by Jc Emery
“And you didn’t call the police and report the kidnapping?” he accuses.
My temper flares. “Didn’t I just tell you he has half the force on his payroll? Sure, I’ll call the police and tell them their boss kidnapped my best friend in the entire world. I might as well dig her grave myself.” My tone is haughty and I know it, but really, I was fine until this big lug intervened. Well, kind of fine. I was working it out.
Chase’s eyebrows knit together in concentration. He looks upset, thoughtful. Perhaps even worried.
“You do know I’m the good guy, right?”
“Yeah sure, you’re all good guys, right?”
“I’m trying here, Shelby.”
I take a deep breath, thinking over everything that has brought me to this point. All the lying, games, and other stupid decisions I’ve made in my life have ganged up on me in this one day and have me seriously considering an entire life revamp. I’ve never made the best choices, and today is proof positive of that very fact. As a little girl, I used to daydream about all the things I could be when I grew. And here I am, practically grown up, not quite, and still living in fantasyland. It’s not really a quality I find attractive about myself, and I’m surprised Becca hasn't completely cut me out yet. Then again, she might after all this is over.
“We don’t have long. So, are you going to tell me what I’m about to walk into or what?”
“Walk into?” I ask. Then it dawns on me—he’s going with me. Or alone. Either way, he thinks he’s going to go get Becca back.
“Yeah. One of us has a badge here, and one of us doesn’t,” he says.
As I look into his eyes, studying his intent, I realize he may be the first truly good person I’ve met in a long time. It seems that lately all the people I meet have an ulterior motive. None of them would help someone out just because. They’re always waiting for their end.
Sure, I could tell him when he’s about to walk into. But then, I’m not even really sure myself. Victor talks a good game, and yeah, he’s a mean SOB. At the end of the day, I’d like to think Victor won’t kill Becca. Then again, I didn’t think he would try to kidnap me, either.
“I don’t really know,” I say.
Hey, it’s the truth. Officer Guilliot may be a truly kind person, but that doesn’t mean I can trust him. His job is to arrest people like me, and I can tell you—those orange jumpsuits do nothing for my complexion.
“I should call Sarge. I’m not going to, though, and I’ll tell ya why. I got a feeling if I pick up the phone he’s going to tell me to wait for squad. Know what happens if we wait for squad? A bunch of guys come, maybe they’re good or maybe not, and we wait while your dick of an ex-boyfriend kills your girl. Not a good scenario, I think.”
I look down at my hands, wondering how I’m ever going to get Becca, let alone myself, out of this mess. It’s seemingly impossible. Then I realize I have one thing on my side I didn’t expect—Chase.
I’ve known him about the entirety of an hour, but I think I’ve got him figured out. He’s a good guy, maybe a little rough around the edges. But in his heart, he is a good guy. There’s nothing about him that tells me he’s anything but genuine. And he wants to help.
The other option is to catapult myself out the window, assuming it opens. Or I could take a bigger risk and let him call his cop buddies and let them decide what to do. Neither option is attractive. Since he has my gun, and I’m locked in a hotel room with him, I’m thinking he has the upper hand and we’ll play things his way.
“All Victor really wants is the necklace. He doesn’t really want me—he just wants to prove a point.”
“And what kind of point is he trying to prove?”
“You know, the kind where he sizes up his dick in order to determine that he’s got the bigger one.”
“If this Victor is as powerful as you say he is, why didn’t he get the necklace back himself?”
“He said he couldn’t,” I say.
“Really? He couldn’t get it himself even though he has half the force on his payroll? So instead he sends in his ex-girlfriend who is, what, just over five feet tall and has no fucking clue what she’s doing? Does that really make sense to you?”
I stop breathing just about instantaneously. Could Victor have gotten the necklace back himself? I’m sure he could have. I shake my head.
“Look, it doesn’t matter why he didn’t get the necklace before now. He sent me in to prove a point. I broke up with him, and now the point he’s making is that he calls the shots, not me.” I blow out a heavy breath and look at my feet.
“So what were you supposed to do with the necklace after you got it?”
Slowly, I lift my head and look him in the eyes. Should I be honest, or should I lie?
“The deal was that we’d switch me and the necklace for Becca.”
“And what exactly is he going to do with you once he gets you?” Chase’s eyes are imploring me to piece together a puzzle I’ve long since known the answer to. I gulp, feeling the rise of bile in my throat.
“Keep me, kill me. Whatever he wants,” I whisper. Hearing the words aloud sends a shiver up my spine.
“Well, we better get going,” he says, changing the mood entirely.
I stretch and stand from the bed. My clothes are still damp and sticking to my skin. I’d commit a multitude of sins for a shower right now. One thing I hate about New Orleans is the ever-present humidity. It’s insufferable. My drawstring backpack, which is now empty save for the cigar box, clings to the back of my jacket.
Chase stands and puts his hands behind his back, taking the Glock into the waistband of his cargo shorts. He pushes the chair back and levels me with an icy glare. His eyes aren't focused on mine but on the purple diamond hanging from my neck. Instinctively, I take a step back placing my hand over the diamond. I know it’s coming, and though I can’t outrun him, part of me would like to try anyway. Unfortunately, he wants the diamond, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it.
"Hand it over, Shelby."
I take a deep breath and force myself to give up my only leverage. Once I hand over the diamond, I have nothing left. Chase already has my gun, as well as the upper hand, and now he’s about to have the prize jewel as well. It’s not that I trust him. It’s just that I’m not so stupid that I think I can overpower him. Plus, for the time being, he appears to be on my side.
“What are you planning to do with it?”
“I’m going to wear it to fucking Mardi Gras.”
I sigh and remove the heavy piece of jewelry from my neck. I flip it over my head, and with the chain of the diamond firmly in hand, I tentatively take a step forward and reach out toward Chase. He keeps his hands steady, never moving toward me as he waits.
“I’m trusting you. Please don’t screw me over.” Tears form in my eyes.
Chase’s eyes leave the necklace and dart up to mine. He seems to be looking for something. Something I don’t think he’s going to find, something he might never find. I just know that when I look into his eyes, I see something genuine. I never did see anything genuine about Victor. His eyes didn’t lie—I was just too goddamn stupid to see it.
I drop the necklace into his hand. Instantly, he curls his large, long fingers around mine. I suck in a deep breath and let go. He pulls back, and I see a tiny sliver of purple peeking out between his fingers, a cool reminder of what I’ve just given up. I’m trusting in the stranger—something I told myself I would stop doing—and praying to any God that might exist that he’s worthy of my trust. Trusting in him when I shouldn’t could be the very thing that gets Becca killed. The thought is overwhelming.
“Here’s how it’s going to go—you walk in behind me, you don’t speak, keep your eyes straight ahead. Be aware of the people in the room. And do not, under any circumstances, leave my side. You got that?”
His tone is so serious. It’s like he’s directed wayward women in distress all his life. For a brief moment, I picture this Officer Chase
Guilliot as a small child. Somehow, he has the same chiseled bone structure and the same dark eyes. But he’s younger, definitely a child. He stands in front of the elementary school, directing pretty little girls to their mother’s waiting cars. He’s very concerned for their safety.
“Wait. Shelby, you realize that if Victor wanted the diamond he could have gotten it himself at any point, right?” A feeling of dread washes over me as I consider why he’s telling me this. “He doesn’t give a shit about the stone. He wants you.”
“That makes no sense,” I say. I’m about to explain the kind of man Victor is when Chase brings his hand up to cup my jaw and places his thumb over my lips, silencing me.
“He wants you,” he says, giving me no room to argue.
I nod my head even though I don’t quite believe him. Victor’s pride was wounded when I broke it off with him—he’s used to sending women packing when he gets bored with them—but our relationship was never that deep to begin with.
Part of me wants to warn Chase that should anything happen to Becca, I’m going to take it out on him. But that would imply some kind of relationship or bond here—something we don’t have. What we do have is a stupid girl who broke a couple of laws and a cop who’s trying to right her wrongs. And that’s it. And even though I’m trying like hell to ignore it, I have this suffocating desire to have more good in my life—the kind of good Chase can bring.
The other part of me wants to hug him and hold on, apologize for dragging him into this mess, and cry into his shoulder. It was never supposed go this far or be this awful. I know my mother always said that easy money was never easy. Everything comes with strings attached, even the things that look like gifts. I should’ve known better. I should have been smarter.
“You should know that Becca is my best friend. If anything happens to her, I might literally die. She’s like a sister to me, and if there’s one thing I take seriously, it’s family.”
“Miss Connor, if there’s one thing I take seriously, it’s helping others. Especially pretty ladies in distress,” he says with a wink.
“Are you flirting with me, Officer?” I ask. I flash him the best smile I can muster under the circumstances.
He shakes his head, his lips fighting a twitch. “I should tie your ass to that bed and leave you here while I sort out your disaster.”
“I might like that,” I say.
“Unfortunately, I know better than to think any makeshift knots I create out of those sheets would hold you. Even if they did, you’d probably just scream until security came up to untie you.”
“Oh, Officer. You have no idea how loud I can be.” I smirk up at him. He has to let me go with him, even if I don’t have the gun or the diamond anymore. And if I have to flirt with him to get my way, I will.
“Miss Connor, this is hardly the time to test my resolve,” he says. His voice is flat and his expression unyielding.
“You can’t leave me here,” I say, crossing my arms and essentially putting my foot down.
“I can, but I won’t. I have no clue what this Victor guy looks like, nor do I know where you’re supposed to meet him.”
Chase makes his way to the door, stuffs the diamond in his front pocket, and opens the door into the hall. He slides himself to the corner of the frame and gestures for me to walk past. I move quickly, too quickly, and before I can get out the doorway, his large hand lands on my upper arm. He shakes his head, letting me know he’s keeping tabs on me.
As we make our way down the hall and then down the stairs to the first floor, I realize the earlier threat hasn’t exactly vanished. I don’t know who those men were, nor do I wish to know, but they may still be lurking. There is little I can do about it, as we don’t have much time—or rather, Becca doesn’t have much time.
Despite my better judgment, which isn’t saying much, I tell Chase where the warehouse is.
Like everything in the French Quarter, the building has been left in a charming state of disrepair. Made of bricks that have seen better days and the occasional spattering of fancy stonework, the front of the warehouse is a small niche art gallery.
The gallery is Victor’s front business. He sells legitimate artwork from around the world. His niche is unheard-of artists who spend their non-artistic time serving the human race. Everything from clergymen to destitute panhandlers and young children have painted pieces and sold them to Victor.
In some well-to-do art circles, Victor is known as a great humanitarian. All the best crooks are. He’s the man who travels the world and sells art for those who can barely feed themselves. He’s also known to pay a generous price for each piece, paying more for the ones he commissions. Because of his reputation, I think, his shipments fly through customs with little inspection. Nobody wants to hold up a man whose business focuses around helping those who can’t really help themselves.
If only they knew that hidden in the frames, and sometimes even in the artwork themselves, is cocaine and methamphetamine. Something about the chemical compounds of the paint, or was it the finishing lacquer, throws off the hounds? I wasn’t really listening when he described it to me. At the time, all of Victor’s talk about his business served as merely an interruption of my time with him. He always wanted to talk business, never wanted to talk about anything personal. He just assumed that we were on the same page. Now, though, I wish I would have listened more.
Common to buildings of this era are narrow alleyways that servants often used, so as not to disturb their masters. The alleyway between Victor’s gallery and the attorney’s office next door is only ever used by Victor’s business associates.
I’ve never been down the alley myself, as I’ve always opted to stay put on the sidewalk. Victor had wanted to show me what he does, but I wasn’t up for it. Dating a bad man and knowing about his business is one thing; getting actively involved in his business and knowing the details of it is another. Reason number 5,743 why I never should have made any runs for him. I am such an idiot.
Chase removes the Glock from the back of his pants and undoes the safety. His lips twitch for a brief moment as he looks at me with his brows raised. Yeah, I pointed the gun at him and had forgotten to take off the safety. Joke’s on me. With Chase’s right hand on the gun pointed forward, his left hand is free. He reaches back, and I think he’s going to grab my upper arm. Instead he trails his hand down to grab mine.
I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t feel safe in his presence. It doesn’t matter how much I want to believe that he really is going to help or that he won’t turn my ass in, because the truth of it is I’m still the crook here. Even if I do save Becca, even if I had good intentions, I still stole an antique diamond.
We make our way down the alley. Nerves fly between us, and neither of us is as confident as before. At the end of the alley is the thin wooden door, no window, no people. The door opens without another word, and I can feel Chase flinch. His movement is slight, not too noticeable to someone whose focus is elsewhere. I catch it, though, and I can only pray that the man who opens the door doesn’t.
“Miss Brignac, Mr. Victor has been expecting you. Only you,” the man, who I now see is Nikolai Gregor, says.
Nikolai Gregor has a thick Russian accent, a kind though aging smile, and unnaturally white teeth. I know from the few times I was paying attention that Nikolai worked for Victor’s father before he died. Loyalty is everything to Nikolai. If he thinks I’ve betrayed Victor, he might consider putting a bullet in my skull himself. Chase doesn’t smile. He barely reacts to Nikolai’s presence, though the slight roll of his shoulders tells me he’s on edge. I don’t like it. The main reason is because I don’t know Chase well enough to know how dangerous “on edge” can be. For Victor, “on edge” could be deadly.
Chase pushes in front of me refusing to be ignored. The man at the door gives him a look. Broad, unrelenting, he will not be moved from his post. But Chase is not a man who is going to give up.
“Miss Brignac is with me. Now, we can settle
this outside—right here in the alley—or we can take it inside. Fewer witnesses.”
The tense set of Chase’s shoulders tells me he is willing to do what he has to do to get through the door. Both men reach for their guns one after the other and stand with their feet shoulder width apart, back ever so slightly arched. The doorman finally gives in, letting us through. Chase looks in first, then takes my hand in his.
Inside the warehouse, it’s dark, the only illumination from small lights that line the wall right to the tip of the ceiling. The outside walls are all decaying red brick with interspersed chunks of painted brick. We walk into a large room. It is barren except for three long wooden workstations that must each be at least ten feet in length. To the right, I see two hallways. Down each hallway appears to be a series of doors. Where they lead, I have no clue. When Chase decides we are satisfactorily inside of the warehouse, he comes to a stop. From my vantage point, Victor is nowhere to be found.
The doorman’s heavy footfalls sound behind us and come around to our side. He nods his head toward the nearest hallway. I take a step forward, aligning myself with Chase. A quick glance at his face tells me he is no more comfortable walking down the hallway with Mr. Grumpy Pants than I am. Chase locks his jaw and then lets it go slack again. He repeats this motion several times. I try to think of a plan on the spot—something which has always been my strong suit—but right here, in this moment, my nerves are completely shot. I can’t think of a damned thing to do.
“Where’s Victor?” Chase asks. The man from the door turns around, his jaw set in frustration. His eyes level on Chase and then dip down to me, to Chase, and back to me again.
“You really screwed up this time, Shelby.”
I didn’t know my body could get any tenser. Nerves roll over my shoulders, slipping down my spine. A sudden intake of breath and I find myself squeezing Chase’s hand. Clearly I have screwed up. Dating Victor was screwing up. Making a run for Victor was screwing up. Thinking I could fix the situation on my own was screwing up. Obviously there’s one thing I’m really good at, and that’s screwing up. I want to tell him that he doesn’t know me. I want to tell him to shut his stupid mouth. I want to curse him out in three different languages, two of which I don’t even know. I don’t get the chance.