“I’m going to the party,” I say after a beat. “I’ll keep a low profile. Won’t get photographed or anything. But I’m going. It’s a good chance to network, to reaffirm this new image of Selina, and to study up on this community we’re now a part of.”
Miel says nothing, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. She doesn’t have to. The disapproval rolls off of her in waves. She makes me sit in it a moment longer, then stands and stalks back out of the study.
I wait for the door to swing all the way shut, then toss my head back and exhale. Just as fast as it arrived, the high of power and control leaves me again. The comedown is brutal.
It’s easy to forget, in little moments in our new palace, surrounded by luxury like nothing I ever dreamed of. Easy to forget what drove us here, what can so easily snatch it all away. Almost subconsciously, my thumb traces a familiar spot on my left forearm. One long stripe, with two small lines stacked on top. I’ve drowned it out in dozens of new tattoos, but my skin always burns at the spot of the first mark, branded onto me in a smoky backroom when I was eleven, squirming in pain but biting my lip to keep from crying. Nothing good ever comes to boys who cry.
I open my laptop, type in the password and launch the camera feed. I find her quickly, Selina, our fortune, our future, our freedom. She’s in the library again, duster in hand, but there’s a quake in her arm as she reaches to the next shelf. I watch, hypnotized, as she drops the instrument and her legs give out beneath her. She kneels in the middle of the library, face buried in her hands, shoulders wracked with sobs. I can’t hear the violence of her melancholy over the video feed, can only watch as she lets the tremors run through her. Not quite meaning to, I reach out and run the pad of my thumb over her silhouette on the screen. I’ve been waiting for her to crack, waiting for her to show me a hint of real emotion, not the front of anger and strength that she works so hard to maintain. It’s sick, but I feel a rush of pleasure as I watch the girl cry, knowing that I’m the cause of her breakdown. In another world, maybe I’m also the man who picks her up off the floor, wiping away the tears I invited, but in this one I simply watch. After a minute, she wipes her face with the hem of her t-shirt, stands, and gets back to work as if nothing had happened.
She probably doesn’t deserve this, our little princess. But it doesn’t matter anymore. We need her. And this only works if we break her completely.
* * *
I fail to convince Vega and Miel to let me buy a new dress for Isla’s garden party. My captors are apparently quite stingy. Not that I care that much about a new dress for this goddamn party. What I really want is to get off the estate, even for a few hours. It’s been weeks, and I can feel the cabin fever starting to set in something fierce.
Despite my own lack of new attire, Vega is quick to demand my black card so he can get himself a new suit for the affair. I let him go without comment, but on second thought I give him the name and address of my father’s favorite tailor. It stings a bit, to hand a shard of my parents’ memory over to the man who seems hellbent on destroying our name completely, but I force myself to remember that Kate’s life depends on this charade too. If my captors are caught, I know Vega will take me and everyone left that I love down with them. He’s a stranger to me still, but my instincts all shout that he’s not exactly the forgiving kind, and certainly not the type to go back on his word.
I rope Miel into helping me pick a dress for the party, not necessarily because I trust her fashion sensitivities, but mostly because I’m hoping to extract some information from her under the guise of girl talk. Plus, I’m lonely as hell, and I’ll settle for even the morose company of the outlaw living under my roof and borrowing from my wardrobe.
“I’m thinking one of these,” I say when Miel finally deigns to join me in my walk-in closet, plopping herself down onto an ottoman in the most unladylike fashion. I hold up two relatively seasonal dresses, neither of which I’ve been seen in lately. One is a blush pink wrap dress with big blue roses splashed about, the second a vintage-inspired teal number dotted with tiny white daisies.
“Floral for a garden party?” Miel asks, taking a bite of the pear she brought with her. “Isn’t that a little cliché?”
“What about black leather for a thug? How cliché is that?” I snap, tossing the dresses aside.
Miel just raises an eyebrow. “Hey, you’re the one who asked me to help you. I have better shit to do, you know.”
“Sure,” I say, pulling out another option, a pale slip dress, which she also shakes her head at. “Like what?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“Why? Who exactly are y’all afraid I’d tell?” I ask, falling into the seat across from her. “I don’t even keep a journal, for god’s sake.”
Miel just shrugs, wiping a dribble of pear juice off her chin. “Boss’s orders.”
“So Vega is your boss?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can, springing back up and returning to my dress selection in an attempt to appear casual. “I thought maybe he was like, your crime boyfriend or something.”
Miel lets out a little guffaw at that, sounding more like a normal young woman than she ever has. “God no. Gross. Javi and I go way back, like cousins.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, tiptoeing around the first seemingly honest, perhaps even friendly conversation we’ve ever had. I take the nickname Javi and slip it surreptitiously into my pocket for future reference. “How far back?”
The girl considers it for a moment, pursing her bare lips thoughtfully. “I was eight when my mom got deported. That’s when I went to live with my Tia. Javi got there a few months later, right after his parents… You know what? You really don’t need to know any of this.”
I deflate, left with so many more questions than answers. Miel sets her sticky half-eaten pear down on the plush white carpet, making my skin crawl, and joins me at the row of dresses.
“Here, wear this one,” she says, grabbing an emerald green, long-sleeve lace dress. It’s exactly the opposite of what I’m expected to show up in, but somehow, it feels right. I take the dress from her and hold it up to myself in the mirror, admiring the way it makes my golden complexion glow. “Now that that’s done, let’s do something fun. Let’s make margs and go lay out by the pool, hmm?”
Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “I thought you were busy.”
She shrugs and gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Vega and the boys are away for a little longer, time for us to play. Unless you’d rather spend the whole day mopping or whatever the hell it is you’re supposed to be doing.”
“Pool time sounds perfect,” I say quickly, practically bouncing in anticipation.
“Thought so,” Miel says, heading to the door. “Oh, and your nosey neighbor isn’t around, so you get to make the drinks this time.”
I quickly change into my favorite bikini, which has long been neglected since Vega took over my life, and blend up some frozen margs. I may not know how to make a decent meal to save my life but I can sure as hell mix a good cocktail. With a drink in each hand, I head out to the pool, but hesitate at the glass sliding door. Just outside, Miel is standing next to her chaise, pulling her thick curls up into a knot at the top of her head. Unlike her male partners, she’s not heavily tattooed, and I’ve never noticed the black mark sitting at the base of her spine before: one long, thick stripe, with two shorter ones above it. I’ve seen that before, I think, but I don’t know where.
“Well?” she asks, turning and seeing me just standing there. I force a quick smile, pushing the door open with my bare foot and joining my most unexpected pal in the sun.
* * *
It takes way too long to get my damn suit fitted. Selina’s tailor is clearly accustomed to fitting a certain kind of man, the kind with lean muscle built just for show and all the time in the world. He doesn’t really know what to do with someone like me, rough and impatient. We’re both relieved when he’s finally done, sending me home with an overpriced pile of black cloth and strict care instruct
ions I don’t intend to follow.
When I get home, I can’t find Selina or Miel anywhere. I don’t let myself panic, making another round of the house and spot two bodies laying out by the pool as I circle back to the kitchen. I slide the glass door open and stalk out, arms crossed.
“Oh, hey,” Miel says, raising shades I know aren’t hers to meet my gaze. “Are you going to model your fancy new suit for us?”
“You wish,” I snap, too fiercely to match the jovial tone of my words. Miel and I can’t have friendly banter like this in front of our prisoner, not without undercutting the image I’m trying to maintain. “Selina, shouldn’t you be making us dinner right about now?”
“I thought Brock did that now,” she says, sitting up and glancing back and forth between me and Miel, working that lush bottom lip nervously.
“Well, then go find him and help him out,” I say, and she quickly scrambles to her feet. In nothing but a tiny scarlet bikini, every one of her curves is on display, her body a damn work of perfection in the golden setting sun. This is the last thing I need right now. “And put some fucking clothes on.”
As Selina hurries away, Miel pouts up at me. “Are you the only one who gets to have fun with the princesita?”
“She’s not your goddamn friend,” I say, snatching up the empty margarita glasses from the side table demonstratively. “You can’t just hang out and drink with her when you’re bored. She’s a means to an end, and we can’t let her forget that.”
“I guess that’s a yes,” Miel says, glaring at me as she wraps up in her towel and storms back inside.
As much as Miel has always been one of the guys, I can tell she sometimes hungers for female companionship. I’d share Selina if I thought Miel had it in her to play rough. But I know what few others do, that under that hard veneer my friend is hiding a soft heart. I can’t risk letting her get close to our captive and going back on our plan. I need Miel on board, and I can already feel her resolve slipping a bit every day. She needs to remember that it’s us or Selina, and I will remind her myself if I have to.
Hernando drives us to the garden party. As I help Selina out of the car, I pull my shoulders back and clench my jaw in preparation. Ahead of us lies a sea of white people in billowing pastel dresses and seersucker sports coats. I tug at the collar of my crisp new shirt, on edge, wishing I’d ignored Selina’s protests and brought just one more gun.
“Here,” she says, undoing my top button and brushing off the shoulders of my conspicuously new jacket. She’s so close I can feel her breath on me, feel her fingertips loosely brushing my skin, leaving trails of hot fire in their wake.
“I’m fine,” I say, shrugging her off. “Now, where can a man get a drink at a party like this?”
Selina pulls away, something flitting across her face too fast for me to identify. She leads me deeper into the party and I follow, watching the way her long hair dances around her waist, the confident way her legs strut through the thick grass even in stilettos. In her vibrant green dress, paired with red lips, she stands out even more than I do in this crowd. So much for laying low.
“Here,” she says, snatching two thin flutes off the tray of a passing waiter. “Now stop being a dick. You’re the one who wanted to come here.”
I take a sip of the sweet, lightly carbonated drink. A mimosa. I don’t think I’ve ever had one before. Not sure when I would have had any reason to.
“Smile,” I remind my scowling princess as I spot Isla marching across the vast yard with purpose. “Remember, not a word, not even a look, to anyone about anything.”
I can see the bite in Selina’s eyes as she measures a response to that, but in the end she chooses to remain silent, turning to Isla with an enormous grin instead.
“Selina, Javier, I’m so happy you could make it,” Isla purrs, leaning in for quick kisses with Selina, then me, pressing her body against me for a beat too long. “Selina, you look… quite yourself, as always.”
“Thank you,” Selina says almost genuinely, turning to me quickly to prove she’s still smiling despite the trying nature of this conversation. “Nice shindig. What’s the occasion?”
“Royal Press just signed another big-name author,” Isla boasts, practically undressing me with her eyes right here. She’s tiny, but she certainly has a way of towering over everyone around her. “A fantasy writer, I think. Another crazy old guy with a nasty beard for our collection. Anyway, you know I hate talking business at a party. Let’s drink!”
Isla grabs a mimosa off another ever-passing tray, and we all cheers politely.
“How’s Matty?” Selina asks before Isla’s flute has even left her lips.
“Hmm?” Isla raises her dark eyebrows. “Oh, you know, just thrilled to have one more moneymaker in our deck. The boys are playing croquet down by the gazebo, actually. Oh, you should go join them, Javier!”
What the hell is croquet? I take another sip to buy time, but Selina is already beaming at the suggestion.
“That’s a fantastic idea,” she says, voice syrup sweet, but I can see from the hardness in her eyes that she sees right through me. She knows I don’t belong in her world, thinks that I don’t deserve the spot in it that I stole for myself. After all this, she still thinks I’m the kind of man she can fuck around with.
“Let’s go,” Isla is already running off with a gleeful bounce in her step, Selina chasing after her, leaving me no choice but to follow.
In a clearing just past the loitering crowd and the cheery string quartet, a handful of men stand around some brightly colored balls in the grass, holding tiny, cartoonish clubs. Luckily for me, it seems that croquet is little more than a fucking joke.
“Matty!” Isla crows, waving over one of the younger men of the bunch. With his messy hair and somewhat scruffy beard, the man hardly looks like someone who would possess one of the largest publishing houses in the country, not to mention his insane net worth and the hot wife clinging to his arm. But when he reaches out for a handshake, he does so with the confident grip of a man who’s never known anything but power.
“Mateo,” the man clarifies to me, making Isla giggle. Suddenly, she’s the poster image of a devoted wife. “You must be Javier Vega, the new business partner of Selina’s that Isla’s been telling me about.”
“That’s me,” I say, squaring my shoulders and taking a step back to wrap an arm around Selina’s waist. She squirms slightly under my grip but dutifully keeps the smile pasted on her face.
“Babe, Javier wants to play with y’all,” Isla says, batting those mile-long eyelashes. I smile politely, feeling like a new kid on the block. Back home, you proved yourself by punching your way into the circle. I bet in Mateo’s world, you get in by your mommy asking the other kids politely.
“Sure,” he says, eying the group of men lazily standing about the field, then pointing at one of the older guys. “Tell you what, Mr. Fitzgerald is about due for a break. You can swap in on blue.”
I go to follow him, but Selina grabs my sleeve and pulls me back for a moment.
“Do you know how to play?” she whispers in my ear. Fuck, I swear her lips just brushed me. The thought of her red lipstick marking my earlobe makes my cock twitch.
“I’m pretty damn sure I can figure it out,” I hiss back, pulling away, shoving the inappropriate thoughts deeper. This event is dangerous enough without my dick distracting me.
“Well, good luck!” she singsongs after me as I catch up with Mateo. I wonder if I’m the only one who can hear the thick sarcasm in her voice.
“Nice get,” Mateo says to me with a wink when we’re out of earshot of the women, as Fitzgerald gladly hands over his blue mallet and focuses his attention back on the drink in his hand.
“Miss Palacios?” I ask, playing dumb. This croquet club, or whatever they call it, feels like a toy in my hands. “We’re just business partners.”
“Uh huh,” Mateo says with a sardonic edge, slapping me hard on the back. “Oh, and don’t worry, after the game u
s guys are cracking open a Sazerac. No more mimosas for you, my man.”
“Fantastic,” I say, glancing at the small group around us. I bet they all sit at desks for a living, those who even have to put up a pretense at work, that is. I bet they all have soft hands, hands that have never held a gun, never drawn blood. Hands that have never taken a life. “Let’s play.”
I glance back up at the sidelines, where a moment ago Isla and Selina stood close together, visions in pale pink and that enchanting emerald green.
Now, however, Selina is nowhere to be seen.
* * *
I march toward the house as fast as I can without making a scene. The first moment Vega was distracted, I told Isla I needed to visit the little girls’ room and made a break for it. It’s only a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, until he notices I’m gone, and he won’t hesitate to chase after me. Better to draw attention to himself now than to deal with the repercussions of me telling the world what he’s done to me.
Once I’m out of view of the party I kick my Jimmy Choos into the grass and break into a run. I contemplated hiding out in one of Isla’s many guest rooms or empty closets until the coast was clear, but as long as I’m within reach, Vega will never let me go. No, my only chance is to run as far and as fast as I can. I know that I might be endangering Kate and my guards with my actions, but I also might be saving them. Besides, now that I’ve gotten to know my captors a bit better, I want to believe they aren’t truly capable of hurting innocents. Especially not Miel. There’s more to her than meets the eye. But Vega… There’s still something in those dark eyes of his that convinces me that he’s capable of anything, and maybe that’s why I must run now, dangerous though it may be.
There’s no one at the stables, thankfully, not even a spare stable boy or cute jockey for Isla’s entertainment. I scramble to the tack wall, grabbing the first saddle I see, and find Isla’s favorite mare. Isla constantly brags about her racing lineage. She’ll be fast, it’s in her blood, and I’ll be gone. It’s in my blood. My fingers shake as I struggle to fasten the buckle, stirrups jingling quietly. The mare knickers, confused by the amateur fumblings of a stranger.
Gold Cage Page 5