by Izzy Mason
The Position
Vol. 4
Izzy Mason
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Izzy Mason
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.
The Position
Vol. 4
Chapter One
The man pushes me back and closes the door behind him. I don’t know who the hell he is, but I instinctively make a dash around him and try to get out. He leans against the door and grabs my wrist. He’s not much taller than me, but his back and chest are broad, like a barrel, and his arms are muscular. He has black hair buzzed short, a big face with a flat nose, and a scar cut right through one of his eyebrows.
“Sorry, sweetheart. You are not going anywhere.”
He tightens his grip on my wrist and drags me across the room to the sofa. With one hard push, he flings me down onto the cushions. I’m paralyzed with fear. I flash back to the black town car with a shudder.
Even though I’ve had my share of scary run-ins with bad guys, no one has hunted me down and broken into my home. Of course, I’d never really had a home to break into.
“You and me are going to have a conversation,” the man says in perfect, but accented English. “And then I am going to leave. I am not going to break anything and I am not going to hurt you…unless you do something stupid, of course.” He sits down on the coffee table and leans toward me. His eyes never leave mine. “I make no such promises if I have to come back again.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I manage to get out, forcing at least a hint of ferocity into my voice.
“Okay, let me clarify,” the man goes on. “We are not going to have a conversation so much as an information session. Okay? You are going to listen very carefully and answer my questions. But you are not going to be the one asking. Are we clear?”
There’s nothing I can do but nod stupidly. The man turns his head and stares through the open door of the bedroom, as if he is taking in some invisible information. He clears his throat.
“You do not need to know who I am. I know who you are. I know where you are. I even know where your dark, curly-haired buddy is. You know, the guy you were talking to yesterday?”
My best friend Travis. My stomach goes sour. I can’t breathe. So it was the guy in the town car. I’m not crazy. I was being followed. But why?
“You are causing problems for someone close to me,” the man says, pointing his thick finger at me. “And you are going to stop. A lot of work has gone into making things come together for this person. But now you are fucking it all up. And no one in my family has ever been very tolerant of pointless problems. Like you.”
I shake my head and narrow my eyes, confused. “What are you talking about? I don’t even…”
“You know Jude Lazarus?” he interrupts.
I can feel myself go pale. “But…why? Why do you ask me that?”
The man falls silent. He nods to himself and steeples his fingers. Then he sighs. “You will not see him again. If he comes to your apartment, you will not let him in. If he comes to your work, you will refuse to see him. You will refuse his calls. His texts. All communication ends now. Today. Do you understand?”
I stare at the man in disbelief. Of all of the things he could say to me, and all of the things he could threaten to take away, he lands on the only one that matters. I try to imagine never seeing Lazarus again. Never ever being near him. Never feeling his hands on me, nor his weight on top of me again. It’s all I can think about. I finally hooked Lazarus for real, and now some meathead wants to take him away from me forever? The anger wells up inside me.
“Or what?” I bark, finding my voice.
The man leans in closer now. I can smell the cigarette on his breath and see the greasy pores of his skin. “Or I come back. This time, without knocking. I visit your friend Travis, too. And Lazarus, that little snake, loses every penny he has ever made.”
He grins, showing off weird, cosmetically whitened teeth. The words have left me again. Who the hell is this guy? How is Lazarus involved with him? How does he happen to have such power over Lazarus’s finances? And why in the hell would he care about…
Celestina. Somehow, this all points to her.
“This is insane,” I breathe, almost to myself.
The man leans back a little, though his eyes are still blazing holes into me. “Oh, you have no idea how much is at stake, little girl. Especially for that treacherous little weasel, Lazarus. If you care about him, even a little bit, you’ll do what I say. And keep your fucking legs closed. Yes?”
He pushes himself up by his knees and stands, looking around the apartment. Then, without saying a word, he walks into the bedroom. I’m too stunned to move. I watch him pick something off the bedside table. He stares at it in his hands for a moment. Then he walks out again.
With a strange, evil smile he holds up the condom wrapper, which I was too stupid to throw away. For a moment we just stare at each other. Why do I feel like a kid who’s just been caught being naughty? I’m a grown woman. I can sleep with whomever I want.
But obviously, I can’t.
The man tucks the wrapper into his jacket pocket. He stands looking around a moment longer, as if casing the joint for easy break-in points. Then he turns and silently walks to the door. But just as he reaches for the knob, the buzzer to the street door sounds. It’s a jolting noise and I nearly jump out of my skin.
The man turns to look at me. “It is him?”
I say nothing. The man stands there guarding the door, keeping me frozen on the couch where I can’t press the button and release the door. I wouldn’t do it if I could. I don’t want any harm to come to Lazarus. Or Travis. I picture Lazarus standing on the sidewalk in his gorgeous pea coat, his well groomed whiskers, and sculpted face a wonder to behold.
The buzzer rings again. Then again, longer and more urgently this time. The man stands stone still, waiting. After a brief silence, the cell phone on my coffee table starts to vibrate. The man strides across the room and snatches it. He looks at the screen. His expression darkens.
“If you try to see each other behind my back, I will find out. There are eyes everywhere. You have no idea. So be smart, Michaela.”
He stops the phone from ringing and goes into my contacts app. After scrolling through several names, he comes across Lazarus’s name and number. And deletes them.
I feel my heart sliding, almost oozing, out of its place. Tears well in my eyes.
“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” I find myself saying, my voice rising in pitch. “He should be able to choose who he loves! What right do you have to control us?”
But the man ignores me completely. He walks to the window and looks down at the street. I know he sees Lazarus standing there. Or, most likely, walking away. After a moment he steps away, satisfied. He crosses the room with a purposeful stride. When he reaches the door, he turns to look at me one last time.
“Do not make me return, Michaela. No one likes my second visits.”
I wipe angrily at the tears in my eyes, but they just keep coming. When I look up again, the man is gone.
Chapter Two
I lay in the dark for hours, staring into the swirling blackness, struggling to breathe. It feels like my chest is collapsing. I hold my cell phone in my hand, like a talisman. Lazarus has called six times already, and just feeling it buzz against my bones makes me feel closer to him.
Ou
tside, the night owls are hooting and shouting drunkenly, without a care in the world. But all I can think about is how confused Lazarus must feel. How frustrated and angry at me he must be.
It’s so unfair. We’d just gotten through the last stupid cross-wire screw up. How many times can one of us think the other doesn’t care, especially after all we’ve just shared? It’s making me crazy. I just want to let him know what’s happening and why I can’t take his calls.
Almost on cue, the phone rings again. Then it occurs to me, how will anyone know I’ve spoken to him? You can’t bug a cell phone. There’s no one outside my window with an ear against a glass, listening. He has to know. If I don’t tell him, I’ll go insane.
But what if they are listening? What if they are? It doesn’t matter how. The stakes are too high. Travis could get hurt. Lazarus could be financially destroyed. I could get hurt, too.
I groan and bury my head into the pillow. Fuck my life. Happiness never follows through. It just never does. Having to lose Lazarus when I’ve just won him over makes me realize how much I want him. My body feels cold and vacant. My mind races, my thoughts are incoherent. Stop it. For God’s sake, just calm down. You’re not a child and you’re not an idiot. Do something. Use the goddamned critical thinking skills you learned in that hard won college education.
Without another thought, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I have to get to the bottom of this. If I can understand who is behind this, maybe I can figure out what’s going on. And then maybe I can change it.
I grab my laptop and throw it open. What is that stupid cow’s last name? Celestina… Celestina… My mind reaches for those days in Lazarus’s office with the list of VIP callers to send directly through. And then it pops into my head. Marquez! Celestina Marquez! I tap her name into a Google search and then scroll through the first page results.
I breeze past the Facebook profiles and White Pages listings and LinkedIn results. Finally, I see it. Celestina Marquez, Venezuelan fashion model and clothing designer. There’s a whole spread of pictures of Celestina in professional shoots. She looks amazing in every one and I despise her.
The jealousy is like a hot spear straight through my gut. This is the perfect body Lazarus goes to bed with on a regular basis. This is the woman with pore less skin and stylish hair and a beautiful wardrobe, the who has him over a barrel. And why would he even complain? Celestina is like a male fantasy incarnate.
I do several more searches with the new information—her profession, her nationality—but I can’t turn up anything suspicious. How is Celestina connected to the thug that followed me and threatened me in my own home tonight? Why are Lazarus’s finances on the line? Maybe she isn’t involved. After all, the guy never mentioned her. All he said was “someone close to me.”
But still, I know it. I can feel it. Why else would I matter at all? The only thing I could possibly be screwing up is Lazarus’s relationship. It explains so much about their weird, chilly rapport and the way Lazarus doesn’t seem the slightest bit in love with Celestina. Maybe their coupling is something artificial or arranged. It must be. But then why would Celestina be jealous finding my name in Lazarus’s phone? Maybe it’s not artificial for her. Maybe she wants Lazarus as much as I do.
I slam the laptop shut and slide off the bed. My head is pounding from all the stupid theories bouncing around in my brain. It doesn’t make any sense. None of it does. I go to the door to check the lock for the billionth time. Still locked. Then I head into the kitchen to plug in the electric kettle.
I stare at the counter beside the sink where Lazarus’s coffee mug still sits, unwashed, right next to mine. Was it only this morning that we sat at the table and shared the secrets of our past? I pick up the cup and hold it protectively in my hands. In that moment, I want Lazarus more than I’ve wanted anything in my life, and that’s saying something. I’d give it all back—the freedom, the education, the great job, the new local fame—if I could just have Lazarus back again.
That night I barely sleep. I spend most of the time standing at the window in the dark, drinking tea and looking down at the street. My eyes scan the shadows for black town cars or suspicious characters. But even the bar crawlers have gone home and the streets are deserted. Someone must be down there, I think. They will be watching for me. Waiting. Otherwise, how could they know I’ve kept Lazarus away?
Then something comes over me. It’s like I’ve just slipped off the rails and abandoned all interest in self-preservation. I grab a sweater and unlock the door. If someone is watching my apartment I want to know. Otherwise, I’ll just make myself crazy for nothing. I open the door and step into the hall.
It’s very quiet and the harsh florescent lights hum overhead. There’s no one here. I walk down the hall and descend the three flights of stairs. No one. It’s eerily silent. No voices or music. No signs of life. Everyone in their right mind is asleep.
I head to the lobby where the metal mailboxes are lined up in orderly rows. It’s empty and silent as well. I pad across the cheap Berber carpet to the glass doors and look out at the dark street. My heart leaps in my chest as I spot a black town car parked right outside the door. The windows are tinted and it’s impossible to see if someone is inside. But I can sense them. They really are watching my every move.
Suddenly, I’m consumed with rage. Who the hell are these people? They have no right to control me. They can’t threaten and intimidate me into doing whatever they want. Fuck them. I’m about to push open the doors and storm onto the sidewalk, ready to pound on those blackened windows and demand some answers.
I let out a frustrated sigh. It’s an idiotic thought. I have to accept that I have no power here. It’s stupid and delusional to pretend that I do. This is real. And it’s serious. So call the police, I tell myself. If this is so dangerous and real, call the police and report it.
I don’t have to think about that one for long. Whoever is in the town car would see them arrive. They would sneak away just in time, and then tomorrow everything would go tits up for me and those I love.
I turn and climb the stairs again. I go into the apartment and lock the door once again, though I know no one’s coming for me tonight. I need a plan. And an ally. Somehow I have to get to Lazarus without anyone knowing.
I plug in the kettle one last time and sit down at the kitchen table to think.
Chapter Three
I spend the next day trying desperately to lose myself in work and think of anything in the world besides the Lazarus problem. For a while I succeed. I spend the morning at the office,I sitting at my drafting table and sketching out the details for the nightclub design.
For a few hours I research in even greater depth all the variables involved in a butterfly habitat, so I can get it right for Chance Monroe’s fancy nightclub. The pictures of bright winged, exotic butterflies filling entire spaces with color and life even make me feel happy for a while. Even confined to a habitat space, the butterflies remind me of freedom. But inevitably the sadness creeps in again.
“Why the long face, junior?” Devon leans against the table, a coffee cup in her hand. “You’ve got the world in the palm of your hand, or have you already forgotten?”
I look up at her and try to smile. “How’s it going?”
“Oh grand,” she says sarcastically, collapsing into an office chair beside me. “I’ve just spent all morning talking to Mr. Hollywood on Skype about the dire importance of designer urinals.”
“How did he look?” I ask, raising my eyebrows with curiosity. His face must still be busted up pretty good from the beating Lazarus gave him in the street.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t turn on the video.”
I bite my lip to keep from grinning. The thought of Lazarus’s protective jealousy sends a shivery thrill all through me. “I see.”
“Why, did you give the guy a fat lip when he got fresh the other night?” Devon’s eyes are wide and curious. She’s been bugging me constantly to give her detai
ls of what happened. “Is that what happened? Did you bust his nose? Please tell me you busted his nose.”
I smile and shake my head, evading her questions as always. Then I put my pencil down and look over at her.
“Dev, do you know Celestina Marquez?”
Devon grips her mug with both hands to warm them and takes a long, slow sip. “The model?”
“Yeah.”
“I call her the Ice Queen. She’s an insufferable ass. Not that I’ve spent that much time with her. But at the end of the day, this is a pretty small city, and there are only so many social events. You kind of see everybody eventually.”
“What do you know about her?”
Devon wrinkles her brow and stares at me. “Why on earth would you care about Celestina Marquez?”
I shrug. “A friend was asking. That’s all. I told him I’d see what I could find out.”
“Well, tell him she’s not available. I only know who she is because she’s dating Jude Lazarus. I don’t think she even lived in Denver before that. At least I never saw her around.” She lazily pulls herself onto her feet, still gripping her mug like a hand warmer. “If your friend thinks he can compete with Jude Lazarus, I say good luck to him. Poor bastard.”
“Do you know anything about her family or friends?” I ask hesitantly, realizing I’m starting to kill the credibility of my story.
“Her friends and family?” Devon scoffs and gives me a what the fuck look. “Your friend is interested in more than her big fake titties? I say let him do his own detective work. Men, I swear. Such lazy asses.”
I check my watch and realize I’m almost late for my lunch date with Travis and Liz. Travis had called first thing this morning with an invitation to eat at a restaurant just around the corner from where I work.
“I gotta run, Dev,” I mutter. “See you after lunch.”