Rock Bottom

by Canosa, Jamie

  It was mid-July. I’d been away from home for almost eight months. It felt like an eternity, and yet so much had happened I couldn’t believe that less than a year ago I’d been an entirely different person.

  Rylie Star, the girl with the plan.

  So much for that. What was that saying? We plan, God laughs? Well, I doubted it was God, but someone was having a hell of a laugh at my expense. If things had gone according to plan, I would have been packing for college, registering for classes, receiving my roommate assignment . . .

  Maybe Elijah would have come with me. Maybe we would have found a place to live together. Maybe we would have had our ‘happily ever after’. But things hadn’t gone according to plan. That wasn’t our story. This messed up tale was. No matter how far off course things had gotten, though, I was determined that we find the same ending. That’s what I was doing. Course-correcting. One degree at a time.

  Scraping the bottom of the bowl, I was relieved not to feel any effects of sedatives. It seemed Damien had deemed to restore at least this one freedom to me. For now.

  I stood under the dual showerheads, feeling the soreness ease from my muscles by increments and the lingering fog wash from my brain. A good tooth brushing and round of mouthwash wiped out the rest of my funk.

  My fingers slipped through damp locks, tugging at my scalp in an old, familiar pattern until a single long braid hung over my shoulder. I kept the makeup light—a little mascara, some pale lip gloss. It made me look younger, fresher. When the final product met with my approval, I moved to the closet and scanned the contents.

  My wardrobe selection ran the gauntlet from barely more than lingerie to evening gowns. I chose something from the slinkier end of the spectrum. I had some favor to gain back, and I knew exactly how I was going to do it.

  As luck would have it—or fate, perhaps, because I didn’t believe I had any luck left—Damien was working in his office when I emerged. The door stood open so I took that as a cautious invitation.

  “Damien? Sir? May I come in?” I huddled in the doorway like a kicked puppy desperate for love and affection.

  “Sir . . .” He spared me a glance from the papers he was overseeing and did a double take. “I think I like that.” Heat crept into his gaze. “You look lovely. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you are.”

  “Thank you.” The shyness that had me casting my eyes to the floor wasn’t feigned. I didn’t feel beautiful.

  “You may enter.” He flipped the papers in his hands so that they were face down on the desk and leaned back in his leather chair.

  “Thank you . . . sir.” The word tasted like bile in the back of my throat, but I knew each use gained me brownie points I was going to need later.

  His eyes heated further and I knew I was right. “Come here. Let me have a look at you.”

  There was nothing I could do to hide the flush creeping up my chest and throat, settling into a deep burn in my cheeks as I stood before him clad in nothing more than black lace. He didn’t seem to mind if the deep growl he made was any indication.

  “And what do you have to say for yourself, my little Star?” His fingers drifted almost reverently over my bared midriff.

  “I . . . I wanted to . . . to say . . .” Oh God, this single moment was going to take decades of therapy to erase, but I knew what I needed to do. Dropping to my knees, I clasped his hand in mine. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. I’ll—”

  “Yes.” He stood, knocking me flat on my ass on the floor in front of him. “You will.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  A firm grip beneath my arms drew me to my feet and I stood before him, chest-to-chest, wild eyes boring into mine. I always thought the phrase ‘my heart skipped a beat’ sounded painful. I can say for a fact that it is.

  “I’ve been waiting far too long for this.” With a single sweep of his arm, Damien knocked half the stuff on his desk across the floor and the next thing I knew I was thrown down, face-first, over it.

  I’d known this was coming. Or at least I’d hoped. And if that wasn’t twisted on just about every level . . . But I was there. In his office. And Damien was thoroughly distracted.

  As he . . . availed himself of my assets, I forced myself to shut him out. To shut out the vile filth I could feel growing beneath my skin at every point of contact between us. And I paid attention. I paid attention to the financial statement beneath my left ear. The supply inventory under his sweaty palm. The list of letters and numbers hanging precariously from the edge of the desk.

  I was slammed against the surface hard enough to bruise my hips and my hand clenched, taking the document with it. All of those muscles my time in the shower had eased were sore again by the time Damien was finished with me. It took him some time and several rounds, but when he finally had me out of his system, he unceremoniously dumped me out of his office and shut the door in my face.

  Didn’t matter, I had all I was going to get from there.

  I waited until I heard Damien talking on the phone before retreating to my room. There was no lock on the inside of the door, but I fervently hoped the chair I’d propped beneath the knob would hold off any unwanted visitors. In the bathroom, I drew open the bottom drawer and dug beneath the piles of toiletries for the box of tampons stuffed in the back. Dumping the entire contents of the box onto the counter, I watched several roll onto the floor and into the sink before the clunk of the cell phone hit the cool marble. If there was one place in the world a man was unlikely to go . . .

  Turning on the shower, I sat with my back against the door, feet shoved up against the tub. I wasn’t taking any chances. My fingers felt numb with adrenaline as they fumbled over the keyboard. I typed out the statement information I could remember—the bank name, partial account number, amounts—and the list of letters and numbers I held crumpled in my palm.

  AC TX 1011

  KR CT 1028

  MH UT 1104

  SM TN 1115

  RL NC 1203

  NT FL 1227

  Then I hit send.

  Waiting for a response, I pried open the box flaps and shoved my hand all the way to the bottom. My fingertips brushed over the glossy paper wedged inside and shimmied it out.

  “This is it. We did it.” I smoothed Elijah’s image on my thigh and traced the curve of his square jaw, imagining the feel of the coarse stubble. “I’m coming home.”

  The tiled floor was growing damp and the mirror was beginning to fog by the time the phone lit with Tanner’s reply.

  Good work. We’ll run the information and get back to you. Keep phone handy.

  That was all.

  What did I expect? That my job here was finished? That they’d come barreling through the door and rescue me? We didn’t even know if what I’d seen meant anything yet.

  Frustrated with my own impatience, I tucked the phone, along with the photo and document, back in the box before repacking the rest of the contents and burying it deep in the bottom of the drawer again.

  Now what was I supposed to do? Act normal?

  I sat on the couch, flipping through the pages of a book with no real interest in reading it, trying not to pull my hair out. Damien remained shut away in his office for most of the afternoon, but Rosita came and went, dusting and polishing surfaces before disappearing into the kitchen. I itched to rush into the bathroom and check the phone every five seconds to see if there was news, but I wasn’t that foolish.

  I fidgeted throughout dinner, barely hearing two words of the story Damien was telling me. The food I hadn’t had much of an appetite for recently vanished from my plate and I waited anxiously for Damien to finish his meal. I had to constantly remind myself to smile and nod at the right times, to be polite, attentive, well-behaved. If I found myself unconscious for another eight days, I’d be going nowhere fast.

  When the plates had been cleared and left in the sink for Rosita to deal with in the morning, Damien escorted me down the hall. “I apologize, but I hav
e work to attend to. You should get some rest.”

  Yeah, sure, rest. After eight days of near constant unconsciousness, rest was just about the last thing on my mind as I listened to that lock click into place. Still, I shut off the light before barricading myself in the bathroom once more.

  Fingers shaking with dread and anticipation, I dug out what I hoped would be my saving grace and found . . . nothing.

  No calls. No texts. No updates. Nothing.

  ***

  Disappointment weighed heavily for two straight days while I waited for any word from anyone. Whoever said ‘patience is a virtue’ had never found themselves in my particular situation. Each time Damien came to me I felt the darkness in my soul grow a little bit colder. Every time I looked at that blank screen, I felt a little bit more hope slip through my fingers.

  I’d done all I could do. If this wasn’t what they needed . . . what else was there?

  Finally, on the third day, I dumped the cell into my palm to find a tiny blinking blue light. I nearly fumbled it onto the floor as I flipped it open and scanned the message.

  List of codes corresponds with missing women in six different states. Who, where, and when they went missing. It’s the smoking gun we need to get a warrant, but the judge wants to see it for himself. You set the time and place for the meet.

  Meet? What meet? They actually wanted me to bring that paper to them? Were they out of their damn minds? In case they hadn’t noticed, I was sort of detained at the moment.

  I can’t.

  He must have had the phone in front of him, because this time his response was almost immediate.

  You have to. It’s the only way we get a warrant. It’s the only way we get you out.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Carrie’s mom used to have these truffles imported from France. I thought they were good. I mean, they were chocolate, what’s not to like? But Carrie . . . she was obsessed. The nickel-sized candies didn’t exactly come cheap, so Mrs. Brenner kept them under lock and key in her desk drawer. That didn’t stop Carrie, though.

  YouTube, a couple of bobby pin, and a few minutes were all it took to pilfer more chocolates than I cared to admit. Angela had always insisted it was a waste of study time. At the time, I’d agreed. Who knew it would end up being the most important thing I learned there?

  Rosita was nothing if not punctual. Every morning at eight-thirty a.m. on the dot she unlocked my door, delivered my breakfast, and performed a surface clean of the room. The woman might have suffered from O.C.D. Or, perhaps, the strict schedule was Damien’s and all she suffered from was a fear of incurring his wrath. I could relate.

  I lay in bed, pretending to sleep, mainly because it was awkward to watch someone clean up after you when you couldn’t so much as thank them for it without risking trouble for you both. It wasn’t until she left and I heard the door lock behind her that I let my mind focus on what it was I was about to attempt.

  Conceal evidence of criminal behavior, pick lock, sneak out of guarded apartment, and attend secret rendezvous with police detectives. Piece of cake. And while I was living in Fantasyland, I added walking on water and spinning straw into gold to my to-do list.

  My bathroom came stocked with everything a girl might need, including . . . bobby pins. I slid one off the paper packaging and stared at it, trying to remember how Carrie had done this.

  Pliers. I needed pliers. I didn’t have pliers. But I did have tweezers.

  For a thin strip of metal, it proved more difficult to snap in half and bend than I would have guessed. I got it started with the tweezers and then had to use the edge of the counter and the heel of my hand to pound it into a ninety degree angle. That was it. I had my tools. Thoughtful of Damien to provide them for me.

  I dressed quickly with security in mind. Leggings to allow me to move more freely, and my sweater had zip-up pockets. The last thing I needed to do was misplace the evidence along the way. That sheet of paper was my ticket out and I wasn’t taking any chances. Once it was safe, I took up position behind the door and eyeballed the keyhole.

  Watching someone pick a lock and actually doing it yourself are two entirely different things. To a spectator it looks like you just shove the two little metal pieces in the hole and wiggle them around a bit. Presto chango, the lock is open. In reality . . . not so much.

  I jabbed blindly at the stupid hole for thirteen solid minutes. Nothing.

  “Come on, you stupid, useless, piece of—” Drawing a deep breath, I forced myself to take a step back. I was letting desperation impede my logic. “Okay. One step at a time.”

  Carrie always started with the L shaped tool near the bottom. I stuck it in and gave it a little wiggle. Nothing happened, but I still had the pick to work with. Finagling it slightly more delicately into the top of the keyhole, I added pressure to the bottom tool with my thumb and wiggled the top one instead.

  Click.

  Holy shit. I scarcely dared to breathe. Setting the makeshift implements aside, a cold sweat coated my palm as it closed around the door handle.

  Please. Please. Please. Please. Pl—

  I twisted and it opened.

  When you think about it, it’s such a tiny thing. The opening of a door. Something accomplished a million times a day. But opening this particular door would change my life forever.

  It was an effort not to whoop or clap or throw a freaking ticker tape parade. Rosita could be heard clattering away as she rinsed dishes in the kitchen. I could see the front door down the hall. This was it. No turning back.

  Checking once more that the paper was still zipped into my sweater, I eased the door shut behind me, turned the lock into place, and raced barefoot down the hall with a pair of sneakers dangling from my fingers.

  Every step of the way I expected to be caught. After pressing the call button for the elevator, I took several steps back, half expecting Damien to be waiting inside when the doors slid open. The ding was loud enough to make me cringe, but Rosita didn’t come running, and when the doors opened wide, the elevator was mercifully vacant.

  I gave a silent ‘thank you’ to my mother for years’ worth of memorization techniques as I keyed in the elevator code and began my descent. Floor after floor passed by as I slipped on my sneakers, rearranged my hair, and attempted to at least appear calm. A frantic, barefoot girl running from the building might raise a few eyebrows.

  The small black orb on the ceiling weighed on me like an all-seeing eyeball. Fears that Damien watched my every move pulsed through my veins, but I shook them off. Damien Cross was a busy man. He had better things to do than sit around all day watching surveillance footage on the off chance I happened to escape. By the time he realized I was gone and checked the camera, it would be far too late for him to do anything about it. He’d probably be in custody before he ever even knew I was missing. These were the reassurances that kept my pace steady as I crossed the lobby and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Fresh air filled my lungs, clogged with the pungent smells of exhaust, boiled hotdogs, and hot tar. After the quiet confines of the penthouse, the sounds of the street were nearly deafening. Car horns blared, bass beats thumped, thousands of voices chattering away on phones, the crisp clip of shoes on concrete. It was all a bit overwhelming. But I’d done it. I was out.

  There was a not-so-small part of me that honestly hadn’t believed I was capable of it. I stuck a mental tongue out at that part as I turned right and hustled toward the coffee shop ten blocks over. I’d passed it every evening on the way to the corner with Rafe, always filled with men and women in work clothes going about their normal lives, blissfully unaware. I’d envied them. When Tanner told me to set the meeting place, it was the first thing that came to mind.

  Being mid-morning on a weekday, the shop was emptier than usual, making Tanner and Fawn hard to miss in the rear booth. They shared a bench facing the door and Tanner lifted his chin in recognition when I stepped inside. Bypassing the counter, I headed straight for their table, the e
vidence burning a hole in my pocket.

  “I—” I was breathless when I reached the booth and whatever air I had left in my lungs came whooshing out when I saw who sat across from them.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  “You’re here.”

  Elijah smiled up at me like I was some kind of simpleton. “Well, it is Taco Tuesday over at El Sombrero, but I figured I could squeeze in a few minutes to give you a dose of all this,” he waved a hand idly in his direction, “before lunch.”

  I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or smack him. So I did both. Elijah grinned harder, putting those dimples into full effect, and I may have swooned just a little before he sobered.

  A tug on my wrist drew me into the booth and long fingers threaded through my hair. “Of course I’m here.”

  “Of course he’s here,” Tanner grumbled. “Kid’s been riding my ass every damn day.”

  We both ignored him.

  “Rylie.” My name sounded raw coming from Elijah’s lips.

  It had been almost two weeks since I’d seen him at the party. Over a month since all of this began. A lifetime since we’d really been together. “I missed you.”

  “Christ, Princess, I’ve missed you, too. I’ve been—” His voice broke, my heart right along with it. “You have no idea. I’ve been so worried. Fucking terrified that . . .”

  Elijah couldn’t bring himself to say it, but I knew what haunted his nightmares. The same things that haunted mine. Only difference was, I knew most of them as memories instead of simply dreams. Maybe someday I’d share them with him, but for now he already carried too much of my burden on his shoulders.

  “It’s okay. I’m okay.” I leaned into him, bringing my lips to his face. I gently kissed his cheek, his nose, his eyelids, soaking up every last moment until Tanner spoiled it by demanding our attention.