by Dori Lavelle
“Something like that.” He shakes out a cloth napkin with the hotel logo in the center. “It’s expected of the owner.” He grins, waves over the waiter, and orders a bottle of wine.
He doesn’t notice me gaping at him. “So you’re in the hotel business when you’re not… lecturing?” Fake lecturing, I’m tempted to add, but I don’t have a death wish.
“That’s right.” He watches the waiter fill our glasses with white wine.
No wonder the hotel staff were on the verge of licking his shoes.
“Would you like to order?” The waiter clasps his hands in front of him and looks at each of us in turn. “The usual, Mr. Steel?”
“Give us a moment, please, Mateo.”
The waiter gives a curt nod and retreats.
Damien rubs the side of his face. “You’re asking a lot of questions lately.”
“I only asked one. I’m interested in you, that’s all.” I pick up the menu and flip through it, pretending to look over the options. “How do you find time to do so much while running a business?” By “so much,” I mean his extracurricular activities of kidnapping and killing people.
“Having a great staff makes all the difference.”
I barely hear his response as an idea pops into my mind. I turn to the last page of the menu and peruse the bottom of the page. There it is: the hotel address. San Maureo, Mexico.
I look up at Damien, trying my best to keep the terror from showing on my face. Although it’s good to know my location, running around another country without any form of identification could pose a problem.
“You’re awfully quiet.” Damien lays a hand on mine. “Everything all right?”
“Yes.” Under the table, I clench my other hand into a fist. “I think I’m ready to eat. But I can’t decide on anything.”
“I’ll order for both of us. How about some seafood?”
“Sounds good.”
Through the rush in my ears, I hear Damien order our meals. I catch a few names—shrimp cocktail, lobster frittata with sevruga caviar—then everything fades into gibberish.
Mexico or not, it’s time for me to start thinking about getting away. When I look over Damien’s shoulder, I spot Adrian talking to the hotel manager. He glances up, and our eyes meet. My stomach clenches. I’m guessing he’s been instructed to watch my every move.
I take a sip of wine, and then a huge gulp, before realizing my mistake. No alcohol; my head has to remain clear at all times. I reach for my glass of water and raise it to my lips, eyes still on Adrian.
“Ivy?” Damien’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
“Huh?” I shake my head and return my attention to him. I have to be careful, remain present so he doesn’t get suspicious. “Did you say something?”
“I asked if you wanted a salad. You can get it from the buffet.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Of course I am. It’s nice to be out.” I force a smile. Why does he keep asking if I’m fine? What does he care? “Sure, I’ll have a salad.” I start to stand, then sit again. “Should I get it myself or will you?”
I’m holding on to the hope that he’ll let me step away from him for a few minutes, but I don’t expect he’ll risk it. There are so many people around. I could find a way to sneak a request for help into someone’s ear.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He gives a choked laugh and washes it down with wine. “Of course you can get it yourself.”
“Oh. I just thought you might prefer to do it.”
“You’re a free person, Ivy.” His eyes shoot daggers at me. “I’m not as cruel as you make me out to be. I’m your husband, for goodness sake. Just don’t talk to anyone.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” I almost laugh with relief. I hadn’t expected it to be this easy. It can only mean one thing: He’s testing me. After all, he’s the one who proposed I get a salad in the first place. “Okay, then. I’ll be right back.” My chair almost falls to the ground as I stand.
As I walk away from the table, Damien and Adrian both keep their eyes fixed on me. I try my best not to look back at them or reveal how nervous I am.
Adrenaline is burning the walls of my stomach, but I can’t risk it all and run, not with them watching me so closely. I’m pretty sure Damien is waiting for me to do something stupid. I need a little more time to think of the perfect exit strategy.
For now, he has nothing to worry about. If this is a test, I’ll pass with flying colors. Unless, of course, his intention is for me to fail. Then he’d have a reason to never let me out of my prison again.
Dinner is delicious, but quiet. I’ve run out of things to say to him, and coming up with pretend conversation proves complicated. All I can think about is my escape.
“The food is good.” I stick my fork into a piece of crab meat, imagining the metal teeth sinking into Damien’s skin instead.
“I knew you’d like it.” He dabs his mouth with his napkin. “You were right. This is nice, being out together as a couple. Maybe we should do this more often.”
“Maybe.” I reach for my glass of water and take a mouthful, but it goes down the wrong way. I cough and place a hand on my chest.
“You okay?” He places a hand on mine, the gesture of a loving husband—or somebody pretending to be one.
“Fine.” I slip my hand away from his and reach for a napkin, which I swipe over my lips. Lipstick clings to it like smeared blood. “I should go to the restroom. My lipstick needs fixing.”
“Don’t be long.” He shovels food into his mouth. Not a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “And be careful.”
I want to tell him to go to hell, but I give him a small smile instead. I get to my feet and walk away from the table on shaky legs.
46
It’s a struggle not to glance behind me as I walk down the corridor. Is Adrian tailing me, or did Damien decide to do the job himself? What if he’s standing at the end of the corridor, waiting for me?
I’m halfway to the restrooms and can see the door at the end of the corridor when I spot the kitchen to my right.
The words Staff Only are written above a small, misty window in the door. I almost walk past when a lightbulb goes off in my mind. I come to a halt as my pulse picks up pace.
Bracing myself, I take a look back. My heart lifts when I don’t see Adrian or Damien. I can’t believe they let me go on my own. Is this another test?
My plan had been to find a way out through one of the bathroom windows. But now I realize the windows might not be large enough to climb out of. If they are, there’s a chance Damien has guessed what I plan to do and is waiting on the other side for me to fall right back into his arms. That could explain why I’m not being followed.
The kitchen might be a better option. He might not think to search for me in there. At least, not right away.
With sweat trickling down my spine, I shove the kitchen door open with both hands. The door almost slams into a waiter carrying two silver trays. He steps back just in time.
“Sorry,” I murmur. No eye contact. I feel rather than see the annoyed glance he shoots me before pushing the door open with a shoulder and disappearing through it. He’s too busy to be suspicious of my presence. The door swings closed again.
My heart is lodged inside my throat as I allow myself to be swallowed by the kitchen rush. Waiters, chefs, and sous-chefs scurry around me, moving from one stainless steel appliance to the next.
Apart from the occasional glance from one or two people, no one seems to notice me looking lost.
My heart is thudding hard, but I’m unable to hear it over the sounds of sizzling oil, the clank of the dishwasher, waiters shouting out orders from their pads, and the humming of various industrial machines.
This is my chance. I have to use the rush to make an escape. I draw in a deep breath, heavy with the smell of spices, grease, meat, and fish. Then I duck my head and push forward, launching into a cloud of steam released by a massive boiling pot
.
I try not to slip on the tiled floor, which someone must have just finished mopping. My target is the back door. Before I reach it, I spot a block of knives next to a microwave. There are three left in the block. Wasting no time, I grab the smallest one. From a hook near the door, I reach for a blue and white kitchen towel.
I push open the door and step out of the kitchen.
The balmy night air touches my skin, but dread keeps me in a cold sweat.
I scan the area. A small lamp above the door throws out enough light for me to make out my surroundings. The yard I’m standing in is enclosed by a wall that’s at least ten feet high. Three large dumpsters line one side of the yard. Two wooden chairs are propped against the other side of the wall, farthest from the dumpsters. A wooden table stands between them, with an overflowing ashtray in the middle of it. A few cigarette butts litter the ground.
I glance at the wall. I’ll have to climb over it. Thank God Damien didn’t insist on me wearing a dress instead of pants.
I have to act before someone comes out for a cigarette or brings out the trash.
My lips pressed together in concentration, I wrap the kitchen towel around the knife and push it into the back pocket of my pants. I grab a chair and scurry over to the dumpsters, thankful this part of the wall isn’t visible from the kitchen window.
Sliding the stilettos from my feet, I’m about to clamber up the dumpster and then the wall when raised voices spill out the kitchen window. My heart lodges inside my throat. I take a peek through the window and spot Damien talking to one of the chefs. Even from a distance, I feel his rage. Adrian is standing next to him, communicating furiously with his hands.
Climbing over the wall now is risky—they could decide to have a look outside. Before panic can paralyze me, I grab my shoes, climb onto the chair, and open one of the dumpsters.
Trying not to retch from the smell of rotten food, I ease myself inside and close it. It’s plenty big, even with the bags of trash already inside. I only hope they don’t see the chair and put two and two together.
I’ve just buried myself under enough slimy bags of rotten food when I hear the kitchen door crash against the wall. Damien and Adrian’s muffled voices come closer. I hold my breath.
“This is ridiculous. Where is she?” I hear the shuffling of feet. “She can’t have disappeared into thin air.”
Adrian clears his throat, and I imagine him rubbing his moustache as he thinks. “I doubt she escaped through the kitchen. Someone would have seen her.”
“And what the fuck were you doing, anyway? I signaled for you to follow her to the restrooms.”
The silence is so stark, I hear my heart beating.
“I’m sorry for not paying better attention. We’ll get her back, I promise.” Adrian pauses. “But don’t you think it’s best to… let her go? For now?”
“Never. Go and find her.” Something slams against the bin closest to mine—probably Damien’s foot. I close my eyes and brace myself for the possibility that they might think to look inside the dumpsters. I deflate with relief when their footfalls fade and the kitchen door opens and closes again.
I don’t know how long I remain curled up in my corner of the dumpster, arms wrapped around my body.
47
I inhale small breaths of putrid air. I’m not in the clear. There’s a chance one of them is still outside. My fears become reality when I hear another one of the dumpsters being opened, the cover hitting the wall. A rummaging sound follows.
Shit, I scream inside my head, but I comfort myself with the hope that the smell in my dumpster will put the person off. Next, the dumpster closest to mine, the one Damien kicked, is also opened, searched through, and closed again. Adrian swears under his breath as he opens the lid of my dumpster a fraction of an inch.
Despite most of my body being covered by trash bags, if he looks closely he’ll see me, especially since I’m trembling with fear. Luckily he retches and lets the lid fall back into place. I send up a silent prayer of thanks.
He steps away from the dumpster and I hear him open the kitchen door. At least, I think it’s him. To be on the safe side, I stay put. Good thing my nose has somewhat adjusted.
Perhaps I’m alone again, but if I climb out of the dumpster and over the wall now, there’s no guarantee Damien won’t be waiting on the other side. As I allow the time to pass, I think about what I’m sitting in, and my stomach turns. My mouth fills with saliva, and before I can do anything to stop it, I turn my head to the side and throw up. The bitter and sour taste makes my eyes water, but I blink away the tears.
Disgusting smells have nothing on Damien Steel. I’ll remain hidden as long as it takes me to feel safe enough to climb out.
Several times, a kitchen staff member enters the yard and dumps more garbage into my dumpster. I don’t make a sound as new piles of food bury my body. Half an hour later, I hear multiple voices, then movement around my dumpster. Something scrapes the ground, and I know it’s the chair being moved. They must have come out for a smoke. They don’t say much, but I feel their presence and hear their sighs of exhaustion.
Finally, the people leave the yard. As the kitchen door opens, I don’t hear any loud sounds spilling out like before. Perhaps the dinner rush is over. Damien could even have left the restaurant by now. I imagine the presence of the big boss would naturally keep people on their toes.
I wonder whether Damien and Adrian are combing the entire hotel for me now. After working so hard to keep me imprisoned, there’s no way he’ll give up easily. He’s fueled by obsession. Despite being far from safe, I allow a tiny smile to creep across my face.
I wait for at least another hour. Inertia starts to set in. My eyes grow heavy and my body aches with every small movement. I have to do something soon. Although I feel safer in the dumpster than out there in the open, I can’t remain in here the entire night. Whoever comes to empty the dumpsters will surely discover me.
Damien could have instructed the hotel staff to keep their eyes open and alert him if they see me. The safest option would be to distance myself from Hotel Sierra, from Damien’s property. Despite the desire to get moving, I decide to wait a little longer, maybe another hour, to give the kitchen staff ample time to finish up with dinner and for Damien to leave.
I fall asleep without planning to and am jerked awake by something warm and sticky being poured into my dumpster. The person leaves the lid open and returns to the kitchen. I point my nose up at the starry sky and inhale deeply of the fresh air. After a few more minutes, I push my cramped legs out and rise.
I gather as much garbage as I can underneath my feet, creating a small mountain that will enable me to reach the rim. Without the chair waiting for me on the other side, I might have to throw myself out of the dumpster, but a little fall won’t do me much harm.
I pause. There are no more sounds coming from the kitchen.
Pulling myself over the rim, I’m surprised to find the chair I thought had been moved still in the place where I left it. Luck is on my side tonight; I won’t blow it. I make it to the ground and take a quick glance through the kitchen window. There are only two people in there now. The one with the chef’s hat is wiping down the counter, back turned away from the window. The other one is standing in front of an open fridge, jotting something on a clipboard.
Wasting no time, I hurry back to the wall. My clothes, skin, and hair are all damp, sticky, and smelly. With the help of the chair, I scramble on top of a closed dumpster, praying it won’t tip over. Once or twice, I slip in the slime covering my feet, but I catch myself in time.
I stretch my upper body over the wall and look down at the other side. My eyes scan the empty street. Several cars are parked on the curb, none of them expensive. They can’t belong to Damien. But of course, I might be mistaken; he could be hiding inside any of them.
What other choice do I have? I have to get moving before I get caught.
I make it onto the top of the wall without catching the
attention of the remaining staff. My fall to the ground is hard, and I hit the pavement with my shoulder and hip at a painful angle. I’m glad I was careful to keep my head raised—a concussion is the last thing I need right now.
Ignoring the pain in my joints, I pull myself up to my feet. Grabbing my shoulder, I limp away as fast as I can. Soon the pain becomes a part of me, and I start to run, glancing behind me several times.
I come across a homeless man slumped next to a closed café. He gives me a suspicious look. I must look a sight with my dirty clothes and disheveled hair. Little does he know I’m just as homeless as he is.
I consider giving him my rings as a gift, since I no longer have a use for them and never wanted them in the first place. But it would be foolish. If I want to get out of this town, this country, I’ll need money. And these rings are valuable.
I move on, running faster. Several cars drive by, but I’m too terrified to hail one and ask for help. Damien could be anywhere.
I turn a corner onto another street, which leads me down a dark, narrow alley. The fear of someone attacking me freezes my blood, but being held prisoner by Damien for the rest of my life wins out. Who knows what he’ll do if he gets me back? He threatened to kill me once already.
I stay away from busy streets and from nighttime passersby. I stick to the shadows—alleys, and sidewalks with broken or dying street lamps. Some of the people I come across try to talk to me, at times begging for money. Others barely acknowledge me. Some even recoil. I’m a skunk, keeping enemies away with my stench.
After a while, I spot a beaten-up pickup truck with peeling paint parked at a gas station. The man I suspect to be the owner is inside the gas station store, flipping open his wallet.
I hesitate a moment before hunching over and hurrying toward the truck. Pushing my fear to the back of my mind, I climb into the open back and cover myself with a faded gray blanket that smells of stinky feet. Though, the smell could just as well be coming from me.
