After that, it was a fairly uneventful flight. Layla was at the controls the whole way, Harris explaining and lecturing the entire time, pointing out dials and explaining their purpose, quizzing her on things he'd already explained. We were on our way to St. Thomas for the day, as Roth claimed the shopping on St. Thomas was better than on Grand Turk.
When we were about one nautical mile from St. Thomas, Harris took over, calling in our arrival over the radio, and then talking Layla through the landing, explaining what he was doing, how, and why. She was rapt, soaking it all in, hooked on every word.
Nothing going on, my ass.
*
Roth and Harris trailed behind Layla and me as we ducked into store after store, shop after shop, trying on clothes, jewelry, hats, and trinkets. Neither of us bought anything, though. I was too irritated with Roth to be focused on shopping; he'd been sucked into his phone the whole time, physically present but mentally absent.
Finally, an hour and a half into the trip, he stuffed his phone into his pocket, looked up at our surroundings, checked his watch, and then set off at a quick pace, grabbing my hand and tugging me after him without a word.
"Roth! Where are we going?"
"We have an appointment," was all he'd say.
He pulled me into a shop, taking me to the back and up a narrow flight of ancient, rickety stairs. There was a door with white peeling paint at the top, a brass doorknob. Roth knocked three times, and then entered without waiting for a reply. I followed him in, curious.
The room beyond the door had a high ceiling, three wide-blade ceiling fans turning lazily, stirring the air, the three fans connected to each other via a long tube, one fan turning the other two. The walls had once been wallpapered in white and pink stripes, but the paper was so old and faded it was nearly invisible. The floor was faded as well, smooth and shiny in places from long wear. There were several seamstress dummies around the room, two stools, rolls and rolls of fabric stacked on the floor, leaning against the walls, and hanging on homemade wire racks that were screwed into the walls. There were clear boxes of pins on the windowsill, and at least one pair of shears that I could see, and measuring tapes everywhere.
"Ella!" Roth called out. "We're here."
A door opened somewhere, then closed, and a woman appeared. She was short and thin with black hair going silver at the temples, and a pair of glasses hung from a cord around her neck. She had a measuring tape in one hand, a mouthful of pins, and a length of fabric trailing behind her.
"Ah. Mr. Valentine. You come, good, good. So glad to see you, dear." She wrapped both arms around Roth and hugged him tightly. "I have not see you in too long. Where you go?"
"Oh, I've been busy, Ella. You know how I am." He kissed both of her cheeks, held her by the arms. "How have you been?"
Ella shrugged one shoulder. "I am well enough. Some days I am still sad, of course, but what can one do, hmm?" She turned to me. "And this must be your bride, yes? Oh...she is beautiful, Mr. Valentine. So beautiful. You say she is lovely, but you did not say how lovely."
I blushed. "Hi, Ella, I'm Kyrie." I extended my hand to her, but Ella pulled me into a warm, strong hug.
"Kyrie, so wonderful to meet you."
Roth took my hand once Ella released me. "Kyrie, Ella is Eliza's sister."
"You knew Eliza?" Ella asked, her sharp brown eyes going watery. "I miss her every day. Every day."
"I knew Eliza, yes. Not anywhere near long enough, but...she was amazing." I had to fight back tears.
"Every day after she finish working for Mr. Valentine, Eliza would call me. Just to say hello, to say I love you. We were very close, even though we did not live near for much of our lives. I am here, living here, working here, and she is in England for the elder Mr. Roth, and then she moved to America with the Mr. Valentine, but every summer Mr. Valentine, he give her three months off to come see me, to stay with me." Ella let out a long, quivery sigh. "And now she is gone."
Roth cleared his throat roughly. "I'll never be able to tell you how sorry I am, Ella. I'll never forgive myself for...for what happened."
Ella turned away from me, putting her palm to his cheek. "I forgive you, Mr. Valentine. I have already tell you this. I forgive you. And Eliza, up in heaven, she forgive you too. I know she does. She know you from when you just a boy. You are her family, Mr. Valentine. I forgive you, she forgive you, now you must forgive you." She smiled, patted his face, and then turned to me. "But we are not here for the chatter of a silly old woman, are we?"
She grabbed me by the shoulders, hustled me over to a stool and up onto it, and pushed my arms up and out and began taking my measurements.
I glanced at Roth. "What's going on, babe?"
"Ella is a dressmaker." He smirked at me. "You really think I'd allow you to wear something off the rack?"
I laughed. "I suppose not."
Ella spoke while measuring and jotting the numbers onto a pad she'd produced from somewhere. "I am not a famous designer, but I can make you a pretty dress to marry Mr. Valentine. I think, because this is the islands, you have something with no straps, something the wind can play with. It will be on the beach, yes?"
I shrugged. "I suppose. I'd marry him in a kitchen, if I had to."
Ella paused and glanced up at me. "A kitchen? Not so romantic, you ask me. I think he can do better than that, probably." She straightened, draped the measuring tape around her neck, and tucked the notepad into a pocket, the pencil stub behind her ear. "I have a dress all made for you, in my mind. Say...two days? Maybe less, but come here again in two days, I will have the most beautiful dress for you to marry Mr. Valentine."
We were at the door when Ella stopped Roth with a hand on his arm. "You shouldn't have done that, you know."
Roth kept a blank expression. "Done what, Ella?"
"Pay my debts. I am proud woman. I don't need no help." She looked almost angry.
Roth sighed. "It doesn't give you your sister back. It doesn't take away the grief. But...it's the only thing I could do."
Ella's face softened. "Well, thank you. I know you mean well."
"We'll see you on Friday," Roth said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek.
*
I watched as Layla tugged the hem of a dress down a little further, so it just barely brushed the tops of her knees. It was short, tight, low-cut, and everything Layla loved in a dress. So sexy it was just this side of slutty, fully emphasizing her remarkable assets. At five-foot-nine, Layla was a couple inches taller than me, and she was also a good bit heavier than me, all of it in her curves. Long, thick, curly black hair done up in a sloppy bun, flawless caramel skin, exotic, exquisitely beautiful features, tits and ass that wouldn't quit...my best friend was stunning. I knew I wasn't homely by any stretch of the imagination, but when placed next to Layla I was the ugly friend.
I cleared my throat as Layla swiveled side to side, smoothing her palms over the bell curve of her hips. "Layla, babe. It's a wedding, not a night at the club. Can we go for something a little more...beach wedding and a little less 'fuck me in a limo?'"
Layla shot me a glare. "It's cute. And it does great things for my ass."
"Your ass does great things for your ass, honey. You could fill out a burlap sack."
Layla shook her head. "You're just trying to ruin my fun."
"All I'm saying is, can you try on something that's past the knee and that you can actually walk in?"
She let out a groaning sigh. "Fine. You pick something, then."
I went over to the rack and flipped through it until I found something. I checked the size, and then handed it to her. "Try this one."
Layla held it up and examined it suspiciously. "Okay, but I'll hate it."
It was totally unlike Layla's usual style. Floor-length, bright yellow, cut straight across the chest, tucked in at the waist and flowing loose from the hips. Tasteful, but still sexy, especially if the skirt was as sheer as it looked. Layla ducked into the changing room, tossed the dress she'd cho
sen over the top of the door and tugged my choice down over her head. I heard her suck in her breath when she first saw it on herself.
"I hate you," she mumbled, pushing the door open.
"Oh...my...god. Layla, you look--"
"Classy, for once?"
I shook my head. "Beautiful. Bitch, you're gonna steal the spotlight."
She really did look incredible. The skirt was nearly sheer from the waistline down, giving tantalizing glimpses of her long legs, hugging tight to her waist and bust. It wasn't a low-cut bodice by any means, but with Layla's build, she didn't need it to be cut low to have banging cleavage. The bright yellow of the fabric highlighted the caramel shade of her skin, making her look that much more exotic.
I reached up and freed her hair from the elastic of the ponytail holder, feathered my fingers through the curls, spreading her hair out around her bare shoulders. "There. A couple flowers in your hair, and it'll be perfect."
"I hate it," she declared, but her voice said she was lying.
"I'm so nice for buying you a bridesmaid-of-honor dress that you can and will wear again," I said.
"Bridesmaid-of-honor?" Layla asked with a laugh.
"Yeah, you're pulling double duty."
"Do you think--" Layla started, but then cut herself off with a shake of her head.
"What? Do I think what?"
She shook her head again. "Nothing. I'm just being an idiot." It was too hard to tell with her dark skin, but I was pretty sure she was blushing. I'd have bet money her cheeks would be red as apples if she had my fair skin.
"Layla, say it before I smack it out of you."
Layla tossed her head again, swiveling to get a look at herself from the back. "Hooker, you hit me and you'll be getting married in traction."
"Layla."
She rolled her eyes and turned back to face the mirror, adjusting her breasts and then fluffing her curls so they sat on her shoulders just so. "You really are a bitch, you know that? All I was going to ask was if you thought..." She trailed off, and then mumbled the rest under her breath in a rush--"...IfyouthoughtHarriswouldlikeit."
"HA!" I laugh-shouted. "I KNEW IT!"
"Don't make me regret saying anything, Kyrie. I swear to god I'll never talk to you again if you make fun of me."
"You used my actual name, which means you must be really serious."
"Serious as taxes, babe."
I stepped up behind her, hugged her hard. "Layla, I'd never make fun of you. Not for real. You look absolutely gorgeous, honey, and I think Harris is going to have trouble breathing when he gets a look at you. I want you to be happy. I don't know if Harris is the man for that particular job, but as far as I'm concerned, you have my blessing to give it a shot. He's an amazing man, he's just...hard as diamonds, cold as ice, and a complete mystery."
"When you say he's cold as ice, what does that mean, exactly?"
I'd never really told her much about my desperate mission to rescue Roth from Gina's clutches. Harris had been the one to get it done. I'd seen a side of Roth's bodyguard, pilot, driver, personal assistant--and, I suspected, best and only friend--that I suspect few ever saw in action. Being an ex-Army Ranger, he was lethal, cunning, capable, without doubt and without mercy. I'd watched him calmly walk up to a man who'd been chasing me, trying to kill me, and I'd watched Harris put two bullets in the man's skull from point-blank range. Harris had wiped the blood from his face without expression, and had driven us away.
I'd watched him kill again and again in the process of getting Roth back, and every time he'd done so coolly, confidently, and quickly, without any sign of remorse. Of course, every man he'd killed had been a ruthless criminal who had probably done more than his fair share of evil, knowing the kind of people Vitaly employed, but still. Watching someone gun people down without even flinching...it makes you wonder what goes on in his head, and then you think maybe you don't really want to know.
Did I want to communicate any of this to Layla?
I wasn't so sure. I shrugged. "I just mean that Harris is the kind of man who will do whatever it takes to get the job done. I'd be dead if not for him, and Roth would still be a prisoner on that island."
"You won't ever tell me what really happened, will you?" Layla asked.
I shook my head. "No. Some stories are best left untold. You said you grew up rough, but...the things I saw, the things I did..." I had to choke back a lump in my throat. "It wasn't pretty. I wouldn't wish any of it on anyone. I'd do it all again to save Valentine, mind you, but...shit got ugly, Layla."
"And Harris?"
I shrugged. "Harris was my rock through it all. Kept me sane, kept me going. He never wavered, and never hesitated." I let out a breath. "I don't know much about him. I don't think anyone does. Just...if you decide to see where things go with him, just be careful, okay?"
She must have heard something in my voice, something that spoke louder than my actual words. "I don't know what's going on between us. He's not easy to get to know, you know? Getting him to say more than a single sentence at a time is like having a root canal without Novocaine. I'm intrigued, I guess you could say, 'cause he's something totally different than what I usually go for. But I'm not gonna chase him out of his shell. He's gotta come out to meet me, since I've got a shell of my own."
"He's different with you, from what I've seen. He's usually all business, buttoned up, silent, Mr. Stoneface, you know? And with you, he's...human."
"I'm done talking about this," Layla said, sweeping past me and into the changing room. "It's not going anywhere, and besides, you're getting married, and then I'm going back to Detroit. So for now, let's just focus on making you Mrs. Kyrie Roth."
I grinned. "I like the sound of that. Kyrie Roth."
"It does sound good," Layla said from the other side of the door. "I still can't quite believe you're actually getting married. I never thought either of us would, to be honest. I was all set to be old maids together with you, and then you had to go and fuck up all my plans."
"Oh, come on, Layla."
"What? Until you met Roth you didn't exactly have the most sterling taste in men, either."
"My taste in men was fine. I just didn't have time for anything serious."
"Remember Steven? That guy creeped me the fuck out."
I'd never told Layla about some of the things Roth had revealed to me, when we first met. I'd dated a man named Steven who, it turned out, had been into some very unhealthy sexual practices. Such as torture, and, Roth suspected, murder. I shivered at the thought of what Roth's vigilante stalking of me had saved me from.
"That was an exception," I said, my voice flat.
Layla emerged from the changing room, dressed once more in a tight orange tank top and khaki shorts that just barely covered her booty. She gave me a quizzical look. "What aren't you saying?"
I sighed, took the dress I'd picked out for Layla, brought it to the register, and paid for it. Harris was standing just outside the door of the store, leaning back against the wall, one heel hooked over a shin, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He pushed away from the wall and fell into step behind us.
I glanced at him. "Harris knows what I'm not saying."
Harris remained expressionless. "I make it a point to not eavesdrop on private conversations," he said.
"Layla was calling into question my taste in men, before I met Roth. Specifically, she mentioned Steven."
Harris was silent for a long moment before responding. "I take it you didn't tell her."
"Tell me what?" Layla demanded.
"Harris?" I prompted.
"This is your story to tell, Ms. St. Claire," Harris said, and I knew I wouldn't get anything else out of him.
I sighed, and thought about where to start. "Okay, so I told you about Roth's involvement with my dad's business, and that whole mess. Well, after he--after Dad died, Roth started keeping an eye on me. From...afar, you could say. Not in a creepy-stalker sort of way, just more in a...making
sure I was okay sort of way."
"He was watching you, you mean?" Layla said, glancing at Harris. "Meaning, he had Harry watching you?"
Harris didn't correct Layla's misuse of his name, which was pretty shocking. "Correct."
"And what does this have to do with that creepy fucker, Steven?"
"Remember what happened?" I asked.
She nodded. "He just vanished, between one day and the next."
"It turns out your creeper radar is pretty accurate," I said. "Harris didn't like the looks of Steven any more than you did, so he did some digging. Turns out Steven was into BDSM."
"Holy shit!" Layla said. "I knew it!"
"Actually, that isn't entirely accurate. I've known some people who were into real BDSM," Harris said, "and what Steven was into wasn't BDSM. Real BDSM--bondage, dominance, and sadomasochism--functions around three basic tenets: safe, sane, and consensual. What Steven liked was just...sick. The photos I provided in that file were just the tip of the iceberg, and the more palatable ones at that. When he was done with a woman, she was never the same again. Most of them were too traumatized and too permanently damaged to be capable of pursuing criminal charges. And he was also good at vanishing under the radar when he was done, so it was pretty hard to find him. And with no one pressing charges against him, there was no one looking."
"Jesus," Layla breathed. "What the hell was he into?"
"Torture," Harris answered. "It wasn't about sex, or bondage, or any of that. It was about inflicting pain, and getting off on it. And trust me, it was never consensual. Maybe it started out as consensual sex, but by the time his victims realized what he really wanted, he had them tied up and helpless. It was fucking sick, and I've never enjoyed ridding the world of filth so much as when I ended that sick bastard."
Layla missed a step. "You--what?"
I closed my eyes briefly. "You did kill him, then?" I asked. "I was never sure. Roth wouldn't tell me."
"We had a little...conversation...first," Harris said, and the tone of his voice was terrifying. "He admitted his plans for you. Let's just say that you were going to be getting special treatment. He had some extra sick shit planned for you. I won't repeat any of it. Gina could have learned a few things from him, let's just put it that way."
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