by Leanne Brice
"What do you mean?"
"You were so pretty! So little and cute and adorable—a powerful weapon. I knew you had it in you, that you’d become an invaluable member of my team. And I was right. You weren’t exactly a natural, but your natural advantages trumped that. Just like I figured, you had the power of disarming—one of, if not the most important parts of this whole gig. I’m glad our paths crossed, April. I’m glad life finally threw me a bone in the form of you."
She raises her glass toward me.
"You have no idea how close you came to being prostituted. Trafficked. I saved you. In the end, you’ll thank me."
I puzzle over her words.
What the heck was she talking about? I was already immensely grateful to her!
No, I didn’t know what other possible horrors awaited me should I have remained on the streets perhaps just one more day alone, but I do know what she has done for me.
I want to argue lightly with her, tell her I haven’t stopped being thankful she took me in, but I’m getting really sleepy really fast.
I start trying to fight it; after all, I haven’t even told her about my plans to see my mom yet or anything!
I guess the quick intoxication makes sense, though—it’s not like I eat a lot, and drinking on a fairly empty stomach after all the excitement today—it’s no wonder I’m about to pass the fuck out.
"I’ll just take a quick nap," I try to say to Taylor as I flop onto the bed and my vision and brain activity fades.
Chapter 7
Axel
I practically sprint to the suite, eager to see Jewel again.
I’m thinking, instead of taking her for another spin right away, I can book a restaurant and actually take her out so we can have a nice dinner and get to know each other better.
I’ll have my host start making the arrangements.
I can’t believe I’m actually thinking like this, but there it is.
Jewel has put some kind of spell on me.
I’m excited about her in a way I haven’t felt in years.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had crushes before, but this girl has me feeling like I’m fourteen again, like it’s my first time. I find myself a bit nervous about impressing her, which is so stupid—I’ve got everything going for me.
But I want to take her out somewhere, watch her eyes dance with pleasure. As good as she looks naked, I want to see her in a cute, designer dress.
I’m imagining all sorts of things starring her—making future plans for dates in my mind, various lingerie she’ll get to model for me.
I imagine the look on the guys’ faces when they see her and realize I wasn’t exaggerating about her beauty.
I even imagine her on my plane for the first time, wondering if she’d be impressed.
Or does she have her own private jet?
I wonder what she does?
Which wealthy family is she connected to?
Does she have siblings? Is she close to her parents?
I can barely contain my grin as I slip the key card in the door.
My heart is thumping against my chest, and I feel absolutely giddy.
I find myself in wonder that I’m thinking beyond which sexual positions to put her in next at all.
Usually, I can’t wait to see who’s the next victim to fall into my bed, how much she’ll resemble the last girl.
I wonder, will the next one be freakier, more acrobatic? Will she want me to spank her, try to fuck me with a dildo? Will she look like a good girl? A bad girl?
Will I have to pray the condom doesn’t break because she looks untrustworthy as fuck?
Speaking of which, I suddenly remember Jewel and I didn’t exactly take precautions.
Guess I’ll talk to her about that stuff once I get back to the room, although Jewel’s obviously a girl who handles her business, if her ability to rent the suite is any indication.
A girl like that gets pregnant when she wants to get pregnant.
Strangely enough, the thought of an accident like that with her doesn’t disgust me; in fact, I almost find it pleasant.
I have to stop in my tracks for a moment, I’m so blown away by the revelation.
I never wanted kids—or rather, I never thought about having them.
I just never imagined my life with them.
The way I’m living now is the life—nothing tying me down.
The steady rotation of new lovers is ideal—I learned long ago not to trust the opposite sex.
Sure, there are some dedicated true-blue types, like my mom, but once money enters the picture, being loved for who you are is out of the picture.
You can’t trust anyone.
I dated a girl once whom I accidentally collided with—a cute, wholesome-looking brunette with the deepest dimples.
I couldn’t resist asking her out and finding out if she really was as sweet and innocent as she seemed.
I wanted to corrupt her.
We dated for a while, and I never let on how loaded I was, and she seemed to really like me for me.
Turned out, she knew exactly who I was all along and arranged our ‘accidental’ collision, with the intent of grabbing my attention.
I only found out after I finally let my guard down and gave her one of my cards to buy something nice.
Yeah, I know—that was dumb. But I didn’t expect my girlfriend to actually max out a six-figure limit credit card then disappear.
I had Nate use his skills to help me dig up more about her, and we found out that sweet-faced girl had quite a rap sheet—she’d been busted by the cops a few times for various crimes—shoplifting and fraud among them. She had a different name attached to each mug shot.
That was quite a while ago, but since then, I just assume every girl is just looking to dig her claws into my funds, all of them a con artist of some sort, and ultimately, all of them gold-diggers.
I can’t be bothered to do a background check every time I meet a girl I like, so it’s best to keep things simple. No long-term commitments. Bang ‘em and move on.
Jewel is perfect—she’s got her own wealth, so I don’t have to worry about her being after me for my cash.
I open the door with a goofy grin, wondering if she’s still asleep or if she’s sitting up, waiting for my return.
My heart sinks a bit once I notice she didn’t come out to greet me.
Then I feel silly—the place is huge. She might not have heard me come in. She’s probably out on the balcony or locked up in a bathroom, soaking in a hot tub, unable to hear over bubbles and pop music or something.
I call out for her while searching, all the while trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach my brain refuses to make sense of, even when I realize the place is practically empty save for what came with the room, all sign of Jewel beyond a wrinkled bed is gone.
The sinking feeling has a bit of the horrific shades of the same sensation permeating me when seventeen-year-old me arrived home, minutes away from finding my dead mother.
Loud absence.
Maybe she slipped out for a stroll. Maybe she left to run some errand—to pick up some lingerie or something.
I soon realize that there’s no sign of the stuff I left behind, so I search harder, trying to spot the valuables pile, still hoping she just put them aside somewhere while she’s out shopping or something.
It feels like every organ in my interior drops when I realize there’s no sign of my stuff or hers—every sign that anyone was staying here gone, save for the rumpled bedsheets.
No sign of her bag, and definitely not the watch my dad gave me.
"No," I hear myself say softly, and then I shout, "Jewel?" again, even though I know there’s no way she’s going to answer.
She is gone for good.
This can’t actually be happening.
She stole everything! I can’t believe it.
After I spent all day bragging about this amazing woman in my hotel room, she has robbed me blind.
; I suddenly feel incredibly dumb.
I’m a goddamned poker player—how could I have not seen the signs?
I’m going to be humiliated if I go back to the guys now.
What the hell am I going to tell them?
I plant my butt on the nearest seat, my hand to my forehead.
You know what? I deserve this for even thinking this girl could be different for a second, for entertaining the thought of having more with her for just a moment.
I’m glad Jewel reminded me why I no longer take her sex seriously in the first place.
Why did I think things would turn out differently this time?
Why did I let myself imagine more than a one-night-stand?
If I see her again, I should probably thank her for getting me back on track, for confirming what I believed all along.
I probably will get to thank her because I sure as hell am gonna find her.
It’s one thing if she just ran off with a couple hundred dollars, even a couple of credit cards.
With a quick phone call, I can block the cards from being used and the cash is no big deal—I never meant to leave with the stack I came with.
It’s annoying to be stolen from, but ultimately, losing the cash has no real impact on my life.
The watch she took off with, however, is a different story.
I know I shouldn’t be so sentimental about it considering the baggage that comes with it, but that watch was not hers to take.
That watch is the only present my dad ever gave to me outside of the joint Christmas gifts from him and mom.
I’m almost sure now that all those gifts marked ‘From Mom & Dad’ were actually just from her.
That watch, however, represents the last day I saw my father, the final concrete thing he handed to me, outside of the loads of money he passed on to me eventually.
My dad might be a piece of shit living with his new family now without a single check-in, but that watch still has sentimental value.
The emotional memory of that day is imprinted pretty heavily on my mind, the conflicting emotions of joy and sorrow.
I can remember pretty much every detail of that horrible day.
It was the beginning of the end, and the beginning of a strange new start.
My dad had never given me anything like that before, so I should have known something was wrong the minute he appeared in front of me holding a small wrapped gift…
"Here’s your birthday gift, son,” he said, his eyes not matching his slight smile. Or maybe they did a little—his eyes looked sort of sad, and his smile was half-hearted, sort of droopy.
But I only focused on the part of the smile that made it and the gift box he was holding out to me.
"But it’s not my birthday for three more months,” I said, taking the box anyway, but looking at him inquiringly, knowing something was off.
“I know, but it’s best you get this now.”
“Why? Why can’t you give it to me in three months? Why can’t you hand it to me on my birthday?"
He paused before answering, his eyes momentarily focusing hard on my face as if transmitting a message.
You should know the answer to that, they said.
"I’ll be away on vacation. I won’t be here for your special day, so ..."
"But why now? Why not a week from now? Why not closer to my birthday?"
He just looked at me for a moment, then reached out and grabbed me into a hug.
I wanted to pull away, and I think I tried to for a moment, resisting what I instinctually knew was coming, but I soon melted into it and let my father hold me for the last time, his cologne strong in my nose, momentarily forgetting the small gift box in my hand.
"Goodbye, son. You take care," he said, his voice deep and rumbling, the sound making his chest come alive with a hum as he spoke.
Then he was pulling away, his back turned, walking away from me.
"Dad?"
I watched him pull away further after a few more long, confident steps before beginning to run after him.
"Dad... "
I couldn’t catch up—I could no longer reach the man who raised me, the one who’d been around my entire life.
And all I had left of him was his stupid early gift.
I threw it against the nearest wall.
Eventually, I picked it back up again, unwrapping it and opening the container to find a weird-looking watch.
It definitely wasn’t my style, but it reminded me of him, so I pretty much never took it off once I put it on…
I take an exceptionally deep breath as the loss weighs on me, doing my best to stay calm and reasonable so I can figure out my next steps.
I’m getting my shit back, and somehow, I’ll make the thief pay for what she did.
Guess I can just turn her over to the authorities—that should be enough, although a heartless bitch like that is probably dangerous.
I ignore the part of me trying to tell me that’s a lie, that it’s not a fair summation her—she’s not heartless.
But how could it not be? She stole all my shit!
Here I was, thinking we actually had something special, and she just played me like a fiddle. How can you take so much from someone in such a short period of time?
She obviously has no conscience. No heart.
I’ll have to come up with a story for the other guys, but Nate will get the real deal because if anyone can help me find her and save face, he can.
I take another breath, checking every part of the suite once more before heading back to the casino.
Jewel is not going to get away with this.
If I have to, I’ll break out the big guns.
I’ve got enough money to track her down, and if I have to, I’ll hire investigators to figure out who and where she is.
Once I find her, she will pay dearly.
No one pulls a fast one on me.
Part II
Waging War
The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.
Sun Tzu
Chapter 8
April
I come to slowly, my head feeling like it weighs twenty pounds, my brain foggy.
It takes a moment to figure out where I am—this seedy motel room isn’t a place I recall choosing to stay in, and boy, what a stark contrast to the huge suite I’d almost gotten used to.
Then I remember coming here with Taylor; it’s the room she booked for us.
My eyes continue to sweep the empty room as memories slowly make their way to the forefront of my consciousness.
I remember trying to decide how much to tell my best friend about Axel.
I’m used to sharing everything with her, but this time, I was conflicted—my time with Axel felt like something I should keep to myself; it felt like something worth respecting.
Still, that’s what best friends do, right? Spill all the dirty details.
I remember feeling sort of bad afterward, like I’d said too much. Like I should have been more protective of my time with Axel.
I pretty much immediately regretted running my mouth like that.
It was a lesson Taylor herself taught me a long time ago—never tell everything.
I’d just figured since Axel was just a fling, and ultimately a delightfully unexpected mark, it was no big deal to talk about what we did and how we did it, despite some part of me yelling that he could have been so much more than a lay, a target.
There’s no sign of Taylor now—no bags, no discarded clothing—and I don’t hear any indication that she could be in the bathroom or anything.
I slowly raise myself off the bed, my head still pounding and heavy.
I notice a folded sheet of paper tucked under a pillow and grab it up.
I straighten it, a feeling of dread hitting me before I even read the words.
Look, I’m sorry, it says. But hate the game.
To top it off, that bitch had the nerve to draw a heart where the vowels should have been in the wor
d Taylor.
I wonder whose handwriting she stole to write me her stupid little ‘don’t hate the player’ note.
Taylor has this creepy ability to accurately imitate any handwriting she sees, and she has totally freaked me out by writing to me in my own handwriting before. Just for kicks.
Luckily, she didn’t add insult to injury by doing that this time.
Still, I’m definitely mad as hell now that it’s clear what happened, but it’s being choked by sadness alarmingly quickly.
It’s not the first time someone I worked with pulled a fast one, but Taylor? Of all people?
How could she do this to me? We were supposed to be in this together!
I throw the ball I’ve made of Taylor’s note across the room in rage, and I suddenly realize I am dangerously close to tears.
God damn it, no way.
The last time I cried was the day Taylor found me, crumpled near a garbage can.
Since then, I had at least one person I could put my trust in, someone to look up to, someone to keep an eye on me. Someone who made me feel like I wasn’t completely alone.
Since that moment, I figured all wasn’t lost. I learned that there was always hope.
I should have known better.
If I can do this sort of thing with her, and if I could watch her do this sort of thing to others, she could easily do the same to me.
She pretty much warned me not to trust her, didn’t she?
A specific memory comes back to me, one that makes it clear that, had I been less green at the time, I would have known how this would end…
"You really thought he’d come through, didn’t you?" Taylor says with a slight smile, her hazel eyes practically dancing.
I’m not sure if she’s even bothering to try to hide the amusement in her eyes.
"I told you," she continues, shaking her head, "you can’t really trust anyone. Not like that. Sure, the kid had a sweet face, sure he looked sincere when he said he’d do it. But people are born to be self-serving, self-preserving.Why should he follow up on the job you hired him for when he could just flee with the money, without having to do the work? Sometimes you have to trust for the time being, but let this be a lesson, A—prepare to be betrayed."
