Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

by Sophie Davis

  “Of course,” the waiter replied. “Anything you need at all, just let me know.”

  With that, he went in search of the bar. As soon as Andrew disappeared into the crowd, Taylor began fanning herself.

  “Day-um!” she exclaimed. “Those muscles did not come from carrying drinks around.”

  While Camilla agreed and the guys heckled them, I turned to Annie.

  “You look gorgeous, by the way,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Love that dress!”

  “I swear, my mother drove me crazy until I agreed to wear white,” Annie replied, rolling her eyes. “It’s like she thinks it will send off a subliminal message to some random guy: ‘This one over here is sweet and untouched! She’s primed and ready for marriage!’”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, since I knew exactly how her mother could be. Just like mine, except with more weight placed on acquiring a ring.

  “Well, regardless, you look amazing. The dress and the color really suit you,” I said with a wink.

  And it did. The ivory scoop-necked gown with the occasional seed pearls sewn into the bodice was stunning, and the shade of white perfectly set off Annie’s flawless complexion. With her light brown hair swept in a high bun, it perfectly showcased the matching low scoop in the back.

  “So,” I said, “What did you decide about Brent?”

  Annie wrinkled her nose. “I chickened out.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just felt like this night should be about us and our friends, and—”

  “Ladies!” Alistair appeared out of nowhere, slinging his arm around Annie’s neck. “Shot time!”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I promised Annie.

  We slid back over to where the crew was gathered around Andrew, everyone taking a shot glass and a lemon covered in sugar granules.

  “Birthday girl?” the waiter said, extending the engraved silver platter towards me.

  “Thanks” I said, passing the small glass back to Annie before taking one for myself.

  “To the Eight!” Ilan proclaimed, stretching his shot glass towards us.

  We all groaned in unison. The name was obnoxious, and we only used it in jest.

  “To staying single—” Barrett began, cut off by another wave of protesting groans.

  “To one hell of a night,” Cam said simply, thrusting her glass up in the air in front of her.

  We all clinked them together. The vodka was top shelf, but it still burned slightly going down. Quickly biting down on the lemon to ease the sensation, my mouth was flooded with first sweet, then a hint of bitterness.

  “You ready to have some fun?” Taylor asked playfully, bumping my hip with hers.

  “Absolutely,” I replied, truly meaning it.

  Unfortunately, I had no idea what the evening had in store for me.

  A NEW GUY started working for David last week. I only noticed because he was so much younger than the rest of the crew. And far more friendly.

  Given the complete lack of things to occupy my time here, I watch a movie most nights. I always wait until it is late and everyone else has gone to bed. It is the only time that I feel at peace. When there are none of the constant bustling reminders of where I am.

  The only other people ever up and about are the guards charged with keeping me locked up tight. I’ve been here for months now without seeking out a knife and hacking my way out, or doing anything out of line. Yet they still eye me suspiciously, and the guards are careful to keep their distance.

  That’s why it is so startling when the new guy sits down on the couch beside me with a bowl of popcorn while I am watching my nightly movie. With his eyes on the screen and not me, he extends the bowl in my direction, a silent offering. I shake my head adamantly. The new guy shrugs his shoulders and digs in, crunching the kernels a mouthful at a time. Almost as if he understands that my denial is predicated on a fear of being drugged again.

  The bowl is extended my way again several minutes later, now almost half empty. Looking over to where his eyes are still focused on the screen, I smile and take a handful of popcorn. For the next hour, we sit there companionably, neither of us saying a word nor looking at the other. When the credits begin to roll, he stands, smiles at me, and then disappears into the darkened hallway.

  We repeat the same act the next night, though he is there for the start of the movie, instead of showing up midway through. The third night, he speaks. It is nothing earthshattering, only a comment about the movie itself, but surprises me nonetheless since he’s been mute until now. After that, we speak during the movie, asking each other questions and discussing plot holes, but nothing more.

  Then, a few days later, I notice him during the day. A wink comes my way when we pass each other in the hallways. A half-smile when no one is looking. Nothing overt, nothing crazy. We keep up the late-night movies, alternating between his picks of Guy Ritchie films and my nostalgic favorites. Then, last night during the original Sabrina, one of my all-time favorites—I think Audrey Hepburn was better in it that in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but that’s just my opinion—he scooted closer to me. Closer than I am comfortable with. But not so near as to mitigate my curiosity in what he has to say.

  His gaze sweeps from the reading nook on one end of the room to where the grandfather clock sits on the other side, right next to the hallway. With a not-so-subtle glance over either shoulder to ensure we are alone, he whispers the most beautiful words my ears have ever heard.

  Do you want to leave?

  My mind flashes with an immediate rush of thoughts and ménage of emotions.

  My first instinct is a product of the environment I’ve been rotting in for far too long: he’s fucking with you. So I don’t answer him. Just give him a sidelong glance before returning my attention to the antics of Kristin Wig, my new favorite funny lady.

  Lark. Seriously. Do you want to get out of here?

  Though the words could be taken the same way a frat boy in a bar meant them, I instinctively know that this isn’t an offer for awkward groping. He means escape. And I am not taking the bait. Because, if he means it, it is a really stupid question. Of course I do.

  My father taught me a long time ago that you could often force people to bid against themselves by simply remaining silent after an offer had been made. The same tactic also applies to retrieving additional information. People have an innate desire to fill awkward silences.

  I apply my father’s wisdom to my current situation. It is a game of chicken and I just have to wait for him to swerve. Turning my full gaze on him, I quirk an eyebrow and say nothing. As expected, I win the game.

  I mean, okay, I guess that’s a rhetorical question. I know you don’t want to be here. It’s just…well, you don’t belong in a place like this, with these people. It’s not safe.

  You think I don’t know that?

  Let me help you.

  And he apparently means it.

  A couple hours ago, he slipped me a note: Take only what you absolutely must. Be ready.

  A Burberry tote is among the rest of my belongings in the closet. When I noticed it originally, I thought it was such a ridiculous, ironic thing. Where the hell would I be going that I’d need a tote bag? Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.

  Clean underwear, several t-shirts that rolled up into small balls and a couple of pens. That is the extent of what I put inside. When I’m done writing this, I’ll slip this diary inside, too. I don’t know where I am supposed to go, where I will be safe, and what I’ll need once I get there. But nothing else in my prison cell is worth taking.

  The only other thing I care about is the iPod Nano that I’m also using at the moment. I’ll put it in the slim front pocket of the tote when it’s time to go, but I’m not ready to sit in silence just yet—this Foster the People song about falling in love is soothing to my nerves.

  The iPod itself was docked on the nightstand when I arrived, and had all of the same music as the one I owned. It was a pleasant surprise. Music allows
me a much needed mental escape. Though I have always wondered how they knew which songs to put on it. This iPod isn’t a touchscreen like the one I have at home—presumably because that one can connect to the internet, whereas this one can’t—it is still a lifeline. Having my music is a gift I appreciate more than I can ever say. Or will ever say. Since I’ll never thank these assholes for a thing. I wouldn’t need their small kindnesses if they’d just left me alone, if they’d never brought me here.

  How I got here is still a puzzle to me. Though I’d like to know the answer, it isn’t as important as knowing that I will soon be outside these four walls, and not just on the grounds. I just hope that I will end up somewhere better. Anywhere better. Even through the chorus of ooh la la’s, a small part of me worries incessantly. Is this a trick? Is he going to turn me in? Or take me somewhere even worse?

  It doesn’t matter. I will do anything to get out of here, far away from this place and these people who hold me captive. Even if that means I’m walking straight into a trap.

  Now I’m sitting here on my bed, hiding out to conceal my anxiety. I can’t seem to stop my foot from tapping, my eyes from checking the clock every ten seconds.

  What will happen if I’m caught?

  The unbidden thought flashes through the darkness in my mind at random intervals like a neon sign. It doesn’t matter. Honestly, they can’t do much worse to me. I repeat the mantra: they’ve already stolen my life. Stolen me. What do I have to lose? They can’t do anything worse than they already have. Even though, yes, I know that’s not true at all. That I can, in fact, be treated much, much worse than I have been. But I tuck away the truth in a distant corner of my brain, as though it is an out-of-season garment. It doesn’t matter. I’d risk physical pain and psychological torture to get out of here. To get back to him.

  Shit, I can’t let my mind go there. To him. I miss Blake so much it physically hurts. I’ve read about this ache, this longing. I’ve seen it portrayed in movies. And always thought it was a thing of fiction, something dreamt up by novelists and screenwriters. It’s not. It’s very real, a visceral reaction to being apart from the person you love when it’s truly real. I miss his smile, his laugh, his smell, his warmth, his…everything. Him.

  Great, now this page is splotchy and smeared. And so is my face. I can’t look like anything is amiss. I can’t act like anything is amiss. I simply can’t think of him right now.

  Focus, Lark. Focus. Don’t think about the very real possibility of seeing him so very soon. Don’t think about anything beyond the hour, the minute, the second. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, don’t count on anything happening until it’s already occurred. Another mantra of my father’s. It’s weird, but I didn’t appreciate him while I should have.

  I didn’t appreciate all of the life advice and sage wisdom he was passing along. Didn’t appreciate those random ramblings of his, the ones I’d have to fight to not roll my eyes at as he prattled them off, often repeating something he’d already told me several times before.

  Even if I do make it home, do get to Manhattan from who-knows-where I am being held, I will not have much time left with him.

  Will it be enough? Will I get the chance to tell him that he’s been a good father? That he’s done the best he can? That he has been a reprieve from the constant pressures of my mother, the only soft, warm place in my cold, hard childhood? That I am sorry, that I never wanted to hurt him? Will he understand why? Why I had to do it, had to set things right if I ever wanted to live a life without guilt and shame and everything else I’d been drowning in for too long?

  Seriously, Lark, stop. This isn’t the time for these mental wanderings. You need to concentrate on handling this minute, and then the next. If it was any other night, I would soon be tip-toeing out to the darkness, the quiet stillness that usually gave my nerves a break. So I need to do that. Need to go sit on that couch like it’s any other night. Need to sulk and ignore everyone, just like every other night. Need to wait with as much patience and as little anxiety as I can possibly muster. Need to wait for their Judas to come let me out.

  I’m going to go now. Going to go sit in the middle of the lions who skulk around me in the darkness. Going to go show them that nothing is amiss. The next time I write I might be free. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up that he’s going to come through. Hope is an ill-advised emotion when you’re in a situation like this. But I can’t help it. Hope is all I have right now, so I’m clinging to it for dear life.

  I hope I live to put pen to paper here again. If not, if someone else is reading these words, just know this: Sometimes you have to take risks, proportional to your desires, to get what you want. And there is so much that I want. So I’ve risked it all.

  ANOTHER GLASS OF champagne later, I was feeling far less tense and was getting caught up in the spirit of the evening. The dim lights, the elegant gowns and tuxes, the masks lending an air of mystery to it all…it was exactly how I’d imagine the party, but better. If nothing else, my mother knew exactly how to build an entire atmosphere as opposed to simply having a theme.

  Leaving the others behind, Annie came with me to work the crowd, to greet people and thank them for coming. It was best to get protocol out of the way before the guys ordered any more drinks.

  “Ms. Stories, how lovely to see you,” I said, swapping air kisses with Camilla’s mom.

  “Have you met Jacque?” she asked, gesturing to the tall, broad man standing next to her.

  There was no doubt, he was a hunk. His thick dark hair hung just past his ears, in a style that said exotic without being hippy.

  “Ahh, Mees Lark, eet is such a pleasure to fine-ally meet chu!” Jacque said in a thick French accent, placing one large hand on my shoulder as he bent to kiss each cheek. “Ah have ‘eard so much about chu from Cameela.”

  Though I knew he was wealthy in his own right, wasn’t outwardly slimy or slick, and didn’t come off as sleazy or too interested in his girlfriend’s daughter’s teenaged friends, there was still something about him that made me uneasy. Almost like he was too confident in Camilla’s mother’s affections towards him.

  Ms. Stories swept a glance to where his broad fingers were still on my shoulder, and reached out to take both of my hands in hers, effectively pulling the attention back to herself.

  “Lark, you look so beautiful!” she replied, holding me out at arm’s length to take in the dress. “You know, I remember when you girls were just starting high school, so young and so awkward. And of course Camilla was a late bloomer and hadn’t yet sprouted her…”

  Ms. Stories went on for a while about how much we’d all grown up over the past four years, before finally releasing me to continue on my way.

  “I can’t believe the things that woman will say after a little gin,” Annie laughed.

  “I can’t believe her new boyfriend!” I replied, peeking back over my shoulder at Jacque.

  Before I could ask Annie what she thought of the Frenchman, we were stopped by Taylor’s mother.

  “Lark, sweetheart,” she trilled. Leaning in for more air kisses, I wondered how high I’d get if I began to count them. “Happy birthday, darling!”

  “Thank you Mrs. Vanderkam. I’m so glad you could make it,” I offered one of my standard lines of the evening.

  “But of course! We’d never miss such a to-do. Your mother,” Mrs. Vanderkam paused, taking in the scene with her keen eye for details, “Your mother did such a wonderful job pulling this all together!”

  Coming from Manhattan’s elite hostess with the mostess, that was quite a compliment. I briefly wondered if she’d shared it with my mother, or was waiting until the end of the night to announce her approval, to keep my mother guessing.

  “She really did,” I agreed. “I’m so lucky that she did all of this for me.”

  While I knew that she didn’t really do it for me, that my mother had truly slaved over tonight’s affair for herself, her friends, and her reputation, I genuinely appreciat
ed the time and effort she put into the party. Descending the stairs, with a birds-eye view of the dim chandeliers, the glowing candles everywhere, the pristine ballroom full of elegantly dressed people wearing masks, had been like something from a dream.

  Though in my perfect version, Blake was my escort.

  And then, as if my subconscious was playing tricks on me, I swore the broad shoulders and head of dark curls weaving through the crowd belonged to Blake. Attempting to shake off what was surely an alcohol-induced hallucination, I tuned back to the conversation.

  “It was really lovely,” Annie was saying, picking up my conversational slack.

  “It absolutely was,” I added, utterly unaware of what we were talking about, still focused on the guy who looked like Blake. “I don’t mean to be rude,” I continued, “but will you excuse us?”

  “Of course, dear, of course. I know what it’s like, trying to make the rounds.”

  “Thank you,” I replied with a smile. If I commented on the last bit of her statement, we’d never get away. “We’ll be sure to find you later.”

  Grabbing Annie’s hand, I pulled her through the crowd until we reached the edge, only nodding or calling out greetings over my shoulder as we went.

  “Sorry,” I said to Annie when we reached the wall.

  “No worries,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “I needed a break, it’s not shocking that you did, too.”

  Flagging down a passing waiter, I asked for two bottles of water. Unless I wanted to see Blake’s green eyes hiding behind every mask, I needed to chill on the vodka for a little.

  “Yeah,” I replied, grateful for her understanding. “It was just getting to be a little overwhelming.”

  “Do you ever worry we’re all just going to grow up and become our parents?” Annie asked, surprising me. That was usually my line.

  “Where is this coming from?” I asked, wondering if I should be worried about Annie going rogue on me.