by JA Huss
“You’re adopted. Where are your parents?”
“You’ve met my father.”
“Your real parents,” he snarls.
“None of your goddamned business.”
“It is my business. We’re here because someone put us here.”
“Yeah, your stupid friend, Mr. Mysterious.”
“Maybe,” he says.
“What do you mean, maybe? You just said this is his place. And how did you know that by that note? Huh? Is his name on it?”
“No,” West says, picking the silver envelope up off the floor where he dropped it. “This,” he says, opening it up so I can see a series of cut-and-paste letters that look like an old-fashioned ransom note, “is his calling card.”
“He’s a kidnapper?” I laugh.
“It’s not funny. None of this is funny. You don’t understand. My friends have been having trouble with people from their past in the past six months. One by one, all us Misters are being targeted again. And this,” he says, waving his arms wide, “appears to be my turn.”
“So your friend, that Mysterious guy, he’s the one fucking with you?”
West sighs and turns away. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. But you’re here, you see.” He turns back to face me. “You’re here and you’re a girl from my past. This is exactly how it’s been happening. Mr. Perfect got a visit from Allen. Remember that asshole? Romantic’s half-sister reappeared in his life before she tried to fuck with him. And now you’re here.”
“You think I’m the one who’s fucking with you? You’re an asshole.” I grab the note from his hand and read it. There’s a bunch of numbers and one sentence. “‘You’ll know what to do.’ What’s that mean?”
West grabs the note back. “I guess I’ll open the safe up and see.”
He walks over to the keypad and punches in the numbers. There’s a loud click and some weird sounds, like something is moving inside the door. The huge wheel thing starts moving by itself and a few moments later another click, and the safe opens about an inch.
West looks at me, then opens it up.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Weston
It’s a room. Like a whole other room. Like a studio apartment. The walls are solid rock, like it’s all built into the side of the island. There’s a little kitchenette in the back with a small dinette table, a door that leads to a bathroom immediately to the left, and a living room filled with a couch and two chairs.
Tori walks towards the kitchen and I try to figure out what Mysterious meant by, You’ll know what to do. Was he referring to the numbers and the safe? I’ll know to open the safe?
OK. I’ve gotten that far. Now what?
“Hey,” she says. “Here’s another one of those silver envelopes.”
I walk over to her and take it from her hand. Fucking silver envelopes.
“‘When the time comes, lock yourself inside. I’ll be in touch.’”
“He’ll be in touch? How? And why the hell would we lock ourselves inside a fucking safe? Would we even be able to get back out? What the hell, Weston?”
I take a deep breath and let it out. What the fuck is happening? Now I know how Nolan felt when that shit started to go down with him. But Mysterious was involved in that as well. He was right there when Nolan got in trouble.
Do I trust him?
What choice do I have? It’s easy to forget there’s a raging storm outside down here. I can’t even hear the wind right now. But the truth is, we’re stuck. There was no boat. There’s no hidden helicopter. And I can’t fly one of those, anyway. There’s the radio, but… I’m not sure calling for help is the right move. And if Mysterious left us this safe room—literally, that’s what this is—then that’s a good reason to stay put.
“West,” Tori shouts. I realize she’s been talking this whole time while I was thinking. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “But he wants us to stay here for a reason, so we better do as he says. At least for one night. We’re not using that radio, understand?”
She just stares at me.
“Understand, Victoria? I don’t need you pulling your feminist card out now. Something bad is happening and we need to work together on this.”
“You are such an asshole. Two minutes ago you were accusing me of being involved. Now you want me to trust you?”
“Just… forget that. You’re not involved. I know that. We better go find food—”
“No, that’s what I was saying. These cupboards are stocked with packaged food. There’s milk in the fridge, West. It’s not even expired. Which means we don’t need to find any. There’s plenty. Weeks’ worth, probably.”
Milk. Not something you keep on hand over long periods of time. Which means someone was here very recently, just like I suspected. “We’re not going to be here for weeks.” Good God, at least I hope we won’t be. “Maybe we should just eat and go to sleep.”
“In here?” Tori asks. “Or the bedrooms out there?”
I look over at the couch and picture last night. It was nice to be near her. I miss her body next to mine. I miss the scent of her hair as I sleep. I want that for another night, but I’m not sure how to insist on this room when there’s a whole house above us and no chance anyone will come looking tonight. “Upstairs, I think. We can take this food upstairs. The first note said I’d know what to do with this room. And right now I don’t. So we must not need it yet.”
“I’m not locking myself in that room, Weston Conrad. No matter what happens. So fuck yeah, I’m sleeping upstairs.”
And then she walks out, a box of crackers and a block of cheese clutched in her hands.
Fucking Tori Arias. Why, of all people to get stuck on an island with, does it have to be her? The only girl I want but can’t have?
And this new revelation about her past. It intrigues me and sends my Mr. Corporate cynicism into overdrive at the same time. Because I see what’s coming. She’s gotten a little glimpse into my lies as well. And if I want more of her, she’ll want more of me.
Something I cannot—will not—give up.
So we are doomed. Again. I hope that big asshole in the sky in charge of irony is enjoying himself right now. Or maybe it’s herself? I bet the god of irony is female.
I leave the weird-ass room Mysterious has set up and make my way back upstairs. Tori is sitting on the couch with a plate of cheese and crackers propped up on a pillow, watching an old rerun of Seinfeld on the flatscreen.
Can this trip get any weirder?
“I love this episode,” Tori says, cheese slicer in hand as she carves off little slivers of cheddar. “George Costanza is showing off that fake picture of Jerry’s man-hands girlfriend to gain access to the Forbidden City.” She laughs at the TV. “He’s so stupid.”
“So you’re OK with this?” I ask, taking a seat next to her on the couch. She offers me a cracker, but I shake my head. “With just being told what to do by my mysterious friend while a hurricane rages outside.”
She shrugs. “I’m not thinking about it. I’m going to eat and enjoy myself until the power goes out. And then I’m going to bed. This place is much better than that last one. Things could be worse.”
This is not a typical Victoria Arias answer. “Since when did you get so Zen?”
“Since now,” she says sharply, looking over to stare me in the eyes. “I’m done with you. And your asshole friends. And your secret life as a lobster fisherman. And whatever else you’re keeping locked away up in that head of yours.” She brushes her hands together to get rid of her cracker crumbs, then sets the plate on the coffee table and stands up. “I’m going to get out of these wet clothes and forget all about what’s happening outside in the real world. How’s that for Zen?”
She walks over to the dry bag and picks up her skirt and blouse. I expect her to go change in the bathroom, but she sets them on the kitchen island bar, her back to me, and reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra.
Fuck. My eyes are glued to her bod
y. The small muscles in her shoulders, the way her long hair—which is starting to dry now—ripples along her back as the lavender bra slips down her arms and drops to the floor. She grabs her silk blouse and puts it on, pulling her hair out from the neckline as she lowers her head to button it up.
“Shit.”
“What?” I ask, still mesmerized.
“I lost two buttons and there’s a rip in my shirt.” When she turns around I can see her peaked nipples through the thin silk. The two missing buttons are the ones near the top, so her breasts practically hang out. She pretends not to notice that I’m staring and just wiggles her skirt up her hips, then zips it up, and begins pulling her panties down her long, tanned legs.
“Are you getting a nice look?” she asks, still concentrating on her wardrobe change.
“Well, you’re certainly putting on a nice show.”
She angles her head to look at me with a sly grin.
Yes, the god of irony is definitely a goddess. If I was back in the real world, I’d just walk out and get as far away from her as I could. As fast as possible. In fact, this would’ve never gone this far because I know how addictive she is.
“Black belt, huh?” she asks, coming back to the couch and grabbing her plate of cheese and crackers.
“I’m not talking about it.”
“Well, that’s fine.” She slices off another sliver of cheese and props it on a cracker. I watch her take a bite and wish her perfect lips were wrapped around my cock.
Stop it, Weston. She’s not real. She’s some illusion of days gone by. She’s not even nice. She’s a total bitch, remember? Slaps your face every chance she gets. Plays games, and throws fits, and generally acts like being wild is a gift and not her own desperate attempt to cover up all the bad things in her past.
“We can talk about you instead,” I say. “About your little black-belt experience. Even though I know why you act the way you do.”
“Do you?” She eyes me, daring me to keep going down this line of questioning.
“I was there, remember?”
“You weren’t there,” she snaps. “You came afterward, Weston. Just like my father. You were late, just like everyone else.”
“So it’s my fault? Not his?”
“I didn’t say that,” she whispers, concentrating on her food. “And if it came out that way, well, I didn’t mean it, either.”
“But you never told anyone.”
“Just shut up, Weston. You have no right to give me the third degree about running away.”
“Maybe not, but what you did was wrong. You let him get away with it. How many other women has he attacked since that night?”
“Fuck you. It’s not even like that, so—” But she abruptly stops talking.
“So? What’s it like?”
She smiles that smile she does, the one that says, If you want something from me, I want something back. “Why were you working on a boat when you were seven?”
I consider her question. It’s not a dangerous one to answer. Not really, if I keep all the important details out of it. And the reason she never went after her attacker that night has been eating away at me since it happened.
So I answer. “We were poor. We needed the money.”
“Poor? Ha!” She belts out a laugh. “You were poor when you were a kid?” She laughs again. “Well, I bet that rags-to-riches tale must be very interesting then, right? Because when I met you, your closet was filled with thousand-dollar suits, you were driving an Aston Martin—even though that’s about the most pretentious car you can own in America, aside from a Rolls Royce—and you bought me a twenty-thousand-dollar engagement ring.”
“Yeah, I still have that ring.”
Her brows knit together as she frowns. “I refuse to feel guilty about that.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m just stating a fact.”
Tori huffs out some air and tosses her hair the way she does when she’s trying to get over something that bothers her. “So how did you go from poor pathetic lobster boy to paying cash for an Ivy League education?”
“Tell me why you never turned that guy in and I’ll tell you how I got here.”
She squints her eyes at me, looking for the trap. Oh, I’ve laid one. I’m very careful about my past and there’s no way in hell she’s gonna get that out of me so easily.
“OK,” she says, after considering my offer for a few moments. She takes a deep breath. “OK. If I tell you something, then you tell me something.”
“Deal. Why didn’t you turn him in?”
The muscles in her jaw clench for a second and then she takes in a long breath of air and lets the words out on the exhale. “I knew him.”
“You knew him? He was the guy you broke up with the night we met?”
She nods.
“Jesus, fuck, Victoria. What the hell?”
“Don’t judge me,” she snaps. “I have my reasons.”
“What possible reason could you have to protect an asshole like that? After what he did to you, Tori? Holy fuck!”
“He was threatening my father’s legacy.”
“Legacy?”
“I’m not telling you anymore. I answered your question, now you answer mine.” Her expression goes flat, like hard, cold steel. “How did your family go from dirt poor to filthy rich?”
I have had this answer ready since I was seven years old. I’ve just never had to tell it before. So I’m careful as I consider my words. Very fucking careful. “My father ran a salvage business.”
“Salvage?” Tori asks, trying out the new word. “What’s that mean, exactly?”
“You know, treasure hunting. In the ocean.”
“Really?” She smiles, picturing it.
“Yeah. But he sorta sucked at it. Until he didn’t. We found some treasure. In the ocean. In international waters. It was a big find and it was a fishing boat, not a ship. From a long time ago. So we didn’t have to surrender it. We kept the find, cashed it in, and the rest is history.”
“Hmmm,” Tori says. “That’s it? That’s how your family went from so poor, you had to catch lobsters to pay the bills to…”—she points at me—“to this?”
“Yup. That’s it. Your turn. What’s your father’s legacy?”
She hesitates. Why? It’s not like this information can’t be discovered. I mean, if she doesn’t want to tell me, and Mysterious and I are still on speaking terms when this is all over, I can have him dig up her dirt. It would be very easy to get whatever information she’s hiding.
“He saved me. My father, the noble policeman. He saved me and taught me how to defend myself and took care of me. But I’m not the only one he saved.”
“Go on,” I say.
“He runs a charitable organization. For kids like me. And when you started the headhunting business I saw an opportunity to make money.”
“So you copied me.”
“Does that piss you off?” she sneers. “That a woman could do the same job as you?”
“Don’t be snide, Tori. I’m not a misogynist. I don’t hate women or think they are incapable of contributing. I just want my wife to be my wife.”
“I think it’s the same thing.”
“Well, it’s not.” We stare at each other for a moment. “So what does his legacy have to do with your ex, the rapist? And by the way, it never escaped my attention that I was accused of rape twenty-four hours later.”
“Now it’s your turn to stop being ridiculous, Weston. We both knew you were innocent. I saw the whole thing. You were never going to jail for that. You had a witness.”
“But my friends could’ve. They didn’t have an alibi like me.”
“I don’t think it was him,” she says, with more thoughtful consideration than this guy deserves.
“Why are you defending him? He raped you. You let him get away with it. And you have no idea who was behind those accusations. No one does.” I stop for a second, considering this. “Unless you do know and you never told me.”
>
“I don’t,” she seethes. “And if you accuse me of that again, I’ll walk out of your life when this is over and never come back.”
I should be more concerned with the facts at hand, with all the secrets that might come spilling out of this very dangerous conversation, with the reason why she’s too afraid, or too proud, or too something to tell anyone what really happened to her the night after we met. But my thoughts are consumed with the possibility that she won’t walk out on me. That we might have a chance at a second chance. That she might rethink the answer she gave when I asked her to marry me—six fucking times.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Victoria
West is silent for a few minutes and I try to pretend I’m more interested in Seinfeld than I am him until I can’t stand it anymore.
“I don’t know who set you up, Weston. And it hurts me that you think I’d keep that from you if I did.”
He’s staring out the window when I look over at him. It’s like a hurricane out there. But maybe not really a hurricane. A bad storm for sure. But my fear of blowing away or being swallowed up by the sea has abated. This house is in the middle of the island surrounded by all kinds of trees and brush, and high up on a hill. I can see the ocean, but it’s not twenty feet outside the window, like the other island. And we have power, satellite TV, and food downstairs. His friend put us here, for whatever reason. So this is… controlled. I like controlled.
Which is funny, I suddenly realize. Because West has been trying to control my life since we met and I rail against it with all my being.
Why?
Why do I feel the need to refuse him?
“I’m sorry,” West says, leaning his elbow on the arm of the couch to prop up his chin.
I let out a sigh. “I accept your apology.”
He looks over at me, opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, then shakes his head and looks out the window again.
“What?” I ask. “What were you going to say?”
“Never mind. I will respect your privacy. Obviously you don’t want to discuss your past with me, and I should’ve realized that a long time ago and dropped it. So I’m gonna drop it now. Fuck it. I probably don’t know anything about you, do I?”
