worry about where angry little girls spend their time brooding? If I cared that much, there are other ways of finding that information.”
Nervously, yet feeling suddenly foolish, Kara places her hand on the handle of the car door, ready to scoot out. “You wondered whether I would tell the police…what you did. What if you planned on sending someone to shut me up to make sure that never happens?”
Seriously, she’s been thinking about it.
He gives a sharp bark of laughter and he turns his head to look at her, his face transforming with mirth. “Send someone to shut you up? Is that what you’re worried about? I’m not going to hire anyone to hurt you. Not over a little misunderstanding. I have money and know all the right people to make it worth your while to not talk. You wouldn’t win in court, even if you did.”
Giving him a hard glower, Kara feels her upper lip curl like a rabid dog’s. “I wouldn’t call what happened a ‘misunderstanding’. Regardless of if I were a girl working the street or not, I was under the influence and you were…rough.”
The expression on his face freezes before slowly becoming cynical. “See, that’s the thing. A lot of those…girls…know my friends and I. Most know I like it when they say ‘no’ and pretend to not like it. They know the routine.”
Okay, so those types of men are always in fiction, not in real life. Kara explodes. “That’s awful, you goddamn pervert! What a fucking terrible reputation to have. ‘Oh, the ladies know me, I like it when they say no’.” Kara cackles mirthlessly. “Well, I wasn’t one of them. I was in trouble before you even found me! I needed help, not to be grabbed like a piece of candy! You scare me . I don’t want to be in this car. My feet hurt- I’m using you. This is me, using you for a fucking ride. It’s my turn to use you .”
Kara’s breathing heavily in the aftermath of her furious tirade. Calais blinks those tropical storm eyes, as if shocked by her vehemence. Good.
No one speaks or moves, aside from the sound of Kara’s harsh breathing. He swallows and her eyes follow the line of his throat as he does so. Then, his voice is a soft rumble, “The gas didn’t cost me all that much to drive over here.”
She grits her teeth. “I beg your pardon,” she hisses mockingly, playing off his words from earlier. What is he on about now? Why can’t he ever make any sense?
Calais shifts, reaches his left arm in front of him sharply to check his watch as his suit coat slides back a bit. He’s got strong wrists, not that Kara is noticing. “If this was your idea of using me, it certainly didn’t cost that much. This? This is nothing. You can pick something else, is all I’m trying to say.”
He shifts, and his legs are still spread. He doesn’t elaborate anything, just leaves it completely open for interpretation, like he already knows that she wants control back, that she wants to be the user, the one with the power and Kara-
Kara feels her mouth dry and she swallows uselessly, meeting his eyes, dark in the shadowy car. His shape seems so large, too overpowering and the words are making sense in all the wrong ways. Everything she’s feeling is wrong and alarm bells are ringing in her head. “I’m going now,” she says numbly.
He shifts to face forward, dismissing her, his left hand going to the wheel while the other rests on the shift. “Suit yourself,” he replies calmly, looking like a sleek predator in his driver seat.
Already distant, like the moon.
Feeling her lower jaw slacken as she stares at his side profile in a distant sort of horror, perhaps disbelief, Kara clutches her work tote to her chest as she twists to exit the low-profile car. Inelegantly, she stumbles out; not like in the movies where hot babes glide out of exotic cars. Oh no. She tries, but ultimately fails at making a smooth escape.
Even though the rain is still falling from the sky in droves, she waits stiffly until the car pulls away. It was bad enough that she let him drive her back to her neighborhood, it would be far worse for him to see her building.
Regardless of the fact that he’s right; it wouldn’t be hard for someone of his means to find out her address. No challenge at all. Despite that, Kara holds on to her pride, because that’s what it’s all about, after all.
When the flashy red car zips around the next corner, she lets the air out of her lungs and shivers. Her glasses are fogged, so she lifts them onto her forehead as she limps to her building, feet blazing with pain.
Inside her place, she slips out of her black heels and stares at the floor as water drips off her, splattering on her nice bamboo floors.
It’s like blood, crimson and bright. Streams of it, on the kitchen tile.
Kara blinks the memory away, groaning as she flexes her toes, now free of their prison.
She makes dinner simple, goat cheese ravioli with a garlic herb sauce. Kara eats slowly, her stomach still a little sore from the morning. She eats and texts with Bob, conferring with him over the notes she’s been getting from their PI.
Her work folder is spread open on the table, drying. Most of the papers are fine, but a few are best left alone.
Kara chomps on her pasta slowly, squinting down and making notes as she catches up on work. They struck out on four of the people who cut ties with the club, taking with them their signed NDA’s. She’s about to write off the idea that these people left for a shady reason vs just getting out of the lifestyle when-
We have one, the PI finally texts her.
And? Kara asks, rubbing her forehead, worrying about wrinkles briefly. Is it a good lead?
This one is gold, he replies. Meet her on Sunday to talk further. Take Derrick with you. Rough story. Ask her about ‘The Room’.
Just like that, her interest is reawaked. Tell me about this room.
Oh, no. It’s not a room. It’s ‘The Room’. Our little number said, and I quote, ‘I’ve been to The Room, where souls go to die’.
Kara frowns, something like claws running down her spine. Something disturbing rests in the text, something that makes her chest tighten with unease. This…this doesn’t sound good. This sounds far worse. She’ll need to ask Debra Mills if she’s heard about this…Room.
This place where souls go to die.
Her phone beeps again, but this time, it isn’t Bob or her PI.
The text is Bianca and Kara squints at it skeptically. Of course, now she comes up for air after the weekend debacle.
Hey. Hump Day Dinner tomorrow night, we still on?
Kara inhales deeply, thinking on if it’s even worth starting a fight over how Bianca had let her wander off alone on Saturday night after expressing her concern that she’d been drugged. Probably not worth it. Bianca isn’t…the responsible type. Perhaps Kara doesn’t really care, underneath it all. She needs a distraction, as always.
She shakes off the sick feeling in her stomach that the prior text left, pushing The Room to the back of her mind.
Yeah, Kara types back quickly, sipping her coffee. We’re on. Wanna find something off Wacker?
Bianca’s reply is immediate. Kara can almost imagine her overly cheerful tone and expression. Too much enthusiasm, as always. I’ll find something and book it in the app. I’m totally down to hear about your risqué case. It’s been in the news, you know. :peach emoji:
Rolling her eyes, Kara replies, No, not peach emoji, B. I’m not telling you any details; I can’t discuss cases and you know it.
The message app shows Bianca replying. Then, Yeah, yeah. I know, ho. But, can we be real about that club? We’re going to try and check it out, I’ve decided. Sounds freaky.
Groaning loudly, Kara tosses her head back and wonders why she’s cursed with such an absurd friend. Goodnight, B. I’ll see you tomorrow.
With that, she tosses her phone at the couch, getting out of her reach so she can concentrate on her paperwork and outlining for the next day. A short day, not full. Then, nothing on Thursday. The delay could either be good or bad.
The delay could give the defense more time to pay people off. More time to make a stronger defense. But. This Room thing could change everything. What if it opens a new can of worms?
Kara rubs her eyes tiredly and wonders if Ray Wellis could be any help on the matter. He’s a detective, isn’t he?
Twirling her pencil between her fingers, she considers how the detective had stared at Calais, a furrow in his brow. He isn’t a fan, that much she can tell. There’s something there; Detective Ray Wellis will help her with the digging, won’t he? He wants to catch a patron of prostitutes and Kara wants to win her first prolific case.
Quid pro quo.
Even as she’s thinking about all the ways she can earn her own glory winning the case, a certain image keeps popping up in her memory. Just a flash, a brief moment. A glimpse, reminding her how quickly it made her fast beating heart nearly leap out of her chest like a bat out of hell.
It was the way Calais’s throat moved when he swallowed. In the car. A small crack in that wall of pure indifference, a taste of something that just didn’t fit the image. His neck, unmarred, perfect, it would have been easy to lean over and sink her tee-
No.
Kara snarls, storming into the bathroom to brush her teeth, wishing she could brush Nicholas Havenwood-Calais and his stupid long blueblood name from her mind.
One of these days, Kara, she thinks, you’re going to have to stop with the self-abuse.
Because if you don’t, you’ll end up just like Mom.
{razorblades and pills}
And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.