by Karr, Kim
Once again, he takes ahold of my arm. His grasp isn’t by any means rough. However, it is stern enough to keep me from moving forward. Getting tired of this game, I try to jerk away but he still doesn’t let go. I lift my gaze, disdain clear in my stare and he meets it head on. His return glare carries an aura of danger that makes me shiver.
What he doesn’t know is that my body isn’t reacting out of fear. That my heart is pounding wildly from his proximity. And what he definitely doesn’t know is that for the first time in so long, I feel a tingling sensation below my waist. “Let go of me,” I seethe. “Your job title does not include manhandling me. In fact, I’m quite sure Mr. Cruz would not look very kindly on it if I were to tell him.”
With an irritated exhalation of breath, his clutch loosens but not completely. His hand slides to the small of my back and he urges me toward the door. “Fine. Miss Hart. You can go in, but I’m going in with you.” His tone is stern, not one to be argued with.
Even though I have a feeling what I’m about to walk into isn’t exactly on the up and up, I need to do this alone in case one of these men is someone I’ve come into contact with before. I reach inside my purse and remove my phone. “How about we see what Mr. Cruz has to say about that?”
His eyes turn into two green slits of icicles and they grow colder with each passing second. And in what appears to be a standoff, he finally steps back and leans against the car, crossing his arms. “I didn’t sign up for this shit,” he mutters.
Feeling a bit nervous about this, I stride to the door in my high heels and pull it open. Standing in the small vestibule, I press the red button. I’ve heard about these places. Art owners, and even artists themselves in need of equity, borrow against their own pieces, using them as collateral for cash.
In fact, just a few months ago, it was rumored that the famous Ruben paintings had mysteriously disappeared. These works of art had once belonged to Veronica Hearst, widow of the uber-wealthy Randolph Hearst. Too bad for her, he didn’t leave her much.
Protesting the will to get what she thought was rightfully hers, she was only barely holding on to her fifty-two-room mansion. In order to support the lifestyle she had become accustomed to living, she used the paintings as collateral for a loan by consigning them in a place like this.
Then, sadly, a month ago, after the court ruled against her, she reported the paintings as stolen, when in actuality they were sold in the underground market to an undisclosed buyer. Me. Enrique wanted them. I got them first. I’ll sell them to him as Cleo soon, for ten times what I paid.
Funny though, I must be losing my edge because I didn’t realize Andrés Baisden’s collection had somehow found its way to a place like this.
I’d heard he’d had a falling out with the Mexican government, and his works were outlawed from the museum, but why sell them?
Was he forced?
Were they stolen?
I might never know the answer.
Frustrated that I’d let myself get so caught up in my new life that art is taking a back seat, I vow to regain my perspective as soon as this is over—as soon as my plan comes to fruition.
The sound of the access buzzer is loud and I practically jump out of my Gucci heels. As I enter the small space, I can’t believe Enrique sent me here, and dressed in designer clothes from head-to-toe, besides.
Again, I know he must be slipping. He’d never allow me to visit such a place had he known its condition. Covered in dirt and filth, the counters show no signs of ever being cleared off. It’s like an episode of Hoarder’s Anonymous. I’d almost think I was in the wrong place, but I know this is the right place because wealth surrounds me.
Diamonds and pearls lay haphazardly in glass cases. Old-fashion pistols are stored in cases behind the wall. Pieces of modern art are hung on the wall in various spots around the room. An early 20th-century bronze sculpture stands erect next to the cash register. A 19th-century Persian carpet is half rolled up, half laid out to walk over. And a beautiful Swiss music box sits on top of a shelf near a box filled with various pocketknives.
All of these are precious objects are displayed in a way that demonstrates no respect for their age or beauty.
It’s a shame.
Catcalls from a younger, broad-shouldered man wearing a green army jacket in the back of the store draw my attention. I attempt to ignore his vulgarity and approach the counter. The older gray-haired man behind it looks me over from head to toe and then sneers at me. “What brings you to a place like this?”
I smooth the crease of my Prada skirt. “I’m here to inquire about purchasing the remaining pieces of Andrés Baisden’s collection.”
His eyebrows bunch together. “The what?”
I repeat myself.
“What makes you think I know anything about them?”
The tick of his jaw makes it more than obvious he knows something. I lean over the counter. “I was given this location and told you’d put me in touch with a broker who does know something.”
A sinister expression crosses his face as he rubs his chin. “Were you now?”
“Come with me, mamma. This way,” the younger guy standing in the back of the store says, pointing to a partially open door that looks like a storage closet.
Apprehension flows through my veins. “I don’t need to see them. I just want to find out if they are available.”
The older man behind the counter leers a smile at me and laughs, and then his eyes shift from me to the other man and back. “They wouldn’t be in here even if they were for sale, and if you were on the up and up, you would know that.”
I avoid his beady gaze. “I would, would I? And why is that?”
He shrugs. “Should be common knowledge.”
“To you, maybe. Look, I’m not here to play games,” I huff, “If you can’t put me in touch with the person who can help me purchase the paintings, then my business here is done.”
The man from the back pushes from the wall and starts walking toward me, like he’s stalking me. “We don’t take kindly to strangers nosing around.”
The buzzing of the door draws my attention. “I’m not nosing around. I’m here on business that you clearly can’t help me with, so I’ll just let you attend to your other clients,” I say and hastily make for the exit, not feeling at all comfortable with the situation I’m in.
The man behind the counter beats me to the door. “Not so fast, mamma. We have some questions for you.”
The other guy continues to walk toward me, slowly, licking his lips. “And we’d like some answers.”
I look up at the seedy man blocking the door. “Look,” I scowl, “Clearly you can’t or you aren’t willing to help me, so get out of my way and let me leave.”
He doesn’t move.
There’s something extremely primitive about the look in his eyes that tells me to step a little lighter.
My eyes catch sight of the green jacket getting even closer, about to sandwich me in, and fear rivets my body. I’ve trained in self-defense and have significantly increased my abilities over the past year, but I’m not sure about taking on both of these men at once, especially when there are weapons on the premises.
On alert, I try to look out the window for Caleb but the amount of clutter everywhere hinders my visibility.
The younger guy is right behind me and he reaches out to touch my hair. “Now tell us, what’s a pretty little thing like you doing nosing around for pieces like that in a place like this, anyway?”
Before I can try to talk these men down, the back door unlatches and with a creak, it swings open. I twist around at the noise and see Caleb’s big frame standing in the opening, filling it.
All three of us are stunned.
Knowing this isn’t going to end well, I act quickly and move to the left to brace myself against the wall.
“What the fuck, man, I told you to keep that door locked,” the older man says to the younger one.
“It was,” he answers, his jaw droppi
ng in disbelief.
The beady-eyed guy looks to Caleb. “That’s not an entrance. You’re trespassing. Now get out before I call the cops.”
The corners of Caleb’s lips lift in the semblance of a grin. “Yeah, that’s a really good idea.”
The old man pulls out his phone. “I’m not fucking around.”
Like a predator, Caleb stalks in our direction. “Neither am I.”
I can’t help but watch the way Caleb’s body moves—his muscles flexing hard with each slow menacing step he takes toward us. Dressed in black from head to toe and exuding the perfect don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, he’s very intimidating.
“He asked you to leave,” the younger guy with the green jacket hisses, stepping in front of Caleb in a hopeless attempt to block his progression toward me.
Caleb’s eyes glare at the man, and I can see his fists clenching and unclenching. “I’m with her. I tried to buzz in but you were obviously too absorbed in business.” And then without another word, he punches the man in front of him so hard the man stumbles backward and lands on the ground bellowing about his nose as blood gushes everywhere.
The older, beady-eyed guy slides his phone back into his pocket and lifts his hands surrender-style. “Look man, we don’t want any trouble. Just collect what’s yours,” he glances toward me, “and leave quickly and I won’t call the cops.”
“Is your business complete?” Caleb asks me.
I shake my head no and square my shoulders. “They refused to give me the name of the person I came to inquire about.”
Caleb grins and takes another step closer. The muscles in his shoulders ripple as he grabs ahold of the man’s collar. “The lady is looking for information I can only assume by your actions you have and don’t feel like sharing because playing games is so much more fun. Am I right?”
The man shakes his head but then nods.
“I’ll take that as a yes and a no. Honestly, I give zero fucks as to the reason because either you cooperate or I have a few of my own games I wouldn’t mind playing.”
The man’s eyes go wide.
Caleb lets him go. “I’ll give you five seconds to locate a piece of paper in this shithole and write down the information she is looking for before I kick off my own special brand of fun.”
The older man scurries toward the counter, practically shaking as he runs.
“Five, four, three . . .” Caleb growls.
After finding a piece of paper and a pen as if his life depends on the mess that surrounds him, he says, “Hey, I don’t want any trouble. The broker is in Mexico and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him I’m the one who gave you his name.”
Caleb snatches the piece of paper. I’m still glued to the wall when he breezes past me. Once he reaches the door, he turns to glare at me. It’s the very first time since he’s entered the grungy space that he’s looked me straight in the eyes.
With no other choice, I give him a nod. My heart clamors around in my chest as if it just wants out because it doesn’t want to deal with this life I’ve created for myself.
Dipping his chin toward the car as he yanks the door open, he beckons me out with an icy glare. Trying not to tremble as I walk, I practically sprint in his direction. When I reach the safety and security of the fresh air, I allow my shoulders to drop, allow the tension to leave my body, allow myself to breathe.
Even outside and no longer in danger, of getting hurt anyway, I still walk fast, needing to put some space between Caleb and I to collect myself.
“Hey, the car is right here,” he calls, his voice more like a hiss.
Whirling around, I find him leaning against the Rover with his arms crossed and his I-told-you-not-to-go-in-there attitude is blinking like a neon sign in the run-down neighborhood.
Slowly, I walk, taking my time, letting him know I’m the one in charge. The question is, am I?
Cocking his head, he narrows his glare even further, enough to furrow his brows. Even though I can visibly see his anger, I still feel like he’s really trying to read my mind, not convey a message. For a brief, everlasting moment, I panic and think he can see into my soul, to the darkness that owns it like spilled ink.
Standing to his full height, he opens the door. “Come on, you need to get out of here, you’re shaking.”
Shaking?
I glance down at my arms covered by the fine silk and see I’m holding myself, and yes, I’m trembling. I need to hide my emotions better. Cover them. Sugarcoat them if I have to. Do anything to keep my reactions a secret. I can’t let him see me falter. He can’t think I’m weak. I don’t know his game and he certainly can’t know mine.
“I need some air. Just give me a minute, will you?”
The look in his eye shifts to what I want to say is unease, maybe even concern. “No. Now, get in the fucking car. I’ll take you somewhere else and we can talk about what just happened.”
At that moment, our eyes lock and something inside me shifts in the most uncomfortable way. It’s almost like a layer of ice around my heart is being quick-thawed and it’s very unsettling.
Then again, it’s been so long since anyone cared about me, really cared about me, that this total stranger’s concern has me feeling uneasy. Questioning what I’m doing with my life. And reminding me that I’m a living, breathing thing with a heart and a soul.
That I’m alive.
That I’m a person and not a possession.
That my life matters because Enrique sending me here clearly tells me it doesn’t matter to him.
For the briefest of moments, I even consider ending this charade. Having Caleb drop me at a bus station and disappearing right now. Getting out from under Enrique’s hold before it’s too late. Before he kills me. Before I ruin his life, and mine.
Is the win really worth the game?
I swallow hard, confused about what to do. I don’t move. I can’t. My world seems to be tilting on its axis, and I’m unable to get my bearings.
Everywhere I look, I see my mother.
My father.
My brother.
The necklace.
I blink once and remember—they are all gone. That my life as it once was is gone along with them, and no matter what I do, what lengths I take to make it right—it never will be right.
Nothing can make it right.
Nothing.
Still, I vow to keep trying.
I have to.
It’s all I have.
Chapter 13
There’s Nothing Holding Me Back
Gemma
SOMETHING CALLS TO me.
Sounds.
Smells.
A feeling.
Familiarities I find too attractive to fight.
Ignoring the open door, I breeze right past Caleb. I just need to break from his inscrutable gaze and the moral feelings he’s stirring inside me.
I remind myself that I don’t need morality.
I need revenge.
When Caleb’s no longer in my scope of vision, I stop and stare straight ahead. The familiar sight almost makes the corners of my mouth quirk up. Almost.
The entrance to the Santa Monica Pier is right there, and an urge I can’t deny myself takes over my body. One I couldn’t control even if I tried. I want its safe haven. I want to run to it—to the comfort it once used to bring.
My legs start moving, and even in my heels I can feel my speed. The wind is blowing in my hair, and I’m so close to my salvation that I can smell the musty wood and the salt in the air.
Then suddenly I’m not running anymore. My feet aren’t even touching the ground. Rather, strong arms are enveloping me and with a quick twist of my body, I’m being hoisted over Caleb Holt’s shoulder.
“What the hell?” I yell.
“No more fucking around. We have to get out of here,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges with what sounds like irritation.
“Put me down,” I order, pounding my fists against his back.
He doesn�
�t flinch as he strides down the sidewalk and quickly opens the passenger front door. When he gently sets me down on the seat, his body is dangerously close to mine, but still, he doesn’t move away.
For a long moment the only sound in the car is our labored breathing. I stare at him, at the squareness of his chin, the strong chiseled nose that I can tell must have been broken more than once, the scar that mars the side of his face, and finally into his emerald green eyes. The same ones that are staring right back at me. Everything about him bleeds concern, and as if we’re having a silent exchange of words, he tells me he wants to keep me safe.
I don’t want anything from anyone, and I don’t need to be kept safe.
“You can’t touch me like that,” I snap. “Enrique would be furious if he knew.”
Caleb ignores my comment. “He’d be more furious if he knew you deliberately put yourself in harm’s way.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Right, keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.”
Deflated, I say nothing. The faceoff is over. Silence beats for a second too long and all I can do is stare at him.
“Just stay put,” he snarls, his eyes continuing to bore into mine, this time as a warning.
I can’t move even if I want to, and I can’t look away from him, either. It’s like I’m under a spell. His spell.
Slamming the door, he darts across the front of the car and slides in behind the wheel. I’m still watching him. I stare at him as he jams the key into the ignition and starts the engine. Then he floors the gas, pulling away from the curb at lightning speed with the sound of the wheels burning rubber beneath us.
I continue to say nothing. Still shocked that he practically tossed me in the car. Still shocked that I let him. More shocked that I liked it.
He drives fast, finding the nearest freeway entrance. It’s not until he’s cruising along the inner lane that he looks over at me. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck was that about?” he demands roughly.
I blink at him, slowly shifting my eyes away and struggling not to break as I try to understand for myself what just took place.
