by Keri Lake
“I don’t want it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want your company, or your secret group. I want out.”
His eye twitches as he stares down at me in a brief moment of silence. “And what will you do with your life, Lucian? Play music?” At the derision and mocking in his voice, I grind my teeth, and he chuckles. “There are thousands upon thousands of musicians in the world. There is, however, only one successful shipping company in this entire country. Built by sweat and sacrifice.”
“And blood. Blood of innocent people. How many have you killed to stay on top, Father?”
“As many as it takes.” He tips his head as if studying me. Always trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “’Fucks sake, no son of mine is going to play piano for a living. You may as well have studied ballet all these years. It’s only by the grace of God that you excelled in sports, the way you did.”
Grace of God? I busted my ass. Trained hard. Never missed a practice, and went on to set records for the state. But only by the grace of God, it seems.
“You will take over this company. You will take your place in Schadenfreude. Or I will--”
“Kill me? Like you killed her?”
“Who?”
“You know exactly who I’m talking about. I saw her. In the cave. Dead. I saw you fucking her.”
His lips form the malevolent smile of a man who doesn’t care that he’s been caught. “The pedophile? The one who liked playing with little boys? Yes. I fucked her. And then I got rid of her.”
Unbidden flashes of memory flicker through my head like a sketchy dream.
A beautiful woman. Long dark hair. Her hands between my thighs.
Similar to Solange, but perhaps not as exotic, like a watered down version of her.
“You were just a boy when we hired her to be your nanny. Six years old. Your mother was suspicious of anyone who spent excessive amounts of time with you, so we installed cameras throughout the manor.” His voice gives narration to the rapid succession of images still slipping through my mind. “It started with fondling. In the bathtub, mostly. She would touch you. Harmless, mostly. Your mother … she was always so protective, but with Monique, even more so.”
Monique. Miss Monique. At the sound of her name, more images erupt inside my head.
Giggles. Soft caresses. Tickles and the chasing knots in my stomach.
“Your mother insisted we get rid of her.” Eyes on me, he puffs his cigar. “So I did.”
Memories spin and tumble in my brain, jumbling into a mishmash of something that doesn’t make sense. “You’re lying. The woman you killed was Solange.”
“According to Friedrich, this Solange you keep going on about is the result of the trauma you suffered after the death of Jude and the abuse of your nanny. A hallucination.”
I didn’t imagine her. I couldn’t have. She was real. What she did to me was real. I felt everything. I shake my head, but even as I prepare to argue with him, flickering images pass behind my eyes. My mother never acknowledging Solange in the room. The staff giving me strange looks as we’d stroll by together. The way she’d disappear from the castle for days, and show up only when I was upset, or stressed.
No. I couldn’t have imagined her. How could I have imagined something that felt so real?
“I won’t let you make me out to be crazy. So, you can throw me back into that place. It wasn’t a hospital!”
“It’s the institute where we meet. A number of studies are carried out there, but Freidrich thought you might be more comfortable having your first session here.”
“They fucking tortured me there!”
“Friedrich wanted to study the nature of your hallucinations. To see how they might affect what we’re trying to accomplish. Through these delusions, you put yourself at risk, many times over. Killing yourself accomplishes nothing, Lucian. It proves nothing.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
“As we soon learned. You’ve developed masochistic tendencies.” He shrugs and rolls his cigar between his fingers. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I had them myself, though not as dangerous as yours.”
“I want out of this study.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He puffs his cigar again, twisting it around to show the bright orange glow at the other end of it. “The only way out is death.”
The percolating anger inside of me explodes, and I push up from my chair. Refusing to listen to another word, I make a mad dash toward the door.
“Lucian!” My father calls from behind, but I run from his office, knocking into Rand on the way.
“Lucian, where are you going?”
I sprint through the foyer, and out the front door. Across the yard and into the woods. Bracken and twigs on the ground gouge the soles of my feet, scratching and scraping at my legs. A light, evening breeze cools the sweat gathered on my exposed skin. It isn’t long before the trees give way to a small clearing and the cliff in the distance. I run faster toward it.
The sound of waves crashing below sing like a dirge over the hurricane of thoughts spinning inside my head.
Solange. She wasn’t real. She never was. I’m crazy. I imagined her, and only crazy people imagine shit like that. My mother was right. I’m sick. I’m so sick. How does someone imagine a whole person, doing the things she did to me?
Skidding to a halt, I stare down at the dark waters a hundred feet below me. The moon highlights the crest of the waves that crash against the rock. My heart pounds inside my chest. The air thins.
I jump.
A tickle in my stomach explodes with panic.
Nothing flashes before my eyes except the world slipping past at a dizzying speed.
A cold sting smacks my skin, pressure crushing my chest as I plunge into the sea. Ice cold water embraces me, drawing me deeper, toward the bottom. Into the darkness below.
I’m still alive.
I’m still alive.
I kick away from the pull. My muscles burn while I climb the slippery liquid wall all around me. Lungs pulsing with the need for air, I propel myself upward, until I breach the surface.
The cliff stands off in the distance, while the sea carries me further away. With fatigue weighing heavy on me, I push forward and swim toward the shore at the opposite side of the rock.
It must take a good twenty minutes of fighting the water, the lack of air, the muscles that long to give out on me. By the time the shallow bed of sand hits my feet, I can hardly stand.
A shudder of bone-chilling cold shakes my body, my teeth chattering, jaw sore and aching from tension and stiffness. Collapsing to my knees, I crawl against the tug of the waves, until the heel of my hand hits dry sand, and turning over onto my back, I lie staring up at the starry sky and the moon, weak and panting for breath.
I’m alive.
I mentally replay the moment I leapt from that cliff without a single thought of consequence. If I’d died, or lived, didn’t matter to me. All that mattered was the exquisite rush of fear and recklessness that burned inside of me. A paradox of racing toward death in order to feel alive.
A burst of laughter tears through my already taxed chest at the thought.
My body hardens, and I slip my hand down inside my sodden pants where my dick stands at full mast.
A few quick pumps, and I come harder than I ever have before.
Chapter 25
Isadora
Present day …
It’s hard to believe a week has passed already, and as I make my way toward the sleek black vehicle parked in the driveway, with the tall, beefy guy I’ve come to learn is Makaio standing beside it, I can’t help but feel a little sadness at having to leave for the weekend.
At the same time, I probably need a break from this place.
I glance back at where a figure stands in the window of Lucian’s office. They turn away, out of view, disappearing into the room beyond.
Him, no doubt. He’s avoided me since the night in his o
ffice. Not that I’ve seen much of him, at all, in the last couple of days. Mostly moments like these, when I catch him staring at me, just before he walks away.
Maybe I should regret that kiss, too, but I can’t. Even now, the phantom sensation of his lips against mine still lingers on my skin. The bitter taste of whiskey. The heat of his breath mingling with mine.
Makaio opens the door to the back passenger seat, his lips only halfcocked in a smile.
“Thank you,” I say, and pause mid-climb inside. My God, I’ve never seen the interior of a car so posh as this one. “Holy shit.”
“That’s a Bentley for ya.”
Setting my bag on one of the tan leather seats, I fall into the cushioned one before me, the soft leather like sitting on a cloud. Clean and inviting, the lingering scent of Lucian’s cologne makes for a delicious greeting as I settle in.
Makaio reaches over me, and I shrink at his close proximity, but he merely presses a button on the long center console that divides the two passenger seats. A screen slides up from a slit in the seat in front of me. He presses another button, and something pushes against my heels, as he backs himself out of the car.
Startled, I look down to find a footrest, like that of a recliner, lifting my feet up off the floor.
“I have a cooler with some soda and Perrier water in the front. If you push the button beside you, there’s a foldout table. And you can close the curtains on the window by pressing the button there.” He points to a silvery button on the door panel beside me.
Jesus, I’ve never been in something so luxurious and high-tech in my life.
“I’m, uh. I’m good.” Glancing around, I notice 1 of 25 stitched into the leather seat beside me. “What’s one of twenty-five?”
“This car is one of only twenty-five in the United States.”
“Seriously?” This thing must have cost a fortune. Thousands of dollars on wheels. “I’m surprised Mr. Blackthorne allows it to be used to transport his employees.”
“Not all employees, Miss. Only you. Master Blackthorne insisted that you be comfortable on the ride home.”
He insisted? Why? “I’m very comfortable. Thank you.”
“Good.” He closes the door, shutting me inside, and I glance up at the empty window of Lucian’s office. Devil of Bonesalt.
The ride home seems almost too short, having killed the time watching Ever After on the tablet’s Netflix app. Movies aren’t usually my thing, but it was that, or dodging glances from Makaio in the rearview mirror and having him ask if I needed something every ten minutes. Besides, the movie was fitting for a visit home, as Aunt Midge and I used to love watching it when I was younger.
Admittedly, I’ve kind of missed the crotchety old woman.
We roll to a stop at the curb, and I nab the duffle from beside me and reach for the handle of the car door. It swings open before I can, and Makaio stands waiting to help me out. Out of courtesy, I take his hand, otherwise the gesture feels strange to me.
Once I’m free of the vehicle, he bends forward, slipping his hand through the strap of my duffle, while he closes the door behind me.
“It’s okay. It’s not …”
He swipes up the duffle, leaving me to carry nothing more than my cellphone.
With a huff, I lead the way through the fenced-in lot, toward the broken-down house where I’ve grown up for the last nine years. Empty pots of dead flowers lay tipped on the front porch as we climb the stairs to the entrance, but whereas the gardens at the Blackthorne’s simply look unkempt and neglected, here, they’re just a failed attempt to polish another rundown house on the block.
A swing to the left, old with cracked paint, reminds me of the times Aunt Midge and I would sit out talking for hours, on balmy summer nights. As much as it’s an added eyesore, I can’t imagine it not being there.
The exterior of the house could also use some new paint, but that doesn’t even hold a candle to what the interior needs, so I halt at the door and reach for my bag. “I’m good here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the ride.” I refuse to open the door, seeing as the Blackthorne’s garden shed is in better shape than this place.
“I’ll be back Sunday night to pick you up.”
“You sure? I mean, Aunt Midge can probably drive me.”
“Master Blackthorne insisted I drop you off and pick you up.”
It’s hard to imagine a man like him thinking me important enough to make such a demand. “Okay. If that’s what he insists.”
“It is. Have a nice weekend. Stay out of trouble.”
A curtain of familiarity hits me as I step inside the house and lock the door behind me, as usual. Aunt Midge calls me paranoid for checking locks, the stove, and closing curtains, but growing up half my life in abandoned places taught me not to be so quick to trust my fellow man, because sometimes he takes shit without asking.
The tired and broken-down furniture, which I imagine was probably purchased sometime in the eighties, the ugly brown paneling of the living room, and outdated wallpaper stained with nicotine throughout is still a comfort to me, in spite of its hideous appearance.
“Aunt Midge! You home?” I dump my duffle on the couch and make my way into the kitchen. The overwhelming scent of coffee and cigarettes clings to the air. That’s one thing I appreciate about the Blackthornes: aside from the occasional rich-cigar scent, there isn’t the stale smoky odor that sticks to the back of the throat, the way it does here. “Yo! Aunt Midge!”
The coffee pot is warm, not hot like she used it recently, but not cold like it’s been sitting for too long, either.
I peek inside her bedroom to find it empty, her bed unmade, nightclothes flung onto the floor. Maybe ran to the store, or something, seeing as she told me she took the weekend off, and it’s only just after noon. Too early for The Shoal.
On the way back into the kitchen, I hear a rattling at the door and freeze. The entrance swings open, and in steps Aunt Midge, shoving a cigarette into her mouth as she wriggles the key from the lock.
Behind her stands the one person in the world who could possibly sour the excitement of coming home.
My mother.
It’s been a few months since I saw her hobbling about her little campsite on the freeway. Aunt Midge likes to pop in on her sometimes, to bring her something to eat, or an extra blanket. No idea why she bothers. I stayed inside the car, of course. No sense giving my mother the impression that I give a shit about her after she dumped me on her sister.
The white pallor of her skin only emphasizes the dark circles around her eyes, her sunken cheeks and gaunt figure. Even from here, I can see the scabs and bruises of heroine tracks down her arms.
Anger and disgust roil in my stomach, as I watch her follow Aunt Midge into the house.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Crossing my arms fails to hide the tremble of fury vibrating beneath my skin.
On her way toward the kitchen, Aunt Midge pauses to look me up and down, her left eye squinting as she sucks in a drag of her cigarette. “New clothes?”
“Yeah. Irrelevant. Why is she here?”
“Fancy, schmancy,” she says, as she passes me, not answering my question.
My mother stands in the center of the room, rubbing her arm, looking around as though she’s searching for a needle to inject. Nervous, from the looks of it.
I follow after Aunt Midge, who throws the coffee pot onto the stove, and lean in to get her attention, lowering my voice. “Why is she here?”
Blowing out an exasperated sigh, she leans closer. “So, I get a call from her from some unknown number. Her boyfriend skipped town. Took a bunch of drugs with him. I guess some bigtime drug dealer is after him now.” Her gaze slides from mine. “And her.”
“So, you brought her here? Are you nuts?”
“What was I gonna do? Tell her to fuck off? She’s my sister.”
“She’s my mother, but that doesn’t mean I think you should help her every time
she steps in a pile of shit and gets dirty.”
Shoving the cigarette back between her lips, she shakes her head and fires up the stove. “You don’t get it. That’s okay. You’re a kid.”
“I’m nineteen. I dealt with her shit for ten years. I get it more than you know.”
Setting her hand on her hip is the first sign that I’m starting to piss her off, but I don’t care. This was not one of her smarter decisions. “And you would’ve just stood by and let some criminal gun her down?”
“Karma’s a bitch. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“She’s your mother, Isa. Your mother. Yeah, she’s done a shit job, but it doesn’t change who she is. It’s not right to want to see her suffer. Those dealers in Roxbury don’t fuck around.”
Son of a bitch. “Roxbury? She was in Roxbury?”
“Apparently so.”
“Jesus, Aunt Midge.” Lodging my fingers in my hair is all I can do to keep from yanking every strand out of my head. “You can’t let her stay here. You’re going to wake up and find all our shit missing.”
“Cash is put away. I stashed all my jewelry, too. Only thing that’s worth a damn is the shitty TV, and I doubt she can lift a fucking cup of coffee at the moment.”
“I’m not staying here.” Crossing my arms, I shake my head. I hate having to make her choose, but she has no idea what kind of shit-storm my mother can create without even trying. “Either she goes, or I go.”
“C’mon, Isa. Don’t be like that. She’s family, for Christ’s sake. I’m not choosing between family.”
“She’s fucked you over more times than I ever would.”