by Callie Hart
There’s a dark fire in his eyes when he slowly turns around, hands balled up by his sides. “What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. You?”
I pick up another glass and I chuck it, taking care to aim more carefully. Zeth ducks just in time to avoid some serious facial injuries. “Last night! That’s what’s wrong with me!” I turn…I need another glass. I find a discarded black, patent pump instead. The heel on it looks lethal. I hurl it, grunting with the effort, and the thing hits him square in the chest. Zeth’s face is a dark thundercloud, seething and growing angrier by the second.
“What about last night?” he hisses.
“The bed? The restraints? The…” I shut my eyes, shaking my head. I can’t believe that happened. “The girl.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like my freak-out is entertaining to him. He still looks like he’s going to brutally murder me, though. He begins to stalk forward, lethal, a dangerous predator, and I snatch up another glass—a rocks glass this time. Heavier in the base, more sharp corners. I throw it at him as hard as I can, but he simply ducks out of the way, still coming for me.
“Were you drunk?”
“What?”
“Last night. Were you drunk?”
“No.”
“Were you high?”
“No!”
“Then stop throwing shit at me. And stop pretending like you didn’t enjoy every second of it!”
“I—” My cheeks flood with heat. He’s right. He’s so right I want to cry, but I can’t let him see that. I need to get the hell out of here. “Where’s my underwear, Zeth?”
He’s three feet away now, slowly closing the distance between us. In a complete about turn from last night, he’s wearing some low-slung jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Somehow I just assumed he would always wear black no matter what—black in keeping with the color of his soul.
“I’ll be keeping those,” he informs me.
“Uhhh…I don’t think so. They were Provocateur.” I shift to the left as he inches closer, putting a narrow ornament stand in between us. A cold smile unfurls across his face—a calculating, assessing one.
“Are you denying that you wore them for me?”
He has me there. I shrug my shoulders, trying to remember how nonchalant people act. “So?”
“So when a girl wears something for me, it becomes mine, Sloane.”
“Wow. You must have wardrobes full of hooker’s underwear, then.”
“Multiple wardrobes,” he says, “Many. Full to bursting.”
I feel sick. “Forget it, you know what? Keep them. I’m too tired, and sore, and freaked out to be doing this with you right now. I need to go home.” I suddenly remember I’m on the nightshift tonight and my spirits plummet even further. I’m going to have to spend twelve hours walking around the hospital, reliving every second of last night while Zeth brags to…whomever about bagging me again. I’m such an idiot.
“Fucking typical,” Zeth breathes.
“What is?”
“You. You’re deflecting your shit onto me. All I did last night was show you who you really are. You can’t be mad at me for that.”
I can be, and I am mad at him. “I think you’re seeing what you want to see. I’m not looking for some sexual awakening. I’m just looking for my sister. I’m done wasting my breath asking you what you know, and I’m done playing these little games with you. Maybe one day, if you suddenly develop a conscience, you’ll come and tell me because it’s the right thing to do.”
I take a deep breath and walk toward the apartment door, betting that he won’t follow. He doesn’t, but he does manage to get the last word in. “A conscience will get you killed in my line of work, Sloane. And doing the right thing often has the same effect.”
Twenty minutes. I last twenty fucking minutes before I'm ready to smash up the apartment. It's already fucked from last night though, and Ganya’s been shooting me the shittiest looks since he arrived to start the clean up. Looks like my guests had a blast, not that I would know. I’d hidden in that dark room for hours waiting for her, not even faintly interested in joining in with them. Ever since Sloane appeared back on the scene, everything's been completely fucked up.
It's all her fucking fault.
And the woman had the gall to be throwing shit at me? I should have tossed her ass out first thing when I'd kicked everyone else out. Nah, scratch that… I shouldn't have let her stay in the first place.
"Is anything you need me to do this morning, boss?" Michael, stealthy assassin that he is, has let himself into the apartment without making a sound. I bury my hands into my hair, scowling out the window over the city. Why do I do this to myself? I've been just fine. More than that, I’ve been completely fucking happy. I ran as fast as I could two years ago after I slept with Sloane because I knew. I fucking knew this would happen, and now look at where we are.
"Yeah," I sigh. "Send out an email to the group. Let them know all future gatherings have been cancelled until further notice."
This is such bullshit. She's ruined the whole thing. Because now, when I think about screwing someone that isn't Sloane, it just feels flat. Pointless. I'm not in love with the girl. I'm not. There’s just something about her that I need.
I forget about the skyline and focus my foul temper on Michael. He's not big on words; I like that about him. Today he doesn't need to say anything, though. His thoughts are right there on his face, plain as day. Bastard thinks this is hilarious.
"And you can wipe the smirk off your face too,” I snap.
"I'm not smirking, Zee. Just merely observing something I never thought I'd witness."
"What are you running your mouth about?" I could happily go for a fight right now—smashing my fist into something would go down just great, but Michael is just being Michael. Besides, we’re two evenly matched for a quick brawl; it would take a lot to ground him. He grins at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"Just this girl. And you. And cancelling your monthly parties. Says a lot, is all."
"It doesn't say anything. Just quit…just quit smirking. Have you heard from Rufus?"
Michael buries his smile and becomes all business. "Yes, actually. He said a report came back from Julio. A girl matching the description you sent out works out of one of his compounds."
"Works?" I know what that means. Julio is one of the biggest pimps in California. His compounds are known all over the country, hell, all over the world for the depraved shit that goes down there.
Michael nods. "Works."
Shit. I should just unhear this information. Julio’s not a guy to be fucked with, and if Sloan's sister has been based there for the past two years, then she’s definitely not the same girl Sloane remembers. She’ll be someone quite different by now.
"Benji sent me a shot he managed to snap off when he was there yesterday. Wanna check it out?" Michael asks. Benji used to be one of Charlie's boys, young, stupid, before he got sent away in disgrace after royally fucking up an armed robbery he was committing his in own time. Three blocks from where he lived. Charlie thought that was stupid. No shitting where you eat and all that.
"He took a picture? Crazy son of a bitch. Julio’ll kill him if he finds out he has a cell inside his walls."
Michael shrugs. "Kid’s been working for the Mexicans here and there. They trust him marginally more than the other runts they've got running for them." Michael talks as he flicks through his phone. He finds what he's looking for and shows me. On the screen is a blurry shot of a young girl with a mass of chocolate colored hair. She's wearing a loose t-shirt that swamps her small frame and her face is only half turned toward the camera, but I can see that she's Sloane’s sister as soon as I lay eyes on her. I blow out a sharp breath.
"Is it her?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it sure is."
"How'd you want to proceed?"
"Fucking carefully." Charlie and Julio were rivals once upon a time. About three years ago Charlie disappeared for a week, told me to stay home
which was weird enough, and when he came back things were roses with the Mexicans. I'd been suspicious as fuck at the time—an accord like that is usually only birthed by business, and Charlie's drugs and guns move south instead of north. I'm not some stupid kid, though. I've learned to keep my trap shut instead of asking dangerous questions. "We go up there, Charlie’s gonna know about it."
Michael considers this. The guy’s more than just muscle—his brain is damn lethal, too. I might not appreciate or like it sometimes but he's always got advice on hand, especially when it comes to stuff like this.
"Tell the old man you’re stopping through. And tell Charlie you’re going up there visiting family. You leave it another three weeks and he'll know you need to get a taste of pussy as if you're missing your monthly treat. It’d make sense that you go see Julio."
I grunt. Charlie knows the only family I have in the world, let alone in California, is the deadbeat wife of the uncle who used to beat my ass raw. But it might work, maybe. If I can spin it the right way.
"You wanna take a team up there with you?"
"Fuck no. If I rock up with a pack of boys, we won't even get through the front door. No, I need to keep this small."
"Could take a girl?"
I arch an eyebrow at him, pressing my knuckles into my lips. "What do you mean, take a girl?"
"He'd be expecting that. Sounds like Charlie sends girls to him all the time. He picks up virgins mostly, but occasionally he collects a girl with a little experience. He sends them over to Julio to pass on for profit up in LA. The clientele have a less discerning taste there. Don’t split hairs over how many dicks have already ridden a chick."
I could say Charlie sent me up there with a girl? I think about that and my stomach twists. The first person that comes to mind is Lacey, but I could never, ever, ever ask her to do that. Ever. She's already fucked up enough as it is. No, the only other option would be Sloane, and that’s just as unacceptable. Even if it's only an act and no one is supposed to touch her, it's too risky. What if it goes wrong? What if Julio wants a taste? That's just something I wouldn't tolerate. We would both fucking die. "Won't work, Michael. We’ll need to find another way."
He doesn't argue the point. We stand in laden silence for a moment before he tucks his hand into his pockets. "Okay then, boss. Anything else for now?"
"Yeah. There is." Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. This is possibly the worst idea I've ever had, but… Nope. I don't even have an excuse. I'm just an idiot. "I need you to go and see someone for me."
"The girl from last night?"
"Yeah. Her. I need you to give something to her." I put together what I want Michael to deliver and he leaves; the moment the door closes behind him I feel like chasing after him and punching the guy in the mouth for not pointing out how moronic I’m being. He is usually good at that, but this time he's just accepted what I've told him and gone. What the hell does that even mean? Instead of chasing after him, I pull out my phone and call him. I watch him down below on the streets as he feels his cell ring. He stops, looks back up at the window, pulling it out of his pocket and answering.
"Change your mind?"
I bite down on my jaw, closing my eyes. This changes everything. "No. Just…just don't leave her side until she does what I have asked, okay? Do not let her out of your sight."
"Dr Romera? Sloane? Hey, Sloane."
I shake my head, kicking my brain back into gear. Mikey, the intern, stands in front of me, wringing his hands. The abject terror all interns experience is a powerful and paralysing thing, and it still appears to have Mikey firmly in its grip. He blinks at me and I realize he's asked me something.
"What's up, Mikey? Have you killed one of my patients?" I probably shouldn't joke about that—it's a possibility after all. Mike is a weird green color, too, which doesn't exactly assuage my suddenly suspicious mind.
"I—there's a guy at the front desk to see you. He's been waiting for thirty minutes. The nurses said they wouldn't page you if it wasn't an emergency, and he wasn't family. And then Gracie wouldn't page you because he lied to her and said he was your brother."
I snort when I imagine Zeth trying to pass himself off as my brother. "How did she know he was lying?"
Mikey dithers, turning back down the corridor. He wants to get out of here bad. "Mostly because he was black and you aren't."
Black? I put my coffee cup down beside me, my attention suddenly one hundred percent fixed on the nervous kid in front of me. He fidgets, putting me on edge.
"He said if I didn't come back with you in ten minutes, he was going to torch my Jetta, Sloane. D’ya think… Is there any way we could…?” He points a thumb over his shoulder, wincing.
This guy may not actually be Zeth, but if he's threatening to firebomb someone's car, he undoubtedly has something to do with him. I groan and get to my feet—this is going to be awful. Mikey practically runs back to the reception, pausing to look safely over his shoulder in case I might not really be coming. When we arrive, Grace glares at Mikey with a deep disapproval. By coming to fetch me he has gone against her and that's the last thing you ever want to do around here. Grace is lord and overseer of this world. Mikey probably would have been better off kissing goodbye to his car. Sitting on a red fold-down chair in the waiting area, Michael, the doorman from last night, is waiting patiently, his hands folded in his lap.
His light brown eyes come alive when he sees me. He stands and approaches, dressed in the most beautiful grey suit—no way it isn’t designer—that compliments his mocha colored skin tone perfectly. “Ms. Romera.” He inclines his head politely. “Mr Mayfair told me I would find you here.”
“Mr. Mayfair?”
Michael’s eyes flicker—curiosity flaring and then disappearing just as quickly. “Zeth. He asked me to come and give you this.” He produces a black envelope from his breast pocket, sealed, and addressed with a single sweeping S, written in gold. I take it from Michael, scowling. Most people would have just sent a text message, but no. Not Zeth Mayfair (surely too ordinary a surname for him?). Michael gives me a friendly smile—how the hell he can set me at ease is a miracle. He’s the type of man other men run from, fast, and in the other direction, while begging for their lives.
“Do you know what’s in here, Michael?” I wave the envelope from side to side—something heavy and hard slides from the motion, and I can already feel what it is. That arrogant, manipulative…
“I do,” he informs me.
“Do I want to know?”
“Mr Mayfair insisted I wait here until I have witnessed you follow the instructions inside his letter.” His eyes are shining with mirth when he tells me this, like he’s enjoying the fury that blossoms on my face. I don’t have time for this. I don’t need it. I rip open the ridged, expensive black paper and tug out the note inside, which is just as thick and luxurious. There aren’t many words scrawled on the paper, but they’re powerful enough.
Sloane,
Put this with the rest of your keys.
Give Michael the one to your apartment. He’ll bring it back within the hour.
Z
Forget being pissed off before. Now I’m livid. Now I’m seeing red. He thinks he can just demand the key to my house? He thinks I’ll just hand it over to possibly the most intimidating man, aside from him, that I’ve ever come across? Ha!
“Pump the brakes there, buddy,” I tell Michael. He’s grinning now, flashing me brilliant white teeth, laughing under his breath. “Why the hell does he think this is gonna fly with me?”
“Because I heard from a contact of his this morning—Rufus. And Zee thinks you might be grateful for the information he kindly shared with us. Something about a woman you might be looking for?”
I close my fist around the key still inside the envelope. Is he…is he for real? “Not five hours ago he told me he wasn’t going to help me,” I mumble.
“He says a lot of things. Trick is figure out when he’s telling the truth is all. He’s been looking fo
r a while now. Not since the hotel, but—”
Oh my God, I think I’m going to throw up. “You know about that?"
“Mr Mayfair informed me of only what he deemed utmost important. I needed to know who I was keeping an eye on for him. You can’t tell him I told you, though. I’d be in six pieces and at the bottom of the docks before I could blink.”
This is all suddenly very overwhelming. I walk over to the waiting room chairs and sit down, covering my face with my hands. My heart pumps with a vengeance—finally, finally, finally, finally…
Finally.
Michael sits next to me, letting me digest. I tilt my head sideways, closing my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Call him,” I whisper. “I need to speak to him.”
Those extraordinarily white teeth are flashed at me again. “You can call him yourself, Ms. Romera. He put his contact information into your phone before he gave it back”
I pull my phone out of my scrubs pocket and immediately check to see if it’s true. S, T, U, V, W, X, Y…my finger stills over the touch screen.
Z.
There it is. One single letter, followed by eleven digits.
My heart. God, my heart doesn’t know what to make of that. I hit the call button, eyeing Michael warily. The sound of the dial tone is enough to make my palms break out into a sweat. It rings once, twice…
A pause…
“Did you do it?”
That voice is even deeper on the end of a phone—a growl, a low reverberation that makes me want to press my legs together to stop the need from building. “Do what?” I whisper.
“Don’t play with me, Sloane.”
I’m pushing my luck with him already and we’ve barely said two words to each other. “Fine,” I admit. “No, I haven’t. I can’t really say that I want or need the key to your kinky sex den.”
