by Virna DePaul
“What?” I ask, a smile spreading across my face as soon as we make eye contact.
“You didn’t stutter,” she says quietly.
My smile gets wider. “No, I didn’t, did I?”
She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me. “We’ll have to continue this next week,” she whispers in my ear.
But when the time for our next session rolls around, I’m laid up in bed, sick as a dog. Something has knocked me flat on my back. Allergies, exertion, who knows, but I have to cancel on her. As I lay in bed, staring at the computer equipment and books I’ve spent most of my time with over the last few years of my life, all I can think about is Bella. I have to go see her. Even if it’s not tutoring, I have to see my beautiful Bella.
I manage to climb out of bed and get myself together. I arrange for a cab to pick me up, and the driver drops me off outside the gate to King’s property. Lucky for me, it happens to be open. I vaguely wonder if Phil will shoot first and ask questions later, but I decide to take my chances.
I approach the house on foot, walking along the driveway until Bella’s window comes into view. I can see her sitting on her bed, but she’s not alone. Someone’s arm is around her shoulder. As I move a little further along the drive, I can see she’s with some guy. He’s broad, with massive shoulders and thick arms. One of her thin, delicate hands in on his chest, which bulges out of his shirt. She’s looking up into his face, and he leans in to kiss her.
Now, I really feel sick.
I should have known she would never really be interested in me. She was probably just buttering me up, so I’d show her how to do the same things I did for King. I hurry back to the road and call another cab from my cell phone.
A few days later, King comes to see me about the tutoring sessions.
“How are things going?”
I can see in his face that he’s not asking about our lessons. He’s curious what else has been happening between us. I sigh, preparing myself for what I’m about to say to him.
“Bella is extremely smart,” I tell him. “She catches on pretty quickly, but I don’t think I can continue to tutor her.”
Hoping he doesn’t ask for a reason, I brace myself. Though I’m sure I can use my health as an excuse without any problems.
He just nods. “Okay.”
But the look in his eyes tells me he understands why I can’t keep tutoring her. We’ve gotten too close, and things are going south. I can’t describe how awful I feel, knowing I’ve disappointed him. He drops the subject and leaves my room.
Soon after King leaves, my phone rings. It’s Bella. I mute the ringer and let it go to voicemail.
I quickly lose count of how many voicemails and text messages I get from her, until she finally stops trying to reach me.
Chapter One
Davis
I’m nodding off at my computer when my intercom suddenly buzzes. I jerk upright and hit the Listen button on my phone. Through the intercom comes the voice of my doorman, Luke Barnes.
“Mr. Young? There’s uh, a young woman here to see you.”
It’s the first time I can ever recall Barnes sounding flustered. It instantly intrigues me. “What young woman?”
“She won’t give me her name, Mr. Young. But she says it’s urgent.”
A mysterious young woman who thinks it’s urgent to speak with me, huh? Hard to say no to that—even if I know I really should be more cautious.
“Send her up.”
I lean back in my leather office chair, staring at the computer screen. Despite the fact I don’t remember the last fifteen minutes at all, I’ve successfully made several small transfers through PayPal.
I really can do this shit in my sleep.
I remember the days when money laundering took skill. Actual cash deposits at actual banks. Then there’d be an elaborate system of transfers, enough to muddle the source and the sum total. Nowadays, all the cool kids are into micro laundering. The money is all virtual and theoretical. I just use third-party payment systems, do small deposits and transfers, and voila—untraceable funds. With a final click, I’m out of the PayPal and Xoom windows.
Now, it’s just time to wait for my mysterious visitor to arrive. I picture her on the elevator up to the twentieth floor. It’s a smooth, quick, soundless ride, one that I still enjoy after three years of living in this building. I glance around to see if there’s anything I should straighten up, but the suite is immaculate. I’d been taught early on to keep my living quarters sparse and tidy.
At a sudden memory of the orphanage, a dark weight settles in my gut. A memory of King.
You’ll be rid of him soon, I remind myself. For good.
The knock, when it comes, is quiet and brisk. I stand, chair creaking, and make my way to the door. There was a time I would have gotten winded just making this walk. Tonight, I feel calm and comfortable, my heart rate only slightly increased, from excitement more than anything. Who is this mysterious guest?
I open the door and find myself face to face with a drop-fucking-dead gorgeous woman. Her hair is the palest blond, almost platinum. Straight and sleek and cut at a knife-sharp forward angle just above her shoulders. Her narrowed eyes are a piercing, ice blue, and her pale skin is flawless. She’s small-boned, almost delicate, but as my gaze travels her body, I see that she’s toned. She’s several inches shorter than me, but she carries herself tall, with her long, slender neck perfectly aligned, and her chin lifted slightly. She’s got a glorious set of tits that my gaze keeps returning to. Her cleavage rises from the bodice of a shiny, knee-length sheath dress that matches the color of her eyes. Abruptly, I realize half a minute has gone by, and I still haven’t said a word.
“Davis,” the woman says in a clipped, cool tone. “Perhaps you’d like to invite me in?”
It’s the voice that does it. It’s older now, a little lower, less warm, and there’s just a hint of a European accent that wasn’t there before, but I’d know it anywhere.
“Bella?”
I’m stunned. But then I can’t stop seeing her as I remember everything: the familiar tilt of the head, the straight, proper posture, the creamy skin…
Bella Prince is standing in my doorway.
“It’s been a while, I know. But I need to talk to you.”
“O-of course.”
I step back. She tosses me a hint of a wry smile as she steps inside.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”
I am, but I shouldn’t be. I’m not the frail, gawky kid she once played for a fool. I’m somebody now. I don’t get fucking nervous. She’s the one who ought to be nervous around me, after that stunt she pulled.
You were sixteen. Let it go.
Except, I’ve never let it go. Some part of me has thought about her every day for the past eight years. And that part of me has wanted to hold her, kiss her. Ruin her. The way she’d ruined me. What we had as teenagers hadn’t meant anything to her. Clearly it hadn’t.
But it had meant everything to me.
“I’ll take your coat.”
She gives me a cool, momentary stare, then slips out of her elegant wool jacket, graceful as a dancer. She hands it to me, and I hang it in the front closet. She’s got a little satin cape over her shoulders that matches her dress. She glances around my place.
“Very nice,” she appraises, tone completely devoid of warmth. She sounds like fucking Siri. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a penthouse guy.”
“I’ve changed,” I reply, just as coolly.
And so has she. Part of me is shocked I didn’t recognize her at first glance. But I can be excused for that. As a teenager, Bella was all laughter and warmth, with that porcelain exterior only dimly concealing her fiery strength. But this woman today, as she is now, is cold and brittle. Gorgeous, of course. Yet, her eyes seem to paint ice on my foyer walls as she glances around, taking in the dark, burnished wood, the crown molding, the tasteful but generic paintings. At last, she cocks a perfectly arched eyebrow.
> “Aren’t you going to offer me a place to sit? This might take a while.”
I’m speechless. Just like my quivering dipshit sixteen-year-old self.
Without a word, I lead her into my living room. Once again, she studies her surroundings and I have no idea what she thinks.
As I also look around my apartment, seeing it through her eyes, I start to feel some of my confidence return. I’ve done well for myself. Even she can’t deny that. I doubt that asshole with the broad chest who kissed her all those years ago has achieved anything like this.
And I’m not that scrawny kid anymore. I’ve filled out nicely and have become every bit as broad in the chest and shoulders as that douchebag. I work out every day. I buy expensive hair products. I once let a dentist talk me into a laser teeth-whitening session. The other guys at Nailed gave me no end to their shit about my gleaming teeth and metrosexual hair. But, I get more pussy than all of them combined, so that earns me a certain measure of respect.
Bella faces me, looking like some perfectly formed icicle.
“Davis. I’ve come to ask you for a favor.”
Well, well, well. Look who had the balls to waltz in here after all this time—after what she did—and ask me for favors.
Don’t try to match her ice queen act, I tell myself. Show her you can have fun.
I grin wolfishly at her. No need to feel intimidated. She’s in my lair. She’s come to ask me a favor. And whatever she wants, I have the power to withhold it.
She levels her gaze with mine, and once again, I am struck by the beauty in that stare. Who is this woman, and why has life turned her into this pristine but chilly figure before me? Once, I’d thought she looked like a doll. A delicate toy who was treasured and cared for. This Bella is more like an android. Built to perfection, studying the world around her as if to pick up cues on how to feign human emotion. And yet, when I look at her, heat laces through me. I want to hold her, feel her melt in my arms.
“Can I get you a drink?” I walk over to the mahogany drink cabinet.
“Whatever you’re having.” Emotionless voice. Not even impatient, just . . . placid.
I fix two gin and tonics, with ice from the cabinet’s tiny freezer. The gin is some one hundred fifty dollar affair from a shop in Washington state. It tastes like smooth, expensive drain cleaner. I hand her the second drink and take a seat on the settee across from her.
“So,” I begin, keeping it casual and controlled. “What brings you here? I thought you were in Europe. Trying to make it as an artist.”
I heap an extra bit of scorn on the word “artist.” As soon as I say it, I regret it. Should have kept my mouth shut. Should have refused to let on that I knew where she was living. That I cared.
Too late.
A flicker of something passes over her face. Annoyance? Pain? Just as quickly, though, the mask is back in place.
“I was.” She bites off each word. “Now, I’ve returned to the States. I’m not sure for how long.”
Although she refrains from pointing out that she has made it as an artist, I damn well know she has and in a big way.
“Uh-huh. And you wanted to play catch up with me, of all people?”
In my mind, I see her hand on that guy’s chest. I see him leaning in to kiss her.
Tilting her head slightly, Bella gazes at me. Then she uses one hand to brush some imaginary lint off the skirt of her dress.
“I’ve just been to see my father.”
As she finishes the sentence, she lifts her head and meets my eyes, expectant.
Okay. As far as I know, Bella hasn’t spoken to her father in years. King told me they were completely estranged.
And you trust that bastard to tell the truth?
Something about this situation—about us—is starting to make me uncomfortable. A favor, she said. And she’s just been to see King, the man whose name still has the power to twist my guts.
The man who, despite my best efforts to be free of him, is still pulling my strings.
After Thornbridge shut down, all of us—Street, Slate, Axel, and Jericho—had chosen to go straight. We’d quit helping King with his dirty work. We’d started a motorcycle club and Nailed Garage, and although we initially accepted King’s help with funding the garage, we paid him back every damn cent. And the entire time, we ran the garage clean. It had been an express condition of accepting King’s loan—nothing dirty touched us or Nailed ever again.
We thought we were finally free from King.
Then Street got thrown in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Jericho is still running Nailed, but the club fell apart.
We needed help, so we started doing some side work for King again, in exchange for King pulling strings to get Street a reduced sentence.
Now Street’s free, and that’s true in every sense of the word, since he had no part in negotiating the deal with King (we knew Street wouldn’t agree, so we kept him out of it). He owed King nothing. Jericho and Axel have somehow already paid their debts to King. But Slate and me? We’re still on the hook.
I hate it, but I’d do it again. Street would have rotted in prison for decades if the other guys and I hadn’t played King’s game.
“I want to help you,” Bella says softly. Her voice is husky. There’s a note of fleeting sweetness in it. Or maybe, I imagined it altogether.
I lean back. “With what? I thought you said you needed a favor from me.”
She takes a breath, deep and shuddering. It’s the most human sound she’s made so far.
“Davis.”
My name on her lips is soothing and a little regretful, like a hand placed on a knee just before the delivery of bad news.
“I’m appalled by what my father has done to you. You and the others. What he’s used you for.”
For a second, I’m too stunned to speak. Then I catch and steady myself.
“You know about that?” I’m trying to sound bored while taking a sip of gin, but my heart rate has ratcheted up.
How could she know? King keeps his dealings as far from her as possible. Always has. He loves his daughter, in whatever weird, twisted way that guy is capable of loving.
She holds her glass, rocking it subtly back and forth on her thigh. In her seated position, her dress has ridden up a little, and I can see the sheer nylon of her panty hose. It’s a pale sheen over her legs, adding to the illusion that she’s a mannequin. Like she’s something that wasn’t born, but was built.
And a machine can be every bit as dangerous as a man, I remind myself.
I swallow, keeping my hand that is holding the glass of gin in front of my groin as I force my gaze away from her.
“Not at first,” she admits. “Not growing up. But didn’t you ever wonder why I went away to Paris?”
I did. Or more accurately, I’d wondered if she was ever coming back. I’d kept tabs on her in my own private computer folder where I saved bookmarked articles about her. She’d become quite a successful painter in Paris. It was quite the rarity in an age where true art and craftsmanship don’t have a place. People want dumbed down, easily digestible crap, and they want lots of it, produced at an inhuman rate. The fact that Bella became a renowned, talented artist with just a few paintings was truly impressive.
She never paints people. Just rooms. Bare, dimly lit rooms with walls in harsh dark colors and filled with sharply angled furniture. Rooms that simultaneously feel as though they’ve been empty for decades and abandoned only moments ago.
Sometimes when I look at those paintings, I feel like I’m seeing an eternal emptiness. But sometimes, if I’ve gazed long enough, I realize someone was just there—in the center of that barren space, sitting in the dark on the edge of that immaculately made bed, or hard at work at that unadorned wooden desk.
As the artist, Bella has never allowed herself to be photographed. In every article about her, she is absent. It’s another unlikely feat in the modern era. Surely people have snapped photos of her, tweeted those photos, made a poi
nt to unmask her.
But maybe not. Maybe people are so desperate for a mystery that they’ll indulge Bella Prince’s bid for privacy. They get to envision her, brilliant and reclusive, sending a new work out into the world, and then ducking back into her cave-like shelter to hide with her palette and easel.
When I re-read those articles about her, I couldn’t help feeling a strange sense of attachment. Like I owned a piece of that success. Somehow, she and her austere, people-less paintings were mine.
But right now, I see her, and I know no part of her has ever been mine, or ever will be.
I put my own mask in place. “Can’t say I gave it much thought.”
Liar, liar.
She ignores me. “It happened soon after high school graduation. I was walking by my father’s study one evening when I overheard him talking to some of his men. Former Thornbridge boys. I’ve forgotten their names, but some of them were there when you were still there, I’m sure.” She shakes her head, as if trying to clear the memory. “I heard everything. I always knew he was into something bad. But I didn’t know it was . . . the mob, Davis.”
Yeah, babe. The mob.
I’d been surprised too, when I’d discovered Thornbridge had been a shell for King’s criminal exploits. It was a surprise since I’d convinced myself King really wanted to help me. But of course, he’d soon disabused me of that notion.
Bella is still caught in the memory, her eyes far away. “It felt like a soap opera. My father was a mob boss. He was forcing you and the others to do his bidding. He raised you to be his lackeys.”
“He never forced us to do anything,” I tell her coldly.
Why am I defending that asshole? A therapist would have a field day with me. Never had any other father figure. Stockholm Syndrome.
“I confronted him about it,” Bella reveals. “We fought. God, it was horrible. I told him he was no longer my father.”
I shrug. As if her abandoning King because of how he’d treated us—me—meant nothing. When, in fact, it meant everything.
“Like I said,” I say, “we were grateful for what he gave us. At first, we wanted to help out with his business. He gave us jobs to do. Once we were old enough to understand what he was asking and old enough to leave Thornbridge, he gave us a choice. I chose to go straight.”