by Portia Moore
I hadn’t imagined how hard that would be in practice. My first experience with it, and I already feel like the worst piece of shit in the world for turning my back on this girl. But she’s just one of dozens like her, and if Vincent isn’t caught, none of them will be saved, ever.
The man is ignoring me now. I’ve done my job, delivered his alcohol, and served it. He turns to the man in the chair next to him, who is much younger and dressed in a similar blue suit, sipping whiskey. As I turn away, I hear the older man say clearly: “The shipment will come in next Tuesday. It will be with the morning liquor supply. I expect payment rendered in full.”
“Of course,” the other man says.
“It was a bigger order than usual. I hope your boss knows what he’s doing. Mine won’t be pleased if it’s not all sold as expected, with a profit to match.”
“You don’t need to worry,” I hear the younger man say, a touch sharply, and then I’m too far away to hear the rest. But my heart is hammering.
That’s it. The first piece of information I’ve picked up, and I’m only four days into the job.
It’s a good start.
When I get home from work, I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I can’t shake the image of the pretty teenage blonde. She reminded me so fucking much of Rain; I couldn’t help but see the face of the thirteen-year-old girl I once rescued looking up at me. This girl who hadn’t asked me to save her, hadn’t even hinted that she wanted that, but I feel guilty nonetheless.
You can’t save everyone. And you’ll save a hell of a lot more people by bringing down Vincent Jamison.
I have to keep myself focused. They’d warned us at the academy about some of the shit we might see as agents, the kinds of things that keep you up at night and creep into your dreams. I’d thought I was prepared to face all kinds of brutality, the worst of humankind, and bring them in to face justice. But if I can’t even handle not being able to help one underage girl, then I’m not cut out for this job. I know I’m going to see far worse if I’m successful in this assignment and continue the upward trajectory of my career.
My go-to when I can’t sleep has always been a glass of whiskey. I sit down in the cheap shitty chair by the window, drink in hand, look over at my bed, and let out a long sigh. Hopefully, I’ll be in it before long—unfortunately, alone.
I like being alone, usually. It’s easier that way. But lately, it’s been feeling more isolating than anything. I’ve been with a few girls since I left Michigan, but not many, and not for more than a few nights. Like I told Carlos, I’ve been married to my job since I was accepted to the academy. An agent without a girlfriend, wife, or kids is a valuable commodity—someone with nothing to be used against him can be put into situations that others can’t when their families could potentially be used as leverage.
Telling myself that I’m staying single and unattached because I’m committed to my career feels a lot better than acknowledging the truth—that no one could ever measure up to Rain in my head. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone to put them through that.
The nightmare comes back that night. It starts out as what should be a dream—the last thoughts I had of Rain before I went to sleep. Her in that sunny, humid room, her slim body under my hands as I tried to think past the grip of teenage lust that filled my head so that I could go slow, so that I could be gentle. I’d spent so many nights fantasizing about her by then, but the reality of it was nothing like that.
“Zach, I love you.” She’s calling out my name, her soft lips parted as she gasps, and my aching body is overcome with need from the moment I touch her. It takes all my self-control, every ounce of it. Still, I go as slowly as I can, even knowing that the clock is running down, that our time together is limited before I have to leave, this time forever.
But then the dream wavers and changes. It’s not the soft, hazy memory of my teenage days anymore, that last brief moment before my life changed forever. It’s the nightmare again, the darkness closing in. I don’t know where we are or what’s chasing her, only that Rain is in danger. I can hear her screaming, and I can’t get to her. I can’t save her.
I don’t even know where she is.
Usually, at this point, I would wake up bathed in a cold sweat. But tonight, I don’t. The dream keeps going. I run, as fast as I can, towards the sounds of her screams. I’m getting closer, I know I am—and for the first time since I’ve started having this nightmare, the darkness parts, and I see the figure of a girl in front of me. I can see her blonde hair streaming out behind her as I get closer. The tight dress she’s wearing is slowing her down. She’s lost both of her shoes, her bare feet dirty as she runs. I reach out to grab her, to pull her into my arms, and keep her safe from whatever is chasing her. But before I can, she stumbles forward and falls.
She pushes herself up to her hands and knees as I catch up to her, and when she turns to look, her soft blue gaze catches mine.
My heart sinks as I realize that it isn’t Rain at all, but the girl from the club.
“You’ll never save her,” she whispers. And then she disappears.
7
Rain
When I wake up this morning, I’m exhausted. It didn’t end on the kitchen table last night with Vincent fucking me just once. Immediately afterward, he’d picked me up and carried me to our new bedroom, where we spent most of the night having sex in every possible way that he could think of. I’m not just beyond tired from the sleepless night; I’m confused. And I feel dirty.
Vincent and I haven’t had a night like that in months—probably not since the engagement party. I don’t understand what’s changed—is he getting off on the fact that he has the freedom now to do as he pleases without having to hide it from me? The change in scenery? It was like before, when we were insanely in love, when everything seemed perfect and like a fairy tale that I’d somehow dropped into without even knowing.
And that’s why I feel dirty—because I enjoyed it. I lost myself in the fantasy, let myself escape back to the time before Vincent changed. For a few hours, I let myself pretend that we were back when things were different—before I found out the truth. Before he let the mask slip away and I found out who Vincent really was.
Last night he was different. He was the man I fell in love with. He wasn’t mean, or controlling, or angry, or demanding. He didn’t insult me or make me feel bad about myself. He wasn’t distant in bed. He didn’t use me like an object for pleasure. Instead, he worshipped my body like he used to, did all the things he knew would bring me pleasure. He made me feel all over again like I was the only woman he’d ever loved—he’d even said that last night, whispering it over and over again in my ear as he made love to me. Because that’s what it felt like again—making love. Not fucking, not detached sex.
And now it has me questioning everything all over again. Last night it was me in his arms. He was inside of me, whispering sweet, loving words to me. It’s me in this beautiful, luxurious house, sleeping in his bed every night, meeting his family soon. I’m the one who’s going to be his wife. So does it really matter if he has a woman on the side, when I’m the one who’s been placed in the position of wife and partner? Is this just something that all men do, and women just pretend that they don’t, and don’t talk about it if they’re ashamed of it? I feel crazy for even thinking those things, but so much about the world is different than what I thought it would be growing up. Maybe this is just something else that I have to learn.
I think about my parents. Did my father ever cheat on my mother? She would never have told me if he did, but he spent so much of my childhood away from home, drunk and on crazy benders. Was there some other woman during those drunken nights when he wasn’t home with my mom? More than one? Did my father slip up?
This isn’t Vincent slipping up! My mind screams as I stare up at the ceiling, trying to untangle all of my feelings and emotions. Vincent told me—almost proudly—what he’s been doing and what he plans to keep doing. He doesn’t see it as a terrible mistake
. He’s presiding over this like a sultan over his harem. The other women are a status symbol, a show of power—that he has a wife and mistresses. That he can have as many women as he pleases and keeps them all in fine style.
Maybe he’s right, I think, dejectedly. Perhaps it’s part of being a powerful man. Maybe ordinary marriages don’t put up with this because they’re between ordinary people. Vincent isn’t ordinary, and I’m not ordinary for being with him. He’s a man above other men, so he’s allowed to do things other men aren’t. Maybe I’m thinking of fidelity in all the wrong ways and what that means for love. Maybe love and fidelity are just about honesty—and he’s been honest with me. He didn’t say he’d stop—in fact, he said the exact opposite—but he did come clean. He told me everything. Maybe it’s better that I know, that it’s all out in the open and there’s no lies or hiding between us. Maybe that’s love for people like Vincent.
But then, I think confusedly, if what Vincent is doing is acceptable. It would be acceptable for both of us, right?
I can’t help but laugh at that. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what would happen if Vincent thought that I had my own side piece. One or both of us would be dead, and I’d learn a whole new definition of hell on Earth. No, Vincent is absolutely a man who buys into the double standard that he should get to fuck whoever he wants, and his wife should be satisfied with him.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. I can’t allow myself to be lulled into complacency with a night of good sex and a temporary reprieve from Vincent’s recent coldness towards me. I have to figure out a way out of this, as soon as I can do it without hurting my family. And the best way to start is to figure out how to put space between us by going to Indiana.
I hadn’t meant to fall back to sleep, but I must have
because I wake to see Vincent standing over my side of the bed, his face blazing with fury. My heart starts to race as I look up at him, blinking the sleep out of my eyes and frantically wondering what I could have done to make him so angry.
“Good morning, my lazy, lying little leech,” he says smoothly, the words rolling off of his tongue with barely concealed anger that sends shivers running over my skin. I can feel the blood drain out of my face immediately, and out of pure instinct, my expression hardens defensively as I sit up in bed, wrapping my arms around myself.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to keep the trembling out of my voice. He doesn’t answer but grabs a fistful of the sheets covering me, yanking them off of the bed and tossing them onto the floor, leaving me curled up on the mattress, still naked from the night before. He grabs my wrist without a word, the grip so tight that it’s almost painful, and jerks me out of bed, pulling me onto the floor to join the sheets.
“You’re hurting me, Vincent!” I squeal, pain shooting from my wrist up my arm. Tears spring to my eyes. My heart is beating so hard that I feel dizzy, and I stare up at him. “What are you doing? What are you talking about?”
He smiles coldly at me. “Are you a liar, Poppy? Tell me.”
“No, I’m not!” I cry out, trying to break free, but he’s too strong. “No, of course not!”
His face hardens. “I’ll ask you one more time, Poppy. Are you a liar?”
Tears stream down my face, both from the pain in my wrist and fear of the man towering over me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sob, looking up at him. “No, Vincent, I’m not!”
He sneers at me. “You really don’t know? Here, I’ll give you a hint since you’re not just a liar but a stupid one. It’s about that little workout you said you did yesterday.”
My blood runs cold as I stare up at him in disbelief. My workout? He’s acting like this because I missed a workout yesterday? I didn’t tell him last night because I knew he’d be annoyed, and I hadn’t wanted to ruin what had seemed like a nice evening. This anger is far beyond anything I would have expected. I’ve gone in the space of seconds from feeling sad and trapped by Vincent to being terrified of him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “I just didn’t want to disappoint you last night. The move was so last-minute. After all that chaos, I didn’t think you’d care if I worked out yesterday. I was so tired, and—”
“So, you thought I’d prefer you lying to me?” He glares down at me. “I can’t stand liars, Poppy. I won’t stand for one in my own house, and sure as hell not in my own goddamned bed.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, pleading. “Please, Vincent, I didn’t realize it was such a big deal. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
He lets go of my wrist then, and I immediately clutch it to my chest, rubbing at the spot where he grabbed me. He folds his arms over his chest, the anger receding from his expression as he regards me more calmly.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice calmer now but still cold. “You won’t do it again. You won’t lie to me about anything ever again, Poppy, no matter how small.”
“Of course not, Vincent,” I tell him earnestly. “I won’t, I promise. I’m so sorry.” I stand up slowly, perching on the edge of the bed, taking the sheet with me to cover myself. I half expect him to tell me to stay on the floor, but he doesn’t. He only regards me coolly as I wipe the tears away from my face. He looks satisfied with my apology, at least, letting out a long breath as his eyes sweep over me.
“You’ll skip breakfast and go straight to the gym,” he says firmly. “I expect you to put in the extra effort today to make up for yesterday. And I will check in with the trainer to be sure you’re giving it your all.” He pulls the sheet away from me as I stand up, his eyes roving over my body possessively. “Smile, Poppy. You should be happy about this. After you’ve been doing these workouts for a while, you’ll be perfect.”
I force myself not to cry again as he looks my naked body up and down, taking in every inch of it with a detached sort of surveillance that is completely different from the way he looked at and touched me last night. “You’re already an eight, Poppy,” he says with a pleased expression, the anger entirely forgotten now as he looks at his possession—me. “With some time in the gym and a better diet, you’ll be a ten.” He presses his lips together then as if considering something. “Now that I think about it, actually, it might be better if we hold off on you meeting my parents until then—until you’ve reached that point. I want them to see that I’m marrying a woman who is absolute perfection—I shouldn’t settle for anything less. I think it’ll take about a month.”
I feel cold all over, horrified at the way he’s speaking to me, but I manage to paste a smile on my face. “Of course,” I tell him quietly. “I’m going to go get dressed for the gym then.”
He returns the smile, bending to kiss me quickly. “I’ll see you tonight, Poppy.”
I let him kiss me, fleeing to the bathroom the moment he lets me go. I only barely manage to hold the tears in until then, but as I lean against the sink, I start to cry—huge, heaving sobs that make my ribs ache and my body feel weak and shaky. It seems insane to me that I was lying in bed only a little while ago and trying to rationalize away Vincent’s cheating. Now he’s not just a cheater who is a little controlling—he’s shown me a side of his temper that I’ve never seen before.
And if he could explode over something so small as a little white lie about missing a workout, there’s no telling how he’d react to something worse.
I’m in so much deeper than I ever could have imagined.
8
Zach
I’m on the afternoon shift at the club. They’re not open for business, but Sunday afternoons are spent deep-cleaning and making a note of anything that needs to be restocked so that Sonya can finalize the following week’s liquor order before Tuesday, when the previous week’s order comes in.
It all moves a lot slower than I expected. Still, I manage to scrape up pieces of info here and there to send back to my superiors, enough to keep them happy and feeling like the case is moving along. But most days are n
ormal—a routine of cleaning and stocking during the day and tending bar at night that I quickly get used to.
This Friday night, there’s another big party planned. I’m on inventory in the back as usual—Sonya has figured out that my counts have the fewest mistakes. Now she usually puts me on this task. As tedious as it is, I’m glad for it because it lets me keep an eye out for any suspicious activity I can report. I can almost do it in my sleep at this point, letting my eyes and ears pay attention to other things…anything I can pick up. Even in just the short time that I’ve been there, I’ve seen that the whole place runs with a flawless precision that impresses even me. There’s not an i that isn’t dotted or t left uncrossed, and it’s clear that Vincent is picky about who he hires. A man in his position has to be.
Sonya is already there when I walk in.
“I need you to take stock of the refrigerated items,” she tells me, handing me an iPad. “And get a count on all the glassware. We’ve got a special event coming up next weekend, and we may need to get an order in for more. As usual, anything with the slightest chip or scratch has to go—but even more so now. There won’t be any flaws tolerated at this event.”
Clearly, someone important is coming to the club; but I don’t bother asking who since I don’t want to call attention to myself by asking too many questions. It’s probably some high roller. I make a mental note to keep an ear out for any gossip and to try to get myself on the schedule for that night. I need to know whoever this VIP is. It could be someone that we weren’t previously aware was connected to Vincent.
I take the iPad from her and head into the back. I hate these shifts—they’re boring and take forever. The slightest error could get me thrown out and back at Brick’s, where I can’t do nearly as much good. At least bartending is fast-paced and interesting. But it could be worse—I could be out front cleaning the bathroom grout with a toothbrush and wiping down the baseboards.