Star Bright (Bright Young Things Book 1)

by Staci Hart

  It didn’t matter either way, I supposed. Soon, I’d be on my way to the other side of the world where I could make a name for myself on a whole new level. And I’d leave all this behind, Stella included.

  If I could escape her. I had a feeling even five thousand miles wouldn’t do the trick.

  Once outside, I hopped on my bike and headed downtown where I’d wait for Warren to leave work. Again. For three days, I’d hung out on a side street for him to exit headquarters and followed him home, where he stayed all night. Nobody came or went that I could tell, and overall, my reconnaissance was starting to feel like a bust. I’d promised myself a full week before abandoning the goose chase for something more tangible, though I wasn’t sure what that might be. All that hanging around had given me plenty of time to think. Stella being the lingering topic.

  I’d tried to quiet thoughts of her, working instead on writing the next article in my notebook, flipping ahead to make notes, but that only got me so far. She’d creep back in, whispering reminders of my rights and wrongs and what-could-have-beens. I should have been clued in to the depth of my feelings for her by the pervasiveness of my thoughts. I couldn’t seem to let it go. Maybe it was because I’d fucked up so royally. Maybe it was because although she’d hurt me, I’d already forgiven her. Maybe it was because I wanted her back.

  But I couldn’t have her. That I’d ever thought I could was an illusion.

  It was after dark when Warren stepped out of the building, greeting people on his way out. I slid on my helmet. He shook hands with an officer before kicking his head back in laughter. I started my engine. He stepped to the curb where a cab idled and climbed inside.

  And I followed.

  I’d become intimately familiar with the route to his apartment, and within one turn, I knew we were headed somewhere else. I didn’t get my hopes up. Honestly, I really hoped he was on his way to a colonoscopy or maybe to have some boils removed, but that was probably too much to ask for too. So staying a reasonable distance behind them with a couple of cars for cover, I wound toward Alphabet City, wondering where he was going, particularly when we reached the older, tumbledown part of the neighborhood, which hadn’t yet been gentrified. Rain began to fall, first in fat, scattered droplets, then in a pinging deluge, slicking the street and dotting cab windows.

  The cab stopped in front of a bodega, and Warren exited and stepped inside while I waited, tucked in an alley. When he emerged, it was with empty hands and a glance up and down the street before giving me his back. I locked up my bike and followed as he walked away.

  He wound through the streets in a zigzag, deeper into the projects with every block until he came to a dilapidated building next to an alley. A seedy motherfucker greeted him with a jerk of his chin, and the two of them entered together.

  The rain let up but didn’t stop, fueling a constant stream of rivulets rolling down the arms of my leather jacket. I was soaked otherwise, and Warren had to be too.

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  I stayed on the opposite side of the street, inspecting the building as best I could without being conspicuous. A couple of girls bracketed the door, leaning against the rail, smoking as they watched me with hungry eyes. It was a flophouse, and I’d been in enough to guess that most of its inhabitants were sex workers. If I was right, the man who’d greeted Warren was a pimp.

  But it didn’t make any sense. Warren was no millionaire, but he could afford something—someone—a little more luxurious. Maybe my gut was wrong. Maybe there was some deal going down, and this was just a meeting point.

  One of the girls flicked her cigarette onto the sidewalk as I passed, making hard eye contact as she licked her lips.

  Nope, definitely hookers.

  I offered her a smile and shook my head. Disappointed, she whacked her friend in the arm to head inside.

  When the coast was clear, I trotted across the street and doubled back toward the alley, ducking in before I looked in my urgency to get out of the street.

  A drizzle was all that was left of the rain, a collection of infinitesimal drops to form a misty shroud. Everything shone, from the brick walls to the metal of the fire escape to the warped and broken pavement.

  Well into the alley, a girl leaned against the wall, ankles crossed in front of her and a cigarette in her hand. Slowly, her head turned, then cocked like a bird when she got a good look.

  “Levi?”

  Shocked by the sound of my name, I frowned. “Who’s asking?”

  “It’s me, April. You took my picture for your magazine.”

  The memory struck like flint of a thirteen-year-old girl I’d met investigating a trafficking ring in Queens a couple of years ago. I smiled to cover the cut of a hot knife to the gut.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  One of her brows rose with a snarky smile. “Take a wild guess. I’m more interested in what you’re doing here.”

  I glanced up the building she was leaning on. “You living here?”

  “Living and working, yeah. It’s a good place. Better than anything Vlad did for us.”

  “The bar was pretty low there.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, it was.” She snuffed her cigarette on the wall and immediately took another one out of the pack in her hand. “Want one?” She tilted the pack in my direction.

  “What the hell?” I said, resigned. The slim cylinder felt like an old friend in my hand and a lover on my lips.

  She sparked her lighter, and I set the end ablaze, taking a drag that rolled my eyes back in my head.

  “Goddamn, that’s good.”

  She lit hers, exhaling a plume of smoke. “You quit or something?”

  I took another drag with my eyes closed. “Yeah, but it’s been a real shitty week, April.”

  “I know the feeling.” She paused. “You never said what you’re doing out here. Surely you’re not looking for a good time.”

  I huffed a laugh, breathing smoke out of my nose like a dragon. “Might be looking for trouble. Who runs this place?”

  “Petey Milovich. Hard to be scared of a guy named Petey, but he’s got a right hook that’ll set that straight.” She chuckled, though I didn’t find anything funny. “Nah, he’s good to us. Especially the little ones.”

  A tingling cold cracked through me. “The little ones?”

  She took a long drag, watching me. “Yeah. Russian kids. They get sold by their parents and shipped over here in fucking crates with a shit bucket.” She shook her head. “Makes you thankful you had a choice, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I answered quietly. “You know a cop that comes around here? Just walked through the front door.”

  “Oh, yeah. That Warren guy. Seen him on TV a bunch.” Her face soured. “I hate that fucker.”

  A stone lodged in my throat at the thought of him fucking April. “He ever hurt you?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes. Always hits where you can’t see so Petey doesn’t get pissed. Not that he’d do anything about it. How else do you think we stay open?”

  “So he uses Petey’s services, and in exchange, nobody gets busted?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s kinda the dream, staying out of jail. Especially since they keep trying to put me back in the system.”

  “How often does he come here?”

  “Once a week or so. Petey calls him when we get new kids, so sometimes twice. Prick always gets first pick.”

  Bile climbed up my esophagus. I looked up the wall of the building as the rain fell, the droplets clinging to my upturned face. He was in there right now.

  The urge to open the metal service door and find him so I could beat the fuck out of him was so strong, I took a step before stopping myself. If I walked through that door, I’d get shot.

  “You always were so sweet,” April said sadly. When I looked at her, she wore a quiet smile that knew too much for a girl of fifteen. “But there’s not anything you can do, Levi. If they bust us here, they’ll just send the new girls th
ey get somewhere else, like to Vlad, that son of a bitch.”

  “Doesn’t mean there’s nothing I can do.”

  She sighed. “Don’t do anything stupid. Not now, at least.”

  I took a long drag and let it out slow. “Think you could help me?”

  “Depends on how.”

  “I need proof on Warren. I need proof he’s here and what he’s doing.”

  Her brows ticked together. She took a puff of her smoke while she thought. With a sigh, she dropped her cigarette and stepped on it. “Lemme see what I can do. Wait here.”

  The minutes she was gone were agonizing. Pacing didn’t help. I smoked the cigarette down to the filter, which didn’t help either. Because my mind chewed and shredded the information I held and the knowledge of what was happening right up there with that fucking waste of flesh.

  When she finally came back, she closed the door gently behind her. “He’s got Nessa in one of the rooms facing the alley. If you can figure out how to get up the fire escape, you should be able to see in.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Fifteen.”

  I scrubbed a hand over my mouth to keep my stomach in place. I looked up again. “No blinds?”

  “Curtains, but they’re never shut. No windows across the alley.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I gotta get back inside, but she’s on the third floor. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “You still have my number, right? In case you get in any trouble, if you need anything …”

  She smiled, turning for the door. “Yeah, I got it. See you around, Levi.”

  “Take care of yourself, April.”

  “Take your own advice,” she teased, opening the door.

  And then she disappeared, leaving me to my task.

  The dumpster was the only thing tall enough to reach the fire escape, and even that was going to be a stretch, but it was my only option. It was thankfully empty, its wheels rattling and squeaking as I pushed it under the platform. I closed the lid, hoisting myself up in the dark. Once standing under the ladder, I was thankful for my height—a full-force jump would reach it. My heart hammered painfully as I wound up, eyes on the ladder rung, and with an exhale, I jumped as hard as I could and prayed.

  My hands clasped the rung, and my weight lowered it. Up I went, creeping silently as I pulled out my phone and readied it, not wanting to linger any longer than I had to, my pulse quickening as I climbed the final steps to my destination.

  I found him at the second window I searched, the curtains parted just like April said they’d be. And there in the bed was Warren, naked and thrusting over a girl who looked much younger than fifteen.

  And with trembling hands, I got what I needed to end him once and for all.

  29

  Exposed

  STELLA

  My bedroom door flew open like the police kicked it in, and I shot out of bed, swiping my sleep mask off in alarm.

  All of my roommates, with the exception of Tag, spilled into my room like a flock of starving seagulls.

  “What the fuck?” I slurred, squinting against the daylight.

  Zeke shoved his phone in my face as they descended into my bed. “Warren was arrested.”

  At that, my eyes flew open, instantly alert. “What?” I asked, swiping his phone from his hand to take in first the photo of Warren being arrested by the FBI, then the headline.

  Commissioner Warren Arrested on Sex Crime Allegations

  The article was on the Times, a short write-up citing what little information they had. Warren had been photographed engaged in sexual activity with a minor, leading to the bust of a prostitution ring in Alphabet City.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed, exiting out of that article to do a search on Warren himself. The first article listed was, oddly, from Vagabond.

  “Fucking pig,” Betty spat. “Disgusting fucking pig.”

  “They’ll murder him in jail for this,” Joss said, shaking her head.

  But Zeke shook his head for a different reason altogether. “He won’t go to jail. And if he does, he’ll have protection. We wouldn’t be so lucky for actual justice, not in America.”

  I waved my hand to hush them. “Did you see Levi’s article?”

  They frowned in conjunction.

  “What article?” Zeke asked.

  So I took a breath and read it aloud, the sprawling piece about Warren’s corruption. About the girls found at a place like that, their lost innocence and shattered youth. He described the atmosphere like he’d been there—the shadows and the rain, the savage survival, the hopeless cycle.

  And I knew it wasn’t just his imagination that had painted the picture.

  He had been there.

  My throat squeezed closed, and I paused, swallowing to open it up, pressing my fingers to my lips to stop the words from breaking. His curiosity had led him there, following Warren, no doubt. He’d saved all those girls and taken out a corrupt man in one motion. Because I knew his words and I knew his heart, and reading that piece, I knew without a doubt that he’d somehow managed all of this, from the FBI to the massive press coverage.

  “Do you think Warren will resign?” Joss asked.

  “I don’t see how he’ll wiggle his way out of it, slippery or not,” Zeke answered. “No city government leaves a pedophile in office.”

  “And then we’ll finally be rid of him, the fucking skeevy perv,” Betty added.

  “I … I think Levi did this. Found this out. Maybe even took that picture. Saved those girls.” I couldn’t vent the pressure in my chest, and my friends watched me struggle for words with worried faces. “I need to call him,” I said to myself. “I need to talk to him.”

  In a flash, I flipped back my covers and reached for my phone, but before I could unlock it, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Zeke said, rolling off my bed to head for the door.

  “And I’ll make coffee,” Betty said, following him.

  I opened my phone, then Levi’s messages, pausing to read our last texts. It felt like a lifetime ago, like the people who’d sent those texts were nothing but dust. Everything had changed.

  But that didn’t mean it had to be over.

  I’d apologize. I’d tell him I believed him. That I trusted him. And I’d beg for another chance, if he’d give it.

  If he’d even speak to me.

  “Stella,” Zeke called from the door, “come sign for this.”

  Frowning, I slid out of bed, phone clutched absently in my hand as I made my way toward them. The courier handed me her digital pad to sign and traded it back for a legal envelope before turning for the elevator. And I stared down at the name on the return address, struck dumb.

  Levi’s name was written in the corner in strong, square letters, and without thought, my fingertips swept across them as if they’d bring me closer to him.

  My friends stared at me as I drifted to a stool and sank onto it.

  “Well,” Zeke started without patience, “what is it?”

  “It’s from Levi,” I said distantly, tearing the envelope open to retrieve the contents.

  The small stack of papers weighed heavy in my hand, the note on the top stopping my heart at the sight of my name in his resonant writing.

  Stella,

  In this envelope, you’ll find the last article of the series for your approval, as promised. The final say is yours, as it will forever be. Because I keep my promises, always. Especially when it comes to you.

  I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the original sin, the lie that first seeded doubt. I’m sorry for what I said, for letting you go so easily, for letting you think the worst for the sake of my pride. I’m sorry for the final lie I threw at you like a weapon—that I thought I was falling in love with you.

  The truth is, I fell for you long ago, knowing I would only lose you.

  As deep as my hatred is for the fulfillment of that prophecy, it wasn’t unexpected. But that didn’t make it hurt an
y less.

  With the promise of this article, Marcella promised me a ticket to Syria, and by the time you get this, I’ll be on my way. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye because there’s so much more I’d like to say. But this will have to do until I see you again, if I see you again.

  For the record, I hope very much that I do.

  Take care of yourself, Stella.

  —Levi

  My vision was a blur as I read the letter again, and only then did I gather myself, shuffling it to the back so I could read the article. At the title, my heart and stomach swapped places, and at the first line, both charged up my esophagus.

  UNCOVERING CECELIA BEATON

  Levi Hunt, Senior Staff Writer

  I know who Cecelia Beaton really is.

  Frantically, I read through the article, which began as his reveal as the anonymous author of the exposé articles, then launched into the regaling of the parties he’d been to and what he’d seen and heard and experienced, all without mentioning a single name. But I slowed down as I approached the end, savoring every word.

  So much of the Bright Young Things was a surprise, from their genuine joy to the immersion in fantasy. What we see on social media and the news is only a superficial glimpse into something truly spectacular—a celebration. Not one of debauchery or extravagance, though I’d be a liar if I said those players weren’t part of the game.

  The Bright Young Things celebrate a singular, spectacular gift we all possess.

  That we are alive.

  It’s a fact we systematically ignore, a thing never celebrated simply for its truth. But from the moment I first walked into the speakeasy, the room sang an axiom that rings in me even now: we are alive, and what a magnificent thing that is.