by S. R. Grey
The whole time he’s whispering in my ear, “I’m sorry, Essa. I am so sorry.”
When I turn around, I see Dawson is gone. “Where’d he go?” I whisper while I wipe away my tears.
Farren jerks his head toward the limo. “He’s in there, waiting to talk business. He said it was getting too hot to stand around out here.”
“I bet,” I scoff bitterly. “He’s probably in there jerking off after what he just saw.”
Farren cups my cheek, so much more gently than before. “Essalin, I’m so sorry I had to do that to you in front of him.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s not like we had much of a choice. I’m just glad he was satisfied with just you touching me.”
Farren’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t about to let him touch you. I’d kill him first.”
“What about the fallout?”
“Fuck the fallout, Essa.”
Somehow, I know Farren is not kidding around. And the fact that he would rather kill than share me makes any humiliation I’ve endured today a little less horrible.
Still, I can’t wait to leave.
Farren sees my discomfort in my eyes and says, “We won’t be here much longer. Go back to the car, okay? Wait for me there. And, Essa…remember what I told you.”
I nod. I know Farren is referring to the gun he stashed under the seat. “Use it if it comes to that,” his expression says, before I turn and walk slowly back to the Ferrari.
I glance back when I’m almost to the car. Farren is getting into the limo to speak with the most disgusting man I’ve ever met.
This day can’t end soon enough.
Twelve minutes, that’s how long Farren is in the limo with Dawson when I start to panic.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Slowly, I adjust my hands around the .38 that’s resting in my lap. I’m not sure how much longer I should wait. Farren said to use the gun if things go badly. Is this too much time? Should I get out of the car and go rap on the limo window? I don’t know. I mean, how long should a meeting like this take?
I glance down at the weapon in my hands. I found the gun easily enough. It was right where Farren promised it would be—under the passenger seat. I retrieved it the second I was back in the car, right after I closed the door. I’ll use this gun if I need to. In fact, shooting Dawson would probably bring me a special kind of joy.
But my thoughts are just fantasies. Truthfully, I’m scared. Scared for me, scared for Farren, and scared this thing Farren is involved in is much more complex than I ever imagined.
Four more minutes pass, and, to my relief, Farren emerges from the limo. He appears to be fine, so my hold on the gun loosens. When he opens the driver’s-side door and slides in, I ask, “How’d it go?”
“It went well,” he replies as he puts on his seat belt. “Dawson is still hung up on the rogue story, which is a positive for us. I think I was able to convince him that I’m no longer a threat.” Farren lowers his gaze to the gun in my lap. “I’m glad you didn’t have to use that, Essa. But I’m happy you listened to me and had it available. Just in case.”
He takes the gun from me and slips it under his own seat.
I say softly, “I would’ve used it, Farren, if it meant saving you. I’d have been scared, yeah, but I would’ve done it.”
Farren places the Ferrari in reverse and slowly backs away from the limo, keeping his eyes on the unmoving car until we reach the gates.
“I don’t doubt it, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
Soon enough we’re back on the road, on our way to where Rick has Haven.
“Will Haven be safe from here on out?” I inquire.
Farren nods. “She should be.”
“And me?” I say, voice shaky. “Will I be okay when I get back to school?”
Emerald eyes slide my way. “Are you thinking about taking summer classes, after all?”
“No,” I reply. “I still plan on spending the summer in New York City with you and Haven.”
“Good,” he says, sounding relieved.
That prompts me to divulge more. “I’m not really sure what I want anymore.”
This time with Farren is changing me…in the best kind of way. I’m learning who I am and what I want to do with my life, and, as I’ve known all along, it sure as hell isn’t something business-related.
“What are you saying?” he asks softly.
I take a breath. “I’ve been thinking about transferring somewhere different. Oakwood’s program is good, but there are far better schools out there for journalism.”
“Do you think your parents will go for that?” Farren wants to know.
I hear in his voice that he’s trying to gauge just how serious I am about changing schools.
“There’s always financial aid.” I laugh.
Farren chuckles as he places his hand on mine. “The colleges in New York have good financial-aid packages.” He pauses, then adds with a grin, “Plenty of good journalism programs to choose from, too.”
I interlock our fingers. “Are you suggesting I move to New York City?”
Please say yes. Please say yes.
My heart beats hopeful beats, and then it soars when he responds, “If that’s what you really want to do, Essalin, you won’t get any argument from me.”
It’s not an out-and-out request for me to move, but it means something coming from Farren. If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that Farren Shaw is careful with his words.
He smiles over at me, and I whisper, “I’ll give it some serious thought, then.”
I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. Our eyes meet briefly before his gaze returns to the road.
In that fleeting glance, though, there is something in Farren’s eyes that belies his earlier words, his declaration of “I don’t come with promises.”
In his eyes is a promise of sorts—a promise of more.
As we travel the interstate, I watch as the mile markers whiz by. It’s mesmerizing, and before long I start to doze off. I sleep fitfully, though, curled up on the leather seat. When I wake at one point, bleary-eyed, we are driving through a thunderstorm. Sheets of rain pelt the car. Lulled by the sound, I fall back asleep. And by the next time I wake, it’s getting dark. Or maybe the sky is slate-colored due to the storm.
“Where are we?” I ask sleepily.
Farren reaches over and rubs my shoulder. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll wake you when we get to the safe house.”
I close my eyes. I rest.
I’m awakened sometime later, when one of the burner phones rings. It’s not mine, of course, so I resume sleeping.
And that is when I have the strangest dream.
Or is it real?
I dream that it’s Rick who is calling. Farren is asking him about Haven.
After a beat, Farren says, “Good, I’m glad she’s doing better.” And then, “I estimate we’ll be there in another hour.”
Earlier, when I was sleeping soundly, Farren must have talked to Rick and told him of his meeting with Dawson. I assume this because, after a long pause, Farren says into the phone, “Yeah, Dawson is a potential problem. I sense he knows I’m more than just some guy who went rogue.”
Wait, what? Farren told me Dawson still believed the rogue story and bought that Farren was giving it up.
Confusing me even more, Farren then says, “No, no, he made no mention of Barnes. But I think he suspects he’s involved. Dawson is starting to put two and two together.”
Rick says something, to which Farren murmurs, “No, not at all. She still has no clue who Barnes really is…and I intend to keep it that way.”
What? Does Farren mean me or Haven? Maybe Farren is referring to us both? So what does Haven not know? Or, more importantly, what do I not know?
One thing is for sure; I am fully awake now. This is no dream. I continue to feign sleep, though, so I can listen.
Farren chuckles humorlessly. “Rick, there’s no way Dawson knows who Quinton Barnes re
ally is. He has no clue of my connection to him in general, let alone…” His voice trails off, and I feel Farren’s eyes on me, assessing if I’m really asleep like I’m pretending to be.
“Hey,” he says softly to Rick, “we’ll discuss this in more detail when I arrive.” He then ends the call.
Damn. This man is too attuned. He knows I’m just pretending to sleep.
Sure enough, he says my name. And when I don’t answer, he says a little louder, “Essalin, I know you’re awake.”
Sighing, I roll from one shoulder to the other until I’m facing him. “Sorry,” I whisper, my eyes downcast. When I receive no response, I rub my eyes and sit up straight. “Why did you tell me things went well with Dawson?” I bravely ask.
“Because they did,” Farren replies flatly.
“But you originally said Dawson knew nothing of the man you really work for, this Barnes guy.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, I heard what you said to Rick.” I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “So, who is this Quinton Barnes? What’s your real connection to him?”
Wow, I am really overstepping my boundaries, and it’s never been clearer than when Farren levels me with a look that shouts that I’ve asked way more than I should have.
Still, he gives me an answer. But, unfortunately, it’s the same crap he’s maintained from the day he first told me about Barnes. “I work for Mr. Barnes, Essalin. There’s nothing more to tell.”
I accept his answer. But I don’t believe it for a minute. And in the spirit of my future journalism—investigative journalism—career, I resolve to find out just how Farren Shaw is connected to a mysterious, exorbitantly wealthy man who lost a daughter to human trafficking.
I’m surprised when Farren exits the highway just outside of Las Cruces and drives straight to a middle-class, suburban subdivision.
“I thought we were going to where Rick has Haven hidden?” I say.
“We are,” he informs me. “The safe house is within this subdivision.”
I glance around and say, “This neighborhood looks too ordinary, Farren. Like where Walter White lived before he really broke bad.”
Farren laughs. “So you’re a Breaking Bad fan, too?”
“Yep.” I nod. “I’m sad it ended.”
“It was pretty awesome,” he agrees. Then, in a more serious tone, he says, “As for this neighborhood, it is ordinary, Essa. That was the appeal when I first found the house we’re going to. It’s one of the reasons why it’s now a safe house.”
“What was the other reason?” I ask.
He slows to a stop in front of a very nice white stucco house with black shutters. He says, “Take a look around, Essa. Not everything is as it appears.”
Isn’t that the truth!
I refrain from voicing what I’m really thinking and instead look around as directed. Farren is correct. Though we are in the middle of a neighborhood that, on first glance, appears to be an archetype of typical suburbia, most of the houses in the vicinity are empty, the vacant lots dotted with foreclosure signs.
“This area was hit hard when the recession began.” Farren turns off the ignition and leans back in his seat. “It’s just now starting to recover. I directed Rick to buy this house a while ago. It’s an ideal location, and it’s turned out to be safer than expected.”
“Kind of like hiding in plain sight,” I muse, releasing my seat belt.
“You got it,” Farren confirms.
We exit the Ferrari and walk up the driveway to the front of the house. There’s no one around anywhere, and everything is quiet. The solitude feels bizarre on a nice evening like this. Uneasiness creeps over me. But when I think on it further, I realize my feelings have nothing to do with the vacant neighborhood. My bad feelings stem from an unsettled notion that things are clipping along much too smoothly. Despite Rick needing to move Haven once—and Farren’s detour to meet with disgusting Dawson—this search-and-rescue mission has gone off without a hitch. Now it just feels as if something big might be looming. But for the life of me, I have no idea what that something could turn out to be.
Luckily, I’m quickly relieved of my feelings of doom when Farren knocks on the front door and Rick opens it.
Standing directly next to Rick is Haven.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I cry out.
I throw my arms around the girl I haven’t seen in weeks. Haven is also a girl I thought I might never see again. “Haven,” I say, my voice hitching, “I was so scared for you. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
We both start crying as she hugs me back, her much-thinner-than-before frame shaking like a leaf.
“Essa,” she whispers. “I can’t believe you’re really here. Rick told me you were traveling with Farren, but it didn’t feel possible. I thought it wasn’t real.”
“It’s real,” I assure her, stepping back. “And I’m really here.”
I glance over and smile at the man who made that happen. I don’t voice to his sister that this journey has changed my life in so many ways. But when Farren gives me a small smile, I know he sees in my eyes that I’ve changed, and that he is a big reason why.
In characteristic Haven fashion, Haven then makes a joke. “Jeez, Essa, I knew it was going to take something drastic to get you off of the Oakwood campus this summer, but letting myself get kidnapped wasn’t really the plan.”
“God, I hope not,” I say, and then I softly add, “New York City would have been better.”
“Yeah, it would have,” she quietly agrees.
“You almost had me talked into it,” I tell her.
“I knew it!” She laughs. “A couple more days and I would have prevailed.”
“For sure,” I whisper.
A tear rolls down her cheek—over a faded bruise. I reach out and gently wipe the wetness away, carefully so as not to hurt her. I start to tell Haven that I’m going back with her and Farren and that I’ll be staying in New York City, after all. But right as I open my mouth, Farren clears his throat.
He’s anxious to reunite with Haven, as well. I step away from Haven, and Farren’s eyes meet his sister’s. A lump rises in my throat. I’ve known all along that these two siblings love each other dearly, but Haven’s softened gaze and Farren’s smile show me just how tight their bond is.
Stepping forward, Farren engulfs his sister in a huge embrace, an embrace that is sweet and genuine.
Rick moves away from the doorway and, in doing so, steps backward into the house. He beckons for me to follow. Discreetly, so as not to disturb their moment, I slip past Farren and Haven, leaving them to their reunion.
In the spacious, high-ceilinged entry hall, Rick reaches over and gently closes the door. “Let’s give them some time to talk privately,” he says.
“Absolutely”—I nod—“sure.”
The safe house is very modern, with Spanish-influenced décor like exposed wooden ceiling beams, stucco walls, and wrought iron accents. The shades and tones are neutral, with pops of color here and there. The coordinating furnishings make me think the house was once a model home. I can’t imagine Rick or Farren decorating. And employing an outside person to do so would have been too risky.
I cross my arms across my chest, while Rick, looking as good and put together as the evening I met him, takes out his phone and types in a quick text.
He’s probably giving Mr. Barnes an update, I think to myself. Letting him know Farren is here.
As Rick is slipping the phone back into the pocket of his dark slacks, Farren and Haven join us in the hall. With the initial blush of reunion fading away, I take a better look at Haven. She’s thinner than before she was abducted. In fact, she’s practically swimming in the black yoga pants and purple V-neck top she’s wearing. In addition to the fading bruise on her cheek, there are several more contusions running up and down her arms. Even more disturbing are two fading red hand marks on the sides of her neck.
I shudder, suddenly chilled, and not by the house’s superior
air conditioning. I glance over at Farren to see how he’s taking all of this.
Uh, not good, I note. His eyes burn fiery green as his gaze moves over Haven. He shakes his head slowly, his strong jaw clenching. I’ve learned this man well enough to know he wants to throttle the men—Eric and Vincent—who have caused this harm to his sister.
When a muscle in Farren’s jaw twitches, I move closer to him and place my hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him. I want to show him that I’m here if he needs to lean on me.
Both Haven and Rick follow my movement. There’s no surprise in Rick’s expression, but there sure is surprise in Haven’s big aquamarine eyes. Eyeing me and Farren accusingly, she flat-out asks, “Are you two, like…together?”
Shit, I don’t know how to answer that question.
But Farren apparently does. “We are,” he says. Damn, from his tone there’s no mistaking that he doesn’t mean we’ve just been traveling together.
“Are you okay with that?” I quietly interject.
It matters to me what Haven thinks. I certainly don’t want her being misled into thinking I’m only here because I hooked up with her brother. True, Farren has made this journey bearable, fun at times even, but I’ve never lost sight of the fact that finding Haven was the sole reason we embarked on this journey.
I need not worry, though. Farren told me once before that his sister would be fine with what has developed between us, and, thankfully, he appears to be right.
Haven smiles at Farren, then at me. She says, “Of course I’m okay with my two favorite people finding love with each other.”
What? Love? Oh, shit.
My cheeks flame.
Rick’s eyebrows go up.
And Farren clears his throat.
Sure, there’s something strong developing between me and Farren, but there’s been no mention of freaking love. Not on his part, that’s for certain. Haven’s a romantic at heart though—like me—so I shouldn’t be surprised. Still, I can’t bring myself to look at Farren. Not at this stage in the game.
Rick, thankfully, redirects the conversation away from the subject of love when he says loudly, “So, is anyone hungry?”