Freefall (The Indigo Lounge Series, #5)

by Zara Cox

  “Oh, of course. I was miles away.” I raise my wrist and I hear another click.

  We walk into a stunning entryway with a statement-announcing sweeping staircase that rises from the middle and curves into two wide arcs. A guy in a tux holding a clipboard and a similar earpiece to the one I’m wearing approaches. “Names?”

  “Jeeves,” says the guy who’s just entered.

  “O,” his girlfriend supplies.

  The guy with the clipboard traces a finger down his page and nods. “I have you both. Proceed to the east wing, please.”

  The couple beam, and the guy smacks his girlfriend on the ass as they skip away.

  Right, so clearly the west wing was the place to be.

  I paste a cool smile on my face as he turns to me. “Name.”

  “Keely Benson.”

  Startled eyes widen as he stares at me. “Umm...did you just—? Fuck, I don’t want your real name. I need your codename.”

  I flush a humiliating red and I think about making one up, but he only needs to look on his list to catch me out in the lie. In the end, I go with the truth. “Sorry, I wasn’t given one. I’m actually here to see Leo—” I stop when I realize I’m probably not supposed to say Leo’s name either. “The host of the party invited me. He’s my...umm...” Friend? Date? BFF? I feel foolish, standing there, trying to explain a relationship that has so far only lived in my imagination. “Can you point me in the direction of where the host is, please?”

  He shakes his head. “I need your name before I can grant you access to the wings.”

  “Okay, just give me a minute.” I turn away, still drowning in humiliation, take out my phone and start tapping. The next moment I’m texting air.

  “Sorry, there are no phones allowed at the event.” He depresses the button that shuts down my phone before he slips it into a Ziploc type bag and seals it with a padlock. He hands me the key. “It’ll be returned to you at 3am, when the event ends. Now about the name...?”

  “You’ve just confiscated my only means of proving to you that I’m an invited guest. How else am I supposed to—?”

  “Is there a problem here?”

  My head snaps round at the familiar voice and my mouth drops open. “Prof—” I clamp my mouth shout at the last second, before I commit my third faux pas in three minutes.

  What the hell is my psychology professor doing here? And dressed smartly in tailored slacks and a button down shirt, unlike his normal jeans, sweater and lounger jacket combo. He’s wearing a mask, too, but since I’ve recognized him immediately and he’s making no attempt to deny knowing me, I’m getting the feeling the masks are a casual prop, not a serious attempt to disguise identities.

  “Are we okay here?” he asks again.

  “We’re just straightening out this guest’s identity.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll vouch for her.”

  Clipboard Guy frowns. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’ll find Dorian and let him know. In the meantime, put her down as...” Professor Harding eyes me from top to toe before he smiles. “Put her down as Holly Golightly.”

  That earns him a frown. “You sure about this, Moriarty?”

  Professor Harding nods. “I’m sure.”

  The other guy stares at me a moment before he scribbles my codename down. “East or west wing?”

  “We’ll head west first.”

  Another note is made before the guy heads off and leaves me alone with the man I’d all but accused of sexual harassment one short semester ago. A man who just saved me from getting turfed out on my ass before I get a chance to deflower myself all over Leo Brummer.

  Silence reigns as Professor Harding, or Moriarty as he’s named himself for tonight, stares down at me from his six-foot height. Under the lights in the hallway, his dark brown hair gleams and his slate-grey eyes pierce a little too forcefully into my psyche. I know a few of girls in my year are a little dreamy over his Young Richard Gere looks, but something about him makes me jumpy.

  Nervously, I clear my throat. “Umm...thanks for vouching for me.”

  “No problem, Holly. Come on,” he says as he steers me left. We pass through a set of double doors made of rose-etched glass, and it occurs to me that for what is supposed to be a party, the place seems a little too quite. There’s no music pumping from speakers and no voices raised in merry chatter.

  Had it not been for the dozens of cars outside, I’d think I’d come to the wrong place. I clear my throat and think of something witty to say. But I’m hopelessly tongue-tied, and my brain chooses that moment to remind me what an utter asshole Professor Harding has been to me this semester. I debate whether to apologize again to clear the air once and for all, but rebellion hardens my spine.

  Despite my apology at the end of last semester, he’s chosen to single me out to crap on for weeks now. Fuck if I’ll let him see how much that upset me. But he did vouch for me so I can’t exactly ignore him.

  “So...what exactly happens in the west wing?” And will Leo be there?

  I’m proud of myself for not asking the second question, and for not coming out with a lame line like—do you come here often?

  “This your first time?”

  I can feel his gaze on me as we walk through another set of doors and down a long hallway. How big is this house anyway? And why the hell is it so quiet? “Yes. You?”

  He stares at me for a second longer than necessary, then smiles. “No. It’s not my first time.”

  We turn a corner and stop in front of a black panel. I start in surprise when it parts to reveal an elevator. Professor Harding enters and extracts a key from his pocket, which he slides into the slot. He spots me hovering outside and raises an eyebrow. “You coming?”

  I want to shriek, hell no, because my freaked out button is definite glowing hotter than ET’s finger by this time, and I want to say to heck with it and just leave. But leaving would mean returning home to New York still a stupid virgin. Am I going to turn chicken this close to the finish line?

  For the first time in my life, I feel guilty for shouting at the TV screen whenever a bimbo actress pulls a stupid stunt like the one I’m contemplating right now. For the first time in my life, I know what it’s like to be paralyzed with the sheer impossibility of my quandary. Return upstairs and somehow convince Clipboard Guy to return my phone so I can call a taxi and hope I can pay the exorbitant fare back to campus, or get in the elevator to fuck knows where, where I might be successful in grabbing Leo’s attention long enough to get him to seduce me away from my virginity?

  “Don’t waste my time, Holly,” Professor Harding’s sharp voice pierces my frantic contemplation.

  I want to ask why he’s bothering with my fake name when he knows who I am and when we’re alone, but I don’t want to bring further brimstone down on my head in the classroom, so I make up my mind, nod briskly, and enter the elevator.

  The single button below the close door sign plunges us downward.

  The moment the doors open, a wall of noise hits me.

  Contrary to the speculation by the guys on the quad that there would be only thirty people, I count more than double that, easily. And better still, there isn’t a single drug-fuelled orgy in sight. In fact, everyone’s fully dressed and the drinks and food are flowing like at any above average college party. Not that I’ve been to heaps, but still...

  I smile and mentally pat myself on the back. Then jump when a hand grabs my elbow.

  “This way,” Professor Harding/Moriarty nods to the left.

  We weave through a crush of people at the bar and head to far side of the room. I keep my eyes peeled for any Leo-shaped bodies, but the sea of people, in what looks like a darkened underground ballroom, is too thick for me to single anyone out.

  Dotted around the room on tall stands are wild and varied assortments of drinks. Moriarty stops in front of one and plucks an amber cocktail from the table. I have no way of knowing which drink is which, and I sure as fuck am not going to ask my p
rofessor, so I select the least harmful looking one and take a cautious sip.

  “Ugh!” The sharp taste hits the back of my throat and attacks my taste buds. My eyes water and I try not to splutter all over myself.

  “That’s one hundred percent proof premium vodka.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  He grips my wrist in a tight, almost painful hold, and raises the glass so I see the tiny white sticker on the bottom. I nod and subtly pry myself from his grasp and look closely at the other glasses. They all have assorted colored stickers on them.

  “What do the colors mean?”

  He sends me a scathingly bored look. “I’m not your tour guide, Holly. Part of the adventure is figuring things out for yourself,” he replies. “You look like your cerebral cortex needs a good work out.”

  There is it again, that tone of voice that makes me wonder if he’s coming on to me, or just making casual conversation. Again, my spine tingles a warning I’m at odds to decipher. I feel foolish experiencing an element of danger that my brain tells me is barely minimal, and yet I can’t ignore it.

  I set my drink down and glance around. Relief pours through me when I spot the definite figure of Leo Brummer heading my way. When he reaches us, he nods warily at Professor Harding.

  “Moriarty.”

  “Dorian. I’ve delivered your guest to you. That means you owe me one for making me play nursemaid.”

  What the fuck? I start to hold up my hand in an hey, I’m right here gesture, but a look passes between the two men that freezes my hand mid-air.

  “I already paid you back what I owe you.” Leo’s voice is a touch defensive and a lot pissed off.

  Moriarty shrugs. “You want to stop paying, don’t keep wracking up the tabs. As long as you keep slipping, I’ll keep collecting.”

  My radar is most definitely tweaked, and I watch Leo’s face twist in anger. His jaw clenches as Moriarty stares him down for a full minute before Leo lowers his gaze.

  “East wing. One hour.” He glances at me, then back at Leo before he disappears into the crowd.

  Leo grabs my hand and walks me away from the center of the room.

  “What was that about?” I ask the moment we’re seated at a table away from the noise.

  “Nothing.” He plucks a stickered drink that looks like the skin-peeling vodka I’d just spat out and downs it in one go without flinching.

  “Oh come on, Leo. That’s was most definitely not nothing.”

  “Fine, it’s none of your business!” he snarls.

  I suck in a hurt breath. “Whoa, no need to go all Wolverine on my ass.”

  He stares at with me with those impossibly gorgeous blue eyes for a full minute before he glances away with a grimace. “What the fuck are you doing here, Keely?”

  My body jerks in shock as if he’s thrown a bucket of cold water over me. “Umm...you invited me, remember?”

  He grips the back of his neck and continues to avoid my gaze. “I...shit, I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking,” he mutters under his breath.

  Now my whole body feels like a giant polar ice cap. “Wow. Okay. Excuse me for thinking we were friends and that we could spend some together.” I surge to my feet and dart away from the table.

  Tears sting hard and fast. I blink, then bump into a body. Someone curses, but all I want to do is to get the fuck away before the humiliation tsunami bearing down on me sucks me under.

  “Wait! K—shit, I don’t even know your codename. Hey, wait!” Leo grabs my arm.

  “Let go of me!”

  He pushes up close behind me and leans into me. “I can’t,” he whispers. There’s a peculiar note in his voice that triggers a touch of disconcertion, but my humiliation stops me from processing it.

  “What does that mean? Of course you can. You just tell your brain to tell your fingers to work. It really is quite simple.”

  “You don’t understand, Keely,” he whispers, his voice darker and more ominous than before.

  I turn and glare, wishing I could hate him as hard I ought to, but one look in his eyes and I’m done for. Even now, after he’s sent me back to that cave of rejects I thought I’d finally emerged from, I can’t walk away. Especially not when I spot a dark suffering in his eyes that triggers a well of sympathy in me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask softly.

  He glances around at the guests swirling around us and shakes his head. “Not here.”

  When Leo Brummer slides his fingers through mine and walks me through an archway to a smaller, quieter room, I’m ready to forgive him anything.

  On the way, I spot a few girls glancing my way with naked envy in their eyes and I barely stop myself from openly gloating. The evening may have had a bumpy start, but it’s just taken a turn for the awesome.

  We skirt a dimly-lit dance floor to a seat—a love seat, no less—and Leo hands me a drink. I glance at it warily, and he smiles. “Don’t worry, it’s mineral water. “See,” he shows me sticker. “Aqua sticker stands for water.”

  I return his smile and take the drink. I down half of it—making sure not to let go of Leo’s hand—before I put it down.

  He’s still wearing that broken, slightly desperate expression and I squeeze his hand. “For someone throwing the party your friends have been talking about for weeks, you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  His mouth turns down and he shrugs. “These fucks are not my friends. I don’t know half of the people here. But they could be, if I wanted them to be. I can have everybody in the whole fucking world be my friend if I want them to be.” He doesn’t sound happy about that observation. In fact, he sounds downright jaded. I can’t imagine someone as rich and famous and drop-dead gorgeous as him being jaded about anything. He’s the type of guy who could have the world at his feet if he chooses.

  I look around the room and frown. “Then why are they here?”

  “This is Hollywood. I don’t need to have friends to throw a party.”

  “That makes no sense to me.”

  He stares at me with a mixture of sadness and resignation. “You’re sweet, Keely. So fucking sweet.”

  I don’t do my ferret-on-coal dance because he says that like it pains him to say it. I feel like I need to besmirch that observation, so he’s not so pained. “I’m not that sweet. Not all the time anyway.”

  One corner of his sexy mouth lifts in pseudo-smile. “Oh yeah? Tell me something bad and dirty you’ve done.”

  I search frantically for something clever. “Well there was this one time when I slashed—”

  “Color Code Caramel. You’re up.”

  “Shit!” I slap my hand over the earpiece and rip it out before the loud voice shatters my eardrums. “What the hell was that?”

  Leo slowly rises to his feet, takes out his earpiece too. He pockets it and tugs me to my feet. “It means it’s time to head to the east wing.”

  The image of the TV bimbo walking to her doom flares in my brain again. But this is Leo Brummer. The man of my dirty, dirty dreams.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  I follow him through another underground archway and down an even longer corridor. It occurs to me that I could get lost in this underground mansion and no one would find me for years.

  The stupid thought sends a shiver down my spine, but I concentrate on Leo’s warm hand clutching mine.

  We reach a set of double doors and he keys in a long code I have no hope of remembering. He reaches for the door, but then pauses. He glances at me and his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something. He shakes his head and pushes the door open.

  The first thing I hear is a scream.

  The first thing I see is a naked girl, tied up with white rope on a chair under the harsh spotlight in the middle of the room.

  The first thing I smell is the cold, acrid stench of my own fear, right before the bimbo reaches through the TV and slaps me hard across the face.

  Chapter 20

&nbs
p; mason

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  I tense at the hesitant voice behind me because I know what the crew member is going to say.

  “Yes?” I force the word out.

  “She refused to accept it again, sir.”

  I sigh. Burned bridges were aptly named for a reason. It was why I’d taken steps to ensure mine was well and truly burned when I’d left Keely alone in my house with nothing but a Dear John note penned with a dash of senseless cruelty. At the time, I’d no doubt whatsoever that I was doing the right thing. The specially crafted gift was the full stop that should’ve punctuated our brief, hyper-charged association.

  By her not accepting it, things feel unfinished.

  I grimace at the barefaced lie I’m force-feeding myself. It feels unfinished because I’m suspended in a limbo of my own making. By sticking around, and not heading straight to the airport once my setup on the yacht was done, the hooks I’d ripped from what remained of my tattered life are finding me again, like parasitic magnets seeking freshly mangled iron.

  “What exactly did she say? Repeat it, word for word,” I demand as I stare unblinking at a far distant shoreline receding in the darkness.

  I hear an uncomfortable shuffle, but I care very little of the crew member’s sensibilities. I grip the railing and stare into the dark, churning waters that trail the IL Indulgence. All I care about is finding a balm to this insane gnawing in my stomach. Even if it’s through second-hand words that’ll no doubt attempt to put me in my place.

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  I remain silent.

  “Umm...she said, umm...” he clears his throat. “‘Tell that motherfucking fucker to take his motherfucking parting gift and shove it up his motherfucking ass. And if he tries one more fucking time to return it, I’ll personally make sure the chef serves him arsenic in his next fucking meal, so I can fucking watch him die a miserable fucking death.’”

  Laughter barks out of my chest. I turn around and lean against the railing. Daniel, the guard and crew member assigned to me, is standing in my master suite’s living room with the black box in his hand and a chagrined look on his face.