Caged: The Complete Trilogy

by Francesca Baez

  Am I on a date with my captor?

  But he’s still looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer the question, so I clear my throat and go on.

  “Um, you know. He was my big brother, so I hated him a lot of the time, especially once I was a teenager. But when we were little we were thick as thieves. It was the two of us against the world.”

  My chest is starting to feel a little tight, so I have another sip of sangria and nibble on an empanada. Chicken, moist and a little spicy. The pastry shell is crunchy but not too crisp. I finish it off in another bite, then gulp down more wine. Vega is still watching me, silent, patient.

  “There was a year Dad was determined to make us do chores. Just easy stuff, like helping Kate take out the trash or clearing our own plates off the table, to keep us from getting too spoiled. Mom laughed at him for it, but Dad didn’t really grow up like her, like us. Anyway, Max and I were having none of it, we were too far gone by then. So whenever Dad would tell us to do whatever our chore for the day was, we’d hide. Always the same place, the closet in the guest suite downstairs. You know, down the hall from the study. It was always empty because there were never any guests unless Mom’s parents were visiting, and it was far enough from the heart of the house that no one could hear us whisper. So we’d just hide there for hours, listening to Dad yell for us and giggling because we thought we were getting away with so much. I guess they must have known where we were hiding or they probably would’ve freaked out more about us disappearing for so long. We kept that up for a few months, almost every damn day, until Dad finally gave up on making us anything but spoiled brats. I still remember everything we talked about, those hours in the dark. Just dumb kid shit, like cartoons and farts and whether Batman was better than Batgirl. Or if we thought Mom and Dad might get a divorce, on the days when we could hear them fighting. Sometimes we’d just fall asleep for a bit, cuddled up on the floor like cats.”

  Our meals are here, giant platters of meat, meat, and more meat. Vega is still looking at me like he wouldn’t care if I kept going, and it feels so good to talk about Max like this: not about the tragedy of it all, but about the times when it was good. So I keep going, stories spilling out about his twelfth birthday when I got so jealous of all the attention I smashed the giant NASCAR-themed cake onto the ground, or about the day of our parents’ funeral, when we had to be so so good none of it even felt real, until on the limo ride to the reception the driver gave us Cokes and Max burped the longest, loudest burp either of us had ever heard, and we laughed so hard I almost peed my dress. My eighteenth birthday when he surprised me with a trip to Paris, and everything was so beautiful we didn’t even fight all weekend. The first time I got high, hotboxing the garden shed out back with Max and his girlfriend, and I totally freaked out, so he sent his girlfriend home and lay on the den floor with me for hours, watching cheesy Lifetime Christmas movies until I no longer felt like I was dying.

  I talk so much I barely even touch my meal, so when it’s time to leave Vega asks for a to-go box. I’ve never left a restaurant with a doggie bag before. It makes the whole day seem even more surreal. With a belly full of wine and sugar, the warm Styrofoam box on my lap, and the weight of my life both on my shoulders and lifted off it, I fall asleep easily on the ride home. When we get back to the estate Vega tells me not to worry about my duties for the rest of the day, then locks himself in the study. I’m glad. I don’t know if I could stand another second of him being around me like this.

  He’s counting on his cruelty to break me, but his kindness today is what digs deep under my skin.

  The day of the gala comes quickly after that, like it always does. I like having it that way. The anniversary of Max’s death makes me feel lower than dirt, and then throwing the gala makes me feel like a decent human being trying her best. This year, with Vega and his cronies hovering over my shoulder at every turn, and the guilt of my guards’ deaths still weighing heavy upon me, I’m not sure even that brief pat on the back will be enough to lift my spirits.

  I’m about to begin getting ready for the event when Vega informs me that everyone but Miel will be accompanying me.

  “Hernando and Brock?” I ask, shoving my hair out of my face. I should’ve been in the shower ten minutes ago. “You’re already my date, quote-unquote. The time to add people to the guest list was weeks ago.”

  “Tell Hunt they’re your bodyguards, that you need the extra security. Tell her you just had an attempted break-in and you’re just trying to be safe.”

  “I thought I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the recent break-in here,” I snark back, and Vega grabs my arm. Hard. I set my jaw and glare at him. I hate it when he does that.

  I wish he’d pull me closer.

  He doesn’t. He just squeezes my bicep, hard enough to remind me who’s in charge, and lets me go. “Don’t be smart. Hernando and Brock are coming. You’re on a tight leash tonight, princess.”

  He holds my eyes for as long as I’ll let him, one thick brow raised. He’s right to be concerned. Tonight would be the perfect night to try and run again, but that’s exactly why it’s not. I know he’ll be watching me closer than ever. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a nod, or any kind of acknowledgment. I just continue the march toward the stairway.

  “Have Miel call the event planner,” I call back over my shoulder as I head to my room. “Whatever her name is.”

  I speed through my shower, brushing my teeth as my conditioner sits, letting the conditioner wash out as I shave my legs. I’m used to being in a rush. Even back when I didn’t have to finish making beds before I could begin getting ready, I’d put it off for as long as possible. I hated the cameras to smile at, the hands to shake, the small talk to fake. I should be grateful for an escape from this prison of a house, but I’m not, not really. This will just be a new cage, one made of glass for people to peer at me through. The biggest voyeur will be Vega, him and his men, watching my every move.

  After blowing out my hair in the steamy bathroom, I slip into my red silk robe and collapse in front of the vanity. I take my time with makeup. This is the part I can’t rush. Photos can’t tell if I skipped shaving above the knee today, but they’ll see the smudge of a sloppy cat eye.

  It feels like muscle memory, filling in my brows, buffing on my primer, foundation, concealer. It takes more patience to paint on some light-but-not-too-natural eye shadow, trace the liquid liner into an even wing on both sides, and glue on some falsies. I hate wearing those, but Mom always said, the cameras will never see your real lashes, honey, even with all that mascara.

  The cameras can’t see the real peaks and valleys of your face, either, but Mom died before people began caring about that. Highlight, contour, blend. Blood red lipstick with a name that might as well be Insert Penis Here, and I’m done.

  After brushing the excess powder off my nose, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. I miss my phone. I’m running a little low on time, but not as bad as I could be. My dress is hanging on display in my closet, the only new thing Vega’s let me buy in ages. Kate usually helps me with this part, and I would’ve asked Miel this year, but she’s still avoiding me. So I wriggle into the dress on my own, a classic black thing with a flowing tulle skirt that has sparkling rhinestones hand-glued into the layers, and a fitted bodice, the thick straps also decked out in cubic zirconia. Mom would have made Dad get her real Swarovski. I hope no one asks me who I’m wearing tonight. It’ll be the first year I’m embarrassed to answer that question.

  The last thing I add on is real, though. Heavy earrings straight from Mom’s jewelry box, all gold and diamond and pain that will take a full bottle of champagne to knock out if I’m to get through the night. I’d bear it forever, for the rush of oxygen that fills my lungs when I look at myself in the mirror in these. Mom wore them to her engagement party, a gift from her parents to celebrate the special day, even if they never did entirely approve of Dad. He wasn’t old money, like them. He was barely new money. I add a lit
tle more bronzer to the sides of my nose. There. Now I look just like Mom in the photos from that night, oh so many years ago.

  Hernando and Brock shower me in compliments when I finally come down the stairs. I smile and thank them politely. Miel watches silently from the hallway, jaw working some gum, brows knit tight. Vega won’t even look at me. He announces we’re late, which is true, and rushes us out to the drive. I step into the BMW with him, and the guys take the Hummer.

  As we drive silently into the city, I refuse to look at Vega in return. I can tell from the corner of my eye he’s wearing a tux. I’ve never seen him in one before. He doesn’t look like he’s necessarily used to wearing one, either. He sits stiffly, steadfastly ignoring me, clenching and unclenching his jaw as we approach the High. I would almost say he’s nervous, if that seemed like the kind of word one would ever assign to Javier Vega. He’s worried I’ll try to flee again. He shouldn’t concern himself with such things. His iron grip feels choking around my throat, even without any vocal reminders of the threats looming over me.

  We pull up to the big white museum and I step out onto the walkway, smiling at the handful of camera flashes practicedly. It’s not a red carpet, not really. Not like at a West Coast movie premiere. These photos won’t make the front page of the AJC, but they’ll certainly be splashed across the lifestyle section. I glance back at Vega as he exits the BMW, handing the keys over to the valet. He has his shades on now, keeps his face slanted toward the floor. Did he not know there would be press waiting out here, unavoidable? He reaches me and presses his hand into my lower back, an unmistakable message to hurry inside. He would have made us go in the back way, if he’d known.

  Inside, the scene is hopping, even though it’s still early. I can hear the jazz band playing a lively set a few rooms down, and I can’t help but grin at the bouncy scats.

  Mrs. Hunt spots me and rushes over, in a chaste baby blue dress that accentuates her timelessly trim waist while distracting from her sagging bosom. We do the act of the European kiss on both cheeks for the cameras, and I can see the moment the photographers move on in the synchronized drop of our smiles.

  “This looks amazing,” I say, gazing around. The High’s big lobby looks as it always does on this night, but that’s not to say the sight isn’t gorgeous. “My compliments to… Margaret?”

  “Marjorie,” Mrs. Hunt corrects, but with a quick shake of the hand to indicate the detail is meaningless to her. “You were right, the jazz band is spectacular. I can’t wait to see Biddy Gunnar’s face when she arrives. But who is this?”

  She’s gesturing at Vega, and I shift uncomfortably on my stilettos. I can fake a peace between us, but I refuse to say the words.

  “I’m Javier Vega,” my so-called date says for me, reaching a hand out to Mrs. Hunt. She shrinks back, but takes the extended hand for a quick, polite shake, drawing her pale palm back quickly. “Miss Palacios’s business associate.”

  “Business?” Mrs. Hunt repeats, arching a thin brow. “Selina, I didn’t know you involved yourself in the business side of Café Palacios.”

  “I don’t,” I say, matching her curved brow, and Vega steps in again.

  “I help Miss Palacios manage her personal wealth,” he explains, that damn hand on my back again. “We’re talking about delving into some new business ventures soon, though.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Hunt says pleasantly, and I affix my eyes to the floor to hide my own surprise. I was wrong earlier. Vega isn’t the voyeur in my life. I’m the one watching my own life float past me, completely helpless, a mere figurehead. “How exciting. Well, I must go check on the caterers. Marjorie swears they’re the best in town, but I’ve never heard of them before. Do help yourselves to a drink or two, before the mobs arrive and leave us high and dry.”

  “We will,” I say, as Vega forces a quick chuckle. Mrs. Hunt trots off to the side, and I beeline for the bar. Vega follows, and surprisingly lets me order a vodka rocks. I gulp down a big swig eagerly while Vega asks for a beer. Rookie mistake. I wonder if Vega sees that in the quick flash of the bartender’s brows, before he digs out a bottle and hands it over.

  We wander deeper into the heart of the museum, sipping our drinks and eying the art cautiously. The band keeps playing, their notes waltzing up the big empty space between us toward the skylight above, where the dim lighting of the event fades into the hazy black of a city sky. No stars this deep in the city. We’ve made the full circle before I notice Brock trailing a few yards behind us, and then I spot Hernando on the balcony above us. They’re both doing a decent job of looking casual, even though they should stand out like sore thumbs. It doesn’t matter. I knew from the start there would be no escape for me tonight.

  The hum of conversation is beginning to match the volume of the band as guests flood in. Servers slip through the cracks, holding trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes high. A few guests come up to us and we play nice, Vega’s hand on my waist, his smile on my face. With the last of the vodka pumping through my veins, the sax screaming behind us, this almost feels real for a moment. Normal.

  Vega presses his palm wide against my back, leans in close so I can hear him over the rumble of the room. So I can feel the heat of his breath on my ear.

  “Tell me about these people,” he asks, in a voice caught halfway between a whisper and a shout. “What do you know about them?”

  “What do you mean?” I frown at the hundreds of people flooding the room, not to mention those winding their way up to the second, third, fourth floor.

  “Any gossip going around about anyone?” Vega asks, the schoolgirl words sounding ridiculous on his lips. I pull away, unable to mask the quick shudder that runs through me at the blast of cold that seems to hit me in the absence of his heat.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I bite back, crossing my arms and refusing to meet his eyes. “I haven’t exactly been out and about lately, as you well know.”

  Vega lets me go, glancing around the room, not quite acknowledging my attitude. He says nothing to me, just nods at Brock, who pulls in a few feet closer to me, and sets off up the winding ramp up to the second floor. I follow his projected path with my eyes. Above us, Isla del Rey is leaning on the balcony, all but shoving her boobs completely out of her vibrant violet dress. Her husband is nowhere to be seen, but that’s no surprise. Something deep and unexpected twists in my gut as I see her light up at Vega’s approach, see her launch her whole body into my captor’s for a far-too-friendly hug.

  I can’t believe I ever let myself get carried away in this moment, in this prolonged farce of his kindness and my desperation. I snatch a flute of champagne off a passing tray and drain the whole thing in one gulp before Brock taps me on the elbow warningly.

  When she’d had one too many glasses of white wine and felt like showing off her overpriced and underutilized Princeton degree, my mother used to quote to me, pars minima est ipsa puella sui: the girl is the least part of herself. She’d say, swaying in her seat and slurring lightly: “The girl is her money. The girl is her name. The girl is the symmetry of her face and the narrowness of her waist. But the girl will never simply be herself.”

  I know that right now I don’t matter to these people. Not to the guests, not to my bodyguards, not to Vega. They’re here for my money, here for my name. And maybe, I allow, with a shiver twisting down my spine, he’s here for the symmetry of my face and narrowness of my waist.

  But none of them give a shit about me otherwise, that’s for damn sure, I remind myself as I steal another champagne and slam it back. There’s no one left to care about me anymore.

  From my new perch on the second floor I watch Selina gulp down champagne. A glass or two is fine, but the last thing we need is a drunk captive-in-plain-sight. I catch Brock’s eyes and give him a quick nod in Selina’s direction. He nods back and approaches her.

  “So what brings you my way?” Isla asks, giving her hot-pink drink a dramatic stir, the full-body motion taking her from 75% tits to 99% tits. “Miss
Palacios being a bitch? I hear she can be a bit of one.”

  I ignore the way the woman presses Selina’s name, then decide to ignore the jab entirely. Selina’s honor isn’t mine to defend, as I’m sure she’d be quick to remind me.

  “I’ve never been to one of these parties before,” I say, hoping Isla will infer that I’ve never been to one of these Atlanta galas, not the truth, which is that I’ve never been to a charity event like this, period. “And I don’t know many of these people yet. I’m looking for information, and you seem like a damn good source.”

  Isla all but begins bouncing with glee. If there was any literal bouncing involved, those photographers downstairs would get a great nip slip for the front pages tomorrow. Where’s the husband? I eye the crowds but don’t spot him easily.

  “You were right to come to me,” Isla says very seriously, laying a gentle hand on my forearm. I swear I can feel Selina’s eyes on us but I force myself not to look her way. “What kind of information? Net worths? Mistresses? Coke habits? Gay stuff?”

  This woman is a gold mine. I can’t believe I didn’t think to come to her sooner. Maybe Miel will stop moping around if I bring home enough leverage.

  “Oh, anything and everything,” I say casually. Isla doesn’t seem the type to question an urge to gossip just for the fun of it, but I feel the need to explain. “Being the new kid in crowds like this always feels a little better with an ace up the sleeve, you know?”

  “I know,” she says, hand still on my arm, nodding with intensely pursed lips. She doesn’t know. I did my research on the del Reys. She was born into Atlanta high society, and married Mateo when she was just eighteen. His family had the upper hand, financially speaking, but after merging their fortunes their collective net worth skyrocketed. I glance around the room for the publishing king again. I think that’s him down by the band, huddling with those older white guys we played croquet with, somehow all managing to look like they’re smoking cigars even while empty handed.