Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  Pity, in the whispered words, hit her head-on. She’d mistaken the crowd on the sidewalk for the usual Royal Street tourists. But these people weren’t meandering, and their tasteful, conservative yet stylish clothes, weren’t clothes of the average tourists. On women, Andi spotted Missoni, Chanel, Lagerfeld, Jimmy Choo, and Louboutin. The men wore slim-cut sports coats. Some wore bright bow ties, a standard among men in Andi’s former social circles.

  They stood in clusters, holding champagne flutes, wine glasses, and cocktails. Andi drew in a deep breath. Gabe bent to her, his lips near her ear. “You can do this. Walk in.”

  Her heart jackhammered in her chest. The flight part of fight-or-flight adrenaline started winning. Not that many would notice. Really. Maybe they’d talk, but so-the-hell what? They were already talking about her. Already looking at her like she was pathetic.

  Why not really give them something to talk about? Turn. Leave.

  “Doesn’t look at all like she used to,” a male voice said. “Such a tragedy.”

  “Sh. Not so loud, Tom,” a female voice hissed. “Jackie. You sure that’s her? She looks so different.”

  “Of course, I’m sure. We’re friends. Or we were friends. Before…” The female voice was familiar. “Andi?”

  Turning in the direction of her name, Andi recognized the auburn-haired speaker. Jackie Clements. Wearing black Chanel from head to toe. She’d gotten married two years ago, and had a baby four months earlier. Andi had been invited to events that had marked the occasions. She’d sent gifts, but hadn’t attended.

  She watched in slow motion as Jackie stepped forward, her arms extended. Others on the sidewalk seemed to step closer, too. Fear turned them into a blur of faces. “Andi! My gosh, honey, you look absolutely wonderful! Congratulations! It’s so great…”

  Don’t touch me. Please. Don’t hug—

  Gabe stepped slightly in front of Andi. He moved obtrusively enough to stop the friendly hug that Jackie intended, but he wasn’t so pushy that he was rude. Reaching forward, he took Jackie’s right hand in his. “Gabe Hernandez. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Gabe beamed one of his gorgeous smiles at Jackie, and with every bit of the so-smooth Southern graciousness that Andi had once possessed, Jackie shifted her attention to Gabe.

  “Jackie. Jackie Clements. Andi and I made our debut together.” She returned his smile. “Hernandez? Are you from Baton Rouge? There’s a Hernandez family there. They’re a large clan of liquor importers and distributors, with distilleries in Central America.”

  Jackie’s questions were shorthand in New Orleans society-talk for ‘where do you come from,’ ‘what do you do,’ ‘who is your family,’ and ‘is your money new or old.’ Odd, that the absolute shallowness of the mindset had never struck Andi before. Even odder, that it took being an outsider for her to even recognize that mindset.

  Was I like that? Before the kidnapping, did I do that? Oh. Hell. Of course, the answer is, yes.

  “No. I’m from Miami. I’m just here tonight to celebrate a wonderful artist and help a great cause. It’s nice to meet some of Andi’s friends.” He glanced at Andi, his eyes lingering, seemingly assessing her panic level, as she stood there, mute. Returning his attention to Jackie, he let go of her hand, then reached for the hand of the woman on Jackie’s left. “And you are?”

  “Cora Lambertson. Andi and I went to high school together. We were besties, before I went to Ole Miss. It is so nice to see Andi and her art. And really nice to meet you. You said Gabe, right?”

  “Yes. And this is Nathan Marks. A friend and collector.”

  Agent Four, on Andi’s left, reached forward and shook the hands of the women.

  “We’ve missed our Andi so, so much—” Cora continued, as an unseen hand squeezed Andi’s left shoulder, from behind. Andi jumped, turned, and had to fight the impulse to punch the person who’d dared to touch her. Struggling for composure, she drew a deep breath and kept her arms firmly at her sides.

  Boisterous and loud, the man said, “Andi, do you remember me?”

  She gave an automatic, faint nod. Pre-kidnapping memories swirled in her mind. She and this man had made the turn together at Galatoire’s. Making the turn was a New Orleans tradition of lingering over cocktails after a long, indulgent lunch. When people made the turn, afternoon faded to evening and black-suited waiters re-set the dining table with fresh white cloths for dinner, sparkling crystal, and heavy silverware. Galatoire’s had always been happy to feed another meal to the diners who lingered. She’d been a part of the tradition more times than she could count.

  And what, exactly, was I going to do with my life?

  She remembered sitting across from him and saying, ‘Yes, sure, another bottle of Veuve Cliquot.’ Then, with go-cups full of champagne in hand, she and this good-looking man, whose name had escaped her, had moved the party a few blocks away. They’d gone to a balcony room at the Royal Orleans Hotel. Wisps of memories carried soft music, evening light slipping into the well-appointed room through shutters, fine linen bed sheets, and the patter of falling rain.

  Yes, now I remember exactly who he is. He’d just recently moved to New Orleans, and was busy buying up real estate. I remember him in bed. At first, he’d been a gentleman, but then—not. I didn’t plan on going there twice. That day, shortly before Victor Morrissey brought hell to New Orleans, is one that is best forgotten.

  “Martin Blanda,” he continued, as Gabe reached forward and shook his hand. Martin glanced at Gabe, then kept talking to Andi. “I’d love to acquire some of your pieces for my new hotel.”

  “Thank you. Please, talk to Jacques. The Stapleton Gallery represents my art now.”

  More people, some she recognized, some she didn’t, and another person she remembered sleeping with, pressed forward. Blanda’s voice faded as someone else said her name. Dear God, she wasn’t even inside the gallery, and the crush of people was suffocating her.

  Instead of running away, she lifted her right hand and found Gabe’s arm. With her left hand, she clasped her purse and her right hand, trying to keep her arms from shaking. Hands occupied, she looked up at Gabe and leaned into the pillar of strength that he alone offered in the sea of swirling faces and words. “Can’t.”

  “We’re late. Let’s go in, shall we?” he said with ease, ignoring what she’d said. He gave her a slow nod and a gentle smile of encouragement as his eyes searched hers. She nodded slowly, then held onto him with all of her might.

  Chapter Twenty

  Concierge

  As I make my way between milling sycophants and hangers-on, there is a pause in conversation that fills the gallery. The collective energy in the room changes as the artist with the tragic past appears in the gallery’s doorway for her first public appearance.

  Her blunt dark hair, gleaming in the gallery’s mixture of LED spotlights and chandeliers, perfectly frames Andi’s beautifully flushed face. Looking slightly fragile and more than a little uncertain, she stands still for a moment and glances up at the tall man who is glued to her side. He gives her a nod, then she looks at the crowd with a hesitant, vulnerable-looking smile that doesn’t quite make it to her forest-green eyes.

  Taylor Morrissey is at Andi’s side in a matter of seconds, and they take position just a few feet from the door. I look through the partygoers to see that Andi’s hand remains on Tall-Dark-and-Menacing’s arm, just as it was when she paused in the doorway.

  Yes—menacing, because I’m not fooled by his smile or his striking good looks. I see the intent way he’s sizing up everyone in the room, the way he’s positioning himself in a barely disguised, protective stance.

  Who is he and what is he to her? I thought she was living the life of a cloistered nun.

  Everything about him, the way he leans into her, the way he looks at her, the way he’s glued to her side, says ‘touch her and you’re dead.’

  I have news for him though, and it’s a headline: I WILL TOUCH.

  People gravitate to her now, just
as they did prior to her kidnapping. It isn’t simply her beauty or wealth. Or that once deliciously cocky, witty personality. She’s now attained fairytale status in this small city that’s replete with snobbery. A princess who lived through tragedy and torture. Her fabulous paintings are a tangible counterpoint of rare triumph over the basest of evil. Yet the joyous light that once flooded her eyes isn’t there any longer, and that makes her…positively irresistible. I love broken ones. The ones who try, so valiantly, to fight the darkest of demons.

  I’m the monster who teaches them to not even try.

  I watch her confidence grow as she talks to partygoers. Her chest is mostly hidden under the rust-colored wrap, which makes her eyes even a darker green. I don’t have to see the outline of her breasts to know their delicious, full shape. I memorized every inch of her with my eyes, fingers, and mouth. I know her dress cups a perfect, tight ass. I take a swig of vodka while memories of the sweet-salty taste of Andi as her legs fell open for my mouth ignite flames in my body. Godfuckingdammit, but vodka is a poor substitute.

  I clench my jaw against the mind-twisting pull of desire. She looks my way for a second, but it’s like she’s looking right through me, without seeing me. As though I don’t exist.

  How dare she look at me like I’m just another meaningless face in this goddamn crowd of art-aficionado-society-gawkers?

  The suck-ass truth is that she was rejecting me before Victor Morrissey kidnapped her. Rejection isn’t something I’m used to experiencing. I get everything I want. Everything. Everyone. Every way. Every minute, of every glorious day. My business is an example of how good I am. I conceived it out of thin air, I made the necessary contacts, and I’ve taken it to a level that was positively unimaginable just a few years ago. I’ve earned my title. I’m not merely a broker, or a concierge.

  I’m THE Concierge.

  Reminding myself of what I am makes me feel better, as I smile politely at one partygoer, and nod to another, as camera flashes go off around Andi. The violinist is now playing “It’s A Wonderful Life.” Yes, it certainly is. Today’s transactions with the Butcher have made this day one of my most profitable. My reapers are once again on the streets, prowling.

  A potential asset provided trouble with brass knuckles last night I heard. From the bruises, broken teeth, and raw anger he’s caused, my money says he’ll regret it. As long as they keep the assets coming in, I give my reapers discretion as to how to do their jobs. They’re professionals, but they wouldn’t be in this line of work if they weren’t…like me.

  They’re not used to serious resistance; they’re taking it personally. They’ll find him again because we know him. Interesting—he’s a friend of Andi’s. I know this because the same reapers who work the streets here are also tasked with keeping an eye on Andi, so they recognized him.

  I’ll use him to my advantage.

  Besides, the young man with the brass knuckles sounds like a prime specimen. Blond hair. Blue eyes. A gorgeous man-boy, with all American looks. He’ll fetch prime dollars.

  As I look at Andi, my broken beauty, I realize it’s simple. I want her. I will have her. I’m done with the waiting game I’ve allowed to play out for thirty one months, one week, and two days since Victor Morrissey stepped in and robbed me of her. Add a few more days to that tally, and that’s the amount of time it’s been since I was in bed with her, as I laid the framework for future bliss.

  My future bliss. My bliss comes with fear. Fear—it fuels my dreams. Fear-I revel in it. Fear-I crave it. I was gaining Andi’s trust by giving her pleasure. That I also received pleasure was merely a bonus. I’m typically a master with delayed gratification, and I practiced it with Andi. My real thrills were to come later, but Victor Morrissey forced a detour in my plans.

  Not a roadblock. Merely a detour. And really, all he did was prime the pump. Because now, when—not if—I get my hands on her again, she will experience a depth of fear few can imagine.

  She and Tall-Dark-and-Menacing are a beautiful couple. He looks at her with hungry eyes. Like he’s imagining ways he’ll screw her. Her moist cunt? Her tight ass? Her full-lipped mouth? She gives him a look that says…yes…any way you want to do me will work.

  A threesome, anyone? Goddammit, but I’d love to orchestrate that fuckfest. I’d eat her pussy while watching her suck him.

  Thank God I had the foresight to prep my fake Andi. She won’t be the real thing. But soon...

  Soon. I try to focus on one of Andi’s paintings—Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door. A street musician, playing a guitar. Jackson Square. The Cathedral in the background. Blue sky. The painting is great, but I don’t give a damn about it.

  “I’ve never noticed the Saint Louis Cathedral from that angle, have you? Someone at my right shoulder is looking at the painting that’s next to the one I’m staring at, while I imagine how Andi will taste in my mouth. “It makes me want to see this exact view. I want to be standing…on Chartres Street, where she was standing to paint it. It’s as though she was yearning for peace, but unable to get closer to the Cathedral.”

  Whatever. Yearning. I can tell you about yearning.

  Swallowing my irritation with more vodka, I turn to the speaker. She’s so close, her shoulder almost touches mine. Graying-blond hair, neatly coiffed in a twist. Tasteful tortoise shell eyeglasses. Staring at the painting as though it will reveal the mysteries of the universe, she sips her champagne.

  Fuck off, bitch. I’m thinking and plotting here.

  The woman alternates her glance between the wall of paintings and me, assuming I’m at the opening, as most people are, for chitchat about Andi and her spectacular paintings. Or just to get a chance to see the beautiful-society-girl-turned-tragic-recluse.

  I get my rocks off by hiding in plain sight. I love it so much that I manage to refocus, as I should, on the party. On being what these people want to see. As the sounds of multiple conversations swirl around us, and violin music—“La Vie En Rose”—lends a wistful air that captures the feeling of Andi’s paintings, I mentally place this woman. I know her, but not well. Her family is enmeshed in the fabric of New Orleans’s elite society. Her husband, a quiet man, stands on her right and nods hello to me.

  I return his nod. “It is a fantastic first show. I’m looking forward to many more.”

  They move away. I risk a glance at Andi, who isn’t looking at me. Instead, she’s glancing at Tall-Dark-and-Menacing. For a moment, he stares right at me. His piercing eyes convey a look that I cannot decipher.

  He means nothing. Whoever he is, he will not get in my way.

  I turn back to Andi’s paintings. I stare at her rendition of the St. Louis Cathedral, while I imagine my tongue tracing the scars that Victor Morrissey left on her back. I imagine what those creamy thighs, perky breasts, and yes, even her beautiful, wet cunt will look like when I’m through. My plans for her will make Morrissey’s work look like child’s play. When she begs for mercy…I know just how to give it to her. My brand of mercy. And I will. Give it to her.

  I will.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Andi

  Bright lights, the din of many conversations, and the clashing aromas of expensive perfumes assaulted her as she and Gabe walked into the gallery. The steely strength of his arm kept her moving forward, as they navigated through the crowd. A hush fell. Heads swiveled to watch her progress. Her steps faltered.

  In a subtle cloud of gardenia-scented perfume, Taylor, wearing a black Escada woven jacket with a slim-fitting pencil dress, leaned in to kiss her cheek, as Brandon squeezed her shoulder.

  Gabe’s fingers tightened over hers. He leaned down and whispered, “You’re doing great. Almost where we need to be. Minute by minute, remember?”

  Taylor eyed Andi’s death grip on Gabe’s arm. “You’re pale. You okay?”

  Andi tried for a ‘yes’ headshake.

  Taylor’s eyes grew more concerned.

  “Step to your left,” Gabe said. “Against the wall. We’re only six pac
es from the front door. We can be out of here in no time flat.”

  Taylor and Andi followed Gabe’s instructions.

  “I’m fine,” Andi managed to say, focusing on Taylor. “Really. Fine.”

  “Give me your party smile,” Taylor said. “It’s like riding a bike. You know how to do it.”

  Andi plastered a smile on her face, the kind she used to use when posing for photos at fundraisers that had bored her to tears.

  “Good,” Taylor nodded. “Now do it like you mean it.”

  Andi drew a deep breath, and softened her features, as someone called, “Ms. Hutchenson. Mrs. Morrissey. A photograph?”

  Turning in response, as Gabe pivoted to her side, Andi was blinded by a brilliant flash, followed by several more in quick succession as the press and Stapleton’s PR photographer gathered together, each calling for a shot.

  She spotted Samuel Kincaid, the Director of Hope House, standing to the side of one of the photographers. She waved him over so that he could get in a few photographs. With Kincaid at her side, she tried to smile while changing positions for the cameras, all while hoping she wasn’t grimacing. The attention was unwanted now, but she certainly knew how to play the game. Before the kidnapping, she’d been miffed if she’d attended an event and not been one of the featured photographs, on websites and in society pages.

  “Andi, it’s great to see you,” the cameraman from Southern Lifestyles Magazine called, as Jacques Stapleton wedged himself between Taylor and Andi.

  “You look gorgeous.” He gave Andi a nod, then posed for the cameras. “It’s great to see you.” Stapleton’s steady smile and probing glance made her stomach twist. His glance was her undoing, prompting a flood of memories of the time she’d spent in his bed. Dear God, did I even think about what I did? I gave so much of myself…away.

  “Your art just might be my find of the year,” he said, before turning to talk to one of the reporters.