Love & Lies

by Julie Johnson

  When everyone began to disperse, I made a point to engage the two Jennys in a conversation about their troubled love lives — they always had plenty of weekend horror stories to share — and studiously avoided looking in Sebastian’s direction again until I was sure he’d disappeared upstairs for the photo shoots. My own weekend had been blessedly quiet after his visit Friday night — I’d locked myself away from the world, researching and drafting the beginnings of my story on sex-trafficking, watching old movies, and eating so many Cool Ranch Doritos I was sure the chip company was going to write me a thank you letter for single-handedly helping them meet their third quarter sales quota.

  Work on Monday flew by and as soon as the clock struck five, I was on the elevator, heading down to the lobby with my black backpack in hand. I didn’t know what “plans” Bash had in mind, and I had no intention of sticking around to find out.

  When I finally reached the waterfront, plucking my way across the dilapidated pier as I approached the warehouse, I was having serious doubts about my plans for espionage. Armed only with my total lack of experience, Fae’s borrowed binoculars, and the disposable camera I’d picked up at Swagat yesterday as a backup in case my cellphone ran out of battery, I grew increasingly nervous as the brewery came into sight. I snapped a few pictures from a safe distance, leaning around the corner of an adjacent warehouse to keep my body out of sight from any lookouts — as I’d seen any number of Hollywood-manufactured spies do. Instead of approaching the brewery directly, like I had last week, I slipped down an alleyway on the far side of the abandoned building next door. The adjacent warehouse was a cannery, long fallen into disrepair, and not somewhere I’d normally want to explore. But, unlike the neighboring brewery, this cannery was special.

  Its windows weren’t boarded up.

  It had come to me last night as I tossed and turned in bed, mulling over possibilities for breaking into the brewery. I wasn’t a complete idiot — I knew a petite blonde woman with no covert training would never be able to sneak into such a place, especially with thugs like Smash-Nose and the Neanderthal patrolling the grounds. In a face-to-face altercation, I wouldn’t be able to overpower or evade them and — even on the off chance that I did — there was nothing to stop them from calling their friend Santos, who could issue a warrant for my arrest faster than I could say “in over my head.”

  But then, as I conjured an image of the brewery in my mind, I had a realization.

  I didn’t need to get inside. I just needed to see inside.

  While the ground level windows were thoroughly boarded up to keep out prying eyes and looters, the upper floors’ panes had been left unbarred. If I could get into one of the adjacent buildings, climb to the third floor, and see through the windows, I’d have an all access pass to whatever was happening inside the brewery.

  So here I was, spending my happy hour climbing a termite-eaten stairwell to reach the third floor of a dusty, decaying cannery. Simon and Fae had each called me twice already. Either they were pissed I’d been avoiding them all weekend, or they’d finally caught on to the fact that I’d shut them out of my investigation after our Santos surveillance run last week. They may’ve let the presence of the sex-trafficking storyboard in my apartment slide the other night, because I was in the midst of a Sebastian meltdown, but now that they’d had time to reflect, their worries about my sanity had probably reached DEFCON 1 levels.

  After everything I’d learned, I didn’t want them involved. If something went wrong, I was going to land in a world of trouble. Plus, if I were trapped in a car with those two for any amount of time, the saga of Sebastian would inevitably come up — and for that conversation I’d need to fortify myself with at least a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Possibly two.

  I froze as a loose floorboard creaked loudly underfoot — I’d reached the top of the stairs. Stepping onto the third floor of the cannery, I tried to be light-footed as I crossed to the bank of windows that faced the brewery. There were faint signs of life here on the upper floors — a candle burnt down to a stub, a dusty blanket riddled with holes, a discarded book. Remnants of squatters long gone from here, if the thick coating of dust was any indication. My sneakers left a trail of footprints in the grime, like walking through a fall of snow on an early December morning.

  When I came to the windows, I spent several minutes using the cuff of my sweatshirt to wipe the dusty residue off one of the panes at eye level. Peering out, I could just discern the building across the street through the smudged glass. From what I could see at this distance, the room directly across from me inside the brewery appeared to be an office. There was a wooden desk stacked high with papers, a laptop computer, and a small lamp that helped to light up the gloomy room.

  About twenty minutes passed without any activity inside the brewery. I was about to head down to the second floor, to test my view from there, when the office door swung inward and two people entered, the dim lighting illuminating their figures in shadowy profiles. As they walked closer to the window, I strained my eyes to make out their faces.

  I lifted my phone to eye-level, made sure the camera flash function was switched off, and snapped a few pictures through the dirty glass. Pulling back, I used my fingers to zoom in on the photos I’d just taken. As I zoomed, the resolution blurred and the images became grainy and useless. I couldn’t make out much of the figures inside the room, though I thought one of them might be a woman — the smaller stature was apparent despite the fuzzy quality.

  Reaching into my backpack, I rummaged around until my fingers grazed Fae’s mini-binoculars. I popped off the lens caps, raised them to my face, and leaned closer to the pane. They were poorly crafted out of cheap plastic — I think Fae had purchased them at Duane Reade as a spontaneous two-dollar add-on item— but they magnified the room enough to see the larger of the two figures, who was standing closest to the window. It was definitely a man — a hulking one at that. It could easily be the Neanderthal I’d seen the other day or another like him.

  I cupped my hands around my eyes to block the light and pressed the binoculars to the glass, squinting to bring him into better focus. His shirt was black, but there was something written in bold green script across the back of the garment.

  Labyrinth

  What was Labyrinth? My mind spun with possibilities.

  A restaurant? A club? A business?

  Before I could delve further into speculation, I felt it — that slow awareness that overtakes your system when you sense that someone is watching you. The tingling instant of time in which all the fine, feathery hairs on the back of your neck rise because you know, with instinctual perception, that you have ceased to be the hunter and are, instead, the hunted.

  The hand clamped down over my mouth before I could take a single step away from the window, or even turn to face my attacker. My phone and binoculars clattered to the floor, and I began to struggle — my hands came up to tear at the fingers blocking my airway, my torso thrashed violently, my feet fought for purchase against the dust-coated wooden floor.

  None of it mattered. As soon as his mouth brushed my ear and his whisper registered in my mind, the struggle was over.

  “It’s me,” he said, his voice hushed. “There are two men in the alley directly below us. If you scream, they’ll hear you.”

  All the fight left my body and I hung limp in his arms, relief coursing through my bloodstream and chasing the terror from my system. Though the relief was short-lived — anger took its place in matter of heartbeats.

  “I’m going to take my hand away now,” he added. “You good?”

  I nodded and his hand slipped away from my face. Whirling around on the balls of my feet, I planted my hands on my hips and glared at him.

  “You followed me!” The outraged whisper flew from my mouth with enough heat to sear the flesh from his bones.

  Bash nodded. His face was set in stone and there was no humor in his eyes — they were flat as two greenish ponds on a windless day.

 
“What the hell, Bash?” I glared at him.

  Without saying a word, he bent over and grabbed my phone and binoculars from the ground by my feet.

  “What are you— Hey!” I yelped as his free hand shot out and grabbed hold of my arm just above the elbow with a fair amount of pressure. His vice grip didn’t loosen as he began to stride across the room toward the stairs.

  “I’m not finished here!” I struggled against him, but made no progress. “Bash, let me go! This is crazy!”

  He stilled so abruptly, I had no time to slow my forward momentum and crashed face first into the broad planes of his back. I winced and rubbed my forehead with my free hand. Turning his head slightly over his shoulder, so his face was visible in profile, Bash’s icy words were enough to stop my protests.

  “Those men in the alley? They’re armed. So you can either walk out the back entrance with me, or I’ll carry you out. Your choice. But either way, we’re leaving. Now.”

  It took me about two seconds to evaluate my options and realize that he wasn’t kidding around. Admitting defeat, I nodded to signal my cooperation and allowed him to pull me to the stairwell.

  Sebastian walked quickly, leading us down to the exit and out onto the pier in less than a minute. Before I knew it, we’d left the row of warehouses behind and were back on the streets of Red Hook, heading for a small alleyway around the corner where a parked black Land Rover sat waiting. He yanked open the passenger door, shoved me inside, rounded the hood, and settled into the driver’s seat in a series of aggressive movements that betrayed just how angry he was.

  “I don’t know why you’re mad,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive maneuver.

  Sebastian turned over the ignition and pulled out of the alley with such speed my body pressed back against the cushioned seat and my stomach turned over.

  “So dramatic,” I muttered under my breath.

  He didn’t bother to acknowledge that I’d spoken, but his fists clenched tighter around the steering wheel as we sped along Brooklyn’s waterfront toward the bridge. Realizing he likely wasn’t going to speak to me until we reached our destination — wherever that might be — I sighed and flipped on the stereo system. Strains of familiar classical music filled the car and I immediately regretted my decision.

  Vitali. Of course.

  My hands itched to turn it off, but that seemed a far too obvious show of discomfort. I tried to appear unaffected as the violins crescendoed, though the desire to fidget in my seat was nearly irrepressible. Sensing my distress or perhaps feeling some of his own, Sebastian reached forward and flipped off the music, sending us back into a weighty silence. I turned my eyes out the window and allowed my attention to drift for a while. My thoughts were so wrapped up in the brewery and whatever “Labyrinth” might be, I didn’t notice that we weren’t heading for my apartment in Midtown until we’d slowed to a crawl on the streets of SoHo. Several blocks from Simon’s loft — and several hundred thousand price-points higher, in terms of real estate value — the converted brick factories here were upscale lofts, complete with climate controlled underground parking and security systems.

  Sebastian pushed a button on a sleek box affixed to his windshield, and we pulled into a gated, ground level garage. The gate lowered behind us and he nodded to a security guard as we rolled past the enclosed glass office.

  “Where are we?” I asked nervously, seeking unnecessary confirmation.

  Tight-lipped, Bash pulled into a parking spot and shifted the car into park.

  “Can you please just take me home?” The hopeful naivety in my tone bordered on desperation.

  He didn’t answer or even look at me as he climbed from the driver’s seat and walked around to open my door.

  Shit.

  * * *

  I spun in a circle, taking it all in. The loft was gorgeous in an understated, luxurious kind of way. The entire space was white, with gleaming hardwood floors and lots of exposed wooden rafter beams crisscrossing the vaulted ceiling overhead. The kitchen was all stainless steel and chrome, a stark contrast to the warm earthy tones of the wood, and the walls were covered in a series of framed, black and white photographs from Bash’s many travels across the globe. I recognized famous landmarks and cities in many of the photos.

  Dubrovnik, Sydney, Venice, Paris, Beijing, London, Amsterdam.

  There were so many photos, the loft could’ve easily passed for an art gallery — except for the bed, of course.

  King size, low to the ground, draped in a white down comforter, and scattered with huge black throw pillows that looked like they’d be heavenly to sink down into, the bed took up a big portion of the loft space. It was bathed in light from the setting sun, as it sat by a bank of windows. There was no headboard; instead, the space on the wall above the bed was taken up entirely by a huge canvas, at least ten feet across, which showcased the only color photograph in the entire apartment.

  I stepped closer, bringing the vivid photo into better focus, and felt my breath catch.

  It was a tree — our tree.

  His lens had captured the huge oak at its most beautiful — in the heart of fall when the leaves had begun to redden and wither, drifting down to lay like fallen soldiers beneath the huge sentinel. The massive tree towered over the clearing, its graceful boughs backlit by a warm autumn sun and its leaves a kaleidoscope of orange hues.

  It was beautiful — there was no question about that.

  But as to why it was here, in Sebastian’s apartment, after all these years — I had no explanation.

  I turned to him, the question on my lips, but froze when I saw his face. He was staring hard in my direction, a thunderous expression clouding his features. I felt my hackles rise immediately and whatever warmth I’d felt at the sight of the photograph began to dissipate.

  “What?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring right back at him.

  He stepped closer to me. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He stared at me with narrowed eyes. “You have no good reason to be going down there alone.”

  “You have no idea what my reasons are or what I was even doing there,” I countered.

  “Sneaking around in warehouses that are practically falling down? Spying on dangerous fucking people with a fucking iPhone camera?” Bash snorted. “Yeah, I’ve got you pegged, Nancy Drew. You’re looking for that girl — your friend. And you’re going to get hurt in the process.”

  He was probably right, so I couldn’t really argue with that statement. But I could still glare at him.

  Bash took a few steps closer. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you stumble into a situation you have no idea how to handle. And, Freckles, from what I’ve seen — there’s not much you can handle.”

  “You’re a condescending ass!” I yelled, taking a step toward him. My entire frame trembled with barely-contained rage. I knew I wasn’t an expert investigator, but I was doing the best I could with the few resources I had at my disposal — and rather than acknowledge that, he’d chosen to belittle my every effort.

  “Well, you’re a naive little girl!” he shouted back at me, the vein throbbing in his jugular.

  “I hate you!” I spat the words, getting right up in his face.

  His hands shot out, grabbed hold of my upper arms, and yanked me closer, crushing our bodies together so tightly the breath was stolen from my lungs. “Yeah, I hate you too,” Bash muttered, just before he closed the remaining gap between our faces and his lips crashed down on mine.

  Once our lips met, there was no stopping us. It had been far too long since our hands had explored the secret places of each other’s bodies. An eternity since my fingertips had skimmed over his rippled abdominal muscles. Eons since his palms had slipped down my sides and beneath the bottom hem of my top. Forever since my shaking fingers had worked at the buttons on his shirt, or tugged his belt from its loops with impatience.

 
His lips were relentless in their pursuit, his kiss demanding as he stole my breath and pushed my control to its absolute limits. There was a small part of my brain that was screaming out that I should stop this, now. That this couldn’t go on, or I’d be triggering a scenario that would end badly for everyone involved — a conclusion doomed from its very inception.

  But that part of my brain was quickly overridden by the wave of passion that swept through my system as I savored the feeling of finally, finally, having my lips pressed against Sebastian’s. I’d hungered for this moment — longed for it, wept for it, even prayed for it — for seven years, like an addict who needed her fix. Now, I was a junkie confronted with her greatest vice on a veritable silver platter; there was no way I could summon the strength to walk away.

  And so, reason was lost. Inhibitions, shredded. Clothing, discarded.

  Sebastian’s lips moved down to kiss my neck and his fingers dug into my flesh as they roamed the bare skin of my back, beneath my shirt. With one swift tug, he pulled the sweatshirt over my head and tossed it to the ground, his mouth only lifting from my skin for the fraction of time it took the material to slide past my shoulder blades. I wound my hands into his thick hair, luxuriating in the feeling of the smooth strands against my fingertips, and he raised his head to look at me.

  His eyes burned into mine, their normal frozen hazel tundra now a molten pool of desire. He pulled me closer roughly, as though any amount of space between us was far too much, and cupped the sides of my face in his palms. My hands slipped from his hair and twined around his neck, our faces hovering so close we shared the same breath.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, his voice laced with awe.

  His right hand moved from my cheek and up to the clip in my hair. One deft motion of his fingers had it spilling free, my long blonde locks tumbling down around my body in a cascade of curls that fell to mid-back. Bash’s eyes turned scorching at the sight, and his lips crashed down again on mine. His hands moved to trace the straps of my bra and tank top, pulling them down off my shoulders with twin tugs. His lips followed his fingers’ path — down my neck, across my collarbone, and between the valley of my breasts. I felt my breath catch when he moved up over the swell on my left side, his lips trailing kisses as they went.