by Ella James
He didn’t; Bob did. Because I needed the NDA.
Still, my mind races.
I wonder if Red is still sleeping. She wouldn’t attempt to untie herself, would she? I don’t think so. She might not be willing to admit it, but my sweet fuck doll is a born sub.
The island curves, and we come in sight of Trudie’s cottage.
“Charming,” Linn says. His face is expressionless.
I lead them through the fence, into the garden. I’m sweating by the time we reach the back door, though fuck if I can say exactly why. Words pile in the back of my throat, threatening to spill. Questions to assuage my ridiculous paranoia. Confirmation that Linn really spoke with Bob.
So what if he didn’t call you ‘Race’? He probably forgot.
No one has ever forgotten, but what does that matter? Maybe Linn doesn’t want to call me Race. Maybe it’s important to him that I be addressed as exactly who I am. A man who very nearly got convicted of murdering his wife.
I lead them through the sitting room, past that Huxley quote about solitude Trudie had me paint on the wall, and into the kitchen.
I can feel their eyes on everything. Questioning? Scheming? This place looks like what it is: an old woman’s home, but I don’t give a fuck. They can think what they like.
Linn stops beside the tiled bar, and I walk to the refrigerator. I tap my knuckles on its worn, lime green surface. “Can I get you anything? Water?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Linn says. He more openly surveys the kitchen, where a cat lounges by the sink, where a small vase of dried flowers sits beside the Dawn dish soap. His eyes seem to rest everywhere but in line with mine. When he finally lifts his gaze, the guard has crossed his beefy arms, and I’ve started feeling an almost maddening urge to return to Red.
“You’re involved with the woman? Sarah?” Linn asks, holding up the folder.
“Does it matter?”
He looks around, and I can almost hear him thinking this looks like a woman’s house.
His eyes return to me. He takes his sunglasses off, revealing large brown eyes. “You have done well, man, with your art.”
I grit my teeth and pull air in through my nose. What does that mean anyway? ‘Well’ by whose standards? His? What does a lawyer like Linn know about success in art? Or in anything? I’ve spent years reflecting on this and concluded it couldn’t be more meaningless. I have enough money. People buy what I paint. And that’s it. That’s all I have. That’s all I’ll ever have, and while I’m fine with that, I never walk around thinking, “I do well.”
I notice I’m gritting my teeth and have been staring at him—probably with some hostility. I ignore the guard’s gaze, which has finally found me, and hold out my hand for the folder. “Let’s see this.”
Linn passes me the agreement. He swipes a hand over his coat, as if there’s cat hair there. His hairline is damp from sweat now.
I lean against the sink as I look over the NDA, finding every detail perfect, right down to Red’s full, legal name. Guilt pulses through me. Why did I invite her here? Why did I think I could get involved with anyone, even on a superficial level? Why did Red have to send my photo to her friend?
Her friend!
Fuck! Her friend told someone at the paper. Is it possible word could have gotten back to Smythson this fast? Surely not. Cookie had a cousin at the Times. But Red’s friend works in Boston…
“How does it look?” Linn interrupts my paranoia.
I squint down at the thin packet of papers. I’m only on page two. I look up at him with the poker face I learned in court.
“I think you have her name wrong. It’s Sarah Ryder Smith.” His brows draw together. “She married and divorced. You didn’t know?”
Lin’s eyes widen. “No. I didn’t know.”
“Pretty sure I’m correct. I need to call her and find out.”
“She’s not here?” he asks sharply.
I give him a warning look. “She’s on her way.”
The guard’s mouth twists into a smug bow, and again, something in my stomach catches. I know this feeling. I used to feel it in the seconds before my father found me in the house and asked me to his ‘workshop.’ I felt it the night Cookie called, long before I made it to Paige’s house.
Something’s not right.
What’s their fucking game?
“Do you share the home with her?” Linn asks. His tone is casual, but his eyes are still drinking in the mundane details of the kitchen. Cautious, or over-eager? Voyeuristic? I can’t tell, but it’s as if he expects Red to spring from one of the cabinets.
I notice I’m popping my jaw, something I only do when I’m really irritated.
“Wait here,” I say, in an authoritative tone I haven’t used since I was an entitled, younger man. They work for me. I hope that, and the fear I presume they have of me, will keep them waiting patiently. I tuck the papers under my arm and palm my cell phone for show.
I hate to leave Trudie’s place open to them, but my head is buzzing with tension now. My chest feels like it might crack open. My mouth is hot and dry. I have to check on Red. Untie her. Maybe my sensors are faulty and there’s nothing amiss, but if there is…
I decide to call Bob while I walk.
A few steps down the pebble path and I can feel someone’s gaze on me. I spent a lot of time with a roomful of people at my back. I know what eyes feel like. A few more long steps, and walking’s not enough. I break into a full-out run, bounding through the forest like a motherfucking cheetah. I’m so distracted by the dread in my gut that I forget to call Bob until I’m halfway there.
I slow to a lope, looking back over my shoulder a time or two. I’m so fucking paranoid, even the trembling pine needles distract my gaze.
I grit my teeth as I wait for Bob to answer. One ring, and maybe he’s in the john. Two, and he’s on the other line. Three, and I pick up my pace again. Four and voicemail.
FUCK!
I’ve never, not once in my entire life, been unable to reach Bob. Back in the early nineties, he was the first person I knew to have a bag phone. He was nine. Motherfucker pisses with his phone in hand. I’ve known him to answer in the shower.
I try again and again as I run, and each time the same result: “Bob Bennett here. Leave a message.”
On my porch, I strip my shirt off. I’ve been in enough fights to know it’s easier to win without the encumbrance of clothes. I turn a circle on the porch, trying to tell myself I’m being paranoid. Shit doesn’t work. My blood is pumping so fast I can feel it burning through my veins.
I step into the kitchen as I leave a message. “I want to know about your project with the Moroccans.” That’s our code from back at Yale, the one that says something is very wrong.
I hustle into the bedroom. The bed is empty. I blink convulsively. My shoulders and my neck flush, then my body goes bloodless. Before I have time to breathe, I notice the door at the back of my bedroom is cracked. The next millisecond, I hear Red’s voice.
Oh God!
I’m across the room in two lunges, through the door like goddamn Superman. I burst outside with my fists up—and there she is. Standing amidst the pines in her thin blue nightgown, confiscated phone pressed to her ear, head bowed as she talks about something that’s got her shoulders tight.
A quick once-over show’s she’s truly fine. No blood. I hone in on her face and my heart beats harder as I search her features. Cookie was purple by the time I found her.
Red’s not Cookie…
I take two long steps to her, and can’t seem to raise my hand to touch her. I stand there, breathing hard, my shoulders moving up and down. My brain’s broken. My mouth moves, and I hear myself rasp, “Who are you talking to?”
She widens her eyes at me, as if I’m being nosey. “Hang on,” she mouths, her eyebrows scrunched.
Into the phone, she says, “Hey Katie, I’ve got to go. Tomorrow?”
Anger buzzes in my head. She escaped her binds, and now she�
��s making appointments? This is my island. I’m in charge of her while she’s here!
She cuts her eyes away from mine, looking at the ground. “Seriously, Katie. I’m okay.”
I grab her arm. My free hand can’t help capturing her chin. I tilt her head up to me, enjoying the perturbed look on her face until I realize what she said.
This is Katie, the friend who showed my photo to another journalist. Another journalist who could have been Cookie’s cousin. Cookie’s cousin who could have gone to Smythson.
My patience snaps like a worn-out rubber band.
“Doll, I thought I made myself clear. No phone calls.”
I wedge my fingers between hers and the phone and press the “end call” key. She has the nerve to look up at me impertinently, the naughty little cunt. I can’t believe she escaped the binds I had her in and came outside.
If she were mine officially, I’d knot her up and punish her. As it is, I tug her inside, pushing her safely in front of me before I turn around and bolt the door. Then, with my hands around her narrow hips, I lead her into the bathroom.
Her steps slow and I see her head turn to the shower. I want nothing more than to shove her inside, strip that translucent little gown off, and let my cock show her who’s in charge.
Instead, I take her by the shoulders and stand her in front of a tall bookshelf built into the wall. It’s made of deep-stained cedar, sanded by my own two hands. As I reach around her to press on one of the shelves, I feel a sick swell of remorse. All it takes is one push, and the thing slides on a metal track beneath it, revealing a dark stairwell.
Red inhales sharply.
I move fast, wrapping my arms around her waist and sweeping her up against my chest. I’m trying to be gentle, but my muscles tremble with adrenaline. Like a skittish horse, she feels me.
“No! Race, no! I’m scared!” Her arms move like turbines, slapping and hitting, pulling my hair. Her belly against my chest. Her breasts bumping my shoulder. She breathes hard and fast. She’s scared of me!
I glance back at the light spilling into the stairwell. For a second, I want to take her up, but then I think of Bob’s voice mail. First time I’ve ever heard Bob’s voicemail.
After what happened with Cookie, I have no choice. I go with my gut.
I lock her body against mine and press my face into her hair. “Red... Red. Shhhh. Doll,” I murmur. “C’mon now. I promise not to eat you for breakfast.” I press my palm against her cheek and look down at her. She’s coiled tightly, her arms and legs drawn up, as if she’s trying to avoid touching me.
I set her on the bottom stair more roughly than I mean to and flick on the light, revealing a room filled with canvas-stacked shelves. My vault.
“Look around. I’ll be right back. I can’t trust you, and I have to make another call.”
Her eyes are wet and red. Her mouth is pleading. “Race—”
“Quiet, Red. Just look around.” My chest feels tight from the look on her face, but I tell myself I don’t care. Who gives a damn if this pushes her over the edge, if it saps her tolerance for me and my reputation? I don’t need her. I hardly even know her.
Tears spill down her cheeks.
I open my mouth and am surprised by the weakness of my voice. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
I wheel around and hustle up the stairs, bridging two at a time when I near the top.
I call Bob once more, slide a .38 into my pocket, lock my doors, and take off through the pines. I’m no more than a few steps from the house when something sharp hits me in the throat.
CHAPTER THREE
RED
Two hours later
The first drop in the bucket of my empty mind is Race. I’m sleepy and cold, but around the wad of fog that’s stuffed inside my skull, I feel a ping of anticipation. Naughty, naughty things and his big, hard, perfect cock.
That must be why I’m so sore. I try to press my legs together. My brain fires the order off to my muscles, and pain streaks through me, from my wrists—somewhere above my head—to my ankles. Everything in between is cold…and aching. My arms and legs, especially, scream, as if I’ve just run a marathon with my ten-pound weights.
I open my eyes and am confused by a sunny view of grass and trees. I can see a large, triangular shaped lawn with a cottage in the middle. The grass is framed by rock, and, beyond that, dark gray ocean.
I blink once, then cast my gaze down at myself. I’m naked, in Race’s tree house, tied spread-eagle. My arms stretch toward the corners of the roof, where ropes attach me, and my legs are spread, my ankles bound by rope that’s drilled into the wood floor. Behind me is just open space: the window between roof and partial wall.
Terror fills me. I try to thrash and wobble wildly in my binds. Fear escapes my throat in a soft, barked sob. I whine “Race,” and a hulking man in black steps into my line of sight.
I register short, brownish hair, hazel eyes, and a thick scar near his chin before he reaches out and puts his huge, calloused hand on the outside of my thigh.
“Settle down, Sarah,” He scowls, showcasing heavy brows. “You wanna fall?” His voice is deep.
He moves his damp palm off my thigh, and a shudder tears through me. “W-where is Race? Who are you?”
“I’m Dirty Santa, sweetheart.” He waves his hand at himself and rolls his eyes. “Who do I look like?”
I blink my tear-damp eyelids, and he laughs, a choking kind of sound. “There’s no answer to that. You never met me.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” My words are soft and boggy. I want to cry, but I clamp my teeth down on my lip and look at him, waiting for something that makes sense.
I’m trembling, though, vibrating in my binds like a bug in a spider’s web.
I’ve never been a big fan of heights, starting with the time Billy Martin pushed me off the jungle gym in second grade. “I’m just…dangling!” My voice shakes as my tight muscles make the rope tremble even more. “I could fall back through the window thing!”
The man chuckles. “You could, but doubtful, babe.”
Deep down in my gut, I’m terrified to know, but I can’t stop my mouth. “Why are you doing this to me?”
He laughs again, a wheezing sound, and looks me over, top to bottom. It’s not a leer so much as an assessment. “Got nothing to do with you. I’m here for your boyfriend, James.”
“My boyfriend?”
His eyes harden. “Surname Wolfe. Tell me you know he is James Wolfe.”
I nod, then shake my head as tears spill down my cheeks. I try to shift to a position where I don’t feel like I’m falling, but it doesn’t work. I’m stuck here. “I don’t understand! Let me down! Please, oh please!” I’m breathing fast, so fast everything is smearing. “Let me down! I’m scared of heights!”
“Get a grip on yourself, lady. I’m not gonna kill you.”
Incredulity penetrates my panic. I force my arms and legs to relax, so I’m truly hanging by my arms, the way I must have been when I was out. Knocked out.
I gulp some air into my lungs and blink at him. He’s not my boyfriend. I should say that, but for some reason I don’t. I whisper, “What are you doing to him?”
The big man looks up at me, his eyes at my knee level, so close to my bare privates. “You know…some people call it vigilante justice.” He shifts his weight, rubbing his fingers over his ear, as if he’s got an itch. “I just call it justice. He deserves what he’s getting.”
“You mean…for his wife?” My teeth are chattering. Adrenaline, I guess.
The man nods twice, with force. “The court got it wrong.” He rubs a handgun at his hip, one I haven’t noticed until right now. “We know he killed them. A few of us—Robert is only one of us—we want to be sure justice gets served. We’d been out of leads for years until recently.” He smirks. “Stroke of luck.”
“Do you really know, I mean, for—”
“No, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head vigorously, as if he’
s trying to rattle my words right out of his mind. “You don’t want to go down that road, honey. Not with Wolfe.” He points his thumbs at himself. “I was her body guard, from high school and all through college. Just a kid myself when I started the job. I would have walked through fire for her. Don’t go down that road.”
I’m shivering so hard now, all I can do is nod.
How do I get out of this? What should I say?
“I was worried about that.”
As soon as the words are out, I realize they don’t make much sense.
“About what?” He eyes me suspiciously, as if my nonsensical statement makes me dangerous in some way.
