I slide a glance at Asher’s face. He’s looking at the picture, his lips twitching. He’s trying to hide his amusement, but it’s there. I know it. I can see it in his blue eyes, which are lighter than usual. Making Asher smile is another way I try to win this fight we’ve got going. As you can see, I’ve really lost it when I think I can win a fight with this man by making him smile.
I need to get out of here.
I have no idea why I’m being held hostage, too. I’m being fed well, and he’s actually treating me better than I expected. Apparently, my teachers know that I haven’t been attending class and have been emailing me my homework assignments and sending me lecture slides and notes, which is odd and definitely not in accordance to university policy, which states that a student must withdrawal from a class after two unexcused absences.
After missing several weeks of class, I have definitely been absent more than two times. I should be kicked out of these classes, but instead I’m getting the VIP treatment. My teachers are even sending me emails with phrases like, “I’m looking forward to seeing you soon!” in them.
Not soon enough.
“Tastefully done,” Asher says.
That’s another surprise I’ve learned.
Asher has a sense of humor.
It’s subtle, but it’s there.
I drop the French accent. “I think I can easily get a six-figure bid for it.”
I cross my arms and walk from one side of the fridge to the other, pretending to look at it from multiple angles. I hear Monica humph in annoyance, which almost makes me lose it, but I’m able to reel my laughter in.
I step back next to Asher. “I’d say it’s worth a quarter of a million dollars. At least.”
Asher taps his chin with his pointer finger, his face mimicking a thoughtful expression. “It’s missing something,” he says. Then, he pulls out a paper from the binder in Monica’s hand and sticks it onto the fridge, covering his photoshopped face in the process.
In Asher’s picture is a rooster, wearing nude Louboutin stilettos. Its feathers are even the exact shade of Monica’s hair. There’s an alarm clock hanging around its neck, set to 5 AM. The background of the picture is pitch black, clearly still night time.
That’s it.
I lose it.
I’m nearly in tears on the floor, laughing my ass off, not even caring that I just lost this stupid game I think I’m playing. When I look back up, Asher’s replacement picture is still there. I laugh again. Asher and Xavier are smiling, but Monica has a constipated expression on her face.
I don’t think she gets that she’s the rooster, waltzing into Asher’s room at five every morning, uninvited and unannounced. She doesn’t get why this is funny, but that’s okay. I think hearing her laughter would break my already delirious brain anyway.
I lift the picture away from the fridge, moving it so it’s beside my master piece. “They should be sold as a set.”
“Ugh, do you have to act like such a child?” Monica says, her voice extra snarky today.
If I’m being honest, I am acting like a child. To be fair, I haven’t left the penthouse in almost a month. I’ve had to skip out on all of my lunch dates with Aimee, who must hate me by now. I haven’t felt the sun on my skin in ages.
I even found myself trying to sunbathe by leaning against the window in a bikini. It wasn’t a good idea. I learned that I’m afraid of heights. Xavier, of course, thought it was hilarious and always asks me when I’m going to do it again.
Because she already thinks I’m being juvenile and it’s actually true, I decide that until I’m allowed to return to civilization, I don’t care.
So, I mimic her pose and voice and mock her words, “Ugh, do you have to be here right now?”
It’s not even a half decent burn, but Monica doesn’t care. I can read Harry Potter to her, and she’ll still be angry. That’s when you know someone’s hatred is irrational. How does one possess a beating heart and not enjoy Harry Potter?! Seriously, there’s a special place in Hell for those Harry Potter one-star reviewers on Amazon and Goodreads.
“Maybe you should go,” Asher tells Monica while I’m busy making up a 10th circle of Hell for Harry Potter haters.
Her eyes widen and irritation flashes through them, but she doesn’t say anything. She walks out the door, slamming it on her way out. I try to chase after her, hoping I can escape with her, but a strong arm slides around my waist and pulls me back. I’m flush against Asher’s powerful chest.
“Seriously?! She’s hooked into that biometric thingy and I’m not?!” I abandon the little pride I have left and whine. “I have to get out of here, Asher. It’s been so long. Please, please, please, please, please. I don’t even know what it smells like outside anymore.”
“Pollution,” Xavier says, helpfully.
That lands him an attempted uppercut.
I miss, of course.
I’m not even usually a violent person. I swear. I just can’t stand being trapped in one place for this long. I’ve always been on the move, either from foster home to foster home or country to country. I don’t think I can handle this for much longer.
Hell, I don’t think I’m handling it right now.
Asher’s place is huge, but it’s not freedom. I want my freedom. I’m going crazy without it. I have a newfound respect for prisoners. How do they do it? How do they handle it? I’m stuck in a twenty-thousand square foot luxury apartment, and it’s driving me crazy.
Last week, the highlight of my week was when I hid under Asher’s desk for 13 hours, waiting for him to come in so I could scare him. I was asleep by the time he got there and pretty much wasted my entire day for nothing. Asher ended up carrying my sleeping self to the bed.
Sighing, Asher hands me a box. “It’s a prototype for our newest set of virtual reality glasses. It’ll help with the craziness for a little bit. I’ve already programmed a bunch of games and scenic activities in it. Here are the controls for it.”
I take the pair of gloves he hands me. They have little metal circles all over them, which I assume works like a controller.
“They’re ugly,” I tell him, though I’m flattered he’s trusting me with them. That he thought to do this for me… Even though he’s the one trapping me here.
“It’s a prototype, Lucy.” There’s a darkness in his eyes as he says, “Plus, beauty is overrated.”
The words are weird coming from his mouth, considering he’s the most physically beautiful person I’ve ever met. Unsure of what to say to that, I instead look through the list of apps he programmed into the VR console. There are dozens of them, all catered towards my interests, but a few catch my eyes quickest:
Lucy’s Lab
From sodium monofluo-
roacetate to batrachotox-
in and everything in be-
tween, experiment with
dangerous chemicals you
wouldn’t normally be
able to in real life.
Adventures for Lucy
From the bright and frosty
peaks of Machu Picchu to
the mysterious and dark
depths of the Mariana
Trench, the world is your
oyster, Lucy Ives.
Lucy’s Kitchen
Any tool, any appliance,
any ingredient—it’s all
yours. Make your dream
cake or favorite lasagna
without the mess.
Dozens of apps—Lucy’s Lab, Adventures for Lucy, Lucy’s Kitchen, and so many more—are all named after me and catered towards my interests, mostly things about me I’ve only mentioned briefly since I’ve known him. I can’t believe he remembers all these things about me.
There’s an app of a virtually sold out Madison Square Garden arena meant for getting rid of stage fright. I mentioned my stage fright to him once in passing. Another app is intended to teach me to play the triangle. I barely even remember telling him that I can’t play any instruments�
�“Not even the triangle,” I said, at the time. It has never been brought up again.
Just like the subjects of most of the apps. It’s alarming and flattering that he’s been paying so much attention to me, to the things I tell him and the things I don’t.
My God.
He did all this for me.
But he also trapped me here.
How should I feel about this?
I’m not sure, but I do know my heart is racing a marathon a minute, and when I glance up to thank him, he’s already gone.
Like the enigmatic ghost he is.
Chapter Seventeen
It is curious that
physical courage should
be so common in the world
and moral courage so
rare.
Mark Twain
An hour later, I’m skiing down some slopes in Athens at full speed with Xavier trailing closely behind me. I can’t actually see him, since I have the glasses on, but I can definitely hear him, shuffling furniture around so I don’t blindly hit anything.
He even has thick, cushy pillows in each of his hands for when I’m about to walk into a wall. He sticks them in front of my face, and I’m met with a face full of pillow plushness instead of a face full of wall.
I’m midway through my Olympic-worthy jump off a ski lift when I hear, “No way, girlfriend. What in the world are you wearing? I don’t ever want to see those gloves and those hideous glasses again.”
“Tommy!” I shout, whipping off the glasses and throwing them at Xavier’s face.
He catches them.
Barely.
“Expensive prototype,” he says.
I shrug. I’m not in the mood to be gentle with Asher’s things when he trapped me here. I’m in the mood to get the Hell out of this building, and my ticket out has just arrived… yet, I find myself gently taking off the gloves and setting them down carefully on the coffee table.
Xavier lifts a questioning brow at my change of pace, but I ignore it. I don’t know what to tell him. So, maybe I am grateful for Asher’s gift and don’t want to ruin it. So what? I turn quickly away from Xavier’s inquisitive eyes and envelope Tommy in a hug, squishing his pudginess into my eager arms, which are far more toned than they used to be, thanks to Xavier’s training sessions.
I hope the newfound definition in my body doesn’t require Tommy to spend another month altering clothes. Speaking of taking forever, I want to ask him why it took him so long to make a few outfits, but I don’t want to be rude and upset my ticket out of here. So, I keep my mouth shut and wait.
He doesn’t make me wait long. “Try these on,” he says, shoving a garment bag into my dumbstruck hands. “I’ll go grab the rest of the clothes from the hall.”
I decide to change in the living room, so Tommy doesn’t have to carry his creations up the stairs. Plus, I don’t want this to take longer than it needs to take. Now that I have the clothes, I can get out of here.
A part of me sours at the thought, unable to believe that Asher kept me trapped in his home because I wasn’t clothed appropriately. I even asked him if I could just head to some designer store on 5th Avenue to buy something to wear. I would have even let him choose the outfit.
He gave me a resounding “no.”
The clothes have to be from Tommy.
As I open the bag, I can see why. There’s a gorgeous burgundy colored dress inside, consisting of a mesh and lace corset top bodice and a fitted skirt. The corset top is hand sewn with beautiful rubies and what I hope isn’t real diamonds. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m excited to get this dress on.
Xavier averts his eyes as I change, struggling to hook the back up until Tommy comes bustling in and does it for me. He heads to a switch by a flip panel in the wall, pressing a few buttons until the floor to ceiling glass window that separates Asher’s penthouse from the rest of New York shifts. It turns into a mirror, causing my mouth to gape.
“What just happened?” I ask.
“It’s a version of electrochromic glass made from nanotech. Black Enterprises manufactures it,” Xavier says.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I see his widen as he takes me in. I turn to my reflection, remembering the dress and eager to see how it looks.
“Wow,” I breathe out.
The dress fits like a glove, hugging every curve of my body. The corset is all mesh and lace, which looks like lingerie yet somehow still appears elegant. There’s a nude slip stitched into the lining underneath, so I’m not actually naked under there. The skirt of the dress clings tightly to my body, ending just at the knee. I can see myself wearing this to an elegant dinner or cocktail party, though I’ve never actually been to one.
“I know. I’m awesome,” Tommy says smugly.
When Xavier turns to take me in properly, he doesn’t say anything. He simply stares, and it’s all I need to know. I look damn good in this dress.
“Tommy, if the rest of the clothes look like this, I’m kidnapping you,” I tell him, unable to stop staring at the dress.
“Speaking of,” he replies. “The rest of the clothes should fit you, so you don’t have to try on everything. But there are a few things that might need altering, so you’ll just have to try on those items only.”
I nod, overwhelmed as I turn to see what he brought me. There are hangers upon hangers of clothes, hanging off of wheeled metal racks. This is more clothes than even Asher owns. I have no idea where we’re going to store them or how we’re even going to bring everything upstairs. Now I understand why it took Tommy this long to make all of this. He built me an entire boutique’s worth of clothes.
“I would have finished everything sooner, but Asher said you’ve been working out. He sent me an updated picture, and I fixed everything for you.” Tommy’s eyeing my new figure.
I decide to ignore the part about Asher having a recent picture of me. “You refitted all this off of a picture?!”
“I’m very good at my job.”
“Yeah. No kidding,” I agree, ogling the collection in disbelief.
There are at least a dozen evening gowns in the mix, all stunning of course. I have no idea when I’ll wear them, seeing as I’ve never been invited to a fancy event and Asher hasn’t taken me out since our engagement. But I’m excited to try every single one of them on.
I feel like I’m Cinderella without the part where she’s chased around the kingdom by a stranger she danced with over a damn shoe. Can you imagine going to a club, dancing with some random guy and having him chase you all over the country afterwards?
That’s called stalking.
And it’s not sexy.
By the time I’m done trying on clothes, I’m exhausted. A few items turned into me trying on most of the collection, only for Tommy to take merely two dresses for more altering. The security guards come out of the security room to help Xavier carry the clothing racks upstairs. Tommy and I follow with at least a thousand new velvet hangers.
We have to switch out the thick wooden hangers from Asher’s clothes with the new, ultrathin ones Tommy brought in order for my clothes to fit in our shared closet. Even then, our clothes are packed so tightly together, it’s difficult to pull an item out. And this is a giant closet. I’m amazed that Tommy got all of this done in such a short amount of time.
It’s not until Tommy and I are stepping back to admire our work that I realize all my old clothes are in a bag on the floor. Tommy picks the bag up and heads towards the door.
“What are you doing?” The accusation in my voice is clear.
“I’m taking these to Goodwill for donating.”
“You’re what?!”
I know I have all these wonderful new clothes, and Asher said he’ll let me keep them after this is over, but I can’t help but feel attached to my old clothes. They’re mine. I worked my butt off during high school to afford a lot of what Tommy is so ready to give away. I didn’t have a family to buy these things for me. I worked for them, and because of that, I’m atta
ched. At the very least, I want to keep my little black dress.
Tommy shrugs. “Asher’s orders.” He eyes the clothes, packed like sardines beside one another. “You don’t seem to have any more room, too.”
He’s right. I should be grateful for these new clothes. No way should I want to get rid of some of them to make room for the old, but I can’t help myself.
“But I—”
His eyes dart towards Xavier, who’s sitting on a chair in the center of the closet, purposely minding his own business. “I have strict orders to give these away. Sorry.” And then he runs off quickly.
I let him, because I don’t have another choice. I can’t chase him down the elevators when the stupid biometric lock won’t allow me access.
“This is your fault,” I tell Xavier.
He finished his rounds a few minutes ago and has been sitting in the closet since.
“How?!”
“If I had access to the elevator, I could have chased him down.”
“I can give you access now.”
And he does.
For the first time in a month, I’m free.
Chapter Eighteen
Courage is to never
let your actions be
influenced by your
fears.
Arthur Koestler
The freedom almost eases the burn of losing all of my clothes, but the pain of the loss isn’t quite gone. I can feel a heaviness settling in my chest, overpowering the excitement of liberty. Am I overreacting? Probably. I can’t help it, though. Those tatty clothes are the only damn things I’ve kept from my past.
I send Aimee a text, asking her to meet me for an early dinner at Carmen’s Cantina, a Mexican bar and grill near campus. Courtesy of Tommy, I’m dressed in fitted dark blue jeans, a skintight black long sleeved turtleneck shirt, and velvet black thigh high stiletto boots that make my frame tower four inches off the ground.
Asher Black: A Fake Fiance Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 1) Page 15