by Meghan March
I start to turn my head in the direction of the front windows, but she stops me by tossing a donut hole at my face. It bounces off my forehead and distracts me.
“What the hell?”
“Don’t look.”
My head starts to pound, so I suck down more of the caffeine, hoping it’ll kill the brewing headache.
“Okay, fine. What’s your advice?” I ask as I set my coffee back on the table between us.
“While you might want to assert your independence, or perhaps send a very strong message to someone, I’d suggest finding another way to do it that’s a little less permanent than an ass tattoo. I’m not kidding when I say you’re going to regret it forever otherwise.”
Even though she told me not to look, I nonchalantly lift my coffee again and knock over the bag of donut holes so they spill onto the table. With Delilah distracted, I take a peek.
Sure enough, there’s a man in a suit leaning against a lamppost with a newspaper tucked under his arm. A black BMW is parked in the spot in front of him.
Delilah catches on to my game. “I said don’t look.”
“Does it really matter?”
“That you’re being followed and now you know, and he knows you know?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Depends on who you’re dealing with.”
I drop my gaze to the lid of my coffee, playing with the flap on the cup.
“Shit. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
All I can do is nod.
“How backed into a corner are you?” she asks.
I pin her with a stare. “Why do you care?”
“We tend to pick up strays at Voodoo, and while I would never consider Keira Kilgore of Seven Sinners Whiskey a stray, today you seem a little less composed than I would’ve expected given your reputation. But if there’s anything I can do to help, just tell me.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do to help. I mean, unless you’re independently wealthy with boatloads of extra liquid capital.” I grab a donut hole and shove it in my mouth to stop myself from saying any more.
As I chew, Delilah studies me again. “Fine, don’t tell me, but if you really want to do this, I can recommend a good henna artist only two blocks away.”
* * *
I leave the henna shop feeling like I regained a shred of control over my life.
Debt or no debt, at least it’s clear now—semi-permanently—that I’ll never be any man’s property. That wisp of positivity carries me all the way home, only to be doused by a cold rush of fear when I open my bedroom door and find a box on the bed.
No insignia or logo, just a big, shiny black box that’s the perfect size to hold an assortment of severed limbs.
Good God. When did I start thinking like this?
My inner voice doesn’t bother to respond because the answer is obvious. It’s not like there’s any doubt in my mind as to who it’s from.
I grab my phone and call Magnolia.
“Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,” she says in lieu of a greeting.
“Nothing irreparably stupid.”
Her sigh of relief comes through my speaker. “You didn’t go try to find him?”
“No, but I’m staring at a box on my bed that he or his people clearly left.”
“What’s in it?”
“I haven’t opened it.”
“What the hell are you waiting for, girl?”
“What if there are body parts inside?”
She’s silent for a beat. “You haven’t tried to run. You haven’t done anything stupid. There’s no way he’s sending you body parts. Open the damn box, Ke-ke.”
That she so matter-of-factly lists those circumstances as being the reason I haven’t received body parts reminds me just how serious my situation is. My little jaunt to the henna shop seems beyond ridiculous now. At least they wouldn’t tattoo me at Voodoo . . .
“I don’t want to open it.” My tone sounds stubborn and willful, like a child who won’t eat her vegetables.
“Don’t make me come over there and do it myself because your stubborn little Irish ass won’t. Put me on speaker, put the phone down, and open the damn box.”
“Okay, fine.” I toss the phone with the speaker engaged on my gray-and-white coverlet and reach for the top of the box to lift it off.
“You’re not screaming, so I presume we’re good on the body-part angle?”
The fact that Magnolia can be so glib about this situation is beyond me, but it’s another indicator that her life and mine, at least before this last week, are totally and completely different.
“There’s tissue paper. It’s black.”
“Well, flip that shit open, girl. I’m dying of suspense here.”
I fold back the paper, and beneath it is black silk fabric that slides through my fingers like water. I lift out a dress that has to cost more than my car.
“It’s a dress. Short and black. Silk, maybe?”
“Better than a body part. Much better. Bet it’s expensive too.”
I can’t imagine a man with Mount’s reputation taking the time to choose what he wants me to wear while he collects on his debt. He probably didn’t. Maybe he has a personal shopper for these situations.
I check the size. Of course it’s right. I start to ask how he’d know, but I remember that they’ve clearly been in my apartment more than once. And then I realize the name on the tag. Versace. Jesus. This thing is definitely worth more than the Honda.
“So, what else?”
“Hold on. I’m getting to it.”
I lay the dress on the coverlet and find more tissue wrapped around a sheer black lingerie set encrusted with tiny crystals that sparkle like diamond dust.
What if they are diamonds?
I remember reading about the bra that was solid diamonds, and I’ve definitely walked past windows of stores selling gorgeous lingerie, but I’ve never bothered to go inside because I could barely afford half a thong.
Seeing this, owning this, should fill me with excitement, but all I feel is burning rage and building resentment.
“I hear more tissue. What else are you finding in there?”
“Lingerie.”
“Of course. Bet it’s the good stuff.”
“It probably costs more than my rent,” I mumble as I unwrap another tissue-covered object in the corner.
“And shoes.” I lift one black crystal-encrusted stiletto and survey the icepick-like heel, and the delicate straps that will wrap up my calves.
“What kind?”
Of course she’d want to know.
“Manolo Blahnik.” I definitely never thought I’d own a pair of these either. And now I can’t even enjoy them because I’m wearing them because he has decreed it.
“Damn, girl. He went for the good stuff. I’d take that as a good sign.”
The knot in the pit of my stomach disagrees with her completely.
“Anything else?”
I lift out the other shoe to find a note at the bottom written in the same black scrawl as all the others.
* * *
A driver will collect you at 9 p.m.
* * *
I read it to Magnolia.
“You best let me go and start getting ready. You need to knock him dead, Ke-ke. Fuck with his head instead of letting him fuck with yours.”
I think of my stop earlier today. “I’ll do my best.” Another thought slams into my brain, and I choke out a few more words. “If . . . if anything happens to me, will you tell my parents and my sisters—”
Magnolia cuts me off. “You’re not going to die tonight, baby. I swear. Give that man what he doesn’t even know he wants—which is everything that’s you—and you’ll be just fine. Now, get going. Put that armor on and go slay yourself a dragon of a man.”
I hang up the phone and stare at the array of couture spread out on the bed. I should feel like a princess getting dressed for a ball, not a prisoner on the way to her execution. But no princess ever faced off with Mount. At least
, that I know of.
I pick up the note.
There’s no signature. No instructions or orders to wear the clothes provided. Nothing beyond the simple piece of information stating what time I’ll be collected. The word itself stokes the fire in my veins.
This man is so completely used to getting what he wants, he would never expect anything less than full compliance with his orders, explicit or implied.
Screw him.
Everything in me implores me to rebel. Then there’s the tiny sliver that screams, Throw a few things in a bag and run to the airport and get on a plane to Madagascar.
I close my eyes and think of the pictures I’ve received over the last week. My sisters. My parents. Magnolia. My employees.
The image of a woman dancing on shattered glass. The nightmares that would become reality if I don’t comply. Running would be the ultimate act of selfishness, and I’m better than that.
Mount can take his pound of flesh, but that’s all he’s ever going to get from me.
Keira
I watch from between the slats of my blinds as a black car pulls up in front of my apartment building at nine o’clock exactly. I’m torn between wishing he was late, and knowing I don’t need any more time to contemplate what the outcome of tonight might be.
Do I go out? Wait for the driver to come up? It’s not like I have experience with this type of situation. No protocol from Emily Post applies here.
I already know they can get into my apartment, so why make it easy for him? I wait inside like a girl whose date just honked the horn, urging her to come out so he doesn’t have to come to the door. That happened only once to me, and my father wouldn’t let me set foot outside the house. No, instead he went outside to scare the hell out of the boy and school him in proper manners. Needless to say, I didn’t get asked out a lot after that.
The clock on my microwave ticks over to 9:01, and still the door to the car hasn’t opened. In fact, it doesn’t open until 9:03 and an expressionless man in a well-fitting suit unfolds himself from the front seat.
He doesn’t lock what has to be an exorbitantly expensive car, especially in my questionable neighborhood. For a moment, I assume he’s an idiot, and then it occurs to me that I’m the idiot. If Mount is everything people say he is, then no one in their right mind would dare steal his car.
I wait another minute until there’s a knock on the door to my apartment. I tighten the belt on my lightweight black London Fog trench coat, a bargain I snagged at Costco for under forty bucks. It’s probably a mockery of all the expensive couture Mount sent me, but I don’t give a damn.
With a steadying breath, I flip the locks and open the door.
The man gives me a quick survey from head to toe, and then jerks his head to the side. He says nothing at all, just turns and stalks down the hallway to the stairs.
I squeeze my eyes shut and step one stiletto-clad foot into the hallway, knowing that when I return, if I return, I will not be the same woman I am right now. This experience will change me irrevocably, and I already hate Mount for that.
Although my sense of safety in my apartment is nonexistent, I take my time locking both dead bolts before following the silent man to the stairs. He walks down them slowly, as though he knows I’m not used to wearing heels this tall. The harsh fluorescent light on the ceiling highlights the jagged scar on the left side of his face. It’s old, clearly, but it didn’t heal well.
Did Mount do that to him?
When we reach the ground floor, he opens the front door and once again jerks his head, as if he wants me to go first.
Responding to his silent command, I pick my way down the cracked sidewalk in the skyscraper heels as Scar walks silently behind me. I don’t need to hear his footsteps to know he’s there. I can feel him.
When I reach the curb, I freeze as some statistic runs through my head about how unlikely you are to survive an abduction once the kidnapper gets you in the car.
The thought of running bursts into my mind again, this time lit up in flashing neon lights.
But every reason that stopped me from packing that bag for the airport follows, along with the more practical reason. There’s no way I’ll get far in these heels if I try to run.
What would be the consequence for that act of cowardice? I don’t want to know.
Scar opens the back door for me, not even gesturing for me to get inside. It’s a fait accompli. No one disobeys his boss, and he knows it.
I duck my head and slide inside the most luxurious vehicle I’ve ever seen. The plush tan leather seat hugs my body as he shuts the door.
This is it. My mouth goes dry at the realization.
I’m nothing more than the trade Mount demanded being delivered. I’m not even worth a single word from my driver as he folds himself into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.
Based on the thundering beat in my chest, I’m certain I’m going to die of a heart attack before the car moves an inch. I swallow, but my dry mouth makes it nearly impossible.
I look down to the cupholder discreetly tucked into the interior. In it is a bottle of Bling H2O. I’ve never seen one in person, but I remember reading an article online about how an enterprising entrepreneur turned Tennessee spring water into a $40 per bottle product by putting it in a frosted bottle with Swarovski crystals.
Bling seems to be the theme of the night, like the water was picked to match the shoes and lingerie. Or maybe Mount is just that rich that he doesn’t care about throwing money away on ridiculous extravagances.
Leery of what may be in the water, I skip the bottle and notice Scar holding something out to me from between the seats.
A black cloth hood. It looks like something put on a terrorist before the CIA drags him off to be waterboarded.
Jesus. Effing. Christ.
If I thought a heart attack was imminent before, the likelihood just increased a dozen times over.
Scar holds it out and says nothing.
Do I rebel or do I comply? That’s the question I’ll likely be asking myself all night.
I answer the question quickly in my head. I’m going to save my rebellion for the man who deserves it. That is, if I can summon the courage when the time comes.
“Fine,” I snap, and yank the hood out of his hand and pull it over my head.
It’s not like I spent an hour doing my hair. I refused to give Mount that much consideration. My red mane was wild from me running my fingers through it all day as I freaked out about the night to come, and now it’ll be even more of a mess.
I tell myself I don’t care.
Once my vision descends into blackness, Scar starts the engine and silently maneuvers the car onto the street. I listen to the outside noises, all my other senses heightened as I try to figure out where he’s taking me.
Traffic seems to get heavier as horns blare, and I can hear music in the distance.
The French Quarter? Is he taking me to the bar Magnolia told me about? The one with the code word? I have no way of knowing unless I yank this hood off, and I have a feeling that won’t end well for me.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a scraping noise and the car turns before slowly moving forward again.
A garage? A warehouse? I have no idea.
Scar kills the engine, and his door opens. A moment later, a brush of cool breeze hits my legs and I tighten the belt on my trench coat.
When a hand lands on my arm, I practically jump out of my plush leather seat. “Give a girl warning next time, okay? Do you want me to die of a heart attack before we get to wherever the hell we’re going?”
He doesn’t answer, just helps me out of the car while I remain blind. I expect him to pull me behind him slowly so I don’t trip, but instead he lifts me into his arms like a groom on a wedding night.
The thought twists in my stomach as I remember Brett carrying me over the threshold of my townhouse after we eloped.
That lying, cheating piece of shit.
Rage roars into my v
eins again, stiffening my spine with the steel I’ll need to face the scariest man in New Orleans.
I try to keep track of the twists and turns and going up and down, and the sounds of doors opening and things sliding, but I’m completely discombobulated by the time Scar lowers me to my feet again.
The first scent to hit my nose is a faint mixture of cigar smoke, leather, and old books. Footsteps recede, and there’s another, almost silent, sliding sound. If I hadn’t been blind, I might not have heard it.
I yank the hood from my head, my eyes adjusting to the dim light as adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream.
Fight or flight.
I’m ready.
I expect to see a smug man waiting for me, the one who sat at my desk like he owned it, but there’s no one.
I spin in a circle, barely keeping myself upright on the tall heels. I’m completely alone.
My first thought—did Scar bring me to the wrong place? I expected a bedroom fit for a bordello with a massive bed where Mount would force me to do whatever sick things his twisted mind desired.
But there isn’t a bed in sight. In fact, the only furniture in the room is heavy bookcases lining every wall, two large leather chairs perfectly suited for the frame of a big man, a few lamps on the tables, and a sideboard with crystal decanters. My eyes scan the room from wall to wall, looking for the door.
Another shot of fear courses through me when I realize there isn’t one.
I swallow again, my mouth even drier than in the car, and focus on my breathing. This is New Orleans. Hidden rooms and secret passageways are run of the mill. It’s no big deal.
Except when the man you’re meeting has a history of making his mistresses disappear.
But that’s not what I am. I’m just the piece of ass he’s taking in lieu of payment for a debt. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I stand in the center of the room, waiting, and I see a dark glass bulb tucked into one corner of the ceiling.
A camera.
Is he watching me?
A shaft of courage, bolstered by my rage, straightens my spine once more.