The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2)

by Lauren Rowe

  “Jonas?” I’m suddenly uneasy. “Is there someone there?”

  It’s got to be Jonas. Is he sneaking in here for a quickie—inspired by our bathroom escapades last night? I roll my eyes. That was a one-off. I’m not planning to make bathroom-sex a habit. And, anyway, we can’t do it right now—class starts in five minutes. Although who am I kidding?—with the right persuasion, Jonas Faraday could convince me to have sex with him anywhere, anytime, even in a gross bathroom stall five minutes before class.

  The footsteps walk slowly toward the stall.

  My chest constricts. I swallow hard. Those footsteps don’t sound like a woman. And they’re definitely not Jonas’ footsteps, either. That’s a shuffle. Jonas doesn’t shuffle. Jonas is grace in motion. I pull up my jeans and flush the toilet, my blood pulsing in my ears. I clutch my purse and open the stall door.

  Holy shit. It’s John Fucking Travolta from Pulp Fiction, ponytail and all. A small knife glints unmistakably in his hand. I’m too terrified to make a sound or move a muscle.

  In a flash, he yanks me out of the stall by my T-shirt. The knife glints as his hand moves toward my neck.

  “Oksana!” I scream. “Oksana!”

  He’s intrigued enough to pause. He presses the knife into my throat.

  But he doesn’t slice.

  “You’re supposed to talk to Oksana,” I blurt. “You have new instructions from Oksana!”

  A terrified squeal rises up out of me. I try to suppress it, but I can’t. I’m a quivering mess. My knees buckle, but he holds me up, holding the knife roughly against my neck. Good thing I just peed, or else I’d surely wet my pants.

  “You know Oksana?” He has a thick accent of some kind.

  “Yes, Oksana—the Crazy Ukrainian.” I try to smirk conspiratorially, but I’m sure I just look like I’m having a seizure. He’s not amused. Oh shit. Maybe he’s Ukrainian, too. “Oksana in Las Vegas—at headquarters. She has new instructions for you. You’re not supposed to hurt me. Things have changed—Oksana will tell you.”

  “My instruction is to kill you.” His eyes are hard.

  At this last statement, my knees go weak. He grabs me and holds me up, still holding the knife firmly against my throat—but, still, he’s not slicing.

  I keep babbling like my life depends on it—because, surely, it does.

  “You were supposed to get new instructions last night or this morning. No kill.” In my terror, those last two words come out like I’m talking to Koko, the sign language gorilla.

  He stares at me blankly, pressing the knife into my neck.

  Oh shit, he’s got no effing idea what I’m talking about. Stacy hasn’t conveyed last night’s message to anyone yet—or, if she has, word hasn’t made its way up (or down) the totem pole to this guy. He’s pressing the knife so hard against my throat, the blade is breaking the skin. My skin under the knife burns.

  He grits his teeth and his eyes flash like he’s made a decision—and not a good one.

  “Two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars!” I scream.

  He pauses yet again, just long enough for me to keep talking.

  “Right here in my purse. From the rich guy. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars! Look in my purse. You can have it. And I can get you more.”

  He pauses briefly, processing what I’m saying, and then puts me in a suffocating headlock while he gruffly opens my purse. He pulls out the check, grunting with pleasure or surprise or malice, I’m not sure which.

  “I’ve been scamming the rich guy all along. He gave me this money, and there’s plenty more where that came from. I just sent The Club an email about this earlier today. I want to be partners with you. That’s why I emailed you. Call your boss, you’ll see. I sent an email. I’m scamming this guy—and I can do the same thing to other new members, too. We can make money together. Lots of money.” I’m panting. I’m light-headed.

  He holds up the check and leans into my face. “You can get more?”

  Oh God, his breath is foul.

  “Yeah, lots more—lots and lots and lots and lots and lots.” Oh God, I’m rambling. “And not just from him. I can get it from other guys, too. I’ll split everything with you. That’s what I emailed about this morning—ask them about my email, you’ll see. This guy paid his membership fee and now he only wants to fuck me—he wants a GFE . . .” I mentally say a prayer of gratitude to Stacy the Faker for providing this helpful bit of prostitute lingo. “These kinds of guys love a good GFE. They think I’m breaking the rules to be with them—we’re Romeo and Juliet. We can do this with all the new members. I’ll tell them a sob story about my law school tuition and throw in a sick mom with cancer and they’ll fork over big money to feel like my knight in shining armor. We’ll split the money.”

  He’s considering. Or, at least, he’s not killing me yet.

  “I’m not gonna tell anyone about The Club—why would I do that? That’s the last thing I want to do. This is my ticket to big money. I love what you’re doing to these rich assholes—I want in. Let me be your partner. I’ll give these guys the Intake Agent GFE before they ever start using the other girls. I’m the girl they’re not supposed to have, the forbidden fruit. This first stupid guy gave me two hundred fifty thousand bucks—and I can get lots more. Call your boss—ask if I emailed this morning like I’m telling you. You’ll see—I’m telling the truth. Call and find out. I sent an email this morning.”

  I’m going to faint. I can’t keep talking like this. I’m seeing spots. My chest is jerking and jolting from the exertion of trying to take air into my lungs and speak at the same time. I’ve never felt so much adrenaline coursing through my veins in all my life. There is no doubt in my mind this man is a heartbeat away from plunging that knife into my chest. I’m shaking.

  “Call your boss. Come on, Hugo.”

  He scrunches his face, amused. It’s the first flicker of humanity I’ve seen from him during this whole exchange. I take it as a positive sign.

  “What? Don’t tell me Hugo’s not your name? Oh man! And you look like such a Hugo, too.”

  One side of his mouth hitches up.

  “When we start working together, I’m gonna call you Hugo. That’ll be my pet name for you. You’ll always be my Hugo.” I smile at him. Or, at least, I try to. I’m sure my face looks more like a raccoon caught in headlights.

  He looks at the check in his hand. “You can get more?”

  “Much more. I put on a big show last night when the rich guy was at a check-in with Stacy. He loved it. Fucked my brains out in the bathroom afterwards and gave me the money. We can do that kind of thing all the time to new members.” I try to laugh. “These guys love a good GFE—they’re all just diehard romantics underneath it all. Go on—call your boss. Ask about my email this morning. You’ll see.”

  My breathing is fitful. Sweat has broken out over my brow.

  Without warning, he puts me into a headlock again, smashing my face against his body, and pulls out his phone. I can’t see what he’s doing, but I hear the condensed sound of an automated outgoing voicemail message followed by a beep. He leaves a gruff, staccato message in another language. Russian?

  I’m going to die at the hands of a James Bond villain.

  He yanks me back up by my hair and presses the knife into my throat even harder than before. I feel blood trickling down my neck. My skin is on fire.

  His nostrils flare. He jerks his face right into my mine and I squeal, flinching, certain this is it for me—but he holds up the check.

  “If you’re lying to me, I’ll come back and slit your throat.”

  My neck burns sharply as he lets go of my quivering body—did he just nick me with the knife? Just as I bring my hand up to my neck, a shocking pain in my ribcage burns hotter and fiercer than anything I’ve felt in my entire life. The intense pain makes my knees buckle and takes my breath away, literally. My legs give way. As I fall, the bathroom spins and twists before my eyes.

  A crashing jolt of pain slams the back o
f my head.

  I love you, Jonas.

  Darkness.

  Chapter 24

  Jonas

  I move to the back of the classroom, just as she instructed. I’m Sarah’s puppy dog, after all—a fucking Maltese named Jonas. Sit, stay, come. Whatever the hell she wants me to do, I’ll do it.

  The classroom’s almost full. A guy takes the seat I just vacated, the one right next to hers. I glance at her open laptop and notebook on her empty desk and feel a pang of envy. I want to be the one who gets to sit next to her—damn, I shouldn’t have moved.

  I look at my watch. Still a couple minutes before class starts. She’d better hurry the fuck up. What’s she doing in there all this time? Putting makeup on? If so, I wish she wouldn’t. She doesn’t need it.

  The professor enters the room and heads down the aisle toward the front of the class. Before he makes it to his destination, a student stops him to ask a question.

  I reach into my jeans pocket and fish out the flash drive she gave me this morning. Let’s see what songs my baby’s compiled for my mix tape. I’ve never gotten a playlist from a girl before, ever, and I have to admit, I’m excited about it.

  I reach into my computer case for some earbuds and shove them into my ears.

  The first song is “Demons” by Imagine Dragons. I smile. Oh, Sarah, aren’t you clever? I get it. I’ve got demons and you’re going to save me from them. I don’t need to listen to this song—I’ve heard it a million times.

  The next song is “Not Afraid” by Eminem. I’m sensing a theme here. This woman is bound and determined to “heal” me, huh? I guess I’d better get used to it. It’s just the way she’s wired.

  “Come a Little Closer” by Cage the Elephant. I’m not familiar with this one. I listen to the song for about thirty seconds, through the end of the first chorus. Love the song. And, yes, definitely a theme. She wants me to “come a little closer”—or, as my various past girlfriends have fruitlessly demanded, to “let her in.” Not very original, but surely heartfelt.

  The professor moves to the podium at the front of the class and organizes his notes. I look at my watch. She’s got maybe another minute, if she’s lucky. If she doesn’t come in the next thirty seconds, I’ll knock at the restroom door and tell her to get her butt in gear. She’s so anal about not missing even a minute of class—she made us get here twenty minutes early, for Christ’s sake—I’m surprised she’s taking so damned long.

  I change the page view on my screen so I can see the rest of her selected song titles all at once. My heart explodes. The remainder of her song list forges a decidedly different theme than her initial “let me save you from your demons” campaign: “She Loves You” by the Beatles. “Crazy In Love” by Beyoncé. “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” by Jennifer Lopez. “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” by Michael Jackson. And on and on and on. “Love Can Build a Bridge.” “All You Need Is Love.” “(I Can’t Help) Falling In Love With You.”

  Oh my God.

  I bolt out of my chair to a manic stand, wringing my hands, hopping from foot to foot. I need to touch her, kiss her, make love to her. Maybe I’ll sneak into that bathroom right now and take her in the stall—no, what am I thinking? We can’t have bathroom sex at a time like this. Oh my God. She loves me. We’ve already told each other this, of course, in oh so many clever and coded ways, but seeing the actual magic word over and over and over on my screen, so starkly, so honestly, so unequivocally—an explicit love letter from my baby to me—it’s the greatest feeling in the whole world.

  Love is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the gods.

  “Good morning,” the professor begins. “Let’s start with the landmark U.S. Supreme Court case of Lawrence v. Texas on page one eighty-three of your casebook. Miss Fanuel, will you tell us the holding of this case, please?”

  Where the fuck is she? Why is she taking so long?

  “Yes. The Supreme Court in Lawrence v. Texas held that intimate consensual sexual conduct is part of the liberty protected by the Fourteenth Amendment . . .”

  Where is she?

  Panic seizes me. She should have come back by now. Holy shit.

  She should have come back by now.

  Someone screams just outside the classroom door. I bolt out of the room.

  A panicked gathering of students stands outside the women’s restroom.

  “Call 9-1-1!” someone shouts.

  I push my way through them into the bathroom.

  Blood. Oh my God, no, there’s so much blood. It’s all over the white tile floor. No, God, please, not again. No more blood. Not again.

  I see her bound and bloodied body. The bed sheet is stained a deep, dark red.

  I see his brain splattered against the wall. And the floor. And the ceiling. The carpet is stained a deep, dark red.

  And now I see my Sarah, My Magnificent Sarah, in a bloodied, crumpled heap, the bracelet I gave her still tied to her lifeless wrist. The white tiles are turning a deep, dark red.

  “Call an ambulance!” I scream.

  “We called one,” someone shrieks. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  I grab at my hair. My body convulses. A howl erupts from me and turns into a gut-wrenching heave. I throw up all over the bathroom floor. Someone tries to come to my aid. I shove them away. Someone grabs at me. I push them away and kneel down on the tile floor next to her.

  A guy is bent over her chest, listening for a heartbeat.

  Another howl. I pull at my hair.

  The guy sits up from her chest and nods at a second guy. There’s a collective sigh from the crowd. I push the guy away forcibly. She’s mine. I scoop her lifeless body up in my arms. I touch every inch of her, patting her down, trying to determine the source of the blood.

  “You shouldn’t move her,” the motherfucker says. I hear the words, but I don’t understand the meaning of the words.

  My fingers search frantically and find a hole in her T-shirt, right above her ribcage. I touch the hole. The fabric around it is warm and wet and red.

  “Red,” I say, my voice cracking. She promised to stop if I said red. “Red,” I choke out again. But it doesn’t stop. Make it stop. “Red.” My body wracks with sobs as my mind floats above, confounded, detached from my body, spiraling like an airplane smoking and losing altitude.

  I pull up her shirt and a strangled cry wrenches from me. A wound. A gaping, red wound in her beautiful olive skin, just like last time—only this time, there’s only one angry hole in her flesh instead of too many to count. I put my fingers on the hole to stop the bleeding, just like I did after the big man left. She always said I had magic hands, but she was wrong. There were too many wounds, too many holes to plug, and my fingers were too small. The magic in my hands didn’t work that time—no matter how hard I tried.

  But this time, there’s only one savage hole to plug—and my hands are big. My fingers are strong. The blood stops gurgling out when I cover the wound and press down. This time, the magic in my hands is working. And yet there’s still blood coming from somewhere else. Where’s the blood still coming from? I look around in panic. There’s so much fucking blood, all over the white tile floor. Her neck. Blood is coming from her neck. I put my fingers on the small indentation in her neck and the blood stops flowing.

  “Call an ambulance!” I scream. “Call an ambulance!”

  “We already called one. They’re coming. The hospital’s right here on campus. Any minute.”

  The other guy leans in and puts his fingers on the hole in her ribcage and I cradle her head in my arms, keeping my fingers on her neck.

  “Call again!” I scream. I pat my pockets. I can’t find my fucking phone. Did I leave it in the fucking classroom? “Call again!” I howl.

  I tried to untie the ropes but the knots were too tight—tried to free her wrists, but my fingers weren’t strong enough. The magic in my hands didn’t work that time, no matter how hard I tried. I love you, I said to her, tears bursting out
of me. I love you, I wailed, willing her to wake up and smile at me again. I love you, Mommy. But she wouldn’t wake up, no matter how many times I said the magic words. I love you. But my love wasn’t enough to save her. Look at me, Mommy. But her blue eyes stared into space. Please, Mommy. Her blue eyes remained frozen. I love you, Mommy. But it wasn’t enough.

  Sarah’s blood is all over my jeans, my T-shirt, my arms, my hands. If I could give her my blood, I would. If I could give her my life, I would. Oh God, I’d bleed myself dry for her.

  I feel wetness on my forearms. I pull back. My arms are soaked in her blood. My fingers touch the back of her head, the base of her skull—her hair is matted and wet and sticky. I burrow my finger into the wetness and feel an enormous gash.

  I howl at my discovery. My body heaves.

  The crowd stares at me, paralyzed, wide-eyed, in shock.

  I glare at them all, holding my precious baby in my arms.

  Heavy footsteps echo in the corridor, getting louder and louder, approaching. I hear the sound of metal wheels.

  “At the end!” someone yells in the distant hallway.

  I hug her to me.

  “Love is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the gods,” I whimper, but then a dam breaks inside of me and a lifetime of pressure and pain and sorrow and remorse and rage breaks and a fierceness floods into me.

  “I love you,” I wail, my voice cracking, my gut wrenching, my heart breaking, my mind hurtling into the abyss. “I love you, Sarah. I love you, baby.” I shudder with my sobs, rocking her back and forth. I’ve never felt pain like this. “I love you, baby, I love you, I love you.” I look up at the staring crowd. Why are they staring at us? What don’t they fucking understand? “I love her,” I proclaim fiercely. They stare at me blankly. Why don’t these fuckers understand? “I love her,” I scream at them all, but they don’t understand how I feel. No one ever understands how I feel—except Sarah. Sarah always understands.

  I can’t lose her. I won’t survive it if I lose her. I need them all to understand. Her blood is mine. I’m bleeding all over the floor. I won’t survive without her. I need them to understand. I love her.