Say the Word

by Julie Johnson

  “I feel it.” I gasped.

  “This is real. We’re real.” His thrusts intensified to match the strength of his words.

  I nodded, feeling my limbs begin to go languorous as pleasure overtook me completely. I rocked myself up and down against his length, his long strokes growing faster as we spiraled together toward delirium.

  “You’re my girl. I’m not going to let anything happen to us. That’s a promise.”

  I leaned forward and brushed my lips against his, feeling my heart flip over in my chest. I knew this feeling wasn’t the product of two new lovers exploring the wonders of a good fuck. This was stronger, more passionate — this was what all the songs and sonnets ever written had been about.

  This was making love — literally constructing it from the union of our hearts and bodies.

  “I love you,” I whispered against his lips, unable to contain the words a moment longer. His eyes widened fractionally and he clutched me tighter against him, as though he were afraid I’d somehow vanish from his arms, taking those three little words with me as I went.

  “I love you more.” His fervent words were a binding promise.

  Afterward, I lay draped across his chest, utterly spent. My forehead rested in the crook of his neck, my breaths labored and uneven as I thought about this wonderful boy, who’d seen past my rough exterior to the girl beneath. He’d taken a chance on me. It was time to take a chance on him, to trust him, as well.

  “I have to tell you something.” My words were a shaky whisper, as I tilted my head back to meet his gaze. I watched as his eyes cleared of the cloudy, thoroughly-sated look, turning serious between one blink and the next.

  “Anything.” His fingertip traced my cheekbone in a light caress. I listened to the light rain falling against the metal roof, remembering our first moments together in this very car, and steeled myself with a deep breath.

  “It’s Jamie.”

  I felt Sebastian’s body tense beneath mine, going completely still in preparation for the words he sensed were coming but could never have prepared for.

  “He’s sick,” I whispered flatly. “The cancer’s back.”

  There was a moment of total silence as he absorbed the news.

  “He—” Sebastian’s voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “He’ll be fine, though. He’ll get through it again.”

  I nodded, my eyes filling with tears. “I keep telling myself that. It’s just…”

  “Hard.” Bash finished for me, swallowing roughly. “I know. But we’ll get through it. Together.”

  “Together,” I echoed softly.

  “You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Freckles.” He leaned forward to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’m here. And everything will be alright.”

  “Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,” I breathed, so quietly barely a whisper left my lips.

  “We’ll find a way, Lux. We’ll always find our way.”

  ***

  The empty vodka bottle rattled across the floor, crashing to a noisy stop against the refrigerator. Flipping on the light with one hand, I clutched my stubbed toe in the other and attempted to massage some feeling back. I took in the state of the kitchen, cursing under my breath. My parents’ most recent party favors littered the floor like confetti. Vodka, gin, scotch — they weren’t particularly particular when it came to their alcohol. As long as it burned going down and deadened their pain for the night, that seemed to be enough of a selling point. Usually, though, they took their festivities to the local bar. That they were here meant tonight must’ve called for a special level of inebriation — the kind that even the shadiest of local watering holes frowned upon, because it too often led to drunken misconduct and bar fights.

  It was late by the time Sebastian dropped me off, almost midnight. I closed my eyes and prayed they’d already passed out.

  “Lux!” The slurred voice came from the small den off the kitchen. The room was dark except for the flickering, intermittent light cast on the walls by the muted television, as scenes from late-night infomercials flashed across the screen. My shoulders slumped defeatedly as I exhaled, picking my way through the discarded bottles toward the doorway.

  “Mom.”

  Her stringy blonde hair hung over her face, unwashed and unkempt. She’d been beautiful once, my mother. A fading pageant queen, with crowns and tiaras from every county fair and homecoming festival around. With Marilyn Monroe curves and a Grace Kelly smile, she could’ve gone to Hollywood and made it as an actress, as she’d dreamed of doing as a teenager.

  Those dreams had died the day she went into the girl’s locker room after gym class one day toward the end of her senior year, peed on a little white stick, and watched as it turned blue. And that woman she’d been back then had died too — not at first, but over time. A gradual withering away, like a penknife scraping against the bark of a mighty tree. Her curves had disappeared, unsustainable on a diet of liquid alone, and the lines appearing on her face each day were not from laughter, but stress and sorrow. As a little girl, I’d sometimes catch her staring at herself in the mirror, tracing the weathered skin as though it belonged to a stranger, as slow tears dripped down her face and fell onto her tattered blouse.

  Her drinking had increased with age, spurred in part, perhaps, by my father’s addictions. She couldn’t care for Jamie and me — she could barely care for herself — but I couldn’t bring myself to hate her. How could you hate someone who’d had her heart broken by life? Who’d been beaten down by her fate and never found the strength within herself to rise again?

  No, I didn’t hate her. I simply didn’t understand her.

  “Where you been? ’S late.” She was slumped over in her chair on the far side of the room. My father was nowhere to be seen — assumedly, he’d already fallen into a liquor-induced stupor in bed. I thanked my stars for that.

  “Out,” I told her, still hovering near the doorway. I tried to stay as far from her as possible when she got this way. Not because she was a mean or abusive drunk — quite the opposite, actually — but because I couldn’t bear to see the wasted potential that her life had boiled down to. Talent, ambition, beauty, charisma — all of it squandered in the bottom of a bottle of gin. A ghost of the woman, the mother, she might’ve been.

  “Don’ get sassy with me, girlie,” she slurred, gesturing at me with a near-empty tumbler. She nearly toppled over with the effort, the glass falling from her hand and rolling under the coffee table. I sighed. I’d be spending my pre-dawn hours cleaning the house before school tomorrow.

  “Let’s get you to bed, Mom.” Judging that she’d never make it by herself in this condition, I walked over to her and placed one hand on her arm. “Come on.”

  She turned to me, her eyes clearing of the haze for a moment as she examined my face. “You’re a good girl, Luxie.”

  “Okay, Mom, come on,” I said, rapidly blinking away the film of tears that had appeared in my eyes. “Time for bed.”

  “Dunno what we’d do without you ‘round here,” she continued, refusing to budge from her chair despite my tugging.

  I rolled my eyes. “Quite the party you had here tonight.”

  “It’s a goin’ away party.” She giggled.

  “What?” I dropped my hands, staring at her intently. “Mom! What did you just say?”

  “I said,” she whisper-yelled between fits of laughter. “It’s a goin’ away party.”

  “For who?” I asked, my heart beginning to race.

  As quickly as her levity had arrived, it vanished, replaced by a forlorn look and hunched shoulders. “For us, for the house. Bank called. Can’t pay the bills. Gotta move.”

  The blood began to pound in my ears. “When?”

  She shook her head back and forth in slow denial.

  “Mom!” I snapped my fingers in front of her eyes, trying to focus her attention. “When do we have to move?”

  “End of next month,” she mumbled, her eyes drifting closed again. “W
here’s my drink?”

  I stood stock-still, contemplating her words and feeling my heart sink down to my stomach. If it were true, if the house was in foreclosure, there was no way we’d be able to pay for the best care for Jamie. And without the best care, he might not make it at all.

  I stood for a long time in the flickering darkness, looking down at my mother passed out cold in her chair. I could see nothing but an unscalable mountain before me, with no visible footholds or convenient paths up the massive peak. It was the most treacherous of cliffs, ascending in a straight sheet of rock and ice, up into the clouds and far out of sight.

  Even attempting a climb would be futile — a hopeless endeavor.

  But then, from a tiny corner in the back of my mind, a single image forced its way to the forefront of my thoughts.

  Hannibal.

  I saw him looking up at that selfsame crag and telling the wisest, most trusted of his generals to fuck off, before making his way resolutely over the Alps. Despite everyone’s doubts, regardless of their predictions of certain death… he’d found a way. He’d forged a way.

  And, for Jamie, so would I.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Now

  It was hard to get out of bed the next morning. In all honesty, I contemplated calling out sick, but ruled against it when I realized it was Friday — not to mention the fact that my boss was also my ex-boyfriend who, coincidentally, hated me and would most certainly notice if I didn’t show up.

  I’d been up all night, ensconced in a bundle of indecision about the things I’d learned in Red Hook. Half of me was impulsive, craving action and immediate results. That half wanted to call the police, the FBI, the mayor, and the freaking President, just so I could tell someone what I suspected was happening on a forgotten dock in a dark corner of my city. But my other half, the half that had studied journalism for four years, urged caution, warning me that I might not know the full story just yet. Not only did I lack any physical proof, if I went forward with this information too soon I could end up warning Santos and his friends of an impending raid before it happened. The people operating out of the old brewery obviously had police connections — just how high those connections went was yet unclear. Until I knew for sure, I’d have to proceed with the assumption that Santos might not be the only officer involved.

  The way I saw it, I had one shot. One chance to involve the authorities and bring this organization down for good. Because if I misfired — if I cried wolf and called in the cavalry at the wrong moment — I could miss my chance forever and end up jeopardizing everything I was trying to accomplish, as well as the lives of Vera and the other missing girls.

  Without law enforcement at my back, there was really only one recourse — an exposé. A story in every newspaper, at every breakfast table across the country that would stop people in their tracks as they sipped their morning coffee or prepared for their commute to work. A tale so awful, so unforgettable, that people couldn’t stand by impassively anymore, swaddled in their safety blankets of denial, convinced that bad things only happen in third world countries.

  I had to write something to make sure that Vera was the last girl that disappeared. It was my obligation as a journalist, but also as a basic human being. So as much as I wanted to storm that warehouse, guns blazing, with a hundred armed SWAT team members by my side, I had to do this the right way, with irrefutable evidence that would not only bring the ringleaders down, but ensure they stayed down for good.

  I took a deep breath and tried to assure myself that I could do this.

  I’d keep my personal feelings at bay. I’d be methodical, calculated, and smart. After all, I was a reporter — this was what I’d been trained for, even if I had been out of practice for the past few years, writing about booty-blasting workouts and natural facial exfoliant alternatives.

  So, after tossing and turning for several hours, around midnight I’d given up on sleep and struck an internal compromise to reconcile my own indecision. Research, writing, surveillance — those would be my outlets for action, while I bided my time for concrete evidence. With my computer propped in my lap I typed for hours like a woman possessed, the words pouring from my fingertips in a flood, filling the blank word document on my screen. I typed everything I could remember from my conversations with Miri and my trips to Brooklyn, creating a timeline of events and detailing what little I knew about the brewery operation.

  There was Santos, who supplied drugs and perhaps played a part in scoping out vulnerable girls using his NYPD connections. Then there were Smash-Nose and the Neanderthal, lackeys who apparently provided pure muscle and handled new “shipment” arrivals. And, lastly, there was the mysterious “Boss” they’d mentioned more than once during their discussion. Other than those few small details, though, my picture remained vastly incomplete. I needed to figure out exactly how many players were involved, and I knew there was only one way to do that.

  I had to go back.

  I had to somehow find a way inside that warehouse without detection and get a good look around, taking photographs and gathering proof as I went. The plan sounded simple enough on paper. Somehow, though, I had a sinking feeling that no matter how many episodes of Veronica Mars I watched, I’d never possess the P.I. skills necessary to succeed at such a stunt.

  But I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

  I used up an entire ink cartridge, printing out pages of documents related to sex trafficking in America. Statistics, figures, common trends — anything I thought might be useful. Then I printed out my notes, along with photos of The Point and any images I could find online of the pier and the old Rochester Brewery. I even found some photographs of the brewery interior that a local historical society had scanned and uploaded to their website.

  Finally, using nearly ten pieces of paper, I printed out a massive street map of the city and used clear tape to adhere the puzzle back together into one cohesive chart. I laid the map alongside everything else I’d printed on the floor next to my bed, my head pounding with stress as I stared down at the collection. The sheer amount of information before me was overwhelming, and as I looked at the images, the small nervous pit in my stomach expanded to become a cavernous crater of anxiety.

  There were too many sheets jumbled together to make any kind of sense or begin to think things through logically; I needed a way to see everything at once and to track my progress through the city. Grabbing the large chart by an edge, I walked over to the small kitchen table that doubled as my desk area and grabbed an unopened container of thumbtacks.

  I paused in the middle of my studio and deliberated for a full minute, contemplating whether I was standing on the threshold of whatever normal boundaries exist between a reporter and her story. Turning my apartment wall into a pin-board of notes and theories didn’t feel exceptionally detached. Was I about to cross the line of demarcation between overly-obsessive, verge-of-insanity involvement and normal, professional interest?

  Staring at the blank wall adjacent to my kitchen, I shrugged my shoulders, thought of Vera, and told that line to go straight to hell. I wasn’t just any journalist, and this wasn’t just any story. It wouldn’t do me — or Vera — any good to pretend I didn’t have an emotional stake in this.

  I crossed the room, positioned my map with one hand, and jabbed a pin into its corner with the other. Within minutes, I’d used most of my thumb tacks and my studio wall had been transformed into a virtual storyboard, much like those used at Luster when planning out an issue but, instead, full of macabre images and figures. Thankfully, when I’d moved in last year I’d run out of money before spending a big budget on wall decorations — but who needed Crate and Barrel when you had a creepy, DIY serial-killer-esque shrine of photos and clippings to color your walls?

  I studied my work with a mixed sense of accomplishment and concern. It felt good to do something with my hands, to make a small amount of progress, even if it was only the illusion of productivity. The map spanned a good chunk of the
wall, framed on either side by charts, images, and notes. A portrait of Vera and me that Fae had snapped on my camera phone one day last summer hung on the left, the picture of Santos I’d found online was pinned on the right. Miri’s handwritten letter was tacked up at eye level, and I’d marked distinct locations — the tenement in Two Bridges, the coffee shop in East Village where I’d met Miri, the precinct where Santos worked, the brewery on The Point — with red pins, so I could keep track of all the different locations I’d visited since this misadventure began.

  A resigned sigh slipped from my lips. Creating a conspiracy-theory mosaic — à la Carrie in Homeland — was typically an indicator that someone was about to plunge straight off the deep end into Crazytown. If Simon and Fae saw this, they’d have me committed to a mental facility immediately, no questions asked.

  Fae had been right that day in Two Bridges, when she’d said I’d stumbled down the rabbit hole.

  Naive blonde girl wandering a strange, unfamiliar landscape?

  Check.

  Enemies lurking around every corner, waiting gleefully for a chance to chop off my head?

  Double check.

  ***

  I should’ve known the day was going to be a train wreck when I spilled coffee down the front of my favorite little black dress and got whacked in the head by four separate umbrella-wielding madmen on the way to work.

  Rain in New York is always an experience. Never in your life can you be nearly bludgeoned to death by the overwhelming volume of commuters’ umbrellas competing for airspace overhead, except on a rainy day during rush hour in the city. As if the overflowing sewer drains and traffic jams didn’t cause problems enough, whenever the slightest drizzle fell from the sky, New Yorkers would have their umbrellas out in spades, poking each other in the eyes and pushing one another off the sidewalks rather than risk a single raindrop wetting their hair.