by S. Massery
“Stop,” Sam says. “He takes a left, and our cameras don’t pick him up again.”
I round the corner.
“Okay, you’re gone.” Sam waits, and when I don’t respond, “Aiden? If you’re standing still, you’re in a blind spot.”
“Get the fuck down here.” I sigh and step forward, around the pool of blood.
A man is slumped against one of the containers. His eye is gone—the exact threat I issued to the harbormaster only minutes ago. Blood is soaked into his light-blue collared shirt. It says Shipping Customs on the sleeve.
Jimmy, then.
There’s a God-awful amount of flies buzzing around the body, and the smell turns my stomach. He doesn’t look great—bloody foam collected in his nostrils and lips, and his body has begun to bloat.
I crouch beside him, tilting his head to the side with one finger. His eye was obliterated by a gunshot, the back of his head cracked open where the bullet exited. The blood on his skin has dried. They probably killed him four days ago, the night we were stolen from. Enough time for rigor mortis to pass and decomposition to begin.
Sam skids to a stop. “Shit.”
“Yep. The customs officer.”
“He was alone on camera. Who killed him?”
I sigh. “Someone waiting? I don’t know.”
I sound like the harbormaster, repeating I don’t know until the opposite becomes true. I search his pockets. Something clanks, and I draw a key ring out of his slacks pocket. “They took his wallet but not his keys?”
My friend grunts.
A mystery. I take a picture of the body and stash my phone, then rise.
I try to shake off the nagging feeling. “Call in Detective Sanders on this one. I need to have a chat with Martin.”
Sam nods.
I fist the keys and head back to my truck and Sam’s van. I’ve got a harbormaster to interrogate and a lead to follow.
7
Gemma
I experiment with the blinds in the bedroom. I refuse to think of it as Aiden’s bedroom, especially since I’ve been living in it on my own for the past five days. It’s neutral for now. But anyway, this is peak boredom because I’ve been counting the seconds. Another restless night, another morning of no Aiden—absolutely nothing but me and my thoughts.
The blinds retract slower than they drop. Gravity plays a role, of course, so the logic works in my head. I’m surrounded by drawings of the city, and I can’t help but retrace my steps up here. Into the elevator, through the kitchen on the seventeenth floor.
My mind stumbles on what Aiden said to me, and I instinctively reach for the sketch pad. From my position on the floor, I scribble out what I remember.
He asked me if I recognized the view.
Manhattan. A different side of the building, facing another direction. I never spent much time in this end of the city. I preferred the quiet of Central Park. The Empire State Building is a few blocks north of us, then even farther up the park begins. Far from where I think we are.
But, because I was in a trunk, I really have no idea.
My windows face east and north. I pretend I can see the tall spire through the gaps of other buildings, and beyond that the trees that guard the entrance to the park.
Wishful thinking.
We’re too high up, so I can’t see the street names. None of the surrounding structures have defining marks. In other words, I’m out of luck.
Someone knocks on the door. Not to the apartment, but to the bedroom.
I bolt up and sway as the blood rushes away from my head. I have to stand still for a moment, the room swinging around me, until I can move.
“Who is it?” I demand.
“Dr. Matthews,” a man responds.
I jerk back. His voice is familiar, but I can’t place it.
“I’ve brought you a friend,” he adds.
I glance down at myself. My t-shirt and Aiden’s rolled sweatpants. No use changing if I’m not leaving, right?
Still, I only crack the door open and peer through with one eye. Dr. Matthews has a nice enough face. A bit older, closer to my dad’s age than mine, with flecks of gray in his dark hair and goatee. Cat stands slightly behind him on the landing.
“I didn’t scare you off?” I blurt out.
She laughs. “Hardly.”
I open the door wider. “You should’ve knocked.”
Dr. Matthews shrugs. “I did, but you didn’t answer.”
Oh.
“I just wanted to check on your back. I’m not sure if you remember me from the other day, but I looked at your burns and prescribed the cream.” He waits.
All I remember is Aiden rocking me in his arms—and at that memory, my face flames. The doctor ignores it, though, and motions for me to turn around. Cat goes with me, so I’m not just staring at the wall.
I flinch at the snap of his gloves, and then his cold touch on my lower back. He lifts my shirt up and touches around the burn. It hurts, but I grit my teeth and concentrate on something else.
“We’re going out,” Cat tells me. “And you clearly need a new wardrobe, right?”
I perk up. “Out?”
“As in, out of the apartment.” But not out of the tower.
My face falls. “Oh.”
She sighs. “I share an apartment with my brother. It’s a few floors down, and I need to get rid of some clothes.”
There’s at least three inches height difference between us, but I don’t say that. Maybe she likes capri pants and crop tops, and they’ll look like normal clothes on me…
“I’m sorry for being so nosy yesterday.” She offers her hand. “I wasn’t thinking about you or your feelings. Just that we had an outsider in our tower. Sam made you sound like bad news.”
I laugh and take her hand, pulling her closer. “I am bad news.”
Dr. Matthews tugs my shirt back into place. He clears his throat, and for the first time I must ask myself if he—or Cat—won’t take every part of this interaction back to Aiden.
“It’s healing,” he says. “It might scar.”
I nod. “I’m okay with a few scars.”
Wouldn’t be the first, probably won’t be the last.
He leaves, and Cat waits for me to hunt down my shoes. She leans against the wall, seeming to contemplate something.
“Spit it out,” I finally say.
“Were you at Wilder’s funeral?”
I freeze, and the rush comes back.
Two months ago, give or take, I ran into Amelie Page on the streets in Brooklyn. A random encounter with the girl who married into the DeSantis family. The whole city had been talking about Wilder’s death on the altar. Some online tabloids distributed photos of her in a bloodstained wedding dress, although I doubt she ever saw them. They vanished shortly after they were posted.
We knew her parents were desperate. My father wanted to take down their company and demolish the building they owned, turn it into high-rise apartments. The Pages couldn’t keep up with the hits on their delivery trucks, the steep rising cost of supplies.
The rumor was that they married her off to one of Wilder’s brothers. I didn’t realize how desperate I was for it to not be Aiden until she confirmed it herself, standing in front of me.
Relief, gratitude, annoyance. A flicker of pity.
I brushed it off and moved on. It wasn’t like Aiden would swoop in and steal me away, even if, in the darkest recesses of my mind, I wanted that. Dreamed about it.
But then, a month later, she texted me. Luca kept her locked away under the guise of protection, but it was a jail cell.
I mentioned to my father that maybe he should pay his respects at the funeral. Cause a stir, anyway. He agreed. I roll back the memory of that day: watching the entrances of the church for Amelie to step out, quickly mimicking her makeup and hair, pulling on a dress similar to hers. The veil was a nice touch—reminiscent of her wedding veil, except in black.
The mausoleum where Wilder was going to be put to
rest was tall and bleak, the weather mirroring the DeSantis family’s moods. Depressing.
And, yes, Amelie and I switched. She got in a car with my cousin, Kai, and I went and talked to her parents. They didn’t notice I wore the same clothes as their daughter—something that irked me later. They really didn’t give a shit about her.
But Cat waits for an answer, even though I know she knows I was there.
I kept my back to Luca and Aiden the whole time I talked to people, accepting condolences for a man I hated.
And I wondered if Amelie felt the same way about him.
“The girl was skin and bones,” I reply. “She needed to get away from them.”
She surprises me by nodding. “Luca talked me into being her keeper. Bringing her meals, checking on her…”
I appraise her in a new light. Seeing the difference in Amelie from the day on the street to the funeral was shocking. It reaffirmed in my mind that the DeSantises were bad people… but maybe it was just one person who was bad.
Or two.
“You brought her the phone?” I ask.
She doesn’t look away. “I did. I couldn’t outright let her go, but… I did what I could.”
I nod. “It worked. She’s free.”
And she owes me a favor. It doesn’t matter, though. Amelie is a world away, and I’m stuck in a tower.
Our roles have officially reversed.
Cat’s smile trembles. “That’s so good to hear. Now, come on, let’s get you out of this apartment for an afternoon.”
That’s what we do. She shows me around the lower floors, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator. Her apartment is only a flight below Aiden’s, but the difference is startling. The living area is warm, creams and browns with pops of orange. A dark leather couch faces a television, a wooden dining table by the windows. It has two short hallways on either side, leading to bathrooms and bedrooms.
“This way,” she says, leading me toward hers. The three walls are eggshell blue. White floor-to-ceiling curtains are swept open to reveal the huge windows. We’ve rotated again, I notice. Different view. The morning sun hits the opposite building, so we must be facing west now.
“Does the restaurant look this way?” I ask.
She pauses. “Um, no. South, I think.”
I grunt.
“Sit on the bed.”
I perch on the white and turquoise blanket. Cat pulls open her closet doors and stares into it for a second, her hands on her hips.
“Okay, do you want comfortable or…?”
I shift. “Um…”
She snaps her fingers. “Both.”
“You didn’t list another option,” I mutter.
Cat glances back and winks. “Trust me.”
Trust her—what a concept. I don’t trust Aiden. I barely trust myself. The only ones who are worth putting my faith in are Wests. My blood. I’m here to save them, and I need to hold on to that.
“Anyway,” she continues. She tosses items onto the bed beside me. A few soft shirts, a sweater or two, a mini skirt.
I press my lips together.
The pile grows. Jean shorts and a few dresses, hell, she even gives me socks.
“Okay,” I interrupt, standing. “That’s a lot.”
She frowns. “Oh. Well, you should try some on just to make sure it fits.”
Right. I grab the jean shorts and a t-shirt and lock myself in her bathroom, shedding my clothes. The shorts fit well, only gaping a little bit at the waist, and the t-shirt’s bottom hem coasts just above the denim. Not quite a crop top… until I raise my arms, anyway.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and shudder. I don’t look great. Dark circles under my eyes, not a speck of makeup. I find a hair tie and twist my blonde locks into a new braid.
But this is fine, because Aiden isn’t here. I used to be a social butterfly before my parents forbade me from going to school. And… well, most places where they couldn’t hover.
Cat knocks. “Gemma?”
I unlock and open the door.
Aiden stands behind her, glaring at me.
Shit.
He stalks forward and grabs my upper arm. He drags me out of the bathroom, straight past his cousin. She shoots me a wide-eyed expression that I’m not sure how to interpret. I’m pretty sure we both broke Aiden’s rule of me not leaving the apartment, and I don’t know what that means for her. I don’t know what it means for me, either.
My heart kicks up speed when he practically throws me into the elevator at the end of the hall. I spin around, pressing my back to the wall. Sam, Cat’s brother, watches passively from outside their door. That’s the last thing I see before Aiden steps inside and the doors slide closed behind him.
He hits the button for the twenty-fourth floor. I make a mental note of what I know of the building, trying to distract myself from Aiden’s scowl. He seems content to stand there and glower, though, instead of saying what must be on the tip of his tongue.
Cat said anything above the twentieth floor is DeSantis only. Restaurant on seventeen. The rather bland room we waited for his father in was on the nineteenth. Cat’s apartment, twenty-third. Aiden, twenty-four.
Still too much mystery for my liking between here and the ground.
“She was being nice,” I finally say. I can’t help it. The need to defend her is overwhelming. “She came with Dr. Matthews when he—”
“Be quiet.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Seriously, Aiden? You shouldn’t—”
The elevator chimes as it arrives on his floor.
“Go on. What should I not do?” He’s immobile in front of the doors.
Is he just oddly curious? Or waiting to see if I’ll dig myself into an even deeper hole?
Definitely the latter, but I keep pushing.
“You can’t control every aspect of my life.” I straighten my shoulders.
He smirks and steps forward, wrapping his arm around my waist. It seems like he might kiss me… or maybe now he’s going to kill me. The elevator is all metal sheeting. Probably easier to clean than the floor of his apartment.
Blood spatter is a nasty thing.
How would he do it? There’s no saying he even has to draw blood. He could pinch his hand over my nose and mouth and suffocate me. Wrap his hands around my neck—
“Gemma.”
His hand at the small of my back applies pressure, guiding me off the elevator to his door. Inside. The lock snicks, and that unlocks my muscles.
I don’t want to be alone with him.
I bolt toward the stairs and make it into the bedroom, my fingers grasping at the knob of the bathroom door. He catches me there, his weight hitting my side. I lose my hold, and we hit the floor hard. He flips me onto my stomach and pins me to the carpet, capturing my wrists in his hands. He straddles my thighs, keeping them pressed together, and his ankles hook over my calves.
I’m trapped.
My struggle is worthless.
“Am I controlling you now?” he whispers in my ear.
“Physically.” I try to shift, but it’s impossible.
His lips touch the back of my neck, and I freeze. He peppers my skin with kisses, and heat rushes through me.
I hate him.
I hate the way his palms cover the backs of my hands, his fingers threading between mine. Loathing crawls through me, chased by something darker. The knowledge that there’s a part of me that wants to be touched.
Wants his touch.
His mouth travels up my neck, to my ear again. “Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I know what thoughts run through your head, princess. I know what you’re trying to hide.” He slides his hand down my arm, my side, and wedges it between my hips and the floor.
I bite my lip to try to stop my gasp, but there’s no denying my breathing is too fast. He cups me through the jean shorts and stops. All I can hear is the sound of my heart pounding, and shame fills me.
All over again, I can see my mother’s worried face as I ste
pped off the elevator at sixteen. Her firm grip on my shoulders, the wobble of her chin.
Because of him.
She was always afraid of Aiden DeSantis lurking around the corner, ready to steal her baby girl.
He pulls away and climbs off me. But something still presses me into the floor, heavier than shame.
Disgust.
My hands tremble.
He leaves me there. His footsteps pound on the stairs, then the slam of the outer door hits me. I still can’t move for a long moment, waiting for those emotions to subside. He brought them out in a vicious way, but it’s me who holds on to them. They linger on my skin.
I hoist myself to my feet and look around the room. My drawings are still scattered across the floor by the window. I sloppily made the bed this morning, and the crinkled blankets seem to scream at me.
It can’t be a mistake that he didn’t throw me on the bed.
My cheek stings, carpet marks indented in my skin. The burn at my back aches, too. Everything hurts more than it should, like Aiden came in and flayed open all my nerves just to watch me burn.
Do something, Gemma.
If that’s my voice in my head or a ghost from my past, I can’t tell. But I listen. I creep downstairs and into the kitchen. I have to haul myself up on the counter to reach the top shelf, moving aside some spices to reach the liquor.
Yep, Aiden has a secret stash.
I don’t know why he hides it, though. As far as I can tell, it’s only ever been him living here. I rise higher, straining to see farther into the cabinet, and my heart damn near stops. The bottle of tequila hides a tiny gun in a holster… and a burner phone.
I’d bet money it’s mine.
I grab it and flip it open, staring down at the screen. Do I send a message? Call for help? Update my father or brother?
The sensor on the outside of the door beeps, and it scrapes as it unlocks. I shove the phone back into the cabinet and move the tequila and spices back in place. I hop down just as the door opens, and Aiden and Sam enter.
The former glances at me and grimaces.
“Go upstairs, Gemma.”
I cross my arms. “Seriously?”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re being allowed a lot of freedom right now.”
