DEBT

by Jessica Gadziala

  "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me," I drawled.

  To that, his lips tipped up slightly. "You learn how to read a poker face, no matter how good it is. You got a shitty fucking poker face, babe. You want to regret it, but you don't. So why don't you get your sweet ass off my lap, go find something appropriate in your closet, change into it, and meet me downstairs in ten."

  Pretty much the second that he reminded me I was still sitting on his lap, I wrenched away and took my feet, then took a couple feet in retreat just to make sure he couldn't reach me. Not that he planned to, though, since he was reaching for the plate of dessert instead. "Am I going somewhere?"

  "We," he emphasized, "have to go to Mandy's for a little bit."

  Mandy's?

  If there was one place I definitely did not want to go, it was to Mandy's.

  "Um. I'll pass," I said, shaking my head as he dug his fork into his dessert, paused, then slowly looked up at me with one brow raised.

  "Did I make that sound like a request? My mistake. Put some fucking clothes on and meet me downstairs. Now," he barked when I didn't immediately move to comply.

  I lifted my chin and moved toward the door. "I hope you choke on that," I shot at him over my shoulder.

  "Oh, Prue. You really want to believe you mean that, don't you?"

  With no comeback to that, I stormed into the hall then my room, slamming the door and going toward my closet.

  Fact of the matter was, he was right again.

  I did want to believe I hated him. Everything about the way he had treated me told me that I should run screaming, not fall into his arms. But there was just... something there. Between us. There was a pull that, despite the way he often talked down to me, drew me toward him. Maybe it was as simple as a primal need to work through the sexual frustration there was no mistaking with us. But, there was a voice in the back of my head that suggested it was more than that, it went deeper, it was just as mental, just as psychological as it was sexual.

  But that voice was obviously delusional.

  On that thought, I ripped the one dress I had packed out of my bag, a simple little black dress that showed off a fair amount of leg, but was tame around the bodice. I pulled off the camisole and shirt and slipped the dress on over the bra, panties, garter, and thigh-highs. And, having brought nothing nearly as nice, I left the loathed shoes on that Byron made me wear. I quickly went into the bathroom, sweeping a little mascara on, grabbing my wallet, and heading back into the hall and down the stairs.

  I couldn't say I was exactly thrilled at the idea of going to Mandy's. That place was nothing but unpleasant memories for me, despite all its beauty. But that being said, I had been trapped inside Byron's splendid, sprawling prison for over a week, usually kept too busy to even get more than a couple of stolen minutes out on the balcony for fresh air. I was going more than a little stir crazy. So while I wasn't thrilled about the destination, I was happy to get out for a little bit.

  Even if my company was Byron St. James.

  "The reason you don't dress like that day-to-day is..." Byron prompted as he watched me descend the stairs.

  There was a little thrill inside at the comment because it was, in an off-hand way, a compliment.

  "You slip into something so tight that you can't breathe in it and then get back to me," I said with a small brow lift, but try as I might, I couldn't fight the small curve upward of my lips.

  "Got everything?" he asked, moving toward the door, his hand resting gently at my lower back.

  "Um, yeah," I said, looking around as if anything of mine might be laying around despite the fact that it wasn't even my house.

  "Alright, let's go," he said, pressing his hand into my back more firmly as he led me through the doorway and outside. One of Byron's cars was waiting, sleek, black, perfect curves, blackout windows. Like he was some celebrity, I thought with a small airy snort. "Got a problem with my car?"

  "No," I said, watching as he reached to open the door for me whilst still holding my lower back. "It's... nice," I said, not sure why I felt like I needed to compliment it. "It must be nice to be driving along and not worried something is going to fall out underneath you," I mused with a genuine smile as I lowered myself into the seat then pulled my legs in.

  "True story?"

  "Oh, only three or four times," I said, waving a hand dismissively.

  To that, his own lips curved upward slowly then he shut the door and moved around the back of his car to his side, sliding into the seat with a sort of casual ease I envied. The car turned over with what could only be called a purr then took off so smoothly that it barely felt like we were moving at all.

  The car probably cost as much as two whole years' salary for me. My mind couldn't even wrap itself around that kind of opulence. We hit the boardwalk and I asked Byron if he would roll the windows down.

  "Not worried about your hair?" he asked with a mildly condescending brow lift.

  "Do I really seem like the kind of woman who is worried about her hair?" I asked as he nodded and rolled the windows down, whipping my hair in every direction and letting the beach scent settle into every strand. We pulled out front Mandy's way too soon, me reaching up to try to smooth my hair into some kind of order as we waited for the valet.

  Byron released his belt and half-turned in his seat toward me, arm raising, hand going to the top of my head where he moved a chunk of hair to the right side of my part. "Missed a bit," he informed me, his fingers drifting down the strands before dropping away completely.

  Then, by some miracle to save me from trying to find a way to break the tension in the car, the door behind me yanked open, making me jump then lurch into the open door... only to find myself still strapped in. With a chuckle, Byron reached out and clicked the button for me, making absolutely no attempt to cover up his amusement at my expense. "Shut up," I said, trying like hell to not be completely humiliated.

  "Didn't say shit," he said, shrugging his shoulder as he got out of his side of the car.

  "You were going to and you know it," I told him over the hood of the car before he moved around toward me, giving the valet the key fob and putting a hand to my lower back yet again, leaving me to wonder if it was just force of habit and I should stop harping on it, or if it actually meant something.

  The men at the door did small chin-jerks at their boss, moving to open the door and mutter, "Mr. St. James," under their breaths at him.

  "Hey Tyler," I said to one of the guards I actually recognized from all my many visits to pick up my father. He was tall and wide as a linebacker with short-cropped wheat-blond hair and warm brown eyes.

  "Hey, Pretty Prue. How have you been?" he asked, giving me a smile, but his brows were drawn together at seeing me with his boss.

  "She's fine," Byron snapped, pushing me through the doors, his entire body way too close to mine, his hand landing on the side of my hip, pulling me slightly against his side. "You were right," he told me close to my ear, his warm breath making me shiver slightly.

  "About?"

  "I was going to say something," he told me and there was a weird, un-called for squeezing sensation in my chest.

  Byron led me into the lobby then toward the left where I figured all the offices and storage and security was situated. "What are we doing here?" I asked, stopping with him beside an elevator, waiting for it to come down or up from wherever it was.

  "I have some business," he offered unhelpfully as we stepped into the elevator that somehow managed to seem upscale as well. I mean it was a freaking elevator, but it also screamed 'money'.

  "Okay," I said, shaking my head as he hit the button for the second floor. "Let me rephrase that. Why am I here?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Are you capable of giving a straight answer?" I shot back, watching our blurry reflections in the elevator door. Even his stupid refection was good looking.

  "Are you incapable of just letting shit happen?" he as
ked, turning to me, putting all his focus on me like he was expecting a genuine answer.

  "Yes," I decided because, well, it was true. I never did anything without thinking it through, without thinking of the possible outcomes, and the outcomes to those outcomes and on and on and on until I drove myself half-crazy. I was not a laid back person. No one would ever accuse me of 'going with the flow'.

  His head tilted, looking surprised at my honesty, but he said nothing as the doors dinged then slid open slowly. Apparently Byron spared no expense even in the guts of his business. The floor we walked into had deep, flawless wood floors, matching desks, an insane amount of computers and TV screens, and a glass overlook to the floor below. Two way glass, I imagined. Even though it was late, the entire room was full of personnel, watching screens, typing into computers.

  It was the security room.

  I'd always figured casinos must have pretty state-of-the-art security in place, but everything about the room from the dozens of monitors showing what seemed like every square inch of the floor below from multiple angles, to the almost two dozen men and women around watching said screens, to the actual catwalk that you could access from a door to the far end to walk across the room and see things with your own eyes, was impressive. It made me feel incredibly insecure about all the times I had stormed into the room, looking around for my father, talking to my father, trying to coax him away with me. How many eyes must have been on me over the years.

  "Prue," a voice called, so unexpected in a room full of strangers, making me jump slightly and take a step back, causing me to bump slightly into Byron's shoulder. My head swiveled to place the voice and landed on Aaron's kind face, giving me a sweet smile. His brows were drawn slightly together. "What are you doing here?" He asked me, but suddenly his focus was on Byron, making it almost sound like an accusation. Like I wasn't welcome. Which was ridiculous seeing as Byron owned the place.

  "I, ah," I started when the tension between the two men started to feel palpable, making my skin feel scratchy.

  "Back off, Aaron," Byron commanded, using his clipped voice I had heard so often. "Come on," he said, voice a sight softer, his hand going to my lower back again.

  Without much choice, I let Byron steer me away, looking over my shoulder at Aaron. "Nice to see you again," I said as I was pushed toward the door out to the catwalk. He opened it for me and pushed me out, closing it behind him. "What are we doing?" I asked as soon as we were outside, putting my hand out onto the railing to help my suddenly wobbly equilibrium. It wasn't that I was afraid of heights. Just the mangled bloody death from falling from them.

  He had turned to stride forward across the narrow walk that met the other wall a dizzying long distance from where we were standing with nothing to prevent said mangled bloody death save for two railings, one just above waist-level, and one near the knee. He turned back when he noticed I hadn't moved to follow, taking an unnecessarily slow inspection of me for a minute, his brows drawing together. "You're afraid of heights?"

  "Don't make it sound like it's irrational that I don't want to plummet to my death from your stupid little plank."

  "My stupid little plank?" he repeated, lips twitching.

  "Besides, you're not the one in six-inch heels with balance issues." He snorted slightly, moving back toward me, shocking me by going down on his knees in front of me, reaching for one of my ankles and pulling like he wanted me to lift it. I tried to snatch it back, looking over my shoulder and knowing the people in the room behind could totally see us, could see him on his knees in front of me, grabbing on my leg. That was not to even mention the people below. "Stop it," I snapped quietly.

  "Chill the fuck out. I'm taking your shoes off so you're not freaked out," he informed me, yanking my leg up, making me take a death grip on both rails at my sides as he ripped my shoe off. As soon as my bare foot touched down, I kicked out of the other one before he could grab that leg too. Apparently that was the wrong move because he angled his head up at me, brows raised. And, well, let's just say there was a tiny little thrill through my system at seeing him on his knees before me. "Not a bad view," he said, mind running in the same direction as mine. "Though, it'd be better naked."

  "Get up," I hissed, taking a step back, trying to ignore the tingly feeling between my legs at his declaration.

  He took his feet slowly, eyes pinned on mine. "Alright, let's go," he demanded, turning and walking along the catwalk, leaving me to follow behind. Which I did, ignoring the upside-down feeling in my belly and the spinning sensation in my head as he walked almost completely toward the other end of the catwalk. His focus was downward and I wanted to know what had his attention, and his shoulders tensing, his jaw tightening, but I couldn't bring myself to look down. "Here," he said, facing the railing, one hand on it, the other arm held out like he wanted me to move close by.

  "Um. I think I'm good here," I said, keeping a death-grip on the railing while still trying to stay as far away from it as possible.

  "Prue, here," he demanded, lunging out and grabbing my wrist, yanking me the rest of the way toward him.

  "No, I..." I objected, voice shaking slightly as I tried to wrangle away.

  "Stop," he commanded, but his voice was softer than I had ever heard it before. But that didn't take the douchebaggery out of the demand. Stop? Just stop being afraid of heights because he said so? Of all the arrogant... "Prue," he said, the sound of my name seeming to shiver off his tongue as his body shifted, one hand going on the railing on either side of my hips, caging me in, his entire body closing in behind mine. My immediate instinct was to jerk forward, but I was already too close to the railing. If I got any closer, I'd seriously risk falling over it. "Relax," he said and his voice was right in my ear. My belly did a little fluttery thing in response. "I'm not going to let you fall over."

  "Why..." I started, shaking my head slightly as I swallowed hard. "What are we doing here?"

  One of his hands settled on my hip, his fingers splaying across my belly slightly. The other arm raised off the railing, pointing down toward the side of the floor. "Look."

  "I'm good. I really don't think looking down is a good idea at this point."

  "I said I won't let you fall. Remember what I said about my word?"

  It wasn't rhetorical. He wanted me to tell him. "That it's everything."

  "Exactly. So just suck it up and look where I'm pointing already, yeah?"

  I didn't want to. On principle. I wanted to ignore the demand. But that being said, he was a sadistic son of a bitch and if I refused, I had no doubt he'd keep me there the whole night until I did what he said. So I took a slow breath and, on the exhale, looked where he was pointing. At first glance, there seemed nothing interesting to note. He was pointing toward a blackjack table where there was a dealer, three people sitting to play, and four or five others just standing around. "I don't..." I started, but then I did. I saw. I saw and it was like a kick to the stomach. I actually gasped at the impact of it, slamming back into Byron's chest, shaking my head. "No..."

  No freaking way.

  No way was my father at the tables.

  I should have known better than to expect him not to be. I really should have. It was a sickness. He couldn't help it. But maybe a part of me had been hoping he would take the whole situation with me being indebted to Byron as some sort of wake-up call.

  Hope.

  Was there any bigger a beggar in the world?

  Always wanting things she couldn't have.

  "Prue, breathe," Byron commanded, his hand pressing into my belly slightly and I finally remembered to inhale.

  I looked down again, still not wanting to believe what I was seeing. "Wait... why isn't he playing?" I asked myself, but aloud. I'd never, literally never, walked into a casino to see him standing back, watching. He was always in the thick of it, always winning or losing, always lost in the thrill of it all. And then there it was again- hope. Maybe he wasn't playing. Maybe he got drawn in, bu
t he was trying to fight the urge, like a junkie buying a dime bag but staring at it, trying to convince themselves to flush it, not snort it up their noses or cook it and shoot it in a vein.

  Then from behind me, Byron was speaking. "Now," he said into his cell then hung up, leaving me to wonder what was happening. Then one of the floor managers crossed to the dealer at the table and spoke into his ear. The dealer nodded, saying something to the table, then trashing the deck of cards he was holding and reaching for a fresh one, peeling the seal away. Almost the exact same second, I saw my father's shoulders sag as he turned away and went to another table, just standing back and watching again.

  And then it hit me.

  And it was worse than the kick-to-the-gut sensation I felt at just seeing him in the casino. It felt like the catwalk gave away beneath my feet. I grabbed the railing hard enough to turn my fingers white as I leaned back, shaking my head.

  Because... no.

  No way was it that sick and sordid.

  No way had he fucked up that bad. And got caught.

  But I knew, oh, I knew.

  That was why Byron was so pissed, why he threatened my father's life. Not just because he owed him money. But because...

  "He's counting cards," I whispered, a part of me willing him to deny it.

  "Yeah, babe," he said, his voice doing that soft thing again. And, well, somehow that was worse. I wanted him to snap at me, to be cold, to do anything that could trigger some other emotion inside me except the swirling, consuming feeling of hopelessness.

  Because if he couldn't stop when his daughter got, essentially, sold off to one of his debtors, what the hell hope was there that he could ever stop?

  "You need to talk to him," Byron surprised me by saying as I stood there, head ducked, trying to blink the sudden onslaught of tears away.

  I felt my head shaking, feeling another feeling replace the hopelessness. It was a feeling I could only describe as: done. I was so done. I never thought I would see a day when I would say that, when I would give up. He was all I had in the world and I was all he had. All the therapists, all the books I had read, everything told me it took more strength to stay, to not give up on addicts, to keep trying to pull them out of it. It was strength, not weakness to stick through it. But that being said, at what point was it okay to say you need to put yourself first? That if you don't stop giving, there was going to be nothing left of you? I felt my breath hitch on a mortifying sob.