“Thanks,” Hyde whispered. The sound of it made my breath hitch; fragility carried it like the baseline of a melody. He squeezed my hand. Anton would’ve been proud. I hated myself. “So, I’m not going to have much free time next week,” he said after clearing his throat. “But I was wondering if you’d like to come with me to a party Beatrice’s hosting this Saturday?”
“Party?”
“Yep. Just one of my many newfound duties now that I’m back in the world of strategic schmoozing. It’s going to be boring as hell, of course – the social equivalent of water boarding really – which means I’ll need someone to help keep me sober.”
“A lot of people from the company will probably be there too, right? Like… board members and whatnot?” I’d asked it very quietly. I couldn’t even look him in the eyes as I spoke.
“Yep.” He laughed. “Bella Magazine’s still a part of Hedley Publications. A lot of people from the company’ll probably be there. But it won’t be a total waste of time if we keep each other company, right? You can bring your sisters too, if you want. Well, Ericka’ll probably be there anyway if her jittery husband’s on the list. I’ll text you the address later.”
“OK,” I shifted on my feet. “Thanks, Hyde.”
We both fell silent. Hyde’s gaze lingered on my lips a little while longer. “Deanna… would you…?” He pressed a hand against my waist, drawing me in. “If you don’t have anywhere else to go, why don’t you–?” When I saw his eyes flicker past me to the townhouse, I knew right away what he was trying to ask. But I couldn’t do that. Not now, not under these circumstances. It would be wrong on every level.
“I’m sorry, I actually should get going. It’s late. Plus it’s garbage day tomorrow and I’m sure Dad and Ade forgot to take the trash out. Again.”
I was rambling, but I waved awkwardly anyway, pretending nothing was wrong, and let his driver take me back over the bridge. Sighing, I lay my head against the glass window. A party this Saturday. It was the perfect opportunity to publically destroy someone. If I was going to carry out Anton’s plan, then that was probably the time to do it.
Apparently, Anton thought so too. I saw my phone buzz just as I climbed into bed: Lucien Restaurant. Noon tomorrow. Things to discuss. Wear something nice.
I buried my face in my pillow.
13
MISSION
“I said I’m here to meet someone. What, you don’t believe me?”
The door guy at Lucien looked me up and down before curling up his pointed nose in a “polite” half-sneer – the kind of “polite” one used to poorly conceal one’s disdain. That was fine with me; if I really did have to be at Anton’s beck and call, then I sure as hell wasn’t going to “wear something nice” whenever he ordered me to, the bastard.
So there I stood staring down the maître d’ in a pair of beaten up jeans and stained T-shirt, half hoping he’d have security escort me out so I could have a valid excuse not to meet with Anton.
When I saw the man’s sneer deepen, I shrugged. Oh well. Can’t say I didn’t try, Anton. “Well, if you really don’t want me here, I guess I’ll–”
“It’s all right,” came a voice from the dining room.
I shuddered. Anton. Like a vampire, he materialized out of nowhere. My eyes flickered away from him almost immediately as he walked up to us, and I hated myself for it. Squeezing my hands into fists, I sucked in a deep breath and glared at him while he calmly told the maître d’ that I was his “guest”. My fists twitched, my knuckles eager for blood.
“Follow me, Deanna.” And then he winked at me.
I sincerely hoped he could see the murderous dreams playing and replaying in my eyes. I followed him with plodding steps to his table in the corner of the dining room where three expensive-looking blondes in short, slinky dresses awaited us. They couldn’t have been over seventeen.
“Deanna, please, sit.” He took his seat in between the three women, who grinned at me vacantly. Maybe they were swans too. Or maybe money was their aphrodisiac. Compliance could be bought just as easily as it could be forcibly taken.
As much as I bristled at being given another command, people were staring. So I sat, making damn sure my eyes stayed glued to his. I wanted him to see it; my hatred. I wanted to make sure he couldn’t ignore it.
“If looks could kill,” Anton said while stroking Girl Number One’s blonde locks. Giggling, she leaned over and, in a low voice, said something in Russian to Girl Number Two.
I watched her hair slip off his fingers and grimaced as if something had died in the pit of my stomach. “Then there’d be one less asshole in the world, now wouldn’t there?”
The grin dropped from Anton’s face and in that moment, my heart seized. Goading him probably wasn’t the best idea. Still, I couldn’t let him see me cower.
I eased back into my chair, cool, but not too cool lest he notice all the effort I was putting into it. “What do you want, Anton?”
He placed a card on the table. An invitation.
I frowned. “A party?” Probably the one Hyde had told me about yesterday. I feigned innocence.
“A masquerade party,” he said. “As far as opportunities go, it’s more than a little perfect, wouldn’t you say?”
A masquerade party. Though I’d never been to one, I’d seen enough on TV to know that the masks involved were perfect for evil schemes.
“It’s Beatrice’s idea.” When Anton spoke his stepmother’s name, he looked somehow human. It was unnerving. “It was originally going to be a cocktail party, of course, but Beatrice’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“Sounds try-hard,” I said flatly and watched his nostrils flair, though the rest of him remained perfectly still. “Sorry, I meant tired and cliché.” I couldn’t stop. Deanna, stop pissing off the bad man with the gun to your head.
Luckily for me, Anton shook it off with a readjusting tug of his suit. “It doesn’t matter what you think of it. You’re going.”
I turned the card over in my hand. “Yeah, I figured.”
“You’ve been doing a great job so far,” he continued, giving me that sidelong creeper-gaze of his. “Wooing our boy, I mean. Coney Island? A walk in the park? Nice touch. I always knew he was a simple, honest guy at heart. I’m sure he’ll be honestly heartbroken when you ruin his life.”
I felt a cold shiver down my spine. Of course he’d been watching me. Part of me hadn’t wanted to believe it. I folded my arms and maintained a steady glare. “OK. So party. What do you want me to do?”
“Direct and to the point. I like that about you.”
“Something we obviously don’t have in common. What do you want me to do?” Or was his grandmaster plan to whittle down my psychological defenses with small talk? Aren’t there easier ways to get someone to do what you want? Last time I checked, blackmail sufficed.
“Only what you’ve been so adept at doing so far. Seducing him.” He lowered his voice, which was unnecessary as we were safely tucked in a corner.
“Hyde’ll be there. He’ll take you. There’s no way he won’t ask you to come with him, if he hasn’t already. Board members, Bella parasites, press, company employees and their drunken Botox-wives – all of them’ll be there. There’s no way in hell Hyde’ll make a fool of himself in front of them – unless he’s with you. He might let himself go if you give him the incentive.”
I focused on the invitation card because it was the only way to keep my eyes from burning. “And what exactly makes you so sure Hyde’s gonna fall for my feminine wiles in a situation like that?” I thought back to last night – the hunger in his eyes, the request I couldn’t bring myself to grant.
“He’s a man, Deanna.”
I snorted. “Reductive.”
“But true. And he wants you. And he’ll be bored. Nothing like a little bit of danger to spice up an evening. Just make yourself impossible to resist and the rest will write itself.”
“So what then?” I placed the invitation back on th
e table so I wouldn’t crush it in my palm. “You want me to screw him on a table in the middle of a toast or something? Give everyone a show?”
I could tell Anton was stifling his laughter behind his lips. “As amazing as that sounds, no. As you can see on your invitation, the ball’s being held at Arkham Hall. There’s a secluded room that I’ll be holding for my own private use: the Red Room. That’s where I want you to take him to.”
“Oh.” My fingers twitched on my lap. I could feel the pressure rising in my throat. “And... what?”
With a finger, Anton pushed his glass of champagne toward me. “First offer him one of these. Set the mood.”
“Giving me lessons on seducing men?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Is this coming from personal experience?”
Anton ignored me. “Before you take him to the room, at midnight, I’ll text you where to meet me.”
“Why? So you can give me one final pep-talk before I give it the old college try?”
“So I can give you this.” Anton reached into Girl Number Two’s bag and took out a little black vial, lifting it just high enough for me to see before shoving it back out of sight.
“Is that… Are you insane?” I hissed as my nails dug into my jeans.
“I’ve invited reporters from five different tabloids, newspapers and gossip sites. Slip this into his glass. Make sure he drinks it. Seduce him. Wind him up to the point where he’s up for anything.” Anton’s slimy gaze slid to his girls, still coiled dutifully around him. “They’ll do the rest.”
If Anton wanted to destroy the board’s trust in Hyde, having a few reporters “accidentally” catch Hyde halfway through an orgy at a company event would certainly do the trick. My right hand flew to my chest, the palm pressing hard against the fabric. I couldn’t help it. The pain in there was extraordinary – like my heart was going to burst through the skin and flop onto the table.
Not like I’d need that anymore anyway.
“H-how…” I straightened my back up, placing my hands back onto my lap. Controlled. Poised. Don’t let him see you freak out. Don’t. “So I’m just supposed to wait around for them to show up?” I flicked my head toward the models, folding my arms. “What if they don’t show or… what if they’re late?”
“They won’t be. I’ll be coming with them. My driver should get us to the hall just before midnight.”
“But it’s a masquerade, right? How will I know it’s them and not someone else entirely?”
“You’ll know.” Anton slipped out his phone and after a few clicks, my own phone vibrated. I checked the text he’d sent me: a photo of a gorgeous gold mask with a cascade of lace just long enough to cover the lips. “It’s what they’ll all be wearing – already ordered and delivered. Jealous?” he added, when he caught me staring. “Don’t worry. I’m sure whatever Hyde picks out for you will suit you just as well. Or would you like me to send you one?”
I grimaced. I already felt cheap. Having sugar daddies was the last thing I needed.
“I have to say, you’re taking this all pretty well,” said Anton, half-amused.
Picturing a rusty rail spike skewering your head over and over again sure helps, I wanted to say, but I wasn’t about to push my luck. You could never tell with a guy like Anton just how much snark his ego could take before he snapped.
“And after this… if I do that, you’ll leave me alone?”
“A deal’s a deal,” he answered simply. “Regardless of what you might think of me, it’s not like I’m out to ruin your life.” I could have laughed. “It’s just business. I need something. You need something.”
No, you made me need something, you asshole.
“Once we both get it,” he continued, unaware of my murderous glare, “it’ll be over. Just do your job and we’ll both go on our merry way.”
He must have noticed my lingering unease because he laughed, quietly. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I were going to steal anyone’s feathers it’d be someone more my type – taller, thinner, blonder.” He touched Blonde Number One’s cheek. The way she giggled gave me acid reflux.
I might have believed him. I wanted to believe him. But as far as virtues went, Anton had none, so I could pretty much rule trustworthiness out right off the bat. There were no guarantees. I knew it as I slipped the card off the table and tucked it into my pocket before getting up to leave. As long as Anton knew about me, there was no way I would ever be safe. Even if he let me fly free today, what about tomorrow? Next month? Year? How could I know he wouldn’t hang the threat of slavery over my head the next time he needed something? Best case scenario, I’d be a pawn in his little schemes forever. Worst case…
The thought of him stroking my cheek the way he did his models forced a grunt of disgust from my lips.
If I didn’t stop Anton now, I’d be in his bird cage forever.
I wasn’t about to let that happen. I couldn’t. I had to find a way to protect myself. And in the meantime, I had to find a way to protect Hyde this Saturday. Simply refusing would piss Anton off and send me to the nearest massage parlor bound and gagged. There had to be something… some way to keep Hyde off the chopping block without screwing myself over. I wasn’t a pawn, goddamn it.
No matter what, I couldn’t let that bastard have his way.
14
PREPARATIONS
Despite my determination, the evening passed without one brilliant epiphany; not even so much as a bullet point list of possible options. I spent most of the night watching reruns of Sew or Die on Ade’s laptop while Dad watched something on some Man Network. Beatrice Hoffer-Rey’s talent for crushing designers’ hopes and dreams was admittedly amusing, but it failed to help me get in touch with my inner ruthlessness, and ruthlessness was what I’d need to plot my way out of this mess.
“You OK, Deanna?”
I blinked. Dad was looking at me – probably because his show had just gone to commercial.
“Yes.”
But he kept staring. With a heavy sigh I paused the video. “I’m fine. Why? Do you need something?”
He shifted awkwardly in his chair, though we both knew he wasn’t exactly allowed to be surprised that I’d be suspicious of his concern. As if suddenly aware of the beer can in his hands, he set it down onto the table next to him and started flipping channels.
“Hey wait, stop,” I said suddenly, when I saw the words “Hedley Publications”, right below a video of people waving around signs underneath a particularly tall tower of a building.
A marching circle of bodies practically blocked the sky-high building’s entrance. Obviously a protest. I managed to catch a glimpse of a tall blonde carrying a sign that read “Freedom not Fashion” before the video cut to other protesters as the Wednesday morning news reporter explained, “There’s still no word on whether or not the editors of Bella magazine will respond to the accusations, but the question still remains: does the magazine’s advertising of the clothing line equate to promoting indentured swan labor? Or have the magazine’s critics directed their ire at the wrong target?”
Advertising a designer who uses slave labor to make his or her shitty clothes. That sounded just irresponsible and disgusting enough to be true.
Smelled like a scandal. Big enough to lose the Colemans? If so, it would blow Anton’s plan right up; after all, Beatrice was the editor in chief. She was the one this sort of thing would reflect badly on, not Hyde. Then what, Anton?
It was a satisfying thought, Anton pulling his hair out in frustration. Anton losing.
Still, without proof, accusations were easy enough to deny. I was back at square one.
Oh my God. A familiar face popped onto the screen as the camera scanned the crowd with a few skips of jolty editing. She was a little less naked this time, and her black-rimmed hipster glasses covered about half of her face, but it was hard to forget the girl who feather-flashed a bevy of “mourning” millionaires at a funeral.
“Shannon Dalhousie,” I whispered. The long red hair was the same,
as was the pale skin and righteous indignation. Tough bitch.
Exactly the kind of confidence I need…
That was the spark. Those half-baked thoughts I’d been sifting through since leaving Lucien, thoughts as useless as scattered crumbs on a dirty floor, slowly started to coalesce into a legitimate idea. A half-baked, plan, but a plan nonetheless.
I had to work fast.
She wasn’t hard to find. With all her blogs, each one dedicated to various social justice issues – and baking? – Shannon was easy to track down.
Sprawled out on my bed with my doors shut, I scrolled down the browser screen, trying to find her contact information. Each of her social justice blogs had the same one. Click.
I spent the next fifteen minutes crafting a passionately worded email filled with half-truths, bullshit, and a sob story I hoped would be just believable enough to get her to hit “reply”.
I couldn’t tell her exactly what was going on. I mean, I did ask her not to post up or mention the email on any of her blogs, but how did I know she wouldn’t anyway? Even though I needed her, I didn’t know her, and that meant I couldn’t fully trust her. I doubted Anton used the internet for anything other than porn, but still, I had to be careful.
So instead I told her the story of a young swan whose feathers were taken by her now ex-boyfriend years ago. I threw in parts of my own life just to make it feel real – dead mother, deadbeat but well-meaning father, lazy middle sister, trophy-wife eldest sister. The part about how alone and scared I felt came from a real place too, obviously. Living in fear and paranoia, feeling other people’s eyes on me, feeling used like my body was a site of transaction.
But I didn’t want to get too bleeding-heart lest it all come off as fake. So I got to the point. I told her about how I wanted to do something, anything to help other people like me out there.
ARC: Feather Bound Page 11
