Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  The thought sends a shiver of anticipation running through me, and that—more than anything Quincy has done tonight—is what really pisses me off.

  “I swear to God, if you cuff my right hand to the bed you better intend to leave me here forever, because I will rip your balls off with my teeth.”

  “How remarkably innovative,” he says mildly. “And I’m not cuffing you.”

  That surprising statement is punctuated by him taking something about the size of a cell phone out of his pocket and thrusting it into my right hand. He curls my fingers around it, then holds them in place. My thumb’s on a toggle button, and I’m staring at a small screen with a single vibrating needle. The needle’s intersecting a line that’s red on both sides and green in the middle. Right now, it’s moving toward the red.

  “Push down,” he says. “Keep the needle in the green.”

  “Why should I do anything you say?”

  “Eliza, please.” He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, the gesture so surprising that my control slips, and I feel tears prick my eyes. “If our time in London meant anything, then do this one thing for me.”

  I want to ask why. I want to ask what the hell this is about. I want to ask—oh, hell. The whole thing is so damn strange I don’t even know what I want to ask. All I know for sure is that I don’t know anything at all. Except that I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know a thing about Emma.

  He’s off the bed and practically sprinting toward the door.

  “You’re leaving me?”

  He brushes a hand over his ear, then mutters a curse. “I’m out of time. Remember, keep it in the green. There’s a little girl's life at stake, El. And she doesn’t have an Emma watching over her like you did. Just do this.”

  Before I can catch my breath, he’s gone, and I’m left tied to a bed and holding the freaky gizmo as the needle wavers toward the red.

  For a fraction of a second I allow myself the fantasy of hurling the device across the room.

  I don’t do it.

  I have no idea what Quincy’s in the middle of, and I damn sure don’t trust him. But as I lie there cuffed to the bed, I realize one vital thing—I believe him.

  I know one more thing, too. I never really knew Quincy Radcliffe. Because the man who cuffed me to this bed and bolted out of this room isn’t a financial consultant. Not now. Probably not ever.

  I spent three glorious months in a foreign country falling in love with a man who was a ghost. Who didn’t really exist. And for the life of me, I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse.

  I’m not wearing a watch, and there’s no clock in the room, so I don’t know how much time passes as I toggle and adjust, toggle and adjust. It’s hardly a difficult chore, but I give it my all, not only because Quincy said it was important, but also because the minute adjustments occupy my mind, leaving only a tiny bit of mental background space in which to wonder about what he’s doing and who he really is.

  I’ve zeroed in on the big picture, of course. He’s either law enforcement or intelligence, that much would probably be obvious to anyone, but to me it’s like a big, red beacon of duh. After all, my sister was scary-deep in the intelligence world for over a decade, and a PI for even longer. First as her government cover, and then as a legit, full-time job after she left the agency.

  I’ve even worked part time in her office, running skip-traces on her computer, filing documents, and typing client reports for both her and Lorenzo.

  So, yeah. I know the signs. And they’re flashing neon where Quincy is concerned.

  Then again, maybe he’s a master thief who tossed in the bit about the teenager because he has a talent for the con.

  If that’s the case, I can go back to hating him.

  If he’s a spook … well, then I have to wonder if that’s what he was doing back in London. And if so, is that why he disappeared? Some botched up mission?

  It makes sense, and I like it better than the alternative theory that he simply tired of me and walked away.

  But that begs the question of why he didn’t come back to me when he came back to London.

  Because I know he returned. I saw him. The day before I returned to Manhattan I’d been at loose ends. Part of me was desperate to get home and away from the memories that lurked around every corner. Another part wanted to hold on tight to my time with Quincy. I still couldn’t quite believe that he’d really just up and disappeared. One day, he’d been touching me intimately and telling me that he loved me. The next, he was gone.

  It didn’t make sense. The man I knew—the man in whom I’d confided my deepest secrets and most intimate desires—couldn’t be the kind of man who could cut me so deeply. On the contrary, my months with Quincy had been like a balm to my soul. He’d not only healed me, he’d helped me discover parts of myself that I’d kept buried since childhood, and I couldn’t wrap my head around his betrayal. Because if he’d truly left me—if he’d actually, purposefully walked away with no contact and no explanation—then that’s exactly what it was. A betrayal of the most brutal kind.

  He’d left on a Friday for what was supposed to be a quick weekend trip. “I have to play nice with the client. Handhold a bit and play the social game.” I’d nodded my understanding. Networking is a huge part of acting; I assumed it was the same in the corporate world, too. I’d expected him back on Monday, but didn’t start getting worried until Tuesday. He hadn’t called or texted while he was away, but that was easy to justify. He was busy. International rates were expensive. They’d gone into rural China where cell service is spotty.

  Those were all the justifications that ran through my head on Tuesday and Wednesday. By Thursday I was dialing Emma for reassurance, then hanging up before it rang and telling myself I was being a baby. By Friday, I was officially nervous, and I let the call to my sister ring through. She told me not to worry. It was probably nothing and he’d come home with apologies and presents. That soothed me over the weekend, but by Monday I was a wreck.

  I tried to hold off calling. I told myself he’d gotten sick. He was catching up at work. He was in Switzerland counting the money in a private numbered account. Probably not accurate, but since I had no idea what his job actually entailed it was the best I could come up with. But it wasn’t good enough, and I called his office at eight o’clock sharp.

  He’d given me his card after our first actual date—the one that had started with breakfast and lasted a full thirty-six hours. “In case you ever need someone experienced in financing multinational corporations.”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely keep it handy then,” I’d said, then tucked it neatly into my back pocket. I hadn’t needed it since then. Why would I when we’d been together almost constantly from that moment on?

  I’d so thoroughly convinced myself that he must still be out of the country—had I gotten the dates wrong?—that I actually apologized when the receptionist answered the phone.

  “I hate to bother you—and I know he’s probably still in China—but I’m trying to reach Quincy Radcliffe. Is he—”

  “One moment please.” The crisp, efficient female voice was followed in short order by soothing classical hold music. Which was good. Because her reaction had surprised me. And, yeah, I needed to be soothed.

  What did it mean? That he was right there at his desk? That he’d flirted with her that morning? That we only dated for three months and even though that time had been magical, I needed to get over myself?

  “This is Andrew Donovan. How can I help you? Hello?”

  “I—what? Oh.” I blinked, only then realizing that I’d lowered the phone. I pushed the button to switch to the speaker. “I’m here. Sorry. I’m trying to reach Quincy Radcliffe.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “My name’s Eliza Tucker. I’m his—I mean, we were sort of dating, and then he went on a business trip and—” I broke off, feeling suddenly foolish, then cleared my throat. “I just haven’t heard from him, and I’m a little worried.” />
  “I see. Yes, well I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Radcliffe decided to transfer to our Taipei office.”

  My knees turned to liquid and I slid down the wall. “I see.” I didn’t see. I couldn’t see a single freaking thing. “Um, can you give me his new work number? I’ve tried his cell, but—”

  “I’m sorry, but all client calls are being routed through our switchboard.”

  “Oh, well, that’s fine. You can just route me that way. What time is it in Taipei?”

  “I’m afraid we can only forward client calls.”

  “But I—”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”

  “But—”

  “Have a good day, Ms. Tucker.”

  And then he hung up, which is when I threw my phone across the room, shattering the damn thing.

  I didn’t care. I was too numb to care.

  And for three days, all I did was sleep.

  On the fourth day I told myself that something really massive must have gone down at work. He was battling for his career, and of course calling me got pushed to the back burner. But we were pushing on two weeks, and surely he’d left a voice mail by now.

  Which, of course, I couldn’t check because of my phone.

  Getting a replacement was a bit of a production because I wasn’t in the good old U.S. of A., but Emma and DHL helped, and soon a replacement phone fully loaded with my account info arrived at my London flat. By that time, I’d learned how to check voicemail remotely—there was nothing—but I was holding out hope that a half dozen text messages would pop up the moment I had a signal.

  Nada.

  I wasn’t really surprised. My computer receives messages, too. And Quincy knew my email address.

  That’s when I went back to bed. A nest lined with pillows, quilts, five remotes, and a variety of crisps and biscuits, even though I was craving chips and cookies.

  For the record, I was done with London. Done with Quince. Done with men.

  And I would have gotten my ass right back to Manhattan if I’d had a place to go. Since I didn’t, I wallowed, alternating between sleep, action movies—no romances—and junk food.

  Three days later, I woke up to Emma stroking my hair. “You need a shower,” she’d said.

  “Great to see you, too.” I shoved myself up on my elbows and blinked. She’d turned on the lights, and I grimaced as a million tiny pins started poking at my eyeballs. “How’d you get in?”

  Her brows rose, and I waved the question away. “Forget I asked that.” Emma started working on her B&E skills when I was four and she was eleven. That was the year our father started locking us in the utility room. To say she has mad skills now is an understatement. Emma has lots of skills. Most of which I’m not supposed to know about. She swore me to secrecy the day everything changed for us. The day her murder arrest went poof and she got a scholarship to Pepperdine.

  My sister’s life is like something out of an action movie, but to me, she’s always just been Emma. Sister, mom, friend. There’s nothing we won’t do for each other, and tops of that list is that we don’t spill secrets.

  “You didn’t have to come,” I said.

  “Don’t be stupid.” And then my sister did exactly what she’d done for my entire life. She pulled me out of hell. She protected me. And she made me strong again.

  So strong, that for my remaining months in London, I convinced myself that Quincy hadn’t destroyed me. That our time together had been a fun dalliance, but that’s all. Sexual exploration, a few hundred mind-blowing orgasms, and a new level of self-awareness for yours truly.

  It wasn’t a travesty that he’d disappeared. Soon enough I would have zipped off back to the States anyway. On the contrary, it was convenient. No unpleasant goodbyes. No trying to squeeze a square vacation romance into a round life hole.

  That, at least, was the mantra I repeated daily, and as my time in London drew to a close, I even started to believe it.

  At least until that last day when I got it into my head to walk by his office.

  I remember sighing as I went into the lobby with no real purpose other than to rest my feet. I sat there, scrolling through my phone, and when I’d looked up, there he was.

  Not that he’d seen me. No, he was in the lobby coffee shop, undoubtedly ordering a double espresso, something he did every day and which I told him was completely un-British. Weren’t Brits supposed to be all about the tea?

  I started to push off the bench—he was here. He was back.

  But then the real truth of the matter hit me. He was here—but he hadn’t called me. Hadn’t left a message. Hadn’t done a single, goddamn thing.

  Maybe he had a family tucked away and maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was based in Taipei now and maybe he wasn’t.

  I didn’t know. I told myself I didn’t care.

  Because the bottom line was that Quincy Radcliffe had walked away. And when he’d come back, he hadn’t returned to me.

  The click of the lock yanks me from my memories, and my eyes cut to the door as I exhale with relief. I want to pass off the responsibility for this gadget, and then I want to get out of here, away from Quincy and the brutal memories that keep assaulting me.

  Most important, I need to get back to square one. Because if Quincy isn’t Mr. X, then that means that Mr. X never showed up at the party, and I’m no closer to finding my sister.

  “Finally,” I say as the door begins to move. “Take your gizmo and—”

  He steps inside, and I snap my mouth closed.

  It’s not Quincy.

  This man has short, curly red hair. His face is too large and his eyes too small. He wears glasses that sit on a bulbous nose, and his lips are unnaturally pale, so when he speaks, it’s almost as if a hole is opening up in his face.

  He speaks now, and I instinctively scoot backward until my back is pressed against the headboard, my cuffed arm twisting awkwardly as my free hand clutches the gadget for dear life.

  “You’re a hard woman to find.”

  He’s such an unattractive man, that his pleasant, almost gentle voice surprises me into speech. “I—I didn’t know you were looking for me.”

  Even as I say the words, I realize my mistake. I’d noticed him watching me at the party, but paid him little mind. After all, he never approached me and never commented on the ribbon tied to my wrist. I assumed he was just a guest sussing out the possibilities.

  “You,” I say, sparing a look at the gizmo and toggling the switch down to edge the needle further into the green. “You’re Mr. X.” I relax a little. After all, this is the man I’d come to meet. “Why didn’t you come to me? We could have—”

  My words are cut off by my scream as he leaps onto the bed, yanks my hair back, and presses the blade of a knife against my throat. I go completely still, completely cold. His face is right in front of mine, and I don’t see anything human in his eyes.

  I hear a small mewling noise and realize it’s coming from me.

  “Where is she?”

  I open my mouth, but it’s too dry to speak. I don’t know what I’d say anyway. He can’t be talking about Emma. He thinks I’m Emma. Doesn’t he?

  His thumb presses tight against my jugular. “I could just as easily push down with this blade. Do you understand?”

  I’m too afraid that a nod will slice my throat, and I can’t find my voice. I manage a strangled sound that he takes as an affirmative.

  “I’m glad we understand each other. The girl, you fucking bitch. Where did you hide the girl?”

  That’s when it clicks. Quincy’s thirteen-year-old. That’s who he’s looking for.

  And not only do I have no clue where she is, I’m terribly afraid that I’ve just destroyed Quincy’s chance to protect her. Because in my terror at being attacked at knifepoint, I’d managed to lose the gadget.

  I squeeze my right hand as if it will magically appear, but there’s only air. I whimper, terrified for me and also horribly guilty about that girl. I kno
w what it’s like to be young and afraid. Emma had been there to protect me, just as Quincy’s trying to protect this girl. And I went and screwed it up for him.

  “Where?”

  I start to speak, but I can’t tell him that I don’t know, and I’m too scared to concoct a lie. All I can manage to do is gape at him and whimper an incomprehensible medley of “I, uh, I—”

  “Stupid cunt,” Mr. X snarls as he takes the knife from my neck and, before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, drags it from my neck to the slit at my thigh, slicing my dress in one easy motion, then pulling it wide, so that I’m naked except for my tiny thong panties.

  The tip of the knife must have grazed my skin, because I see small dots of blood gathering in a line from my cleavage all the way down to my belly button. I hadn’t felt pain in the moment, but now the wound begins to sting and tears prick my eyes. I’m terrified and lost and entirely at this bastard’s mercy. I want to scream for Quincy—for anybody—but I know that if I do, it will be the last sound I make.

  Futilely, I tug on my cuffed arm as I throw my free arm over my breasts to shield myself. I try to pull up my legs so that I can curl up into a ball, but he’s sitting just above my knees as he moves the knife slowly back and forth above the band of my thong.

  “Please.” My voice is shaking. “Please don’t.”

  “Don’t?” He lifts the blade. “But why not? It’s a party, isn’t it? And you’re all soft and pretty.” As he talks, he’s creeping up my body until his face is over my breasts. I could thrust my hand up and punch him—I’m certain of it. I was even in a movie once where I did that very thing. In the movie I knocked out the bad guy and got away.

  I’m thinking that won’t happen here.

  “Move your arm, bitch.”

  I shake my head and keep my arm protectively over my breasts.

  “Have it your way,” he says. “You want to stay that way, then fine by me. But remember it was your choice.” His eyes meet mine, and all I see is a man who’s dead inside. “You move and you’ll regret it.”

  And then, as I fight to stay absolutely still, he zips the razor sharp edge of the blade along the underside of my breast.