Truth in Pieces

by RC Boldt

  The woman turns her head with a smile, her skin tanned with a few wrinkles at the outer edges of her eyes. When she spots me behind him, though, her curious gaze darts back to Goliath.

  “Like you to meet Professor Olivia Wright.”

  Though the curiosity is still present in her eyes, the warmth in her greeting overrides it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor.”

  “Call me Olivia, please.”

  I can’t help but notice she certainly isn’t a shrinking violet working here, surrounded by dangerous men.

  Goliath’s tone is slightly admonishing when he says, “Don’t work too late.”

  As though their exchange is routine, Angela simply smiles and turns back to her task.

  He directs me to step beside him, and we continue down the expansive hallway on the first floor. As soon as we approach the end of the hallway, he opens an oversized door and signals with a lift of his chin for me to precede him. One step inside brings me face-to-face with what must be a few thousand square feet of gym space.

  Various weight machines are carefully placed throughout, a massive shelf contains a wide range of neatly placed free weights, and mirrors line three of the walls while four treadmills and ellipticals face the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the waterfront.

  “Boss said you can work out anytime you want.”

  Of course, he did. Because it keeps me under his thumb even more.

  With another cursory glance around the gym, I step out into the hallway and let Goliath lead me up the stairs to my assigned bedroom.

  Once he bids me a gruff, “Good night,” I lean against my bedroom door—the one that has no lock—and force myself to drag in a deep breath to calm my unsettled nerves. When my gaze falls to the set of windows directly across from me, that face the backyard adorned with palm trees and a stone path leading to the waterfront, an idea strikes me.

  Moving over to the windows, I gently trace my fingers over the latch at the middle, then down along the sill. I find it interesting that there aren’t any alarm sensors—at least none that I can detect.

  Carefully, I flip the lock before hooking my fingers beneath the bottom lip of the window and lift it. When it gives and no alarm sounds, I nearly gasp out loud, but my success is short-lived when it refuses to budge more than an inch.

  “Window’s not gonna move any higher.”

  I jerk in surprise at the male voice sounding from behind me. Whipping around, I stare back at Goliath who stands in my doorway with one hand on the doorknob. Damn him. I hadn’t even heard the door open.

  His stern features give me the impression he’s disappointed in me for this little stunt. “And that drop down from here ain’t gonna feel too good.” His eyes narrow. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  Straightening my shoulders, I casually smooth my hair back behind one ear. “I simply wanted some fresh air.”

  He lets out a grunt, and if it could be translated, I’m certain it would be a derisive, Yeah, right.

  “Best thing for you to do, Professor, is get some rest.”

  I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. I know it’s a power play, but the position I’m in has me grappling for every iota of control I can get my hands on.

  “If that’s all, I’d like to get ready for bed.” But before that, I plan to try the other windows to see if they might be working any better.

  “Those others ain’t gonna budge any more than that one.” One eyebrow lifts the slightest bit. “Got men down below standing guard who won’t be happy if you surprise ’em.”

  Goddamn it. Then again, it was delusional to think I’d be able to shimmy down from the second-story window without alerting Nico’s henchmen.

  With a resigned huff, I say, “Good night, Goliath.”

  “Night, Professor.” He pulls the door closed with a soft click.

  8

  Olivia

  Saturday morning

  When I rouse from what was decidedly the worst night’s sleep ever, the first reminder that I’m not safely at home slaps me right in the face. The faint whir of boat engines drifts through the bedroom window I’d raised last night.

  Lying on my back, I stare up at the unfamiliar ceiling—a pristine white fan in the center with oversized blades that spin silently—while my brain filters through everything that happened last night. Frustration reverberates through me much like those annoying vehicles with their obnoxiously loud bass that feels as if it rattles your bones.

  I tug a pillow over my face to muffle my aggravated screams. My hope is to get it out and allow some semblance of calmness to take hold. To remind myself what my purpose is.

  Get Nico to disseminate more information.

  “You gonna suffocate yourself or come eat breakfast?” The deep, masculine voice breaks through what was intended to be my private moment.

  I hadn’t heard him open my bedroom door. What I wouldn’t give for that damn thing to have rusty, noisy hinges.

  Resentfully, I tug the pillow off my face and turn my head to find Nico standing with one shoulder propped against the doorway. He has his hands tucked in the pockets of his tailored black suit pants, and a black button-down shirt stretching across his broad torso.

  “Come down and eat.”

  Is everything a command with this man? “And if I don’t?” I challenge.

  His eyes travel the length of me. The heat from his gaze skims over the straps of my simple cotton tank that bares my shoulders and along the thin sheet covering the rest of me. Lines of irritation bracket the sides of his mouth as he locks his gaze with mine. “Why you gotta test me?”

  “Why do you insist on bossing me around?” Sitting up, I drag the sheet up to cover my breasts. It’s a futile layer of protection, but I’ll take what I can get. “Maybe I’m not hungry. Perhaps I don’t want to come down and eat right now.”

  His chin drops to his chest and he shakes his head, tsking me. When he raises his eyes to lock with mine, chills skate over me. “You’re on my turf, which means you do what I say.”

  I grit my teeth. “Right.”

  He straightens and rests one hand on the doorjamb, fingers splayed, while the other remains pocketed. The ink of his tattoos dances as he drums his fingers along the hard surface. “So, you comin’ down?”

  Suddenly realizing how I must look, with horrid bedhead and ruffled to no end, I avert my eyes. “I suppose I should make myself presentable first.”

  Silence greets my words, so prolonged that I dart a glance at him.

  What appears to be appraisal gleams in his eyes. “Do what you gotta do.” He pushes off the doorjamb, reaching for the handle, and pulls the door closed behind him.

  Determined to treat today like I would any other Saturday, I descend the stairs minutes later and follow the rich aroma of coffee. Makeup-free but with a freshly washed face and brushed hair, I’m clad in a simple pair of black shorts and a light blue sleeveless top.

  As soon as I reach the kitchen, I spy the kitchen table set alongside floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the well-manicured lawn and the far edge of the bay’s waters.

  “Help yourself, Professor.” Nico sits in a chair at the head of the table, eyes cast on the screen of his phone, brow furrowed in concentration. “Your favorite hazelnut coffee’s in the silver pot. Got that creamer you like, too. Top shelf of the fridge.”

  He says this without looking up, and I’m grateful not to have his attention. It strikes me, in this instance, that he made it a point to have the little things stocked here for me. It doesn’t detract from the circumstances surrounding this situation, but it proves that he’s at least put forth some thoughtful intention to try to make me feel a bit comfortable here.

  I take a clean mug from the few sitting beside the coffee pot on the counter and fix myself a cup. Hesitantly, I amble over to the table, choosing the seat at the other end. We sit in silence; he peruses emails or messages on his phone, and I sip my coffee while gazing out the windows and surr
eptitiously studying him from my periphery.

  Finally, I give in. My manners get the best of me, even at a time like this. “Thank you for the coffee and creamer.”

  Slowly, he raises his head to peer at me, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “There’s an egg white omelet with your name on it.” He lifts his chin, gesturing behind me. “It’s stayin’ warm in the oven over there.”

  Startled, I stare at the man. I’m not sure why this caught me off guard—that he knows what time I normally get up, even on weekends, and my breakfast routine—since it’s become apparent he’s accumulated a cache of information about me.

  It’s as if he’s thought of everything and covered all his bases. I suppose someone in his position would become an expert at it out of necessity for their own safety and well-being.

  Abruptly, he slides his chair back and rises. “Got business to take care of. Everythin’ you need’s here. Relax. Use the gym. Do whatever, but you gotta stay put here.” He slides his phone in his pocket. “Rafe’ll take you to work on Monday.”

  “Wait!” I protest. “You expect me to just stay holed up here all weekend? What if I—”

  He crowds me suddenly, one hand planted on the back of my chair and the other on the table in front of me. Leaning in, he brings his face close to mine, his eyes churning with irritation and anger. “You do what I say, and you stay safe. It ain’t up for discussion. You get me?”

  I clench my teeth painfully and glare at him.

  The faintest trace of a smirk tugs at one edge of his lips. Lifting his hand off my chair, he traces a finger along the side of my cheek, and I barely suppress the urge to rear back.

  His voice is husky and low. “Gotta get used to me if we’re gonna sell that we’re together.”

  For a split second, the golden flecks in his eyes appear more prominent, his gaze dropping to my lips. As if I’ve merely imagined it, his expression immediately shutters and he straightens. “Later, Professor.”

  My hands grip the coffee mug tightly while I fantasize about hurling it at the back of his obstinate head as he leaves the kitchen.

  Left in the empty kitchen, I force myself to finish my coffee and eat what turns out to be a delicious omelet. Perhaps this unexpected moment alone will help to set me more at ease. But I know, even as I think it, that it’s futile. The silence surrounding me has an eerie quality to it, as if impending doom is soon to arrive.

  When I bring my plate and mug to the sink, the instant I turn on the faucet to rinse them, the tiny hairs on my arms stand up on end.

  “Mornin’, Professor.”

  With forced calmness, I turn off the faucet. I don’t have to turn and look to verify who’s joined me in the kitchen. Lorenzo’s voice alone holds a nefarious trait filled with devious intent.

  The moment our eyes meet, I barely resist the shudder that rolls through me at the depth of depravity in his gaze. It’s as though it simmers below the surface, not yet to the boiling point of spilling over and wreaking havoc and destruction.

  When he steps closer, crowding me with his ominous presence, I steel my spine. Ducking his head, he skims the tip of his nose along my temple, inhaling deeply. “You smell sweet, just like those panties. But you got some spiciness, too, don’t you?”

  Inching away from the creep, I attempt to edge my way past him when his hand clamps around my throat. It’s not tight enough to have me gasping for air, but it’s enough to get his point across. It’s a warning. Another intimidation technique.

  I still, glaring daggers at him. “Let me go.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps spills down the hallway, and he retreats a split second before a tall, imposing man struts in. The man’s dark gaze flits over me and Lorenzo, who now stands a few feet away.

  “Everythin’ okay?” the man asks. I’m not entirely sure who he’s directing his question to, so I remain silent.

  Lorenzo puffs out his chest with a smirk. “Just gettin’ to know the professor, here.” He moves to brush past the other man standing in the doorway but gets stopped with a splayed palm on the center of his chest.

  “Bossman ain’t gonna like it if he hears you been messin’ with his woman.” The threat is evident in the man’s tone.

  Lorenzo shoves off the man’s hand. “Last guy who put his hands on me lost ’em.”

  The other man doesn’t say a word; he continues to stare Lorenzo down until the other man pushes past him. As soon as he’s gone, the tension in the room subsides a fraction—only a fraction, because I don’t know if I’ve traded in one creepy asshole for another.

  A pair of dark brown, almost black eyes lock with mine. “He botherin’ you?”

  I force a nonchalant shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  His gaze lingers, sweeping over my features as if to detect the truthfulness of my response.

  When he turns with the intent of leaving, I rush out with, “Wait!” He stops and looks back. “What’s your name?”

  He studies me inquisitively, as if to determine whether he’ll respond to my question. Finally, he quietly answers, “Marcus,” before tacking on a barely audible, “Be careful, Professor.” Then he disappears down the hallway.

  I’m left in the kitchen to wonder exactly what the man warned me to be careful of.

  Or who.

  9

  Olivia

  Once Monday rolls around, I’m more than relieved to finally be out from under Nico’s thumb after a weekend of being cooped up in his home. On Sunday, I only left my room to grab my breakfast and coffee and carried it to my room instead of running the risk of another encounter with Lorenzo.

  Then I’d taken advantage of the home gym. As crazy as it may be, the opportunity to run on one of the expensive treadmills for five miles had left me feeling no less stressed afterward. I felt as though I’d reaped none of the usual benefits of exercise. It still felt as though I was facing the world with two tons of weight on my shoulders.

  As soon as Goliath drove away from Nico’s house to bring me to work this morning, it felt easier to breathe. The more miles we put between us and the house, the more the tightness in my chest lessened.

  Now, after a full day of teaching, I’m grateful that Monday’s classes have gone smoothly…and that my students are no longer so entranced by the trending video.

  Once I’ve finished my required open office hours for the day and I’m packing up my things, my desk phone rings.

  “Professor Wright.” I pin the receiver between my cheek and shoulder while I tidy my desk.

  “Chancellor Boman here. How are you, Miss Wright?”

  I wince in irritation because he doesn’t do this with the male professors. It’s always Miss Wright and never Professor Wright.

  I force a cheery tone. “I’m well, sir. And yourself?”

  “Very well, thank you. I, uh, wanted to extend you an invitation. My apologies for it being last minute, but I thought it would be prudent, considering the recent developments, for you to attend the gala at the Institute of Contemporary Art on Wednesday evening.”

  Recent developments. That’s how he’s now referring to the viral video of me, it seems.

  “I appreciate the invitation—”

  His tone immediately hardens. “Your attendance is not optional, Miss Wright. I’ll expect you to accompany Dean Harrod—”

  My cheery tone stays in place by pure will. “But I already have plans to be there, Chancellor,” I finish. “My…” Shit, what the hell do I call him? My keeper? My captor? My drug lord fake boyfriend? “Boyfriend and I are planning to attend.”

  I make a face, grateful he can’t see me. Especially when my response is greeted with silence.

  Finally, he sputters, “Oh. Well, then. I wasn’t aware you were in a relationship.”

  My eyebrows rise nearly to my hairline. As if it’s any of his business whether I’m single or dating. When I remain quiet, he continues with, “Very well. I’ll look forward to seeing you and your boyfriend, Mr.…”

&nb
sp; Fuck. He’s fishing, and I have no choice right now but to supply his name.

  “Mr. Alcanzar.”

  If I thought Chancellor Boman was silent after hearing I’m dating someone, it’s nothing compared to the thick and lengthy hush now. “Chancellor? Are you there?”

  The clearing of his throat answers me before he does. “Yes, yes. That’s wonderful. I’ll expect to see you both on Wednesday. Have a good evening, Miss Wright.” Without waiting for my reciprocated farewell, he hangs up.

  Placing the phone back in the cradle, I stare at it strangely.

  His reaction to Nico’s name has me anticipating this interaction at the gala with both dread and curiosity.

  10

  Olivia

  Just because Nico thrust me into this mess doesn’t mean I plan to be a complete pushover.

  Yes, I want definitive answers and to find out whether he’s telling me the truth about my parents. But am I willing to yield to his every demand?

  Hell no.

  Goliath holds the door for me, and I slide onto the Audi’s leather seat after work, ready to execute the plan I’d devised this morning.

  It’s exactly why I carefully tucked a change of clothes in my briefcase.

  “I need to make a stop before we head to the house.” My voice is steady, tone confident, and I don’t waver even when he whips his head around to stare at me from the front seat.

  “Bossman ain’t gonna like this.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear his voice carries a trace of amusement. But his stern features give nothing away, and dark sunglasses mask his eyes.

  I raise a shoulder in a partial shrug. “It’s just one stop. It’ll take an hour, tops.” Leaning forward, I tack on in a staged whisper, “If you want, you can even wait for me right outside the door.”

  He stares at me for a long beat. So long, in fact, that I expect him to refuse. His lips press thin for a beat. “Where to?”