by Brandy Ayers
She’s not in the loft. Or the office. She never goes out on the balcony, something about protecting her skin from aging prematurely. But I check anyway. Geoff comes lumbering after me, holding a piece of paper in his hand.
“Hey, dude, she ain't here. Left you a note.” He hands me the paper filled with her precise handwriting when the doorbell rings. “Fuck, your takeout places are fast. I’m eating here more often.”
The idiot jogs back into the house, which is the most activity I’ve seen him do in ages. But drumming burns a shit ton of calories, so he’s always in shape. For some reason, my heart feels like it is trying to climb out of my throat as I read Lacy’s note.
Hey babe, you guys sound amazing. The pics I posted are already blowing up. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I got a call about the case. I’ve been cleared! They’re ready to unfreeze all my accounts. They just need me to come down and sign some papers. I’ll be back in a little bit. Love you!
I should be happy.
This whole mess is almost over. It’s what we want. For Lacy to not have to jump through hoops. We’ve been wondering if she will be able to travel with the band considering her status with being investigated by the FBI. Can she fly? Will they let her leave the country? This will solve all that.
But I’m not happy. I’m terrified. The last time she went to meet with that fucking agent, she came back near catatonic. A month later, and she still has nightmares about the girls in those photos.
Geoff reappears at the sliding glass door, only he’s not holding a plate full of food as I would expect. He’s wringing his hands in front of his stomach, and keeps shifting his eyes behind him, like his mom is going to jump out and bust him with a girl or something. “Dude. You need to come in here.”
Ignoring him, I pull out my phone and dial Lacy.
“Seriously, there’s someone here to see you.” Geoff glances back into the apartment, and I follow his eyes to a severe looking woman standing in the center of the living room.
The phone rings and rings, but Lacy doesn’t pick up.
Dread raises up like flood waters in my chest. Something isn’t right.
The note clutched in my hand, I stalk back into the living room. If I wasn’t so terrified, I would laugh at the rest of my bandmates, all sitting on the sectional with their hands in their laps staring at their feet like the principal is about to tell them off.
“Mister Flores, my name is Agent Christine Templeton with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. I’m looking for Lacy Falluci.” Severe isn’t a strong enough word for this woman. She stands stock straight with her hands poised at her hips where a gun is holstered on one side and handcuffs on the other. As if she’s prepared to arrest you at any moment. Her dark skin is totally free of makeup, and a jagged scar slashes across her face from left temple to right jaw. Black hair pulled back into a tight bun so tight, it pulls her face taut.
I notice these facts about the woman while my heart speeds to dangerous levels and my body prepares to fight whatever threat is being leveled at Lacy. “She’s with Agent Rose.”
Templeton doesn’t utter a word, but her eyes say this isn’t good. “Did she tell you where she was meeting Agent Rose?”
Words stick in my throat, and I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll vomit them and my lunch up onto the floor. Instead, I shake my head and hand her the note.
Her eyes scan it once. Twice. Three times before she turns to two men I hadn’t noticed standing sentry at the door. “Get tech on the line. We need to locate a phone.” She turns back to me. “I assume you have Ms. Falluci’s number. I’m going to need it to ascertain her current whereabouts.”
“What are you talking about? Just call your coworker and find out where the fuck he’s meeting her.” Anger rises in me like hot steam, searching for any way to release, and unfortunately for this FBI agent, and maybe my continued freedom, it seems to be coming out directed at her. “What the fuck is going on? You assholes steal her life, threaten her with imprisonment, then traumatize her with photos of her father and those poor girls, and now you’re pretending like you don’t know where she is.”
“I’m not pretending, sir. Agent Rose was suspended from his position with the FBI over a month ago. He has no reason to be meeting with Ms. Falluci right now. That means she is in grave danger, and you need to give me her phone number, so we can feed it back to headquarters, and they can track her location.”
All that hot airs leaves me at once as I rush to recite Lacy’s phone number. One of the agents at the door repeats the digits into a cell phone, then we all sit around and wait what seems like forever but is probably only thirty seconds.
“GPS and cell towers confirm her phone is at an office building in the Meatpacking District.” The blank faced FBI agent at the door turns in unison with Agent Templeton and the other guy who has yet to speak, and I follow close behind.
“Where do you think you’re going Mr. Flores?” Agent Templeton places a palm in the middle of my chest, and I sidestep her touch. Anyone else’s touch besides Lacy makes my skin crawl. Especially now with not knowing where she is or if she is in danger.
“I’m coming with you to get my girl.”
“That is very Liam Neeson of you, but no, you’re not. This is a delicate situation. We will call when we have Ms. Falluci safely in our custody.” The agent isn’t a large woman, but she has a commanding presence which brokers no negotiating.
We’re wasting time.
“Fine. But if you don't call in an hour or less, I am alerting all of Lacy’s social media followers that she has been duped by the FBI. Millions of people follow and love that girl. You may not care who we are, but I guarantee none of your bosses wants to deal with that public relations disaster.”
Templeton sniffs and turns to exit the building.
Behind me, I hear four sets of feet shuffle up the hall. “You really not following them?”
“Fuck that.” I give the agents exactly a thirty second head start before the band and I climb into Geoff’s SUV parked at the curb and head toward the Meatpacking District.
Chapter Thirteen
Lacy
This isn’t right.
The second my Uber pulls up to the address Agent Rose sent me to, I know something is off. Before I can tell the driver to keep going, to get me the hell out of here, Rose has stomped out of the dilapidated office building and is wrenching open my door.
“Out.”
“I’d prefer if we did this at headquarters. Like last time.” True, the last time I met with Agent Rose, he ushered me in through a backdoor and straight into an interrogation room, but I figured he didn’t want the paparazzi to get wind that they were questioning me. Now it’s me who is questioning everything.
Did I see any markings in the dark hallways and interrogation room to indicate I was truly in the FBI field office? The building we had been in was near Federal Plaza, but Rose said they didn't do actual FBI business in the building everyone thinks of as the center for FBI in New York. He said I was silly for thinking all those important people would be housed in such an obvious building, with its address listed on Google.
Now I’m thinking I was silly for listening to anything he has ever said.
I shrink against the opposite door, but Agent Rose leans in and drags me out by the arm. The Uber driver yells and starts to get out of the car, but the guy manhandling me slaps his FBI badge on the roof of the car and levels the obviously foreign driver with a death stare. “Get back in the car and drive away. This woman is under federal investigation, and unless you want the same treatment, I suggest you forget this ever happened.”
The man hesitates, I send a pleading look his way, all the while pulling at Rose's grip on my arm. But the driver ducks back into the car and drives away. I don’t blame him. I don’t want to be involved in this mess either.
“Are you even a real FBI agent?” Strangely proud to hear the strength in my voice, I look up at the man I’m pretty sure is going to kill me a
nd refuse to back down.
“I was. But then your dad fucked all that up for me.” His grip on my arms tightens, and he drags me to the door of the building practically falling down before us.
I scramble to keep up with his pace but fall to my knees. Not giving a shit, the so-called agent keeps going, scraping my bare knees along the pavement until he yanks me back to my feet. The warm trickle of blood rolls down my leg, and pain lances through my limbs.
Why did I bother getting dressed in my most professional outfit for this? Did I really think a pencil skirt and a blouse worn with killer pink heels would make a difference in whether my name got cleared of my father’s ill deeds? It seems so ridiculous now.
Shame washes over me, souring my stomach and causing tears to prickle behind my eyes. I’ve been so stupid. Never questioned not ever seeing another FBI agent. Never questioned the lack of communication. Refusing to let Scott hire me a lawyer to help fight the FBI investigation. I let his lawyer set up a corporation for me, so why wouldn’t I let his colleagues look at the FBI stuff too?
Scott’s dark, stormy eyes drift through my mind as I try to ignore the damp, mildewy air permeating the office building around us. I’d do anything to be curled up on the couch in the recording studio, watching as Scott works out the lyrics to songs with his band.
I’m jarred out of my thoughts when Agent Rose slams me down into a hard metal chair. The place is cold, the concrete floors and bare walls not helping to warm the room. This obviously used to be some sort of call center. There are cubicles coming apart and scattered around the space and wires hanging from the ceiling every ten feet or so. Takeout food boxes and dirty clothes litter the floor. A pile of blankets in one corner makes me think Rose has been sleeping here. Beside me is a long folding table with a couple laptops, phones, some drugs, and a gun scattered on the top. I eye up the gun, wondering if I can get to it without the asshole noticing.
“Is this the part where I ask you how my father ruined your FBI career and you spill all the information like a Scooby Doo villain?” Agent Rose drags his fingers through his hair every few seconds, his foot tapping out an agitated rhythm on the floor as he shuffles equipment around on the table. Maybe if I can distract him enough, I can get to the gun and get the fuck out of this mess. “Because that never works out well for the bad guy.”
“I’m not the bad guy in this scenario, you little bitch.” He picks up one of the phones and frantically punches out a text or something as he rants. “I’m the fall guy. Your father, his friends who think they have too much power to be touched, they are the bad guys. But thankfully, you are just dumb enough to not question my position with the bureau, so now, you are going to be the new patsy.”
“All you had to do was say, yes, this is the point where I give away my plan.” Fear and adrenaline pump through my veins, but I somehow stop the emotions from making themselves known in my voice. Scott. Just keep thinking about Scott, and I’ll get through this. Back to him.
Flipping open one of the laptops at the opposite end of the table, Agent Rose mumbles something under his breath, but I can’t hear everything. Pretty sure he’s calling me a bitch. Whatever.
“You got something I can clean up this blood with? These shoes may not be Jimmy Choo, but they are still cute as hell, and it would suck to get blood stains on them.” I stand up and walk towards the table. My legs feel like jelly, and I fist my hands to keep the tremors from showing.
“Sit the fuck back down, princess, unless you want me to tie you up.” Venom laces his voice, and spit sprays onto the screen inches away from his face. But he keeps typing away on the laptop, not bothering to even glance at me. Idiot.
I love when people underestimate me.
“No thanks. My boyfriend ties me up. He wouldn’t like it if someone else tried to take that honor from him.” I bend down to pick up a towel from the ground, pinching it at the corner because it looks like it’s covered in various bodily fluids. My already churning stomach turns over, and I fight to keep my lunch from making another appearance. “If I use this to clean up my leg, am I going to get herpes? Best not risk it.”
I toss the rag onto the table. Right over the gun.
I lean on the edge of the table, trying to look at what he’s doing, while also sneaking my hand under the towel. “You searching for porn? Don’t you know all those girls are part of the trafficking trade? I did research after those lovely pictures you showed me last time. Turns out there’s a thing called ethical porn. You should investigate that. You can watch pretty girls get drilled by big cocks without the guilt. Pretty awesome stuff.”
Just as I slide my fingers over the cold metal of the gun, Agent Rose whirls around and pins me back against the table. His hot, rancid breath washes over my face, and I’m suddenly flung back to the memories of the night in the alley. Being trapped between the hard brick wall and the panting vagrant. The feel of his body pressing into me as I fought to get away. The memories steal my breath.
“You think I give a shit about those girls? The ones your father helps send to men just as rich and twisted as he is? They don’t matter. We’re all just cogs in the twisted machine men like Frank fucking Falluci control. They twist and manipulate people to further their own agendas and don’t give a shit about the consequences. Then when shit hits the fan, they hop on their private jets and escape to tropical islands where they can pay to be protected from extradition.”
He leans loser, his lips brushing against my cheek as I wrench my head as far to the side as it will go. “They leave us behind. You. Me. None of it matters to them. At first, I thought I could threaten your life, and your dad would care enough to take me with him. But turns out, Daddy doesn’t love his little girl. Only loves his millions. So, instead, I’m making you take the fall for me.”
Rose backs off, moving back to the laptop. For a moment, I just lie there on the table. Gathering my breath. Shaking off the cloak of fear. Allowing hot anger to pour over me like wax from a candle. I’m not that girl anymore. The girl who worries more about the things around me then the people. The girl that didn’t know fear or struggle. She was weak. I never will be again.
I close my hand around the gun. The rough texture of the grip calms me. Shoots power into my muscles. Agent Rose. The guy in the alley. The fucking actor who groped me all those years ago. They might be able to overpower me with their bigger bodies, but they can’t break me.
Not even my asshole father could do that.
“How exactly did you think you would pin this all on me?” I sit up and quietly toe off my heels, so I will have a strong base for when the gun goes off in my hands. “I’d love to hear this brilliant plan you’ve come up with.”
I get to my feet. Square my shoulders. Plant my feet. Point the gun at Agent Rose’s back. A strange sense of peace shrouds me, protects me from the truth of this moment. I’m going to kill a man. But I don’t have any other choice. If I want to get back to the life I was building with Scott, this is what I need to do.
“You’re going to say some lines on camera for me, all about how you were a front for your daddy’s laundering, how you helped him identify girls who would be easy to take.” He stares at the laptop, typing and clicking, not giving me one fucking thought. Because I’m just some weak, rich, bitch that he doesn’t have to worry about.
“All the things I did for your dad. Then I’m going to kill you. If you cooperate, I won’t do anything to that boyfriend of yours. Don’t do as I say, and he’s going to be investigated too. I’ll be the hero who brought down the country’s biggest domestic human trafficking ring from the inside.”
Finally, Agent Rose stands and turns to me, his eyes widening and nostrils flaring as he takes in my shooting stance.
“One problem with that plan, Agent Rose. You didn’t do your research.” I grip the back of the slide, pulling it open to see there is indeed a round in the chamber. It takes a fraction of a second, and my eyes are back on Agent Rose. His face paled in fear. “You’re look
ing at a graduate of Mary Teresa’s School for Young Ladies. Our gym classes consisted of ballroom dancing, golf, yoga, aerobics, and oh yeah, skeet shooting and proper gun handling. Now, I’ve never shot a handgun, but I’m pretty sure the basics are going to be the same. Just aim and squeeze the trigger, right?”
I don’t let him speak. In quick succession, I point to one knee, fire. He screams, and that leg gives out beneath him. Point to the other knee and fire. He falls forward onto his stomach, crying and bleeding all over the concrete floor.
A crash behind me has me whipping around with the gun still firmly in my hands. Scott runs full tilt to me as more law enforcement spills in behind, yelling his name. Just the sight of him has every cell in my body turning to jelly. I flick the safety on the gun and let it fall to the floor. His arms are around me in the next instant. Around us, men and women dressed in riot gear rush toward Agent Rose, their guns pointed at him as he’s cuffed, and a gurney is wheeled in to take him to the hospital.
“I heard the gunshots and thought it was you. I thought you were dead. They tried to stop me, tried to tell me they would get you out, but they were taking too fucking long.” His hands slide over my arms my back. He takes a half step back and searches my face. “When did you learn to shoot a gun?”
“Sixteen. Every young lady should know how to keep up with her husband on the golf course and the skeet shooting range.”
“What the fuck kind of high school did you go to?” Scott laughs and kisses my forehead, pulling me back into his chest.
“Never thought I would say I was happy to be a graduate of Mary Teresa’s, but fuck, that old broad may have just saved my life.” I look up into Scott’s warm brown eyes, ignoring the activity around us. “By the way, even after ten years of golf lessons, I suck at that damn game. I hope that won't deter you from someday marrying me.”
