TWENTY-SEVEN
I’ve heard of the walk of shame. This isn’t exactly the same thing, but my gut turns with each step I take downstairs the following morning. The last to rise, I actually consider not leaving the bedroom at all. I have a great excuse too; I’m exhausted from the last seventy-two hours with no sleep. Add all the counts of emotional fuckery and a day in bed could easily be forgiven, but it’s neither my bed, nor my house. I’m hiding. I know it and Dax will notice too, so I force myself to brave him. I have to keep up the charade that I don’t care, even if neither of us believe it.
Music plays from a stereo. A radio station blasts oldies into Dax’s loft-styled mansion apartment. Just like him, this place is a series of contradictions. And just like him, I decided none of it is worth my attention.
My feet come together on the last step, where I have a partial view of Dax and Sylvie at the kitchen counter. They eat breakfast in each other’s company, but pay no attention to one another.
Dax reads from a broadsheet newspaper, something I’ve only seen on TV. Broadsheets aren’t sold in the Vale. We don’t read financial sections, or arts journalism, or real-world news for that matter.
Sylvie taps her spoon against her cereal bowl in time to the music. In the full morning light, I can see she’s younger than I thought; I’d say younger than me, but only by a couple of years at most. She’s lovely, beautiful in fact, with skin as clear as porcelain. The paleness of it contrasts boldly against her jet-black hair. She mouths the words to the song playing from the radio and bobs her head in time to the beat. Her lips have a natural apple-red pout that other women pay for. She reminds me of a fairy-tale princess, where I’m more zombie reject.
She looks up and catches my eye. Did she sense my staring? Neither of us moves or speaks. She scrutinises me just as I’ve secretly analysed her, and then she smiles. It’s carefree and wide. Her entire expression relaxes; the sharpness of her gaze and the furrow between her eyes disappears as her smile expands.
“Well, are you coming to eat or what?” she calls over. Her sweet voice comes punctuated with a giggle.
And then Dax stares right at me and my nerves take over.
I wear the t-shirt from last night and cradle my filthy clothes in my arms, determined to find some way to launder them for the day. I’m not even sure where my other things are. They could be in the back of Aiden’s car and on the way to God-knows-where by now.
“Washer?” I ask, holding out the pile.
“You don’t need to do that,” Dax begins, but I cut him off.
“I’m not living in this t-shirt, Dax.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” He looks ready to speak again, but I don’t want a conversation. Just directions.
“Washing machine,” I demand. It’s too aggressive, but before I can regret becoming a true Vale girl, I tack on a, “…please.”
“Through there.” Dax points to the solid wall of floor-to-ceiling cupboards in the kitchen. Is the machine plumbed in behind the door? None of the cupboards looks big enough.
“The last door on the left is a fake,” Sylvie supplies helpfully.
“If it’s a door, how can it be fake?” Dax teases bumping her arm.
She giggles again. “Don’t be difficult, Dean.”
I shoot my eyes to Dax expecting him to erupt again. The smile wipes from his face, his eyes cut to me for a second, and then fall to his newspaper. He says and does nothing. It seems Sylvie is one of the special ones. It only annoys me more.
“Oh, Dax, is all about being difficult,” I throw at him, scowling and walking the long way around the island so as not to cut too close to him.
I march to the door. Like the rest of the cabinets, it has no discernible handle so I press it, just like I’d watched Dax do when he prepared the sandwiches. The door clicks and swings open revealing a medium-sized, brightly lit room behind the main kitchen.
The cabinets above the washer are the same style and colour as outside, but the walls are clinically white. A basket of laundry rests on top of the dryer. Beside it is an array of detergents and fabric softeners. It’s almost normal.
Even the best of us needed to launder, I remind myself.
It’s strange, the things that humanise people; death, taxes, having our arses wiped, and laundry. Life’s unifiers. Mind you, someone probably gets paid to do Dax’s.
I throw my belongings into the drum and shut the door. The good thing about washing machines is, no matter how modern or expensive, they essentially all work the same. The touchpad on Dax’s machine takes a few extra minutes to work out, but I eventually put on a half load with the economy setting so I won’t waste water. It might not matter to Dax or Sylvie, but stuff like that is ingrained in me. Economy washes, while better for conservation, are exactly what they sounded like; cheaper.
“Here.” Dax hesitates in the doorway. In his hands, he holds a pile of clothes I assume are for me.
“I can wait for these,” I gesture to the spinning machine. I’m being stubborn but he deserves it. I can’t bring myself to play nice. He deserves a taste of his own medicine.
“You could, or you could swallow your damned pride for five minutes and wear the clothes Sylvie picked out for you,” he snaps.
“Pride? Says the man who only lets his precious rich friends call him by his real name!” I growl back at him.
“That’s not—”
“Whatever. Your prerogative, Dax.” I fold my arms across my chest and turn away, pretending to look out of the window.
“Look, Sylvie did this so you could both take a walk and get to know each other. I have your bag in the back of my car too, but I haven’t had a chance to bring it up yet. Can’t you just play nice for Sylvie? Wouldn’t you be happier getting out from under my feet for a while?”
Under his feet? He might as well call me a burden.“Sorry you find me such an inconvenience.” As much as I’d rather he burned the damn clothes in his hands, I grab them. At least I agree with one thing, I would prefer not to see his stupid, too-handsome face today. “Do you know, marching into Barry Franz’s office and getting this whole ordeal over with, would actually be preferable to living here with you,” I sneer.
His expression twists. I tuck the clothing under my arm, shouldering him aside, and barrel into the kitchen. He reaches out and grips my arms, pinning me to the spot and pressing his full body against my back. His fingers are manacles of flesh and heat.
“Do you want to make your living on your back, Jules?”
I stiffen, but don’t justify his cruelty with a response.
“Don’t ever go anywhere near that man. He’s dangerous. He’ll make the rest of your life at Hanson’s seem like a spa retreat.” I shudder. He gently turns my face until I’m looking up at him. “Do you hear me?”
I nod reluctantly. Hating myself for both fearing his anger and loving the proximity of his body to mine. I’m pathetic, wanting a man that clearly doesn’t want me back, but I can’t hide the fact that it’s true. Rigid nipples and a delicious wet heat betray me. I can’t lie to myself.
“You are not an inconvenience, and you are not below me, but if you ever joke about going near that man in my earshot again, you and I will officially be through.”
The threat hangs between us until he releases my arms. I stumble forward and use the momentum to propel myself back up the stairs to my temporary room. I don’t look back at Dax or catch Sylvie’s watchful eye.
*
Wide-leg, linen trousers and a silk blouse fall loosely on my underfed bones. The blouse especially. It hangs awkwardly, but I’m grateful that they are clean and smell good. They’re also nicer than anything I own. I glance at my reflection and see a grown woman staring back. A little less bruising and a few more meals, and I might pass as someone who belongs here.
A knock sounds at the door. I consider ignoring it so I don’t end up in another face off with Dax. He’s already taken up enough of my morning, but a second insistent knock changes my mind.
“What?” I snap opening the door to find a startled looking Sylvie. Well, shit. “Sorry, I thought you were Dax.” My attempt at a smile falls flat. Her brows raise but she says nothing, she just stares at me awkwardly until I fill the silence. “Thank you for the clothes.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, well, uh…it’s really kind of you, but I’ll talk to Dax about getting my own things.”
“Fine,” she replies bluntly. “I’m going to show you the house and the grounds and answer your questions.” Her smile and chirpy attitude from the kitchen have vanished entirely. Taking me for a tour seems to be the last thing she wants to do.
“You really don’t have to…”
“You don’t want to?” She takes a step back, her expression floods with disappointment.
Shit, have I offended her? Why can’t I get my bearings with her?
“No, I’d love to, I just don’t want to interrupt your plans. None of us expected me to be here.”
“No, we didn’t, but here you are anyway. At least we can keep a close eye on you here.” She stares at me unblinkingly. Her words feel like a challenge. They could easily be taken as aggression or forgiven as concern. Which is it though? Do I call her on it and risk being wrong, or do I let it go and chalk my annoyance up to Dax winding me up?
Sensing my irritation, she lays on another of her disarmingly wide smiles and breaks the tension. “Plus, I am looking forward to finding out all about you and what happened to Tom.”
Now, that part doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. I’m of no interest to this girl, but the information I can give her—the details of that night which Dax has presumably protected her from—are currency to her. She smiles again. I look for signs of artifice in the bright carefree expression but she’s either genuine or a skilled liar.
“Okay. Finish getting ready. I’ll meet you downstairs at the front door.”
I nod. “See you in five?”
“Five,” she agrees, offering a little wave as she dances off.
I can’t help but wonder if the hot and cold thing is a learned behavioural trait. She went from antagonistic to endearing in seconds. Like flipping a switch. Dax is the same way. Is it inbred or something they learned? Regardless, it reminds me to keep my wits about me. If I can’t sense where I stand with them, then I need to stand apart from them.
Stepping into my sneakers, and completely ruining my ensemble, I jog down the apartment stairs and out into the main body of the Compound. Out here, I’m even more of a fraud. An interloper. Vale girl in wonderland.
I might not know my way around, but getting to the front door isn’t too hard when I can see it from over the balustrade. Sylvie isn’t there yet, but I could use some air and if I keep the door open, she’ll see me waiting outside. I zip down the grand staircase and then stop, hearing my name spoken from somewhere below.
“We keep it secret. From what I can tell, the girl didn’t see anything,” a deep rich voice, I almost recognise, whispers.
“It’s better to fess up now, Frank. There are vipers in this nest. The girl being here puts us all at risk of being found out. You think Franz is going to stop hunting her?” another voice whispers back. Though not quietly enough because I hear him clearly. In fact, if it’s who I think it is, then this is the second time I’ve eavesdropped on his conversation while hiding on a staircase.
“Franz is smart enough to wait until he gets an opportunity that won’t risk his people inside, Ben. You know that as well as I do. If he reveals his spy’s identity now, he risks fucking up future plans.”
“He’d better. An attack on the compound—”
“There won’t be an attack on the compound. Trust me.”
I don’t realise I’ve backed up the stairs until my heel strikes the baseboard where the stairs curve. I almost laugh at the irony of making the same damn mistake that caught me out the first time.
“What was that? Did you hear something?” Heels traipsing across the wooden floor, approach the stairs. I don’t wait around to get caught. I leap up the remaining stairs three at a time and throw myself through the open double doors at the top of the landing. The dining room if memory serves. Pressing my back to the wall, I breathe hard. Three inhales and exhales before I hold my breath and screw my eyes shut, listening for footfalls racing up the stairs, but there are none.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
My eyes fly open to find Dax at the far end of the room. He sits at the head of a huge table with a stack of paperwork in front of him. His laptop is open and shoved to the side, and a steaming mug of coffee is in his fist; the smell of it reminds me I haven’t eaten or drank anything yet.
I know I should warn him of what I overheard, but the way he stares at me with such contempt stops me. Instead, I ask, “Do you trust Frank and Ben?”
“With my life,” he answers cockily. It’s a lie. I see it as clear as I see Dax’s desire to distance himself from me. He lifts his mug and takes a gulp. “Why do you ask?”
“Because it’s not your life on the line; it’s mine, and I don’t think you know half of what’s going on right under your nose.” I glance down at the floor under his feet and then back up to his face, pleased to see some of his brazen confidence replaced by doubt. “Wise up, Dax, or you and I are through.” I bitterly throw his words back in his face and storm out of the room, slamming my feet on every step the whole way down.
Ben and Frank are nowhere to be seen, but Sylvie waits for me at the door.
“Are you okay?” she asks. Amusement twinkling in her eyes.
“Fine,” I snap. “Where to first?”
“The grounds.”
“Let’s go.”