by S. Ann Cole
“But your father was determined to get you back. Offered enough to make it worth the risk. So, favors had to be called in. Bigger powers enlisted. Crafted a careful plot that would end up taking longer than we’d anticipated. Assumed new identities. It all had to be believable.
“Igor’s a businessman above all else, so that was ultimately the way to get to him. We lured him in with money, offering opportunities no one else was. Palatable deals that assured him we weren’t trying to encroach on his business. Gained his confidence.
“And no, Tor didn’t sleep with those girls. All a ruse, and the girls were grateful enough to stay hush about it. As for you, ‘devaluing’ you was a key part of the plan. We infiltrated the client list and planted unfavorable words about you—not telling you what was said so don’t ask. Things that would turn the big regulars off you. Which would inevitably render you worthless to Igor. A waste of investment, time, and resources.
“We anticipated several outcomes to that, the main being him sending you to the first floor. In which case extracting you would’ve been a walk in the park. When he pretty much begged us to have you at the club, it was the perfect opportunity. All attention would be on his more valuable girls. And in the event of sudden chaos, like say, a fire, you’d be a low priority. Making it easy for us to take you without anyone noticing before it’s too late.”
Wow. Just…wow. “But...But why only me? What about the others?”
“You are the job.”
“B-But the others, they’re still there. You could’ve gotten them out.”
“No, Lyra. We couldn’t,” he says firmly. “Don’t you understand yet? We made it easy to get you out. There won’t be a reprisal for you. For the others, there would be.”
“Not for Simone. He hates her, too. You could’ve—”
“Lyra, I get it. Human trafficking is disgusting, horrifying, and I can’t even begin to imagine...” He trails off and sighs. “What you’re feeling right now is survivor’s guilt, ‘cause you got out and they’re still stuck there. I understand. I’ve been there. But you’ve got to understand that we aren’t the government, or military, or anyone’s saviors. We’re private workers and our lives are on the line as much as yours.
“This took thirteen months. The goal was to get you out, unscathed, and back to your family. ‘Cause that’s what we’re paid to do. Anything else, any other deviations, would’ve resulted in a pile of dead bodies. And that’s not what we’re here for. We aren’t heroes, Lyra.”
“What are you, then?”
“Red Cage Commando Security & Investigation Services.”
Red Cage. That’s the company Dad had started using for his as-needed security and home surveillance after his net worth skyrocketed. A Red Cage bodyguard would be assigned to me if we had to travel or attend crowded functions. And oh, how it used to irk me, how I used to whine about his overprotectiveness—if only I knew what awaited me.
Of all the Red Cage men that had ever came to the house, however, I’ve never seen either of these two men.
“And there’s nothing at all that you can do to help the others?”
“We’ll pass on what we know to the authorities, but that’s about it.”
Wrapping my arms around myself, I gaze out the oval-shaped window. At the clouds drifting in a sea of inky blackness. I do feel guilty. But I’m also angry that they hadn’t tried to do more, to get the others out. How do I go back to a normal life and sleep at night knowing there’s an entire building of enslaved women being sold and abused? How do I live with this?
In a gossamer-thin whisper, I ask, “What if he still tries to come after me?”
“Igor’s power is in Russia,” William replies. “But even if it wasn’t, he can’t come after you if he thinks you’re dead.”
I shake my head. “What do you mean?”
“Told you it was carefully planned, didn’t I?” he replies with a smirk. “In the aftermath of the fire, several ‘bodies’ will be found. One of those bodies will be yours, and one will be”—He jerks his head at Torin—“Marvin Marino.”
“Igor is just one link in a long chain, Lyra. Traffic rings don’t just end when you rescue girls or take down a major player. Chop one head off and another one grows in it’s place. Get those girls out and another group will be herded in. It’s the world we live in.”
I nod, as if I understand, though I hardly do. “Will you be helping the authorities?”
“We—”
“Aren’t heroes,” comes a gruff, grumpy voice from across the aisle.
I glance over at The Bronze Man—um, Torin. Reclined, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes still closed. “If you wanna pick up the baton and play hero, then go right ahead—after we deliver you home safely, of course. But as Reuben has been pretty damn patient in telling you, that’s not what we do. You are the job. Just you. This is the world we live in, princess. Some girls disappear and are never seen again. And some have billionaire families who’ll move heaven and earth to get them back. Be grateful for your privilege.”
“All the diamond girls are from rich families,” I point out.
“But none of those families hired me,” he rallies back. “Like I said, be grateful for your privilege.”
“But—”
“Look, I’m tired as fuck. Haven’t seen my family in over a year. Just, please, for the love of God, be quiet so I can get some rest, yeah?”
What a prick! I’ve not seen my family in over sixteen months, but he doesn’t see me being a class-A jerk.
Ugh. To think I’ve been entertaining thoughts of him and me. Blech.
“I’m sorry, did my father forget to tick the ‘be kind to the traumatized victim who might be scared and confused and full of questions after rescue’ box on the Red Cage application form?” I snap back.
“Pretty much.”
I signal the stewardess, and when she comes over, I ask sweetly, “Do you have noise-canceling headphones?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Excellent. Can you go get one for Mr. Assface over there, please? He’s very tired, misses his momma—bless his soul—and needs to rest. But Reuben and I here have things to discuss and we don’t want to disturb his beauty rest. He’s an eight-hours-of-sleep kind of man. Has to maintain that flawless face, you know.”
“I—uh, of course,” the stewardess replies with a slightly confused and uncomfortable smile.
Reuben wipes a smile from his mouth with his palm, dropping his gaze to the table between us.
And, I might have imagined it, but I think I just saw a slight twitch of Torin’s lips.
I pick up my tea and take a long, obnoxiously loud sip. “So, Reuben, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”
~
SOMETHING SHIFTS IN my chest as the wheels hit the tarmac. I’ve not slept a wink for the entire 10-hour flight. I’m too anxious. Wired. Agitated.
I’ve chomped my fingernails down to the cuticles.
Across the aisle, Torin is awake and watching me, expressionless and blatant. His stare feels like an interloping laser beam burning everything away, flesh and bones and shame, and seeing the very shape and color of my soul. I feel so seen. Haven’t I longed to have those same eyes on me? Dreamed of those eyes?
However, now that I know he’s a grade-A jerk, I don’t care for his attention. It’s effortless to ignore him, block him out. No more passionate fantasies. The only thing I feel toward him now is contempt.
“Come here,” he voices at me.
Dramatically, I glance behind me, then at Reuben, then across to him again and touch my palm to my chest. “Uh, me?”
He just stares.
After spending the last sixteen months being bossed around and controlled by men...I do not think so. If I’m truly free, then I’m not about to submit to anyone’s command if I don’t feel like it. Especially from boorish assholes like him. “No, you come here.”
He drags his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip, re
garding me. It’s so damn distracting my daring glare falters.
You don’t like him anymore, I remind myself. He’s an ass, and you don’t like him anymore.
Then, he shrugs, shocking me when he gets up and comes over to me.
He rests his palms flat on the table and leans down so his face is close to mine, his muscles bunching under the cotton of his long-sleeved shirt.
I swallow. All bravado gone.
Okay. Alright. Yeah, so, him being this close, so close I can feel his breath on my upper lip, is unnerving as all get out.
There’s no air. Why is there no air?
Crackling waves of asphyxiating static bounces off him, wrapping around my throat like crooked fingers, stealing all the oxygen from my lungs.
“Something you should know...” he starts.
Disquieted, I lick my lips. “What?”
For a sharp, fleeting second, his moss-green gaze drops to my lips—so fast I almost missed it—then back up to my eyes. “No one but your family knows you were abducted.”
This pulls a frown from me. “What do you mean?”
“Your father wanted you to know before you got off the plane,” he continues. “Outside of your immediate family—and the friend you were with that night—the general belief is that you’ve been on an apprenticeship program in Switzerland.”
“Are you serious?” I’ve never been more flabbergasted. Why would Dad hide something like this? Switzerland?
Torin straightens as the plane finally comes to a stop. “He’s out there. We’re gonna leave first. He’ll come in afterward.”
Reuben unsnaps his seatbelt and stretches his long arms over his head. “Fuuuuck. I’mma need a long ass vacation after this.”
As the stewardess gets to work, the men pop the overhead storage and get their bags out. Then start conversing in another language.
It’s rude, and I’m sure they’re talking about me, but there’s too much going on in my head right now to care.
Once the door is opened, Reuben holds his hand out to me and smiles. “Welcome home, Lyra Henderson.”
With a grateful smile of my own, I shake his hand. He’d seemed so cold and menacing that first time at the club, as William. Such a stark contrast to how nice and caring he is now. It’s both scary and amazing how people can assume whole other personalities so believably well.
As Reuben leaves, Torin pauses and looks me over, hesitating.
With a snort, I ask, “You don’t know how to small talk, do you?”
Something ghosts across his lips. A semblance of a smile, or a grimace.
“It’s okay to hate small talk,” I tell him. “But you should at least consider taking a class in empathy.”
He rolls his lips as if to hide a smile. “Yeah, you’ll be all right.”
With that, he turns and leaves.
I lean to the side and peer out the window. Running blue and green lights shine brightly in the dark night. Off the side of the tarmac are four vehicles. One so familiar warmth explodes in my chest. Daddy’s.
I watch as the two tall, built, all-black clad figures stride from the jet toward the vehicles.
A figure of a man I know all too well bursts forward from the shadows of the vehicles, meeting the men half-way.
They talk.
The man covers his mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking.
Goosebumps pop up all over my skin and my lips tremble as my eyes begin to burn, to blur. Unable to wait a second longer, I lurch up and dart to the door, the stewardess jumping out of my way.
I stand at the top of the steps, arms shaking violently at my sides, tears racing down my cheeks. “DADDY!”
The two men split away from in front of him. And there he is. My hero. My blood and my joy. My father.
I don’t wait. I can’t. I sprint down the steps and crash straight into his arms. He hugs me hard. Tight. Sobbing into my shoulder.
“Oh, my girl. My girl. My baby girl!”
“D-Daddy...” I bawl.
“You’re here. You’re really here. In my arms. You’re alive. Oh, my girl. My daughter. Oh, God, thank you. Thank you!”
Tears wrack us both. We weep with relief in each other’s arms, whispering words of love and comfort and gratitude.
He hugs me until my ribs start to hurt.
But I don’t dare let go.
Never.
Not ever.
CHAPTER SIX
“It’s a start.”
Lyra
“YOU SHOULD JOIN A CLUB,” DAD says. “Like improv, or…something fun and mindless. What about archery? You used to love that.”
From where I’m sprawled on my back on the floor of his office, I rest the book I’m reading onto my chest and cast my attention across the room to him. “Stop trying to get rid of me.”
Forehead crinkled with concern, he twists his fountain pen back and forth between his fingers. He’s worried about me. It’s what he does. Worry about me. All. The. Time.
I hate it. Hate that he never seems to have peace of mind because of me. It makes me feel like I’m a curse to his life.
Yet at the same time, I’m selfish. Because I use his unconditional love for me as my comfort blankie, forever cocooning in its warmth, refusing to outgrow it.
Since I’ve been back, I’ve hardly left his side. Wherever he is there I am. This has led to him operating from home for the time being, to be here for me. He’s assured me he doesn’t mind my clinginess, that he prefers having me in his line of sight where he can see I’m safe. But at six months in, we both know it can’t continue like this. I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman.
I do nothing.
I go nowhere.
Outside of family, I communicate with no one but my best friend Holly and my therapist. And… I’ve given up on everything and every dream I’ve ever had. I was in my second year of college when I was taken. Studious and anal, driven and focused.
Now, I just feel lost.
All I do is read...and read...and read…have long, deep therapy sessions…and read some more. I used to love me some romance novels, couldn’t get enough. But now my view of men and sex are so skewed that romance novels repel me. I grew an attachment to thrillers back in that penthouse, and that’s all I’ve been drowning myself in. Thrillers are more real, true to human nature and the evil the lives within us. It exposes us. No sugarcoating or unicorn farting bullshit.
I’ve developed a serious hatred for men and sex.
Sex.
The reason for half the evil in the world. The reason women are being kidnapped and sold and forced into prostitution. The reason behind countless other heinous sexual crimes.
I don’t think I could ever again see sex as anything other than outright violence.
“I’m not trying to get rid of you,” Dad replies. “I just...I just want you to start living life again, Lyly.”
“I am.” I pick up the book from my chest and wave it at him. “Through the pages. I’ve lived so many lives.”
He shakes his head at me but smiles.
The office door swings open just then and his fiancée sweeps in. Long legs, bleached blonde hair with blunt bangs, Botox face, and too much perfume. “Darling, it is time for dinner. Will you be coming downstairs or are you eating in your office again?”
I don’t miss how she stresses the word “again.”
Eloise Jones is a nice enough stepmother. Likeable. Although it’s always felt like there’s something lurking under her personable, agreeable veneer, which made it difficult to truly know her, we had an amicable relationship pre-abduction; I’d accepted and respected her as the woman who contributed to my father’s happiness and we’d gotten along fine. But there’s been a disconnect between us since I got back. The thin bond we’d had, lost.
In a way, I get it. I’ve been hogging Dad, which is probably cramping their romance. Most of all, with Dad working from home now, she’s pretty much been in early “wife” orientation. Where she was used to having all the tim
e in the world to spoil herself rotten with his wealth while he worked wild hours, with him being home most of the time now, she has to cater to him and his needs like the housewife she signed up to be. So I’m sure, though she’s glad I’m back safe and sound, that she’s also resenting me.
I’m usually not this selfish or insensitive, but I need my father right now, and I just can’t find it in me to feel guilty about it. I’ll get over my neediness soon enough and she’ll have him back.
Eloise and Dad have been together for almost three years, engaged for half of it. She’s the yacht club and brunch type, with social climbers, snobs, and braggarts for friends.
I still don’t understand the match between her and Dad, considering how laid back and humble he is. Eloise is the complete opposite of Mom, who’s a soul wanderer, a borderline hippie.
Lysandra Callas, the love of Dad’s life and the reason Eloise is still just a fiancée. Mom had done the same thing to Dad—kept him as a fiancé for several years before she broke it off. She’d realized, after having me and playing house for a while, that formulaic domestic life wasn’t for her. Dad still carries a giant torch for her, and a small part of me believes they still sneak around with each other.
“I’ll come down, no worries,” Dad says, getting up from behind his desk.
“Okay, great!” She looks down at me. “Ly, I have prepared your favorite salad bowl. Although you really should try to eat more than just fruits and vegetables. I do not think I like you this thin.”
I draw up from the floor and into a sitting position, closing my book. “I don’t like myself this thin either, but you’ve seen what happens whenever I try to eat anything else.”
“I have told you to let me help you.”
I’m not sure what she thinks she can do that the top three food psychologists I’ve worked with in the past couple of months couldn’t.