by Tara Brown
“Nothing. He wants to make me a special dress.”
Angie scoffs, “None of these will do for her.” She steps out over the dress’s train and closes the door, undoing me in a hurry.
I pull on my clothes and sigh when my poor battered nipples relax into my comfy sports bra. The dragging off of the corset instead of unbuttoning the damned thing is about the least of my issues, but it hasn’t done my poor boobs any favors.
I leave the dressing room to find Lady Townshend is gone, as is Melody. The shop lady gives me a snooty glance. “We will be in touch when Georges believes he is closer to the finishing date and needs sizing.”
“He never took my measurements.”
She laughs an almost perfect maniacal laugh. “He’s been doing this since the fifties. He can assess your measurements in a glance.”
I take a breath; it’s the one that I need to take so I don’t strangle her. Angie grabs my hand and drags me from the boutique. The air on the street is remarkable. It’s crisp and cool but fresh and cleansing. And the open space, even in New York, is a better feeling than any.
“Jane!”
I turn to see Dash jogging up the street.
“You’re early,” I shout back, with a wave and an instant smile that he always puts on my lips.
“I got worried. My mom and Melody and the dresses—it made me think you might not be doing so well. That maybe this wasn’t the distraction you needed.”
I laugh and look at Angie. “It was exactly the distraction I needed.”
Angie laughs with me. “Aye, me too. Those people in there are terrible, and yer mother, Dash, was in prime form, a real ballbuster today. Even Melody took a couple hits.”
I wished I had seen more of those. The only one I really saw was when she got bitchy about Dash’s name.
He winces as he walks to us, kissing me on the cheek and quickly hugging Angie. “Well, for all that, I am sorry. I have heard Georges is a fairly amazing designer.”
I can’t help but smile. “He’s amazing. Sort of sharp and spicy, but impressive. He’s making me a dress.”
Dash looks concerned. “You didn’t find one, then?”
“They don’t work.” Angie nods. “She’s small and shaped funny. So he is just going to custom one up.”
He isn’t fooled. “My mother tried picking dresses that would show your scars, didn’t she?”
I bite my lip.
He sighs and covers his eyes. “I told her there were scars from the accident on your back and stomach that you didn’t like showing. I was hoping she wouldn’t use them as her modus operandi for torturing you.”
I shrug. “It didn’t work. But it doesn’t matter. If I end up telling them I was a spy and an assassin and a master sergeant, then I do. I don’t care. And besides, Georges has endured far worse and he’s a much better man for it. This won’t kill me. Nothing else has.”
“I heard he was in Alsace as a boy, only ten when the Germans took it. His family was Jewish, therefore they were sent to Natzweiler-Struthof. Somehow he managed to stay alive, but his parents died there in the camp. An uncle took him in and raised him as a dressmaker. He came to America when he was thirty and now runs both this shop and the one in Paris that his uncle owned.”
Angie cocks an eyebrow. “Look who’s a wealth of knowledge! Does yer mother know all of this as well?”
“I’m sure she’s been told the story. Whether she cares to recall it is another matter. My mother doesn’t bother about anything but herself, Henry, and me. And in that order I’m afraid.” He laughs, but only lifts one side of his lip, revealing that sharp incisor I love so much. “I, on the other hand, enjoy getting to know people. It’s another thing we disagree on.”
I wince at the name Henry. I hate that Dash’s brother was part of the disgusting crimes Rory committed in the brothel. I hate that the family is humiliated by the outcome of my work. I sigh and lean in, letting his warmth seep into me. “It’s one of the things I like about you.”
“Okay, I can take a hint. You two need some alone time.” Angie waves her hand at him. “What time is dinner then?”
Dash winces, making me groan. “Noooooo.”
He pleads with his eyes. “It’s one meal. They’re very excited about the wedding. Please, one dinner and maybe a brunch and then we are back to DC and you can start your resignation letter as well.”
Angie looks shocked. “Yer leaving the team as well, then?”
I realize I’ve held it together remarkably for her. “I am. I need some ‘me’ time.”
“Too many runs and too many crazy people.” She sighs. “I feel that.” A forced smile spreads across her face. “My new gig will be a lot less interactive. There’s going to be a great deal of ‘me’ time to be had. If I wasn’t already there, I might go crazy from all the aloneness.”
“I think we will all need a little break from reality when this is finally over.” Dash chuckles as he glances at the ground. He looks like he might say something else but doesn’t. He just reaches for my hand and squeezes. “We will meet you for dinner at eight. Can I get you a car?”
Angie shakes her head, still forcing her smile. “Naw, I’m grand. I’ll see to myself, maybe do some shopping. I never brought anything fancy enough for dinner with yer parents.”
He scoffs. “I never have anything fancy enough for that.”
She waves as she turns, disappearing into the crowds when she gets to the crosswalk.
We don’t speak. He about-faces suddenly, jerking and dragging me along the sidewalk. He doesn’t say a single thing, not even when we reach the car he has parked. He opens the back door for me. I’m almost afraid he’s angry with me for something, but I can hardly think what that would be.
I climb in, realizing the partition between the driver and us is closed. It’s black and thick, and I don’t know who’s up there. It feels like a mind run again.
My breath hitches as my fingers graze the partition. It feels cold and real, but there are so few places inside me that believe in real anymore.
Dash climbs in, slamming the door and pressing himself against my back. He pulls my coat off, kissing my neck while drawing me into his lap.
My eyes are stuck on the black partition, wondering if whoever is up there can see us. Wondering if this is some kind of cruelty Rory has planned. I can’t fight the urge to lift my fingers again to the partition and touch it. It’s still cold and it still feels real, but I have a terrible feeling it’s not. That none of this is.
The dress shop and the scars and the shame all feel like things Rory would torture me with. I can’t breathe and the walls are closing in on me.
My mind forces me to recognize this for what it is. It’s the direct result of too many mind runs.
I get a chill and shiver, maybe at again staring into my own eyes as someone pulls away my sweater and shirt. That it’s Dash this time doesn’t quite make it better.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to like it. This is something I like. I even tilt my head to the side so his reach is better and his kisses get deeper into my neck.
His greedy hands grab and massage, as the car takes off from the curb.
I almost make him stop, but I force myself to stay with it, to let it happen. I need this man and I need to remember how much.
I start to participate, lifting my hands up to his cheeks and cupping his face, contradicting the haste and pressure of his movements. He grabs roughly as I smooth my fingers along his neck. He jerks his pants open, fumbling for the zipper and button as I softly place kisses along his jawline and suck his bottom lip. I am slowing the pace and fighting him on his attempts to be rough with me.
We don’t do this. We don’t do slow.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers into the small space between us. I shake my head. “Open them, Jane. I mean it.” His tone is soft, but I can tell
he senses something is wrong.
I force one eye open to see disapproval on his face and quickly close my eye again, blocking it out. I can lie to myself, to us both, in most areas, but not about our intimacy or the passion we share.
“What’s going on?” His words even sound disappointed.
“Nothing. I just want soft.”
He sighs. “Can you not bring him in here with us?” His words bite into me and before I can really think about it, I slap and thump on the partition. The car stops and I hop out, pulling on my sweater and stomping down the road.
“Jane!” he shouts after me, but I break into a run, hurrying around a corner and getting lost in the crowd.
The street is busy, so busy you feel alone. The honking and crowd conversations create a sea of noise that hides his voice from me.
I wave down a cab and jump in, leaving him on the road yelling at me.
I don’t look back.
6. CUPID’S CHOKEHOLD
Angie gives me a once-over before nodding. “Ya look fine, but I don’t understand why he wanted ya to go over with me. Is Dash all right then? Or you two having a row?”
“He’s fine. I think he wanted to talk to his mother,” I lie, smoothly and evenly.
Her I can lie to. It’s to protect her anyway. I cannot bear the idea of telling her why I froze up mid–limo sex.
She shrugs. “His mother is a bit of a twat.” The word forces a grimace from me and my face forces a laugh from her. “Ya know what I mean. She can’t even help it.”
“I feel like she can. No one needs to be that rude.”
“Right, hence the twat.”
“Right,” I confirm and spend another half second staring at myself. My reflection tells me I look great, perfect even, with my dark hair pulled into Angie’s half-assed knot that somehow looks classy, even on me. Even my eyes are Angelina Jolie’s—those cat eyes from Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
A Google search taught us that red lips and a black cocktail dress are about as good as it gets on pale brunettes. All that is helped out by my heels, boasting an extra four inches.
But my eyes hunt out imperfections. It’s my way of seeing myself in there. The flaws are me.
My heart hurts just a little and my insides ache from the way he said what he did. I have to push it all away to make it through the night. I need to be me to do that.
My lack of relationship experience has me curious if this is me acting like a giant baby again, or if what he said was as off base as it feels. There’s a large part of me that thinks I might have the dress and shoes to go with my dramatic girlie tantrum and sudden lack of self-confidence.
I sigh and give Angie a once-over. She does look perfect. The idea of a redhead in a red dress seems like it shouldn’t work, but it does. She’s got one frilly strap on the right side and her entire left arm and shoulder are bare. She even has side boob. She catches me focusing on the creamy flesh and scoffs, “It’s acceptable. I’m single. In society only single ladies are allowed a little side boob.”
“What about a lot of side boob?”
She sticks her tongue out before smearing on more of the lipstick that matches the dress. “We look smashing,” she says in a perfect English accent.
“I like your ochs and twats.”
She wrinkles her nose. “The Queen’s English is fun for a piss, but that’s about it.” She loops her arm in mine and I forget about everything else. “Now, shall we venture down and see if there’s a car waiting for us?”
In that moment there are no Rorys or Dashes. There are no evil mothers-in-law and no British Barbie waiting in the wing to steal my man. There’s not even a man. It’s just my friend and me. All the other things are swept away and labeled as unimportant.
We look beautiful. We are both safe from the man who had us fooled. I am free of that prison, and even if this is a mind run, I don’t care. “I wish we were going somewhere fun instead of out for dinner.”
She gives me a sidelong look. “We can.”
The mischief in her eyes tells me she’s serious, but I can’t do that to Dash. “No, and you know it. Standing them up would never go away. That one act would haunt us the rest of our days. Or not, because Dash would never speak to me again.”
“That’s a true story if I ever heard one. And we are nearly late, look!” She points at the clock and I grab the door handle.
We hurry to the hotel elevator. I nearly pause when I see it, wishing we could take the stairs as I did on the way up. But that had been in comfy shoes, not heels that were trying to murder me. If I had some intense adrenaline I might be fine, but I’m not feeling either frightened or alert at all.
When we get inside the small space, I take deep breaths and push away all the walls that try to close in.
“Ya have been looking off since ya came out of Rory’s head. Ya all right?”
“No.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “It was a tough one.”
“I don’t want to know, I’m sorry.” She says it looking up, avoiding the mirrors and my eyes. “I wish to tha gods I could help ya, but I canna.” Her accent thickens when she’s emotional.
“I don’t blame you. I don’t want to know either.”
Her response is a squeeze of my hand and that is all. She’s there for me, but she wants this one kept silent. She wants her clean start from that world.
When the elevator lands on the main floor, we step off into a crowd of people. Even through them, all I can see are his eyes, hunting for me. I have seen the face he’s wearing, the “angry, but sorry he was such a dick” face, a few times. Yet never have I observed it from a hiding place. His green-gray eyes are dark now, not lively. Worried. We’re late and he thinks maybe not coming. He’s been blowing my phone up since I ran from the limo, but I’ve ignored it.
When he sees Angie, that face fades away and he offers a wave and a smile. I can actually see the tension fade when his gaze meets hers. There is still something lingering behind his eyes, but he’s hiding it, even when he finally sees me.
“Guess Dash’s meeting us here and riding over to the restaurant with us. His family must have gone on ahead.” We walk to him, but when he offers me his arm, I stay next to Angie.
She remains oblivious, chatting on. “The reservations said they were for eight, but I had hoped we would be a wee bit early. Yer mother likes to make everyone feel late, even when they’re on time. Have ya ever noticed that?”
Dash nods, smiling a little. “I have. She’s the master of making you feel bad. It’s why I like showing up a bit late. She’s already going to make it hard on you.” Dash walks to my side, taking my hand in his. The grip means we are going to be talking far sooner than I imagined we might be. I figured he would try to keep it in his pants until after dinner.
He leads us out to the car, the very same one I ran from. The valet at the entrance to the hotel gets the door for us as we all climb in.
Angie looks around the backseat, offering Dash a disappointed look. “No champagne?”
His lips attempt a grin. “There will be plenty, you know that.”
She shrugs coyly. “I suppose that will have to do.”
Dash focuses on me. “How was your walk?”
“Fine.”
And there it is, fine. I’ve said it without thinking. Immediately Angie gives me a look. “Walk?”
“I wanted some fresh air. So I grabbed my dress from the shop I was picking it up from and brought it to your hotel room. I needed to get ready with you anyway. Dash isn’t great at makeup.”
She gives me a look that tells me she understands now that Dash hadn’t asked me to get ready at her room and he didn’t ask me to meet him at the restaurant. I hope she’ll forget and not ask me any questions about it.
“You both look lovely.” Dash offers his best attempt at the American lovely, a normal lovely. It is one of the fe
w words he doesn’t manage to pronounce without some inflection from the British accent he’s tried to shed while living in America. When he shouts, that accent comes through, fully. He is an angry British man and a calm American. It’s quite distinct when he’s drunk as well.
My phone buzzes in my purse, almost scaring me. I pull it out, not expecting anyone, since the person who has been ringing me all day is with me, but when I answer, I get the person I expect the least. “Hello?”
“Jane?” The voice belongs to Henry, Dash’s brother and lover of underage prostitutes.
“Hi.” I don’t know what to do or say. What do you say to a man who is in jail because of you?
“If my brother is right beside you, please don’t pass him the phone. I need to speak with you. I need you to ask my father to take some of my calls. He’s avoiding me, as is Dash.”
“I’m not interested, thanks.”
“Wait.” He pauses. “I’m cut off without a penny to my name and no one will touch me as far as barristers go. I need some help. Can’t you just ask them to at least hear me out?”
“Um, no thanks.”
“Jane, I am begging. I know a strong girl like you gets off on that.”
I squeeze the phone as if strangling Henry, but keep my comments to myself. I don’t even know how he got my number.
“Please, just ask my father to hear me out. I have got something of a defense here. I just need some funds to cover the barrister. We have been given one through the special UN courts, but I need one who will make this go away for good. I was there as a guest—I didn’t traffic the damned girls, Jane! I went because I was invited. I assumed it was regular prostitution. I didn’t know it was human trafficking and slavery. I never would have gone to a brothel like that, ever.”
“Sorry, I don’t think I’m interested.” I press “off” and put the phone back in my bag.
“Was that a telemarketer on your mobile?” Angie asks with her brows lifted.
“Yeah. Weird.” I wonder how he knew I would be seeing his parents tonight, though I know he knows about the wedding.
