“I’ll get ice,” I muttered.
She didn’t have any ice in the freezer, but she did have a bag of peas. I wrapped them in a towel, then placed them over her foot.
I sat next to her on the bed, wiping her tears with my thumbs.
“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” she hiccupped. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
“Laney, don’t. I was a prick—like your boyfriend.”
That made her smile, tears caught on her lashes.
“What’s going on?”
Neither of us had heard the front door open. Collin was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, glaring at us, while I sat thigh to thigh with his girlfriend.
“Collin. I wasn’t expecting you,” she murmured tiredly.
“Are you sleeping with him?” he shouted.
I stood up quickly, my hands curling into fists, but Laney interrupted whatever was going to happen.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve hurt my ankle, and Ash was helping me.”
Collin’s eyes narrowed, then he glanced down at Laney’s foot.
“It looks like you’ve sprained it. What the hell happened?”
“I slipped on the front steps,” she said quietly as I left the room.
“Jesus, Laney! You’re so clumsy! I’ve told you again and again that you shouldn’t be living in a place with stairs. This was bound to happen and totally avoidable. When will you learn?”
Listening to him tell her off was infuriating. Why couldn’t he just take care of her? I stomped into the kitchen and filled the kettle, then rummaged through her cupboards. I’d only ever seen her drink coffee, but something soothing would be better.
I eventually found a box of chamomile teabags at the back. One of my ex-girlfriends had sworn by their calming properties. Hadn’t stopped her throwing a mug of tea at me when I told her I was breaking up with her, but that’s another story.
I left the bag in the hot water until it looked about right. It smelled a bit like hay—I hoped she’d like it.
I carried the tea into her room while Collin was still rambling on, this time about finding an adapted apartment. Laney was staring at the wall, her face stiff.
“Tea,” I said, placing the mug next to her. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
Collin’s monologue dried and he tried to intimidate me with his scowl. I shrugged and headed for the shower.
Laney
Luckily, the sprain was a mild one. Once Ash had put the bag of frozen peas on my foot, the swelling started to go down quite quickly and Collin’s ranting was white noise in the background.
After a while, he noticed that I’d tuned him out. I was prepared for a fight, but he started to be sweet instead, reminding me of why we were together. I was almost able to forget that he’d accused me of sleeping with Ash. Almost.
It was bound to be weird, for everyone. I was sharing my one-bed apartment with a guy I hardly knew. I’d dated Collin for ten years and we’d never lived together. Now I was living with Ash.
And to be honest, I wasn’t finding it that easy to share my space, although Ash was helpful around the place, almost as if he was trying to be invisible. It didn’t work, of course. Having 6’ 2” of hunky dancer in my living room was not something I could even pretend to ignore. He was just so there, even when all he was doing was breathing.
I think Collin must have felt guilty about what he said, although it didn’t slip my attention that he hadn’t apologized.
He even managed to be pleasant to Ash while we shared Chinese takeout.
Ash was polite in return, but distant, answering any questions, but not initiating conversation.
After half a glass of wine, I was ready for bed, and Collin helped me into the bedroom. He made it clear that he wanted to make things better between us, and we ended up having sex, which was nice. It had been a while.
I remember hearing the front door slam and was distracted by the thought that I hadn’t given Ash a key to my apartment. Had he taken mine?
I didn’t hear him come back, but he must have because when Collin woke up in the morning to go to work, Ash was gone again, his blankets neatly folded beside the couch and a used coffee cup in the sink.
I worked all day on boring study guides, limping only a little, wondering the whole time if Ash was okay. Then Detective Petronelli called to speak to him, and I had to make an excuse that he’d gone for a walk.
“Well, when he comes back, could you ask him to come to the station—we’ve got a few more questions for him?”
“Sure,” I sighed. “We’ll drive over later. Have you notified his attorney?”
“I believe so.” He cleared his throat. “There’s no need for you to come, Miss Hennessey.”
“We’ll see you later,” I repeated, and ended the call.
When Ash came home, the cool distance that had been present at dinner last night was still there. I was a little hurt that he’d be like that with me after everything we’d been through. But when he walked out of the shower, tugging on a t-shirt, he had fresh claw marks down his chest. I guess I knew how he’d spent last night.
His eyes widened when I told him that Detective Petronelli wanted to talk to him again. He wasn’t happy about it, but didn’t argue.
He pushed his hand into the front of his jeans and pulled out a bunch of folded notes.
“There’s $100,” he said. “I did a full day.”
“Ash, I don’t want your money.”
“And I don’t want yours,” he snapped. “I’m paying you back for the clothes, the hotel, the car rental, my fucking food!”
And he stomped off to the laundry room, leaving me shocked and saddened. I didn’t want him to feel like he owed me. Stupid male pride.
Twenty minutes later, he slid into the passenger seat of my Mini Cooper, folding his long legs into the small space.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Okay.”
We drove to the police station in silence until Ash asked if he could turn on the radio. I should have thought of that. Music calmed him.
Detective Petronelli came out immediately, casting an aggrieved stare that said he really didn’t want me here.
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Novak. We just have a few more questions for you. If you’d like to follow me to the interview room. Miss Hennessey, you can take a seat in the waiting room.”
“No, that’s okay, Derek,” I said with a fake smile. “I’ll stay with Ash.”
Ash threw me a puzzled look, but didn’t argue. The detective, however, wasn’t happy.
“Miss Pinto is waiting in the interview room,” he sighed. “But just so you know, your dad will have my ass when he finds out that I let you sit in.”
The other detective, Oscar Ramos, was chatting with Angie as we arrived. When he saw me, he looked questioningly at Petronelli, who just shrugged.
Hi Angie, thanks for coming.”
“Of course,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “Hello, Ash.”
He nodded, but didn’t speak, then sat on the hard plastic chair, his legs bouncing with a jittery restlessness.
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Novak. We have some additional questions for you, particularly about your associates in Las Vegas.”
Angie frowned. “His associates?”
“Mr. Novak mentioned the woman Marta whom we’ve since identified as Marta Babiak.” He turned to Ash. “Was she part of the prostitution ring you mentioned?”
Ash looked frustrated. “That’s what she told me. You already know this.”
“What about Yveta Kuznets and Galina Bely? Were they involved in prostitution with you?”
I gasped. Ash had been involved in the prostitution? He glanced at me then closed his eyes, his face scrunched up as if he was in pain.
Angie looked down, pretending to read her notes. She already knew.
Oh God. Ash had worked as a prostitute. It was what I’d thought the first night I met him, but it was horrible having my fears confirmed. How many more
secrets did he have?
“No, they were working on the show,” Ash said quietly, avoiding my shocked gaze. “They’re dancers.”
“According to the information held by the Immigration Service, Marta Babiak left the US three weeks ago.”
Ash stared at Petronelli, a bitter expression on his face.
“Do you believe that?”
Petronelli ignored his question.
“We have some photographs that we’d like you to look at,” he said, his gaze shifting to me and back again. “This morning, the body of a Caucasian female in her mid-twenties was recovered from the desert outside Las Vegas.”
Oh no, I hadn’t expected this.
“And you think it’s Marta?” asked Ash, his voice strained.
“We’d like to eliminate that possibility if we can.” Petronelli looked at me again. “You might want to look away, Miss Hennessey.”
This time I took his advice willingly. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair.
After a moment, I heard Ash’s choked voice. “It’s not Marta.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Novak?”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
There was a heavy silence, and when I opened my eyes, Ash had his head in his hands.
“You’re sure about that? Because according to your statement, you only saw her three times briefly, twice at night.”
“My client has already answered that question.”
“I’m sure.” Ash spoke without looking up, and the two detectives exchanged a glance that told me they believed him.
When Petronelli slid the set of photographs back into a folder, I caught a glimpse of a woman’s body, naked against the desert backdrop, limbs folded at odd angles. My stomach heaved.
“Interview terminated at . . .”
Ash’s voice cut in, the words stretched and awkward as he spoke in a low monotone.
“Can you find out about Yveta and Gary? If they’re still in the show, they’re okay. And Galina. I’d like . . . I need to know.”
“We’ll make inquiries,” Petronelli assured him.
Ash closed his eyes.
“Just one more thing, Mr. Novak, Detective Susan Watson would like to talk to you. She’s worked with other rape victims and you could . . .”
Ash’s head shot up, anger and frustration spilling from him.
“No! I wasn’t . . . they didn’t rape me!”
“But, it’s not just . . .”
“NO! I am not a victim!”
He stood abruptly and stormed out.
I stared uneasily at Angie and the two detectives, then followed Ash.
He wasn’t in the lobby, and I wondered for a moment if he’d left the building completely, but then I saw him outside the main door, pacing up and down as if he’d been chained in a cage.
When he turned his eyes toward me, I saw shame, guilt, fear, and his hands shook slightly as he ran his fingers through his short hair.
“They could be dead because of me. Like that girl. What they did to her . . .”
He shuddered and swallowed several times.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. If I’d told someone . . .”
“You’d probably be dead. These people are evil. It’s not your fault.”
He didn’t bother to disagree again, but I could see that he didn’t believe me either.
As soon as we got back to the apartment, Ash said he was going for a walk. I didn’t try to stop him. Instead I gave him a door key and a twenty from the pile of bills he’d given me earlier.
This time he didn’t argue, but nodded, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, shaking his head. I watched him striding down the street until he was out of sight.
We stumbled on, an awkward ménage: Ash silent and distant, Collin loud and patronizing.
It was tiring. The easiest thing would be to tell Ash to go, but I just couldn’t do it.
Then one day, Dad asked to meet for lunch at an Italian restaurant near the police station. It wasn’t something we did often, so I guessed it had something to do with Ash.
I hadn’t even chewed my first breadstick when he started the interrogation.
“How’s Collin?”
“Fine, thanks. Busy. Same ole.”
“And how’s your houseguest?”
“Fine.”
“No problems?”
“Such as?”
He eyed me wearily.
“How’s Collin taking it having another man living with you?”
“He’s not a fan, but it’s not his decision. What’s this really about?”
“I worry about you being alone with him. You don’t know this man.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me, Dad. He couldn’t.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“I know him better than you.”
“Laney! Wake up! He’s involved with some very dangerous people.”
“That wasn’t his fault! He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ash is a good person.”
“Why are you helping him? Letting him live with you? Do you feel responsible for him? Because you’re not! You’ve done more than enough.”
Dad was partly right. I did feel responsible for Ash. I’d brought him to Chicago and involved him in my life. It had started with me simply wanting to help him—charity, I guess. But charity is usually faceless, impersonal—you make a donation, write a check, and that’s it. But with Ash, I’d seen his face and I’d seen the abuse firsthand. That made it personal.
And as we’d shared my apartment, shared time together, I’d come to appreciate him for the man he was, or the man he was trying to be.
He was kind and thoughtful. He helped me but he let me breathe. He was decent and honorable. And I hated to see him crushed, so every smile of his felt like an achievement.
I took a breath and tried to explain as rationally as I could—which wasn’t easy, because when it came to Ash, I wasn’t sure that reason and logic could be applied.
“Because someone should. Because I can. Because since he came to this country, his world has been shattered—in America—land of the free. In our country, he was made a slave! This is real, Dad. This is happening, and what Ash has told us is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve been looking into it: do you know how many slaves there are here today? Right now, in Chicago? Hundreds! Thousands! Tens of thousands every year across the whole country. Drug trafficking, prostitution, forced labor. You’re the police officer, Dad, you tell me.”
His hard expression softened. “I know, Laney, love. What I’m asking is why him?”
“I’ve told you,” I said as my cheeks turned red.
“That’s what I thought,” sighed Dad, shaking his head.
We ate the rest of our lunch without mentioning Ash’s name again.
Ash was late getting home that night. And as soon as he was inside the apartment, he strode into the kitchen and started scrubbing at his hands. He’d been much moodier since the last police interview. Each day that went by without news of his friends, his spirits sank lower. He looked tired all the time, and I knew he wasn’t sleeping well because I heard him at night. He’d changed physically in the last three weeks, as well. His lean body was even harder, his biceps bigger. I suppose it was inevitable, working in construction. I’d never seen a body as good as his except on TV.
When he’d washed his hands four times, he dried them carefully. I’d noticed that they’d become callused. It made me smile when I saw him pump some of my rose-scented lotion onto his hands.
“Ash is a gi-rl!” I sang, thoughtlessly teasing him into a lighter mood.
A strange expression shadowed his face and his eyes glittered dangerously. Then he shoved away from me and left the room.
Uh-oh.
I followed slowly and found him sitting on the couch with his head in his hands.
“Ash . . .”
“I’m not a girl,” he growled. “But I cannot be a man to you
!”
“What?”
“You feed me, give me a roof, a place to stay. But I can’t pay you enough. I can’t work without fear. I can’t even dance. I am nothing!”
He strode out of the apartment, disappearing into the night.
Stupid, stupid Laney!
I was sitting on the edge of my bed, summoning up the nerve to push the short needle into my thigh. It wasn’t particularly painful, but it did sting. I just hated, hated doing it.
Tears gathered in my eyes, and I cursed myself for weakness, for my stupid body that needed chemicals to keep it working, keep it moving. I hated to be so dependent.
I heard Ash arrive home, concentrating on the quiet sounds as he moved around the kitchen: the tap running, the coffee machine. Two soft thuds as he kicked off his heavy boots. The sounds were fainter now as he padded around in his socks. Then I heard music start—he’d found my iPhone and was listening to Bruno Mars.
He tapped on my door and poked his head around.
“Laney, can I . . . ?”
His words cut off and he stared at me. I flushed, covering up my bare legs, even though it was nothing he hadn’t seen before.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice pitched higher than usual.
“Drug addict, remember?” I laughed awkwardly.
His eyes widened and then he gave a short nod of understanding.
“Your medicine.”
“Yes, I’m just trying to get up the nerve. I do it every week, but I just . . . I’m being stupid, I know.”
He took a step closer, moving into the room.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not really,” I sighed. “It’s more the idea of it. I told you it was stupid.”
He sat down on the bed next to me, his large body radiating heat and comfort.
“I’ll do it for you—if you want.”
I think my eyes nearly jumped out of my head. If I waved a needle around Collin, he looked like he was going to faint.
I stared at him in disbelief.
Ash shrugged. “I’ve done it before. My mother was diabetic. I used to help her.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, leaning in and gently taking the needle from my hands.
Before I could protest, he’d pressed the point into my skin, depressed the plunger, and it was all over.
Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 17