by K. M. Szpara
“Thank god you’re both here,” he says, voice breathy and tired.
Elisha tightens his grip on my hand. Maybe this is why he was nervous. I pull him closer for comfort.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Your father’s on his way. I need to get Elisha out of here, before he arrives.”
48
ELISHA
No! I think the word but can’t say it. Can’t push enough air from my lungs or press the flat of my tongue against the roof of my mouth. The word is going off in my head like fireworks. No, no, no!
“No.”
Did I say it? Dutch and Alex and Tom are all looking at me like I said it. My mouth is open. Throat still hums with the echo of speech.
“No.” I say it again. “I don’t want to go.”
Alex squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to.”
“But you should.” Dutch approaches slowly, his eyes on mine. “You have no reason to trust me, I know. But you do have reason to fear Lex Bishop. You’re a debtor, Elisha. And his son is in love with you, regardless of the circumstances. You’re bad for his business and his family.”
Alex’s grip tightens, his shoulder bumps mine, as he inches closer.
“He asked me to set an alert on your accounts so he’d know when you got back in town. If I know you’re here, so does he. Didn’t you notice the secondary approval on your credit card? I had to give that.”
Alex clenches his jaw. Looks hard at his dirt-spattered leather boots. “He’s right, Elisha. My father isn’t your friend. It would probably be best if you weren’t around when I talked to him, but I’ll let you decide what you want to do.”
Dutch glances between his watch, the front door, and me. Tom taps at his computer desk as if he’s been busy this whole time. Alex stares resolutely ahead. And I don’t know what to do. How do I feel so alone in this room full of people and how do any of them expect me to choose?
“I want to go home,” I whisper, loud enough that only Alex can hear me. “What if we go home and lock the door and get under the covers?”
“I got rid of the covers.” Alex’s voice sounds flat. “And the bed. Everything, really. Dad and I were going to refurnish it, before I went to you.”
Everything. He got rid of everything. Nothing’s the same—never will be. People change. This is a new version of us. I miss the old version. “Can’t you come with us?” I ask Alex.
He shakes his head. “I need to deal with my family, but I’ll see you soon.”
I can do this. I can make decisions, now. Right now. I can say something—say something. I am capable of loving Alex and of making decisions. Do I want to meet Lex Bishop like this? Be alone with him? Be alone with Dutch?
“You won’t touch me,” I say to Dutch, not quite a question.
“No. Not without your permission.”
Does he mean it? I’ve never known him to lie and he wouldn’t lie in front of Alex. Alex trusts him. I can do this. Alex wants me to go with Dutch, anyway. I can handle myself. I can make decisions.
“Okay,” I say, finally. “I’ll go with Dutch.”
“You’re making the right choice,” Dutch says. Then, to Alex, “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”
“I know you will,” Alex says, before wrapping his arms around me.
I bury my face in his neck, breathe in the scent of sweat and earth on his skin, from the farm, while he waited for me. He loves me. When our eyes meet, I kiss him like I did that night at the hotel. Kiss me, I hear him say, and press my lips hard against his with the hopes we’ll meld together and disappear from this place, but we don’t.
Behind us, car doors slam.
“Now,” Dutch says. “We need to go, now.”
Reluctantly, I trade Alex’s hand for his. Let him whisk me through a service hallway and out into the back alley. Into a car. As the engine revs to life, as Dutch glances out the window and slams on the gas, my hands shake so hard, the metal ends of my seat belt won’t fit together, no matter how many times I jab them at each other.
Where are we going? I wait for the answer, not realizing I haven’t asked. Dutch’s eyes dart back and forth over the road, the car jolting similarly between lanes and around pastel buildings. Rule number six: don’t ask frivolous questions. I don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter. Alex trusts Dutch to make decisions for me.
He pulls onto 83 North, slides into the left lane, and flies past a row of slower cars. By the time we pull off 83 onto the Falls Road exit, I still haven’t asked and don’t intend to, despite my worry. The buildings are smaller, here. Colorful in different ways. All brick, instead of marble and flagstone. Fewer pastels and nauticals, more brights and flamingos. We pass a street strung up with lights, crowded with casually dressed couples and groups of friends lingering outside shops and restaurants.
We turn off the main road and the scenery quickly changes to rows of houses built alongside one another, with tiny fenced-in yards and alleyways between them. Compared to the farm, they’re beautiful. Uniform appearance, no patchwork of materials. Second floors, evergreen grass, painted mailboxes, and porch furniture with floral cushions.
We drive under 83, bumping over poorly filled potholes, passing more houses lined up in rows. Dutch pulls into a parking lot full of cars that are dented or scuffed with squared edges and bumper stickers.
He gets out and I do the same, trailing several feet behind him, in the rain. Despite the trust Alex has placed in him, suspicion and discomfort ball up in my gut.
Cold, fat drops of rain follow us between towering warehouses. Overhead, people stand on a fire escape talking and smoking, like it’s a porch.
I don’t like it here. This isn’t safe.
I reach for the hand beside mine, then bump into Dutch and remember he’s not Alex. “Sorry,” I mumble, and back away.
“It’s okay. I don’t blame you for not wanting to be near me.”
My forehead wrinkles. All of this understanding, today. Why now? And why should I believe him, after everything he’s done to me, to his own Dociles, and others’?
Dutch nods at several people loitering beside a rusty metal door. Their conversation drifts off when I pass; their heads turn to follow me. I grab Dutch’s arm with both hands and, this time, don’t let go.
“I want Alex,” I whisper.
“I know you do.”
The metal door thrusts open into our space. A white person with a ring pierced through the middle of their nose looks at us. “Lock it behind you,” they say.
I go in with Dutch, still holding on to him. We stop while he closes and locks the door and I survey the entranceway. People lounge on scratched-up, mismatched furniture, talking and laughing like I haven’t seen since the party Dad threw me on the farm.
Street clothes are different, here. They’re dresses over leggings and sneakers or joggers and sweaters that hang off their shoulders. Nothing tucked or buttoned or tied. None of the free, branded clothing that corporations donate in the counties.
I am thankful to be wearing jeans and a tee shirt but am secretly afraid someone here will know how much they cost. Then, I remember the feel of Dutch’s starched sleeve and the embroidered bow tie that hangs from the collar. If they don’t mind him, they won’t mind me. Right?
Dutch waves at a woman sitting behind a desk. She slides a large pair of headphones back over her coarse, wavy hair and looks up at him.
“Is Eugenia here?” he asks.
“Yeah, but Roger’s chatting with her about some ODR information Carol sent over,” the woman says. “I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.” A sensor on her right ear cup flashes when she taps it.
“Both of them, please.”
“Sure thing.” The woman goes back to work on her tablet.
I follow Dutch deeper into the warehouse space, over area rugs with fraying edges, past shelves loaded with paper books.
“Up the stairs.” He wiggles his arm, signaling me to let go so we can fit up the narrow s
taircase. “After you.”
The metal stairs squeak underfoot. I hold tight to the railing, but Dutch doesn’t bother. He waits a step behind me while I walk slowly to the top.
Lofts line either side of this floor, like the second floor back home at Alex’s. These are much bigger. At one end, people walk to and from an enclosed bridge that reaches another warehouse. Everywhere I see people at work on portable computers, beneath the awnings of the lofts, behind glass walls, most wearing gloves and coats. Like the Silo, but less sterile.
I stop at the top of the steps, unsure where to go. Dutch nudges me toward another, smaller set of steps that lead to the loft on the right. At the top of these, unfinished walls form rows of tiny stalls on either side of an aisle. Curtains shield most interiors from passersby, but some are drawn back. I don’t want to be rude, but can’t help glancing inside at people studying or reading. When I pass two women talking, half under a blanket on their pullout, I avert my eyes, give them their privacy. I trusted Alex to keep me safe, to know what was best for me, so I learned to suppress my curiosity for him. But nothing here is safe and every corner pings my urge to know more.
“In here.” Dutch pulls back a curtain to reveal a pullout couch fitted with sheets and pillows, along with two small stools. Three books and a photo rest on a plank of wood painted red and fastened to the wall on metal brackets. The books aren’t mine, but I recognize the picture of my family. Dad, when he loved me. Mom, still herself. Abby, a smiling baby. Me, a proud teenager. One personal item. I wonder how he got this from Alex, but don’t dare ask.
“Have a seat.” He gestures to the makeshift bed.
I hover beside it, cross my arms. Why does Dutch want me on a bed?
“I told you, you’re safe here. I’m not going to touch you—no one’s going to touch you—without your permission.”
I don’t move.
“Fine, stand there.” Dutch ducks out of the stall.
Did I do the wrong thing? Alex said I can make my own decisions, but maybe that only applies with him. I don’t know.
I press my hands against my forehead, hoping to stop the low throbbing that threatens to overtake me. In the dark of my palms, the room spins and I sink onto the thin mattress for support.
What if I made the wrong decision coming here?
The curtain rod screeches. I open my eyes to see Dutch return with one of his Dociles. The man from Preakness. From Mariah’s party.
The two of them pull stools toward the edge of the bed and sit, their legs too long for how close they are to the floor. “Elisha, do you remember Onyx?” Dutch asks.
“Yes.”
He grips the edge of the stool between his legs and eyes me over. He wears torn black jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up over his elbows. I’ve never seen him fully dressed before, especially not in such casual clothing.
Onyx nods and says, “Hey.”
My heart nearly spills from my mouth when I open it to speak. “He’s not—you’re not…”
Dutch and Onyx look at each other and then back to me, expectantly. Why won’t they say it for me? I’m trying but—I’m going to have to say it myself. I hope they don’t get mad.
“You’re not on Dociline.”
“No,” Onyx says. “Never was.”
The room spins again. I draw my knees up to my chest, squeeze them tight until my blood slows and my toes begin to tingle. We had sex. At Mariah’s, she and Dutch and Alex made us. Onyx did everything they told him with a smile, with sleek submissive motions only someone on the drug is capable of. I thought Onyx was on Dociline.
And I thought I was taking advantage of him. I was sick with myself. I hated myself for all the things we—
He’s seen me naked, kissed me, touched me.
He remembers.
“Elisha.” Dutch waves his hand in front of my face.
“You lied to me.”
Onyx wavers back on his stool as if he’s debating the point. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?” I tighten my grip on my legs, trying to steady my trembling hands. “I—”
I feel Onyx’s lips on my neck, the warmth of his tongue. Deliberate hands, hard cock smooth against mine. He knew what he was doing. He knew, and I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.
“I can explain,” Dutch says.
I glare at him over the tops of my knees. “I had nightmares for weeks.”
“I’m sorry; let me start there. Let us both start there.” Dutch clasps his hands together and leans forward like he’s going to tell me a secret. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you and for not being able to bring you into the know, earlier. We wanted to—Eugenia tried—but Alex was just too damn good at his job, like he is with everything.” Dutch’s scoff turns into a laugh. “Micromanaging perfectionist with brains, a good name, and money. Dangerous fucking combination. In order to maintain my cover, I did some shit I’m not proud of. You don’t have to forgive me.”
“Me neither,” Onyx says. His voice lacks the perfect, almost musical control I remember. “But I don’t regret what I did. I’m just sorry I did it at your expense.”
“Okay,” I say, because I’ve no other words. Even theirs blend together like liquors in a trillionaire cocktail.
Dutch continues. “Onyx and Opal pretend to be my Dociles—to be on-meds—so we can keep tabs on trillionaires, hear the shit they’d only say around on-meds. In order to convince people like Mariah and Alex that Onyx and Opal are on-meds, they have to act the part. Unfortunately, that includes sex.”
“Alex doesn’t know, then.”
Dutch drops his eyes to the floor.
“Do you only pretend to be a trillionaire?”
“Yes and no,” he answers. “I have the money. Not as much as Alex, mind, but Bishop Labs does pay me and I do earn it. Don’t keep most of it, though.”
“He almost solely funds Empower Maryland,” Onyx says. “And not just this office. The food banks and tutors, legal aid, career assistance…”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth when I swallow, throat dry, lips chapped. I feel Dutch’s cock invading my mouth, taking up space inside my body that doesn’t belong to it. The impression of his fingers on the back of my head. The bitter taste of his come mixed with floor polish.
Onyx has long since finished explaining, but Dutch makes no further effort for my attention.
“You didn’t have to treat me like that,” I say, finally. “You could’ve been nicer. Jess was nice. Please tell me she wasn’t lying, too.”
“No,” Dutch says. “She’s not involved in this.”
At least that wasn’t a lie. I wonder if she’ll talk to me still. If she can get me in touch with Alex.
“Jess can afford to be nice, but I have an image to keep up. Dutch Townsend doesn’t give a shit about Dociles.” The condescending smirk I remember tugs at his lips. He leans back on the tiny stool, straightens his legs, crosses his arms. “Nor does the general public, for that matter,” he continues. “Most of them stopped fighting a long time ago. Just like you did.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“We’ve both agreed you’re not stupid, Elisha, so I want you to think. You were a person when you refused Dociline. Interacting with you now, there’s little left.”
I cannot relax.
That’s not true. “I’m still me.” The words come out weaker now than they did with my father. “Just a new version.”
Relax and I might as well inject Dociline.
“This is a waste of time.” Onyx stands up and pulls back the curtain. “Bishop fucked him up real good.”
“I can hear you!” I snap.
Onyx regards me momentarily before disappearing through the curtain.
“Ignore him,” Dutch says, once we’re alone. “You have enough to worry about.”
“When will I get to see Alex?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer isn’t good enough, anymore. It can’t be.
Alex told me I have to think for myself, now. Ask questions. Ask, “Why?”
Dutch raises his eyebrows in surprise, but doesn’t mention it. “Because it’s not up to him. Alex is a dreamer—as idealistic as a trillionaire can be within his limited world view. And I’ve got to hand it to you, he’s definitely in love with you—at least, his version of you. That combination is deadly to Bishop Laboratories; you have to understand that the rich will do anything to preserve their privileged lifestyles.”
Fear creeps under my skin. I have to ask for Alex. It’s easier when it’s for him. “Anything like what?”
“Sometimes you cut off a branch to save the tree.”
“What does that mean?” I say, louder. “Where’s Alex?”
Before Dutch can answer, the curtain slides back. Onyx holds its edge, catching his breath. “There’s a cop here, a sheriff.”
Dutch looks over his shoulder. “Why?”
Onyx looks me directly in the eye and says, “She’s here for Elisha.”
49
ALEX
The side door swings in Dutch and Elisha’s wake, as my father enters the building. He smooths nonexistent water droplets off the shoulders of his blazer, hair still dry and perfectly coiffed.
“There’s my son,” he says, putting out his arms for a hug. “I was worried. You didn’t tell us where you were going.”
I embrace him, stiffly, wishing I’d asked Dutch for more information before he took off. How much does Dad know? Is he angry? Will he sympathize if I explain? Dutch sounded nervous, if not scared. I’m not scared of my family, but I am nervous. At the Board meeting, Dad told me to find a partner or a Docile. I’m sure those values don’t overlap, in his mind.
“Sorry,” I say. “It was an emergency.”
“I saw.” He brushes at the wet spots my clothing leaves behind. “Dutch helped me review your accounts. A taxi to the county? Emergency services? I hope everyone’s okay.”
He doesn’t say Elisha’s name, but that’s what he means.
“Sort of.” Should I tell him? Declare my intentions? I’ve never done anything my family wouldn’t approve of, before.
