by JA Huss
A prison, then.
When we approach there are guards with guns in a little building off to the side, who probably control the gate. But Ricky’s car must be one they know because the gate opens for us and we pass through.
I let out a loud breath of air. And I can imagine Ricky’s heart is beating as fast as mine, because his stake in this is as big as mine, even if he’s not the person Carlos is interested in and I am.
He will be killed if his cover is blown. Brutally. Like… beheaded, maybe. Or hanged from a bridge and left there to decay in the sun as an example to the locals.
I want to say something to him. Make him say something to me. Something that builds my courage like, “We’ll get him.” Or something comforting like, “I won’t let him touch you.”
But he doesn’t. And I don’t either. Because we’re past that now.
He needs to be Ricky and do his Ricky job. And I need to be Maddie and do my Maddie job.
The car stops too soon and then Ricky is out and my door opens, and a large man tells me to get out in Spanish.
I do. Swallowing down my fear. I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers just in case I need to run. I don’t have any make-up on and my hair is pulled up in a ponytail because I’ll be damned if I’m gonna make myself pretty for this murdering asshole.
The big guy takes the couple of small bags I brought with me, and my heart catches when I think of the sat phone and them finding it and keeping it, but I keep a blank, almost bored look on my face so that nobody gets to think I give a shit what they do.
I look around as the unfamiliar man beckons me toward the front door, which is open. Walking through it, I discover the inside decked out for Christmas, looking like something from a fairytale. Like a Brothers Grimm fairytale where somebody gets eaten by a wolf at the end. Holly adorns the grand staircase, ribbons and bobbles hang from everywhere, and on the far side of the hall is a Christmas tree that looks like it was stolen from the Rockefeller Center.
And, also dressed in festive holiday attire, the servants are once again all lined up, just like they were last time. Only this time it’s only me arriving to greet them, not their master. So why the fuck are they doing that?
“Welcome, Madison.”
I look to my right to see Carlos standing under an arched doorway that leads off to another part of the house. He’s wearing a light-colored linen suit like he’s on vacation in the tropics and we’re going out for dinner. His tie is pale green, and the small sliver of pocket square I can see is red. Ho, ho, fucking ho.
Carlos Castillo isn’t ugly. Or old. He’s not handsome or young, either. He’s something in between those things. He reaches for me, the gold ring on his right hand flashing in a sliver of sun that finds its way inside, until the massive front door creaks as it’s closed up by a servant and the grand foyer goes dim with shadows.
I don’t reach for him, but my hand ends up in his anyway.
He kisses it, which repulses me and for a second I try to withdraw it. But his grip tightens and I give up and do my Maddie job.
“Mr. Castillo,” I say. Not cold, but cool enough.
He tsks his tongue, but smiles. “Please, call me Carlos. Unless you have a pet name for me already. Then call me that instead.”
Ewww.
“How was the drive?” he asks.
I look around for Ricky, but he’s gone. So’s the other guy. Just me, the master, and his servants. They all look straight ahead, not at me. Just staring at the closed door like robots.
“Long.” I sigh. “And hot. And boring. And silent.”
“Well,” Carlos says, placing my hand on his arm as he leads me forward into the interior rooms of the house. “Let’s see if we can’t improve conditions a little.”
It is hot for December. Which is appropriate since I’m spending Christmas in hell.
We descend down several steps to a sunken living room and the temperature cools. There’s ceiling fans and A/C, I’m sure of it. But the foyer was grand, and tall, a place that gathers heat. This room, which is tastefully furnished with overly large southwestern pieces, was meant to keep heat out, not trap it inside.
A servant, who’s dressed like something out of the fucking Nutcracker, appears on my left, tray outstretched, glass of water on top. I take it automatically because my mouth is dry and tastes like paste. For a moment I wonder if maybe it’s drugged. Like he’s going to roofie me. But then I decide that’s silly. Why would he? I came here on my own. So I drink it—all of it—and place it back on the tray, because that servant is still hovering, and then look at Carlos and sigh.
“Let’s take care of the boring part now, shall we?”
Whatever. I nod. Force a small smile. And let him lead me through the house as he points out different rooms and special objects he has an affection for.
There’s a lot of bedrooms. And two wings to the house, but our tour only covers one side. I soon realize the other side of the house is where I was last time. The prison side. This side is his personal residence. And by the time the tour makes it to the last of the bedrooms, I’m not surprised at the lack of bars on the windows.
He’s pointed out paintings, pottery, rugs, and other pieces he’s collected over the years. “This is my home, Madison,” he says as we turn the corner and enter the master suite. “And now it’s yours too.”
Jesus Christ, he’s fucking certifiable.
But I make myself smile. “It’s lovely. Really.”
He looks at the bed. Then back at me.
Fuck you, buddy. “We should swim,” I say. “I’m still so hot.”
This must be something agreeable to him because he draws in a breath. “You didn’t bring very much luggage.”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t. I figured you’d provide for me. I’m not wrong, am I?” I arch my eyebrow.
Which makes him beam for some stupid reason. “You’re correct. You are mine now. And I will provide for you. That is what it means to be mine.”
I nod. Smile. Say, “Yes. That’s what it means.”
He watches me carefully for a few moments, maybe trying to figure out if I’m sincere or this is all just bullshit.
He knows it’s an act. He must. He’s crazy, not stupid. But he doesn’t address any suspicions he may have, and motions towards a set of double doors. The servant who’s been following us around the entire tour jets out from behind us and opens them.
It’s a closet. Huge. Something I’d die for if it was really mine and not an elaborate trap laid by an insane drug lord.
I take in the dresses. Gowns, some of them. The shirts, hung neatly from those fancy hangers you only see in movies. Or probably at Evan and Robert’s. Pants, some folded on shelves, some clipped to hangers to keep them creased.
But it’s the swimsuits I’m interested in.
I’ve thought about this first day and how we might spend it the entire drive down. When I wasn’t missing Tyler, that is. Emily encouraged me to think of things that I might want to do that would please Carlos but simultaneously keep him at a distance. Use the fact that I have something he wants—that I am something he wants—to my advantage. And I came up with the idea of swimming to pass the hours. Luckily, the weather will allow for it, he can see me in a suit, and I can cool off in the pool, maybe sun myself. Pretend I’m on vacation. And hopefully, if I play it right, it will put him at ease and keep him from touching me at the same time.
Because I will not fuck Carlos Castillo. Not for Ricky, not for the DEA, not for my goddamned country. Not for anyone.
Carlos lets me move away from him, probably getting off on this moment. Seeing himself as some generous, benevolent king instead of some lowlife scum who needs to trap a girl to keep her.
I reach for the swimsuits hanging off to the side.
“There’s two-pieces in the drawer down below,” Carlos offers. As if I’d really choose a bikini when I have five one-pieces hanging in front of me.
Two of them are just strategically-pla
ced strings. One would be fairly conservative… if it wasn’t see-through mesh. One looks like something an Olympic swimmer might wear for a meet. And one is black, covers the most important parts, and shimmers with rhinestones.
I chose the bling-y one. I would choose the athletic one, but I have a plan, and that’s not part of it.
“Do you like this one?” I ask, holding the suit up in front of my body by the hanger.
He stares at me. First my face, studying it carefully. Then his eyes track down, over the suit and my body, and he smiles. “I can’t know for sure until you put it on.”
“Some privacy?” I ask. Softly. Sweetly.
He nods his head, backs out of the closet, and closes the doors behind him.
I strip quickly, efficiently, kicking my own clothes into a heap at the edge of the ball gowns, and pull the swimsuit up, letting the straps snap against my skin as I adjust it.
There’s a bazillion shoes to choose from. I scan the shelves, decide on a pair of bling-y black ones that kinda match the suit, then grab a white button-down shirt and pull it on over me. Sunglasses—all lined up neatly in a velvet-lined drawer—and a floppy cream-colored straw hat—sitting on a high shelf—complete my look.
So by the time Carlos gets antsy and knocks on the doors, calling out, “Madison?” I’m ready.
I open them up, find him about to knock again, then enjoy his pleasant surprise at my change.
Because I’m not Maddie Clayton right now. I’m Madison, civilian undercover for the DE fuckin’ A. And I figure the quickest way to gain enough intel to take this asshole down and put him away for good is to assimilate.
“Is that what you’re wearing out to the pool? Carlos,” I say, taking his lapels in my fingertips and caressing the soft linen of his suit. “Go change. We can’t play in the pool if you’re wearing the wrong kind of suit.”
He tilts his head at me, questioning my immediate surrender.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
He says nothing. Just stares at me.
“Look,” I say, sighing, letting go of the false happiness and getting real. “I get it. Obviously, this is not the way I thought this was all going to go. And I’ve clearly not been very forthcoming before now. But I’ve thought about it all, and I’ve come to a brutal conclusion.” He continues staring. “My life sucked, OK? I mean, I was a goddamned stripper, for fuck’s sake. And not a very good one.”
This makes him smile
“And I couldn’t see a fucking way out of it, but this—all this—is an opportunity. My life’s been going downhill for a long time, and this is a chance to be a little less miserable. Look, I know this isn’t real. I know you don’t really love me or anything. And you know I don’t really love you. But I’m not gonna blow this, Carlos.”
He squints his eyes at me. Confused. “Blow what?”
“This,” I say, shrugging as I pan my arms wide to indicate the room. “All of this. I’m gonna enjoy it. I’m gonna eat your food and use your expensive soaps in the shower. And play in your pool, and sun myself, and probably drink too much. So there,” I say, hands on hips. “What do you think of that?”
He chuckles.
I pray. Don’t kiss me. Please don’t kiss me.
“What else will you do?” he asks, his voice husky.
“Oh, you mean will I fuck you? No,” I say, crossing my arms. “I might’ve been a stripper, but I’m not a whore. I can’t be bought. If you want a whore, go get one. I’m your companion.”
He does more than chuckle now. “You’re what I want you to be, Madison.”
“Yeah,” I say, backing up one step. “And what’s that? Do you want to force me? Do want me to pretend, Carlos?” He stares at me. I know I’m making him angry, but I push through it. “Or do you want me to give in? And be real? Because those two things are very different. And the way you get them is also very different.”
“You just said you won’t… fuck me.”
I take a brief, secret breath and say, “If I come to like you, we can have sex. If I come to love you, I’ll do anything you want. But I don’t love you right now. I like your things. I like your money. I like your power. But I don’t like you. In fact, I kinda fuckin’ hate you. You think I owe you money when I don’t. You sent your stupid nephew to threaten me.”
Easy, Scarlett, Devil says. Because Carlos’s face is turning red with anger. Not sure this was part of the fucking strategy Emily taught you.
Shut the fuck up, I tell him, silently.
I steel myself and say, “And you killed my friend.”
“I didn’t order that,” he says, coolly.
“Who cares?” I yell. “I’m mad about it. I’m mad as fucking hell, OK? And if you want to rape me… if you want to prove to me that you’re the asshole I think you are right now, then I can’t stop you, can I?”
We stare hard at each other now, neither of us willing to back down.
“But if you’d like to change my mind,” I say, softening just a little, just enough, “show me another side of you, well… then I’ll give you another chance. If you’re patient with me, I’ll be patient with you.”
He looks down at his stupid expensive shoes. I catch him grinning like a dumbass teenager. And when he raises his eyes to meet mine again, I see that I’ve won.
Never underestimate the power of a woman.
Chapter Thirteen - Tyler
I’m sitting on her bed, reading the letter she wrote me all those years ago for the fiftieth time since she left, when I hear the front door to the house open. I’m staring at the words ‘I love you’ when Caroline, carrying a Christmas tree, walks past the open bedroom door and sees me.
“Tyler?” she asks.
“Hey, Caroline,” I say, pretty fucking mournfully.
“It’s Diane,” she says. (OK. Fine. Diane. Jesus.) Then she asks, “Where’s Maddie?”
“Oh, she had to, uh, go out of town for a few days.”
“Really? Where’d she go?”
Jesus Christ, I haven’t seen Caroline and/or Diane in weeks and this is the day one of them chooses to come home and change their panties?
“Uh… Monaco,” I blurt out.
“Monaco? Really? Why?”
“Parents,” I say.
She looks concerned. And then she looks disgruntled. “Shit,” she says. “She’s not, like, moving there, is she? We already lost one roommate we’re having to cover rent for. When will she be back?”
“Not sure,” I say.
“Well. OK.” Then she says, “Would’ve been nice for her to tell us she was going.”
And suddenly, I find myself getting pissed. Which I don’t want to get, but I don’t think I have any choice in the matter.
“Yeah, Diane, it woulda been nice. A lotta things woulda been nice. Woulda been nice if she didn’t have to live with a bunch of whores, but that didn’t pan out either. We don’t always get what we want in life though, do we? So you know what?” I stand and walk over to her. She takes a step back. “How ’bout this? How ’bout I run to a bank and get you, what, like, fifty grand? A hundred? However much you want. And you can shove that shit in your sock drawer for a rainy day and never have to worry about it again. All your problems will be solved! Everything in your life will be squared away! You’ll never have to worry about shit again! You hear that? You’ll never have to worry about anything ever again! Not Mookie! He’s a rich man! He’s a rich fuckin’ man! He’s a real Rockefeller!”
Without thinking, I’ve been walking her backwards. She’s flat against the hallway wall now, cowering down a bit, the tree acting as a protective shield between the two of us. “Wh-wh-what?” she stammers out. “I don’t understand. What is that? What are you saying?”
I leave my body for a second and see what this looks like from the outside. A massive, angry dude, towering over a scared woman who will clearly be spending Christmas in this small house in Vegas, and who didn’t do anything wrong, and who’s just worried about paying her bil
ls. And I don’t feel massive anymore at all. I feel like the smallest person in the world. And I am disappointed in myself for channeling my anger at Carlos and Logan and fucking everybody else involved in the shit show I find myself in at poor Diane. (Who I’m still not so sure isn’t actually Caroline. But whatever.)
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s from Do the Right Thing.”
“What?” she asks, still scared.
“The quote. The Mookie stuff. It’s from Do the Right Thing.”
“The movie?” she asks, now scared and confused.
“Yeah, yeah. The Spike Lee joint,” I say. “Sometimes I quote movies when I’m… Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m just having a bad fucking day. Not your fault. I apologize.”
She nods a little. “Is there anything I can do?” she asks. She means it. Shit. And now I feel even worse.
“No, no. You’re great. I’m the asshole. I’m in your house. Know what? Lemme get outta here and… Shit, I’m sorry.”
I duck back into the bedroom to grab my duffel bag and the letter and turn to make my way past her. She steps back, still clearly afraid.
“I really am sorry,” I say. “Listen, I wasn’t kidding. If Maddie… doesn’t come back for any reason—” I take a long pause to keep from going all misty on this kid. The last thing she needs is to take care of my trifling ass. Then I continue, “I got you. OK? I’ll make sure you guys are both covered. Promise.” She nods quickly and slightly. “I’m just… sad. That she’s gone. And I’m, y’know, a dick. So I apologize again. It’s not you. OK? You guys have been good friends to Maddie from what I can tell. You were better friends to her than I was for a long time and I, y’know, I appreciate it.”
She takes a breath and nods a bit more fully. I give her a half smile and turn to leave. I’m almost at the front door when she stops me.
“Tyler?” she asks.
