by V. F. Mason
Robert hugs me close and rocks me in his arms a little bit, but then leans back and nods. “Okay, then have some of the tea you love so much.” I don’t miss the distaste lacing his voice and barely hold back a grin. “Then get back to work.” He turns toward people who still watch us closely, the news reporter long forgotten, and informs them, “There is nothing to see. It’s all good now.” They raise their glasses in acknowledgment and go back to either eating or drinking. Slowly, the bar fills with the familiar sounds of glasses clinking, people laughing, and forks scraping across their plates.
Dropping onto the chair next to the small round table in the far corner, I rub my forehead and then tense when a shadow falls over me, blocking the light.
My eyes travel up and then widen when I notice Eugene standing there, his arms crossed while he studies me curiously. “Oh my God!” I exclaim and jump up. “I’m so sorry! Your presence—” I’m searching for the right word to use in this situation without sounding rude, because the man here snapped me out of my panic attack, but I zoned out on him and then forgot about him.
Eugene chuckles, pushes me back down on the chair, and sits next to me, still keeping his gaze on me. “Flew from your mind?” he offers, and it takes me a second to understand he continued my thought.
With my cheeks burning from embarrassment, I reply, “Yeah. I’m an awful human being.” I groan into my hands, covering my face with them and hoping the floor will swallow me whole.
“You stress so much over stupid shit,” he says, and then I hear something being placed on the table, and Lucy winks at me before waltzing off.
I wrap my hands around the steaming cup of chamomile tea, and inhale it. “Well, that’s the perk of being the elite’s child,” I state, and he laughs, resting his elbows on the table and tsking with his tongue.
“That’s true. In all uncomfortable situations, blame the parents.”
Silence falls over us, and we stare at one another for a moment and then burst out laughing again, probably thinking about the same thing.
Our childhood might have been filled with expensive gifts and trips, and we never knew starvation, but warmth and love were forever absent. With time, you learn to find humor in it and not dwell much on why sometimes people who are supposed to love you unconditionally are never happy whatever you do. Unless you are perfect, love is a hard sell in our society. Not in every family of course, but those are our experiences.
“We sure live by that motto.” Clearing my throat, I ask him, “Why are you here?”
“I came to see you.”
I blink several times and then clarify, “Me?” Why would Eugene need to see me of all people? Truth be told, while we hang around each other from time to time, it’s not like our lives really cross anywhere.
And Eugene doesn’t get along with many people anyway, or at least that’s what I heard. Yes, he is one of the most interesting people to talk to I have ever met, and we can discuss anything for hours without getting bored, but we never keep in touch unless the situation requires it.
“I have a business proposition for you.”
It doesn’t escape my notice how he doesn’t touch the subject of my earlier panic, as if he didn’t witness it at all. One of the prime examples of elite’s upbringing… everyone has their own skeletons, and no one digs for stuff that’s not mentioned. Not because there is much tact, no. But because no one wants anyone else to discover their secrets either.
“I’m a waitress at the bar.”
He smirks, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You are also an artist.”
I huff in annoyance, sipping a little of my tea. “Yeah, no. Dad forbade all the galleries to display my work. So, unless I sell my stuff on the streets, which is not a bad option by the way, but I kind of don’t have time for that with having to work, you know… since I need to eat. So no art for now.” My heart pangs painfully in my chest, my fingers prickling a little from my statement, because the idea of living without ever touching a brush kills something inside me.
Art is my calm during the storm, the only place where I can express all my emotions without being judged for them. Not being able to do the work… it’s like someone putting tape around my mouth again and stealing my voice.
“I’m opening up a gallery on Fifth Avenue,” he says, completely ignoring my words. “I’ve settled on a mix of contemporary art this time. So Rebecca is handling auditions for this. The first showing—”
I put the tea cup on the table with a loud thud, gasping at him in shock. “Rebecca, as in Rebecca Dawson? As in genius in the performance industry?” He meets my questions with a nod, and I shout, “No way!” Several people look at us, and I mouth sorry to them before addressing Eugene again. “She’s a legend.”
“I’m aware of that by the salary she demanded.” He clicks his fingers, getting Lucy’s attention. “Can I please have a coffee?”
“Coming right up!”
What the hell?
“Eugene!”
My urgent voice only amuses him it seems, because he leans back in his chair and lifts his brow. “I thought you left art for good?” He throws my earlier words back at me, and I narrow my eyes, not finding anything hilarious about this.
Rebecca Dawson is a dancer turned artist who has mixed several genres in her work and has made it a movement in the industry, encouraging others to pursue different styles of work and not be stuck with just one thing. She never follows the trends, preferring to draw whatever she feels like, so no one can ever predict her next show.
In short, being included in her gallery showing is like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and a dream of any unknown artist. “Not if it includes Rebecca.” But then all enthusiasm slips out of me, and I rest my chin on my palm. “But she won’t work with me either; trust me. My dad’s name is that big.” Even though I threw several threats at him, as of now, his blackballing me still stands. I don’t want anyone suffering because of me, especially Eugene, who probably feels sorry for the poor girl. “Thank you for offering though.”
Something unfamiliar flashes across his face, but the emotions are so quick I barely have time to detect them before he shifts closer. His now furious eyes dig into me while he grits through his teeth, “What the fuck happened to you?”
I try to lean back, because I’ve never in my life seen him this emotional over anything, but he doesn’t let me.
His hand curves around my waist, and he brings me closer, not allowing me to escape his domineering power that slowly surrounds us. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I place my hands on his chest and try to push him, but he doesn’t even budge. “People are staring!” At least that’s what I think, because I can’t see anything behind his wide shoulders.
Has he always been this big beneath those oversized white shirts? This… this… powerful?
“They stare anyway,” he replies and then lifts my chin, so I have no choice but to meet his gaze head-on. “What happened to the girl who, despite her family’s disapproval, enrolled in an art major anyway?”
“Seriously.” I huff and hit him in the chest, but once again he stays unmovable.
“What happened to the girl who snuck out of her house to go to the Queen concert, even though her parents told her not to?”
“In my defense, it was Queen!” I fire back, hating the fact that he was with me and Sorcha during our little adventure time.
He was the one who accidentally left his two tickets on the counter during the dinner our parents had, so Sorcha took them, and the rest is history.
Although it had been awkward as hell seeing him there after we stole his tickets, he oddly found the whole thing amusing. Even treated us to dinner afterward—or it might have been considered early breakfast. “What happened to the girl who protested on the streets, even though her dad threatened to take her allowance?”
“He did. For a month,” I tell him, remembering all the days I ate nothing but the bread I managed to get from Matilda on the way to scho
ol. “Why are you doing this?” I groan in frustration, slamming my fist on his chest, but even his pulse stays steady; that’s how unaffected he is by my efforts.
Eugene’s hand fists my hair, and he shifts forward, our mouths merely inches away from each other. Unfamiliar sensations rush through me, fueling my blood while the presence of this man who is so familiar to me, yet seems like a stranger in this moment, disturbs my sanity and makes my body want things I thought it would never want again. “I want that girl back. Not the one who settles for anything.” He breathes the words over my lips.
I grab the lapels of his jacket. “That girl is long gone.”
She died in that apartment, and there is no chance of resurrecting her.
“She is there. You just need to find her,” he replies, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he lets go of me and stands up, leaving me breathless and confused. “Have dinner with me.” Although it probably should come off as a request, all I can hear in his voice is an order.
“I’m not sure—”
“One dinner won’t kill you.”
Oh my God, what’s wrong with him? I open my mouth to argue but notice stubbornness settling on his face. His eyes hold indifference, and his entire demeanor changes to cold and unreachable. Like my answers don’t even matter, because he has already decided for both of us.
“I won’t go.”
“Tomorrow night it is. I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says and then throws several bills on the table right before Lucy joins us, ready to give him his coffee, but he shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’m done here.” She blinks, and he strides to the door without even giving me a backward glance.
Lucy fans herself, whistling loudly at Eugene’s back, and winks at me. “I thought the fireworks were going to explode from you two.” She drops onto the chair next to me and wonders aloud. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“A friend.”
She chuckles, quickly gulping his coffee and placing it on the tray along with my tea cup. “Friend, my ass. My friends don’t look at me like that.” She pats my back before standing up. “Anyhow, he’s handsome.” She walks away while I still sit there dumbstruck.
I thought having a panic attack at work would shake me so much I wouldn’t be able to think about anything else for days. I even planned to call my therapist and schedule an extra session.
Turns out though, I shouldn’t have worried.
Because the only thing my mind is occupied with right now is Eugene, his strange behavior, and my body, which shouldn’t react to him like this.
Even though neither of us voiced it, something just changed in our dynamics, and I’m not sure it’s the right choice for me.
But like during a train wreck, it seems I can’t escape it.
* * *
Him
I despise the fear flashing in her eyes and the tremor of her body while I watch her from behind the building as she walks out the back door and inhales deeply, probably trying to calm herself down.
She dumps the garbage bag along with some white gloves in the dumpster, about to go back, when a light hissing sound erupts.
Lila frowns, looking around, and then zeroes her gaze near some green trashcans. She squats down and calls softly, “Hey, little one, are you lost?” She extends her hand, and though it takes a few moments, a furry red kitten comes into the light, hissing again—although it reminds me more of a whimper—and sniffs her palm. “You’re hungry.” He meows this time, and she laughs, the sound bouncing off the walls and seeming almost wrong in the night, because it reminds me of all the desires I have for her.
She picks him up and presses him gently to her chest, rocking him a little before getting up and murmuring to him, “Let’s see if I have something for you inside.” She pats his fur, and I see how she exhales heavily again, but then plasters her fake smile back on and goes inside, leaving me alone on the street.
No one has the right to scare my woman but me. She is not supposed to tremble or shiver from every sound because someone else inflicted pain on her.
Be afraid of me and my actions? Yes.
But no one harms what’s mine without consequences.
And in this case, consequences mean death in the harshest of ways.
Chapter Four
New York, New York
Fall, 1979
* * *
Lila
Shivers rush through me. I rub my arms, still keeping my eyes closed, and rest my cheek on the wall, praying for some kind of warmth to sink into me.
Different sounds come from the adjacent room, like screams and laughter, that forever stay in my brain, reminding me that even if I try to hide from the truth, this nightmare has become my reality.
“Please don’t do this to me,” the girl begs, but the request is met with a loud slap, and then an unfamiliar voice speaks.
“Oh, I will do that and a thousand other things, little one.”
She shouts something, but I cover my ears, hating to witness it when I can do absolutely nothing about it.
I try to get up, but I’m dragged back by the short chain holding my legs, and drop awkwardly on my knees, stifling a cry of pain. Breathing heavily, I scoot back to my corner, and this time I don’t shy away from staring at the door where everyone continues to hurt the girl who previously sat next to me. They’ve been going at it for hours; aren’t they satisfied?
“Don’t be so eager, darling.” A voice speaks next to me, causing goose bumps on my skin. When I look at the man in the clown mask, as he lounges on the couch and plays with his knife, fear spreads through me. “A few more hours, and it will be your turn.” He laughs, turning up the volume of the music. “I can’t wait to tarnish that beautiful skin of yours.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, although it’s useless. After all, his kind of people probably don’t have any justification for their actions except that they want to do all those vile things.
“Because we’re bored.”
“Bored?” I echo his voice, and he nods, sitting up straight and tossing a knife at the table where it lands with a loud clatter. “Willing women are boring. Same sex, adoration, everything money can buy.” He points at the door behind him. “But this? No one can give us this high. We are the gods there.”
“My God,” I mutter, but then his words dawn on me, connecting invisible dots in my head.
Everything money can buy.
Only people who have it can make such a statement, and the way they all interact… a tight group of five men who take turns hurting the women and laughing at it all… and their voices… they tried to cover them up with masks, but the disguised sounds weren’t those I could have just heard somewhere randomly.
Oh, no. I’ve heard them quite a lot in my life.
I shake my head, pushing away the conclusions, yet they don’t listen to me and stay.
Clasping my hands on my knees, I carefully ask, “Ben?” He freezes and is then by my side in a flash, squeezing my throat with both hands. I gasp, struggling in his hold and trying to hit him with my fists, but he doesn’t budge.
After all, he is a gold medal swimmer at our university. “You fucking smart bitch, figured it out,” he seethes in my face. His fingers dig deeper in my skin, and slowly I feel the oxygen leaving my lungs. I can barely keep up the fight, when the door of the room opens and another masked guy comes out.
Ben lets go of me, and I fall to the floor, gulping as much breath as I can. I rub my throat that burns from his touch.
“What the fuck, dude?”
Scrunching my eyes a few times, I focus my attention back on the new guy, and a horrified cry slips past my lips.
He wears nothing but black jeans that are unzipped; blood is smeared all over his chest, and he holds a kitchen knife in his hand while his eyes glisten with excitement. “Starting without me?” he asks Ben, who turns around, facing the other guy. By his voice, I suspect it’s Tim.
“She knows my name.”
Howev
er, instead of being concerned by it, Tim shrugs and then chuckles. “So what? By the time we’re done with her, she won’t be able to say anything. Only send our regards in heaven.” With that, he disappears behind the door and another scream fills the space, this time accompanied by a drilling sound.
Monsters.
All of them are monsters who feed on people’s pain and misery.
Such people don’t even deserve to live.
“Soon, darling,” Ben warns, and I hug my knees, chanting a prayer and hoping for a miracle to come and save us now. So even the girl can escape this.
But a miracle doesn’t show up.
* * *
New York, New York
Fall 1980
* * *
Lila
“So, let me get this straight,” Sorcha says, placing her Vogue magazine on the couch while she stares at me. “Eugene asked you out, and you said yes.”
I put the pizza box on the counter and grab two plates, huffing. “Yeah, but it’s not like that,” I feel the need to add, even though I don’t understand what the purpose of his action is.
I mean it’s not like I like him or anything, but him acting like this sort of implies if I don’t comply with his orders, he will do whatever he pleases anyway. What the hell happened to the sweetest guy I’ve ever known for him to be this much of an ass?
He’s always appeared to be the nice beta type, but tonight he showed me asshole alpha in all his glory.
That’s the only reason I’m going out with him, because maybe something is bothering him, and he doesn’t know how to express it. Sometimes we all need a friend, but I suspect Eugene doesn’t have them.
Who do you have besides Sorcha? No one believed you but her.
I shake my head from the past that always manages to sneak into my mind and focus on the present, rubbing the band on my wrist.
The support group gave it to me a few months ago, and I haven’t taken it off since.