Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SLADE
Emotions are for the weak.
More of my grandfather’s words rattle around in my head as I watch Thea mumble into the window.
It’s a mix of words I can’t understand even though I strain to listen.
Her body seems to relax as we weave through the roads toward the lake house.
She must remember her first ride here and is grateful she isn’t going back to EV, and my throat constricts as I think about having her back home.
I can’t take her back. This needs to play out. So, I’ll take her to the lake house with me and let her rest.
She rubs at her chafed wrists, then drags a few fingers up and over her tattoo.
She swipes back and forth methodically, as if it brings her comfort.
I wish I knew the meaning behind it, the dandelion.
It’s stupid, this desire to know about a weed this woman seems to have taken a liking to. I snort, and that draws her attention.
“Do you know if Tonya is okay?” she asks. She pulls a chunk of her hair forward and twirls it.
Who’s that? Probably one of the girls, most likely the girl she gave her GHB to.
I shake my head.
It’s not a habit of mine to know the girls’ names.
She whispers to herself again. Something about being ungrateful?
Then she twists back to me. She can’t make up her mind, looking at me or out the window.
An odd sensation gnaws at me when she shifts her entire body this time.
Her knee comes up, bending leisurely to tuck into the seat, and it grazes my hand that rests in the middle.
Withdrawing my hand allows my fingertips to brush along her silky skin, and a spark crackles between us.
I have to tuck my hand into my pocket to avoid reaching back out to test my hypothesis.
Her nonreaction has me wanting to try again, to touch her again.
Harder this time. Why do I want her to feel me?
She studies me, and I do my best to meet her stare.
“Thank you,” she says. “I should say thank you. I think. I don’t know. I mean, you saved me from Bishop, and I should be grateful. I am grateful.”
There’s a “but” hanging in the precipice of her words, and her nose wrinkles and then unwrinkles several times, as if she’s fighting back words. I want to know what she’s thinking, so I lean back and adjust my glasses, waiting for her.
She hovers in this gray area of wanting to say more but never following through.
Either she’s scared, considers what she has to say irrelevant, or is being polite.
But I want to know what she has to say. I’d like to think she has some strong opinions; she’s just too afraid to state them.
Most of the time, people bulldoze over others when they realize said person won’t assert themselves.
So instead of releasing her gaze, or her, from the conversation, I raise my eyebrows and gesture for her to continue.
I’ll wait. To hear what she wants to say, I’ll wait.
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, thoughtful yet distracted.
It’s killing me. I shouldn’t be watching her this closely.
I know that. But I can’t help it. Each shift of her mouth, every blink or nervous drum of her fingers—I memorize it as if my mind has rewired itself in the two weeks since she was introduced on that stage.
Damn it, she shouldn’t be on that stage.
None of them should, but it’s extra angering that she was. Even more so that she seems to be fairly composed. She wasn’t with the medic, though, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her, appreciating the molten fight uncontained in her expression.
I don’t want to take anything more from her. Not her voice or her choice. Not even this silence.
But that lip.
That mouth.
Soft, flushed, and bitten raw by her own teeth. I want to touch them. To stop her from chewing them and to make her answer me instead.
She should speak up on her own.
So I wait.
“But I wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for all of you. I know you’re trying to help, but come on? GHB? Seriously? Why can’t you smuggle us out. Why allow this to happen to us if you’re a good person—”
Well, she definitely has me wrong then. I’m not a good person. Yes, it’s beneficial for them to have a way out, but I’ve become numb to ethical conduct. Some may say I’m worse in that aspect because I’m using girls who are already being used.
Smuggling girls out solves nothing—they’d only get more. Then they’d hunt down anyone who could expose them. No. True reform won’t happen until changes are made from the inside.
I shake my head as she continues to probe me.
“—or you can go to law enforcement for help. Other politicians. The media.”
Again, I shake my head. She misunderstands.
Thea crosses her arms over herself and huffs. “Ugh. I wish you’d open your damn mouth!”
The words tumble out fast, and so unlike her. The tone betrays her, too, and she slaps a hand over her mouth. Her body jerks back, eyes wide and startled. Perhaps also panicked, expecting me to strike her, or, in her world, worse, turn around and deliver her right back.
I’m not sure what rattles me more. What she said … or how terrified she looks for saying it. But I realize the fear might come from her belief that speaking her mind could cost her something she can’t afford to lose—and I can’t help but wonder what, or who, made her believe that.
The corner of my mouth twitches. She wishes I’d speak with her. Well, she doesn’t realize how much she challenges my resolve to stay quiet. Though if my silence helps her find her voice, I’d say it’s worth it.
It takes another six minutes to pass through the gates of my lakefront property, and Thea stays quiet the rest of the way.
When we pull up to the front door, my driver opens the door for us, and we both climb out.
Edmond isn’t here to greet us, not that he does when I arrive most days, but I know tonight in particular he’s dealing with the other girl.
I need him. I’m not sure where to put Thea now that both girls are here.
“Now what?” Thea asks, looking at me staring at the front door. I hadn’t realized my thoughts paralyzed me.
Opening the door, I hold it for her, and she shuffles in, eyes downcast on the floor.
Voices coming from off in the kitchen make her perk up, and hesitantly, she leans toward them.
Hand outstretched, I gesture for her to head down the hallway.
She goes, adjusting her too-tight skirt.
It clings to her as though she’s been sewn into it.
Her hips sway, subtle and unintentional, yet I track each shift like a starving man before I can stop it. It’s been too long. Years. Yes, that’s it.
I don’t want to look at her the way they do and reduce her to a body in motion. But as I think that, the molded fabric rides higher on her thighs as she walks. The hypnotic image fixes itself in my mind despite my effort to blot it out. I know this view will haunt me tonight.
I swallow.
She slows down before the threshold to the kitchen, and it’s then she looks over her shoulder at me, her gaze searching.
I tilt my head. Go in.
She pauses, allowing me to catch up. I nudge her in.
Edmond leans against the edge of the marble island, nursing a glass of something while Stefan, my private chef, moves around prepping food. The kitchen smells of charred rosemary and lemon zest left over from the meal Stefan must’ve prepared.
Thea inhales an audible breath, and Edmond startles, snapping his head toward the kitchen entrance and shoving his drink behind his back. I silently chuckle as he stands up straight and steps together as though he’s some sort of military man.
“Slade—I mean Congressman DuPont.” He glances at Thea, who fiddles with the sequined hem of her top. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t aware you’d have another guest tonight, sir.”
I nod, and Thea steps forward, scanning the kitchen. She left without seeing it last time. She follows the grainy white oak cabinets as they stretch to the ceiling, then dips her gaze toward the tile backsplash, the cool blues and greens catching the recessed lights above the stove.
“Wow,” she says. “This is … clean.”
Stefan snorts, keeping his focus trained on the red pepper he’s chopping. “More like a mess.”
I glare at Edmond, who’s busy tracing the veined marble under his pointer finger. He flicks the condensation off the side of his tumbler. Then he speaks up. “Can I get you anything?”
“I have no idea. Not really sure,” Thea says. “I am hungry. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. Not sure what I’m doing here.”
My nostrils flare, and I spin toward the floor-to-ceiling window along the far wall that frames the dark lake. The glass reflects Stefan’s silhouette as he dices something else with clinical detachment. The soft thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife is annoying.
He doesn’t talk much, which I prefer, but the man’s a machine.
His hair is spiked with frosted tips, and a bandana is rolled up at his forehead.
Thick, dark eyebrows, a wide nose, and a pocked face—the guy looks like a teenager from the year two thousand at the age of sixty.
But he’s on my personal payroll. Not the society’s.
Not my grandfather’s. Not the taxpayer’s. Mine.
He moves toward the open shelving where spice jars are lined in near-military formation, the labels handwritten, but he bangs his head on a single copper pot hanging from the stove on display.
“Son of a—” He side-eyes Thea. “—I mean, damn it. Hell, this kitchen needs an upgrade, Slade. All that money and you can’t provide a decent kitchen. I should demand a renovation.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. It is renovated. Everything is state of the art, so he can complain all he wants, but he’s stuck with it.
Shaking his head, he grabs a few jars and moves them to his workstation.
“Chef has some leftover beef tenderloin and blanched seasonal vegetables with shallots,” Edmond says, moving to the stainless-steel monolith of a fridge.
“I’d be fine with cereal. If you have any?”