Captive

by R. J. Lewis

  I writhed beneath his touch. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For smelling like him.”

  He slipped his finger into me, pumping me slowly. “Tell me you’re sorry for kissing that man of law.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, tell me what you’re sorry for exactly.”

  He swirled his thumb around my clit, and I groaned, whispering, “I’m sorry for kissing that man of law.”

  “You can’t replace me, you understand?”

  I nodded, feeling every inch of me warm. “I understand.”

  His teeth scraped at my skin, pricking me. “You ever touch a man like him, you wash your skin so I don’t have to smell that fuck on you. I’ll rise from the dead so fast, he’ll be tasting the fist of a ghost.”

  I nodded eagerly, moaning as he touched me, sucked at my neck, and god, these dreams were always so vivid. They felt so real. I felt like he was truly with me, and if this was all I’d get of him in this lifetime, I’d take it.

  I’d take every dream.

  Nixon in a dream was better than any man in real life.

  But, like every dream, he always left me empty and wanting.

  I woke up alone and wet and unfulfilled.

  48.

  Victoria…

  The next morning, I was pacing, unable to quiet my thoughts, unable to stop myself from feeling like odd things were happening in my life.

  First, the picture on my camera. I studied the duffle bag, studied the figure holding it. It was too much of a stretch to assume this guy was a contractor, but I couldn’t get the thought out of my head.

  Next, I saw Hobbs outside Cabochon restaurant, and I was fairly certain he’d been heading inside there. It was the most elite restaurant on that block, it only made sense if that was his destination.

  Why was he in town?

  Why did Eman – and I had to assume it was Eman – wind up here around the same time?

  They were working together. Eman was on a job, and he’d gotten shot up for it. He’d wound up in the hospital and escaped.

  Oh, and the bikers were back.

  The bikers who, according to Peter, were now working with a bunch of rogue contractors (which was sort of insane, because if this crew belonged to Hobbs, then the bikers certainly didn’t know of Hobbs’ ties with that robbery that changed my life, the very robbery that destroyed them from within).

  See, a lot was happening under the surface, and I was itching to figure out what.

  I was tired of this life. I was tired of doing the nine-to-five. I wanted to go back. In that world, I’d be closer to Nixon somehow.

  But how do you chase these sort of guys down?

  And what the hell was I thinking?

  Without Nixon’s protection, it was dangerous to be wading into such waters.

  Only, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.

  Instead of going to work, I called my workplace and coughed dramatically into the phone. “I’m sick,” I said, plugging my nose.

  “I don’t believe you,” Cynthia, the receptionist, retorted. “Get a doctor’s note.”

  I scowled but kept my downtrodden voice intact. “I’ve been calling around. It’s not looking like anyone’s taking new patients in.”

  “There are a hundred walk-in clinics, Victoria.”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Can you tell Justin that I’ll be off today?” I replied sweetly, ignoring her demand. This bitch wasn’t my boss.

  “Why? Because you know he’s got a sweet spot for you?”

  I dropped my hand from my nose and snarled into the phone. “Yes, Cynthia, because I know he has a sweet spot for me. Because he looks at me like he wants to have my babies. Because, for the first time in one fucking year, I want to take the fucking day off without you guilting me about it, okay? I’m sick.”

  I hung up before she could respond. I was tired of Cynthia’s shit. This was a fucking moving company. They could live without me for one day. Like, relax.

  Shoving my old school phone into my pocket, I grabbed my jacket and threw it on. I was out the door, into an elevator and at my bus spot within five minutes.

  Destination: Cabochon restaurant.

  *

  The restaurant was open from 11am onwards. I had to wait around in the cold before it opened, and when it did, I rushed in there, no plan in mind, no idea what the fuck I was looking for, only knowing that Hobbs must have eaten here and that was a good enough start for me.

  A hostess by the name of Lori appeared to seat me, smiling kindly. “Upstairs or downstairs?” she asked me, hovering over the two menus in front of her.

  Eyeing the menus, I replied, “Upstairs.”

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  Shit. “No.”

  “One moment. Let me check availability.” She flipped through a binder in front of her and skimmed down a page before smiling again. “We have a few tables free at the moment.”

  She took the menu on the right and led me into the restaurant that was bustling just last night. Right now, it was practically deserted. Right before the staircase, there was a sign that read, “NEW MANAGEMENT” in bold letters. I couldn’t be sure it was there last night.

  We walked up the stairs and to a secluded table in the corner.

  “Will you be dining alone?” she asked me sweetly as I slid into my chair.

  “No,” I lied. “I’m actually waiting on someone.”

  This was the perfect way to ditch my table. I could just say my plus one had bailed on me.

  With a pretty smile, she set the menu down on the table before me. “A server will come take your order –”

  “Just wondering,” I cut in with a smile of my own, “I have a friend that actually frequents this restaurant, but I’ve lost touch with him.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” she replied, blinking quickly at me.

  “He came here just last night,” I said quickly. “I was invited, but I couldn’t make it and…I lost his number to let him know. If it’s possible, do you think you could pass his number to me?”

  She stood up straight, thinking. “I’m not sure we’re allowed to do that.”

  “He’s my Uncle,” I quickly added.

  “You said friend.”

  I feigned a sad face. “He was my uncle, until my aunt divorced him for John, this hipster dude alcoholic who…looked at me in a really fucked-up way.”

  No, no, she was looking at me in a fucked-up way. “I don’t think we keep those sort of records.”

  “He would have made the reservation,” I continued urgently. “He’s that kind of guy. Always has to be in control of where he goes and what he’s up to.”

  “We really don’t keep track of these –”

  “His name is Hobbs,” I interrupted, staring at her intently.

  I saw a hint of recognition in her gaze. She stood up straighter and her face went a little pale. “You know Hobbs?”

  My heart jumped in my chest. I leaned over the table, peering deeply at her. “Please, do you know how I can reach him?”

  “Who are you?” she asked, like she needed to know first.

  “Vic…” I paused, shaking my head slightly. “Vixen. My name is Vixen.”

  She stood still for several moments, like she was thinking it over. Then she took a step back, telling me, “Let me get the manager for you.”

  She disappeared from view straight away, her footsteps quick. I sat stiffly in my chair, feeling nervous for the first time in so long.

  Life was just so fucking lame.

  Nerves like this? It made me feel alive.

  Tapping my fingers along the table in anticipation, I glanced around the room, taking in the high ceilings, the large windows and luxury furnishings. Then I looked down at the menu, feeling my soul die at the prices of some of these meals. Meals I couldn’t even pronounce.

  The sound of footsteps made me l
ook up. A tall, thin man walked in my direction dressed in black fashionable clothing. He was middle-aged, had a groomed white-black beard and sparkling blue eyes. He totally had manager written all over him.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Jacques,” he told me, standing by the table, looking down at me. “Lori was just telling me you were looking for somebody.”

  I smiled. “Hobbs.”

  His smile faltered. “Yes, she said that.”

  I blinked, waiting for him to continue. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  My face fell. “Do you know when he’ll come back to dine here?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he repeated, stiffly.

  Goddammit. “He’ll want to see me,” I urged. “Please.”

  “We are just a restaurant, my dear,” he explained in a friendly way, but his tone was off. “We don’t do reunions. We just serve food.”

  Feeling annoyed, I stiffened a nod. “I understand.”

  And I did understand. They were afraid of Hobbs, and who wouldn’t be? He wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to fuck with.

  “But,” he added, his voice dropping low, “I’ve heard the name Vixen thrown around. I’ve seen the men in power that have said it. I…have heard descriptions of you.”

  My pulse slowed and my mouth parted as I stared at him with wide eyes. He swallowed and glanced around us, as if making sure we were alone before saying, “You should have a stroll around the restaurant, dear. You might find the answers you’re looking for.”

  He left me straightaway.

  I didn’t move for minutes on end, feeling a little startled. Then I stood up and looked around the room, taking his words to heart. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. There were pretty pictures on the wall that didn’t mean anything to me. There were a couple diners in the back of the room, but they were old people and they kept looking at me like I was cramping their style.

  I went down the stairs of the restaurant, passing Lori who looked at me like she really wanted to tell me something. The bottom floor was equally unimpressive. The restaurant spent a lot of time spewing its history around the walls, telling the diner they’d been around for sixty years, serving the most influential figures over the ages. Its tone was kind of arrogant, but looking over the elite list of diners that had come through, they probably had every right to be.

  After a few laps around the room, I stood beside the NEW MANAGEMENT sign and gave Lori – who really, really wanted to tell me something – a look of despair.

  She looked at me and then the sign, and then she looked at me again.

  Then the sign.

  Then me.

  Then the sign.

  Then I looked at the sign. It was a pretty average sign for such an arrogant establishment. The board was big, but the actual sign was just a printed piece of paper stuck to it with a blue bit of sticky tack.

  A eureka moment struck me as I turned to her and whispered, “Does Hobbs own the restaurant now?”

  Lori smiled at me, saying nothing.

  Ah, so he did.

  I looked around some more, feeling a jolt of excitement now. I wandered to the bar area, glanced briefly at the television screens before my eyes skimmed the empty bar counter. There was a magazine stand in the corner, and on the corner of the bar counter were a bunch of newspapers, but I noticed something odd about the newspapers. They weren’t bulky like they usually were. It looked like pages were cut out and piled neatly in a stack. I went to it and picked up the first sheet from the top.

  There was an article about the restaurant and the title read: CABOCHON SAVED.

  My eyes skimmed over it quickly.

  Cabochon restaurant, known over the years to be one of the most affluent restaurants in the Pacific Northwest, had struggled the past decade after an architectural renovation turned into one of the costliest blunders in its history. Sending the owners, Tony Holmes and his wife Gloria, into a huge load of debt, the restaurant teetered on the brink of closure.

  The Holmes couple describe their moment of relief when two businessmen approached them in their time of need and offered them a deal they couldn’t turn away from.

  Cabochon was sold for an undisclosed amount.

  The new owners, Kyle Shobbs and Nicholas Cooper, aren’t new to the city. Having recently bought the Marx Hotel and the popular club FireAlive, they’ve been busy establishing themselves and sure have a lot of money to spare.

  My fingers shook.

  I quickly folded the paper and pocketed it. I left the bar area, feeling a little weak. Standing by the staircase, I held onto one of the bars as I tried to absorb what I’d just read. It wasn’t sinking in. It wasn’t making sense…

  I hurried out of the restaurant, overwhelmed with the feeling I was being watched.

  49.

  Victoria…

  “You’ve got a hickey on your neck,” Kim told me as she stopped by to exchange presents. “Did Brian give you that?”

  I handed her present over, frowning. “No, I don’t think he did.”

  Her brows shot up. “Who gave it to you?”

  “I don’t…” I made a face, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He must have given it to you. It’s really red.”

  I was too distracted by my thoughts to respond. She set my present down under the tree and turned to look at me. Her soft smile faded a bit as she studied me. “You alright, Victoria?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled as I walked around, going in no certain direction. Her eyes flickered down to the article I’d been holding for the past few hours. “What’s that?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out,” I replied.

  “You look like you’ve been crying.”

  I had been crying.

  My eyes were sore and red. I felt like my emotions had been ripped out of me. So much I’d buried in the wake of Nixon’s death now seemed to be resurfacing.

  I was devastated. I could hardly swallow without feeling pressure build behind my eyes. And this article was really fucking me up because I didn’t understand what I was reading.

  Standing still, I looked at Kim seriously. “You know this city better than me, don’t you, Kim?”

  Looking concerned, she nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

  “The restaurant we went to, did you know it got bought out?”

  She appeared thoughtful for a moment before she nodded. “Yeah, that’s why Peter’s firm started handing out bookings as presents. The place called them up and told them they were offering seats. I think it was a tactic to build hype around the place because it’s under new management. Apparently, the system went down and all the bookings vanished. That’s how we were able to snag seats. Pretty lucky, huh? I hear the waiting list before was like two years. The hostess was fully looking appointments over in this giant black binder because the systems weren’t up yet. It felt old-school.”

  “Do you know who bought it?” I asked.

  She nodded again. “Yeah, these two guys. They’ve been buying out a ton of places. They’re always in the news now, donating shit. One of them is super hot, but I hear he’s not really a nice guy.”

  I fought the tears swimming behind my eyes as I choked out, “His name is Nicholas?”

  Her eyes lit up. “That’s right. Nicholas Cooper. He’s been kind of everywhere lately. The nurses at the hospital keep gushing about him. You can’t really get close to him, from what I hear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been to a couple functions alone. He rejects every girl’s advances. The ladies suspect he’s into some kinky shit.”

  “Why do they suspect that?”

  She shrugged weakly. “Because us girls like to fantasize a shit ton, don’t we? Rich guy comes into town, rejects every chick that throws herself at him, it just makes him more appealing. More mysterious. Wouldn’t you think he’s hiding something?”

  I didn’t answe
r straightaway.

  She eyed me as I paced some more. I knew I was acting out of place. In the two years since my return, I’d never behaved so erratically.

  Swallowing hard, I stopped and shakily said, “Are there photos of them?”

  She knew something was up, but she didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she nodded cautiously and pulled out her phone. “You know, I told you to get one of these and you didn’t listen.”

  I didn’t respond as I took the phone from her and pulled up Google. I took a few deep breaths, seeing spots in my vision, before I built up enough courage to type the name in.

  I knew what I was going to find.

  My heart squeezed tight, and my mind whispered his name.

  I knew.

  I really did.

  But knowing still didn’t prepare me.

  When the images came up, I wasn’t sure what hit the ground first.

  The phone…or my body.

  *

  Kim’s arms were wrapped around me as I sat dazedly on the floor, staring straight ahead. I’d completely gone numb. My body had had enough of feeling. It switched off because it was the only way to cope.

  “You need to tell me what’s going on,” she whispered to me, sounding concerned. “You just collapsed.”

  I glanced down at the phone on the floor, the screen still up, still displaying the photo of Nixon on the street shaking hands with the Holmes couple outside the restaurant.

  Thing was, it was a side shot, but I knew his profile, I knew hair like that, I knew every inch of his body by touch, by sight, by taste; it was burned into my memory.

  “Do you know Nicholas Cooper?” she prodded, noticing that I was staring at the screen still.

  I licked my dry lips, trying to form a response.

  “He’s got a reputation,” she said just then, watching me closely. “I’ve actually heard Peter talk about him from his office at home. He’s got ties with some really bad men.”