Chapter 20 #2
“Come on, Remy, keep up. Cassius and Bastien Murray. The men you fucked, remember? I should’ve known you were trash when I met you, but you served a purpose through high school. You kept the jocks off my back. Made me look desirable even.”
I literally have no idea what he’s talking about.
“You must’ve figured it out.” He furrows his brow. “I’m asexual. You never were my type, but you were nice to me, so I thought, what the hell. I was still figuring it out myself, and you were the perfect cover. Little people-pleaser Remy Jones.”
“But… You left me for someone else.”
“And your point is?” He smirks, and I wish I had the strength to punch him in the face and walk out of here with my head held high. “It’s a marriage of convenience. We need each other, Isabella and I, so it works for us both.”
“What do you want from them?”
Looking at him makes my flesh crawl, but something is scratching away at the top of my skull, clamoring to be heard.
Why does he look different? And what is stuck to his jaw?
There’s another glob above his left eyebrow that reminds me of the glue we used in elementary school, the stuff that dried clear, and I would spend hours peeling from my fingers in the playground.
“Isn’t it obvious? No? Money. The Titan, for starters. Why should they get to control the casinos in NYC when my family’s heritage goes back way further than theirs?”
“What heritage?” I never heard about this before. But then again, I never realized that my longest relationship was with a guy who felt zero attraction towards me.
“My family is Irish American. We have connections too, which is why Isabella’s father jumped at the chance of an alliance.”
Maybe I’m hallucinating. This must be a crazy psychedelic dream that I’ll wake up from tomorrow and laugh about when I tell Ariel. Because nothing feels real.
“Okay.” I try to stand up and fall backwards, hitting the back of my head on the door frame. The contact jolts through my body and ramps up the rock anthem a couple of notches.
But before I can tell George that I’m leaving, he grips my arm and drags me towards him, so close, our faces are touching.
I squirm and try to wriggle free, but his grip is like iron. “You’re hurting me.”
“You’re hurting me,” he mimics with added whine for emphasis. “Smile for the camera, and this will all be over.”
He holds his phone at arm’s length with the camera facing us.
My blown pupils stare back at me from my pale face.
My chin is bloody, but my skin looks gray beside George’s pink cheeks, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
He turns towards me, one eye on the camera making sure that we’re both still in the shot and licks my cheek.
Click.
“That should do it.”
He releases me, and I slump on the floor, my chest heaving with the effort of containing my anger. Who does he think he is that he can come along and demand the Murrays hand over the business that they built?
I can’t let him get away with this.
He’s still staring at the image on the screen when I say, “They won’t give you a cent.”
“Shut up, Remy.” He barely even glances my way.
“Fine.” I shuffle away from him. Backwards. I don’t know where it will lead me, but I’m not going back inside the bedroom, and George is between me and the exit. “Go ahead and send your ransom request.”
He raises dark eyes to me. “You’re not the one with the leverage here.”
I shrug. “I’m not leverage. Cash is engaged to be married to someone else. He’ll probably be grateful to you for solving his problem before it got out of hand.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I face him squarely when what I really want to do is knock that smug smile from his face and flee. “You’re the one with the leverage, remember? I have nothing to lose by letting you demand money from them.”
I watch his thought process click behind his eyes in tiny increments.
I’m not prepared for what happens next. His fist connects with the left side of my jaw.
Pain flares inside my skull, drowning out the hammering.
Stars float in front of my eyes. I can’t see.
Can’t think. I feel him dragging my limp body across the floor by my arms, but I can’t even persuade my heels to dig into the carpet and try to stop him.
The carpet becomes cold floor tiles.
George is breathing heavily.
Then he drops me, and my head hits the floor. He climbs over me and exits the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me in darkness.
I hear a click as a key turns in a lock.
I don’t move, afraid that he’ll hear me and come back.
My head feels as though it is on fire. I can’t feel my teeth with my tongue.
But everything is overshadowed by the driving ultrasound image in my head of the babies inside my womb.
The tiny flickering heartbeats. The limbs like mobile squiggles on the grainy picture.
Bodies squashed together for company and comfort.
Staying in this room isn’t an option.
When the Murrays refuse to pay whatever ransom sum he demands, he’ll be angry, and I’ll no longer be the leverage he was hoping for in this insane scam.
I roll onto my stomach, slowly, disoriented by the darkness and the pain in my head.
Up onto my knees. I retch onto the floor and bile burns the back of my throat.
I reverse-crawl away from the puddle on the floor.
My brain feels like it’s expanding and contracting with the added pressure of being sick, so I focus on the cold tiles beneath my knees.
If I’m right, my toes will hit the door at some point. It’s locked, but there should be a light switch nearby.
Sure enough, I feel something solid behind me and stop still. Turning around, I lean against it for support and drag myself upright, banging my chest on the handle as I go.
The door.
I feel my way across the wall as if it’s telling a story in Braille, waiting to touch the slim ridge of a socket.
But it’s smooth. Frantic, desperate for light before George comes back, I keep going, following the wall until my knee collides with another, more flexible than the first. I drag my fingers across it, stare until it blurs into something I can understand.
A shower cubicle.
This is a bathroom.
The light switch will be outside for practical purposes.
And I don’t have my cell phone because this dress has no room for pockets.
My breathing is growing ragged. My jaw is throbbing. But I hear my mom’s voice in my head: You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.
I’m stronger than George gives me credit for anyway. Stronger than he’ll ever be because I have everything to live for.
I will get out of here.
I will not be here when he comes back with his gooey face and his heavy fist and his revelation that he never found me attractive.
He has no idea that he set me free when he told me this. Everything was a lie and won’t waste another moment of my life remembering.
Past the shower cubicle and my hands flounder in midair. “Keep going, Remy,” I whisper to myself. “It’s him or you.”
Slowly, slowly. Shuffling my bare feet across the floor so that I don’t stumble, until my knee hits something solid.
I reach down, dizzy, and find myself gripping the side of the tub.
I could climb in, lay down against the cool ceramic and sleep until this is all over.
But the mental image includes steaming hot water, fragrant bubbles, a Taylor Swift album playing through my ear pods, and candles.
Candles!
Heart racing, I feel my way around the tub to the taps and almost shriek with excitement when I touch a basket filled with tealight candles.
Yes!
Now all I need is something to light them with.
Okay, think, Remy. Where would George’s girlfriend keep a lighter? In the vanity unit? She wouldn’t want it to spoil the aesthetics, so of course she would keep it hidden.
I forget the pain in my skull. I forget that George is still in the apartment waiting for his bank account to swell with a few more zeroes. I need light. If I have light, I’ll be able to think more clearly, and then I’ll figure out what to do next.
As predicted, the vanity unit is on the opposite side of the room from the tub.
This bathroom is huge, but I’m only vaguely aware of its size.
I’ve blanked out everything but lighting a candle from the basket I’m holding.
I open the cupboard doors and kneel in front of the unit, feeling around for a lighter or a box of matches. It’s empty.
No. No. No.
Setting the basket down, I stand up. My eyes are adjusting to the gloom, and I pray for a lighter in the cupboard above my head. I can make out hazy shapes. Bottles of cologne. Face and hair products. The usual contents of a bathroom cabinet.
Then my fingers touch a slim cold object. Cylindrical. A tiny metal wheel at one end. I rub my thumb across it and my heart leaps when a tiny flame flickers in front of me.
I fumble for a tealight candle in the basket, swaying precariously when I lean forward, more bile rising into my mouth. The wick takes a moment to catch the flame, and when it does, I find myself in a bubble of comforting light.
I stand up and examine the contents of the wall unit. Cologne. Men’s hair products. Men’s shaving balm. Nothing here that belongs to his fiancée. Perhaps they have separate bathrooms, separate bedrooms too. I won’t dwell on it. A loveless marriage is what he deserves.
Then I spot something at the back of the bottom shelf that makes my stomach clench.
At first, I think it might be a small dead animal. Then, I realize that it’s rubbery. Mottled pink and black. I touch it with my fingertip and recoil. In the flickering candlelight, I can’t make sense of what I’m looking at, but I can’t close the cupboard door and walk away either.
I pick it up between my fingertips, fighting the urge to gag.
Hold it closer to the candle and choke on a muffled scream.
It’s a mask. A mask with a black eye, swollen on one side, the lips bruised and crusty with fake blood.
It all comes flooding back. George said that Cash assaulted him, but his face is unmarked. The globs of glue on his jawline and above his eyebrows. The flushed skin and beads of sweat.
He’s been faking the assault to get the cops involved. More pressure on Cash to comply with his demands.
I drop the mask and back away, repelled, waiting for another explanation to present itself, one in which my only relationship wasn’t with a narcissistic maniac.
But I’ve spotted the fluffy white towels on the heated rail. The gold emblem in the corner of each towel that I vaguely recognize. Where have I seen it before? It’s important. My brain hurts, but I can’t let this one go.
Then the memory ignites a spark inside me.
The coasters in Cash’s private booth. The backs of the seats in the casino. The symbols embossed on the windows at the entrance
I’m still in the Titan.