It's calloused and big—bigger even than his bulk would imply. His palm is open, and he wants me to take it. But I'm not done with my anger. It is spinning inside me, a tornado of hurt and fear so strong that only pure rage can contain it… keep it from destroying me.
I rise on my own and meet his eyes.
"I love you," he says, his jaw red where I hit him.
"Fuck you."
I head down the jungle path, my dogs behind me. The rain lets loose, soaking me to the bone. Mulberry doesn't follow. I don't look back, but his gaze is like a laser on my back, burning me. Always fucking burning me, that one.
"I keep having to learn the same lessons over and over again."
Merl nods but doesn’t turn to look at me, his eyes still staring into the hot, humid depths of the jungle. Light and dark dance together between the leaves. The storm passed as fast as it came, leaving the air heavy and the light eerie.
"That is true for all of us, I think." He leans back, the hammock seat swaying as he brings his feet up into it. "Maybe it's why we’re here."
"Are you going full philosopher on me?" I tease.
Merl gives a brief smile. "Maybe."
"Mo Ping is a deep thinker, right?"
He shrugs. "In her way, but she's also light and fun." He pauses. "And tough."
"That's important." I nod.
"It is. We must be the right amount of hard though. It’s important to have protection, but not so much that no one can get in."
"Does she let you in?" I ask quietly, curious. This conversation isn't about me anymore, and that's a relief. Merl meets my gaze. His long lashes curl away from the deep brown of his eyes, looking almost fake. Almost, but not quite. Because there is nothing about this man that is false. He is raw honesty in human form. "Yes," he answers, "she does."
"And you let her in?"
"Yes."
Tears spring to my eyes for the millionth time since a new life started to form inside of me, and I curse them yet again as my cheeks grow hot and my throat closes. It's just so damn wonderful that Merl is in a supportive, beautiful relationship. Makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry!
I rub my eyes hard, hoping to banish the wayward emotions. Pregnancy is like being at sea with a devil at the helm and an angel reefing the sails; my body is the boat, driven through the waves, present for it all but with no control over the heading.
That's how the world treats me too, as if I'm a vessel, not a person. How can creating a new human strip your humanity in the eyes of others? It doesn't make any sense.
"Sorry," I say, pushing at my eyes hard.
"You don't need to apologize to me for having feelings, Sydney." There is humor in his voice, and when I look over at him, he is smiling.
I can't help but laugh. "It's just—" I sniffle. "—it's really nice you and Mo found each other. It gives me hope." I offer a watery smile, and he grins back.
"Look at you."
"What?"
"You're finally getting in touch with your vulnerability."
"Oh, shut up."
"Ah, there they are, those walls we know so well."
I shake my head and sit further into the chair, staring out at the jungle again.
"Sydney," Merl's voice is quieter, a stern, loving tone I recognize.
He's about to impart some wisdom. Ugh.
"What?" I say, petulant as ever.
"I get that you're in a complicated situation."
I huff a laugh. "That's putting it mildly."
"But the thing is, Syd," he presses on, "you're never going to get what you want until you allow yourself to be vulnerable."
My body clenches at the word. I'll never be vulnerable again. It hurts. It breaks. My head shakes a no, but I don't respond.
"I get that you still experience pain from your past. But you're at a crossroads here. If you keep going at life the same way, you'll wear yourself down to a nub."
I glance over at him. "I've been dreaming of James."
He cocks his head in that way that he does, so similar to his dogs, it brings a smile to my lips. "From what I understand, pregnancy can cause intense dreams."
"Yes, they are intense." I pause. Merl waits. "We hang out." I shrug. "As if he was alive. It makes me miss him more and also gives me a lot of comfort." My hand finds my belly. "The baby's due date is his birthday, and it's a boy."
"I'm not surprised he's on your mind then."
We sit in silence for a while. "Do you think I should forgive Mulberry?" I finally ask.
"For keeping secrets?" Merl shrugs. "We all have secrets."
"Do any of yours involve helping Robert Maxim fake his death?"
"No."
"He keeps doing the same thing, going against my wishes in what he considers my best interests. He doesn't trust me to take care of myself." I'm whining again.
"You should talk to him," Merl suggests. "You’re going to have a baby together either way. So you'll need to find a path forward."
Ugh. Merl and all his correctness make me crazy sometimes.
Mulberry is waiting in my living room when I get back. His jaw is swollen, and a bruise is starting to form. He stands up off the kitchen stool when I walk in, his eyes wary. Frank runs over and sits on his foot, thumping his tail. Mulberry keeps his gaze fixed on me, ignoring the giant slobbering beast leaning into his leg.
I reach for Blue's head; it's always there. My fingers brush warm fur, and the tension in my shoulder slacks slightly. Be vulnerable.
"Do you think we can do this?" Thickness in my throat quiets the question.
Mulberry's lips quirk to one side, and his eyes soften, practically melting. "We can do anything… together." His answer is even quieter than the question. Mulberry takes a tentative step forward.
My chin dips. He answers my subtle invitation with a rush of movement, wrapping me up in his arms, nuzzling into my hair and breathing in a giant breath.
I press my face into his chest, hiding in the dark warmth of him. His hands run up and down my back. His phone beeps, and I pull back. He lets me, slipping the phone from his pocket. "Council meeting in an hour," he says, his gaze rising back up to meet mine. "That probably leaves enough time for us to make up."
I slap his arm and laugh. He catches me up and kisses me. The world fuzzes, the truth settles. One plus one plus one is an equation I can't solve yet, but if I don't try, I'll never find out what it can add up to.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lenox
Petra's heels leave round holes in the thin coating of snow as we climb the front steps of the manor house of a sprawling estate. Hans and Ramona flank us. Sophia waits by the car, her arms crossed, looking as fierce and beautiful as a mink.
"Good to see you," Boris Negayav says to Petra when we are shown into his sitting room. His rosy cheeks, receding hairline, and round belly give him a jolly aura. Boris kisses Petra's cheeks, and we shake hands. He offers us coffee, and we accept then sit on the couches facing each other.
The glass doors to our right offer a view of a snow-dusted landscape that slopes down to the sea where our yacht is anchored off the Romanian coast. Hans and Ramona wait by the doors leading back into the front hall behind us. Two men in dark suits stand on the far side of the room covering Boris's back.
Petra and Boris have worked together moving women from the former Soviet bloc out to the western world for years. We are here to make it clear that all women being moved must know what their work will be in the west.
The debt they will incur will be paid with their bodies. It is a way out; it is the road Petra followed. But it is not for everyone. And we will not allow the transport of women who believe they will work in offices or anything other than the sweaty, dangerous world of selling themselves.
Boris spreads his arms along the back of the couch, his body language blatantly obvious: I am the king of this castle.
"You've come to tell me your new plans. Your new rules." Boris grins.
"Yes," Petra says in
one of her purrs—this one is not sexual but rather the one she uses when discussing money. "We have decided to follow the advice and rules of Joyful Justice to create a safe working environment for our employees—and to avoid Joyful Justice’s intervention."
Boris laughs. "Employees. You have changed, Petra." His eyes, dark and deep set, wander to me. "Is this your doing, Lenox Gold?"
"We are partners," I say.
"You never sold women." My reputation precedes me. "And now you deal in women but only in this new—" He winds a hand into the air as if searching for a word. "—method."
"Yes, I think it's better for everyone involved."
"I am a businessman," Boris announces, leaning forward to pick up his cup of coffee from the low table between us. "And I do not think that your new methods are good for business."
"Human rights have always been difficult to weave into a business like ours, but history shows that it pays in the end to have a happy, healthy workforce," I say. "It's good for the longevity of the business."
"Longevity?" Boris raises a brow. "You speak of longevity to me?"
Petra crosses her legs, the red sole of her shoe flashing and drawing Boris's attention. "We have worked together for a long time—"
"Yes." His voice drops as he interrupts her. "Almost as long as you worked with the McCain brothers. Their business is not so good now though, is it?"
"No," Petra answers, her voice even.
A knock at the door behind Boris interrupts us. He turns, waving to his men to open it. One of them does. A man steps into the room. He wears rumpled khakis and a buttoned-down shirt. His thinning hair is pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes land on Petra and flare with anger. The hairs on the back of my neck stand.
I recognize him from the Isis slave auctions I visited while researching for Joyful Justice. His name is Billy Ray Titus, and he is a leader of what he calls the Men's Rights Activists, but he is more extreme than the average member of that group. Billy Ray is an incel—an involuntary celibate. He used the McCain brothers to purchase sex slaves and transport them to his followers in the United States and other Western nations. Now he is here.
Boris turns back to us. "Do you know Billy?"
"By reputation," Petra says, her gaze roaming over him like a farmer inspecting a heifer for sale. "You are involuntary celibate, yes?" she asks as her gaze meets his.
"That's right," he says, rounding the couch.
"Sit," Boris says, gesturing to the far end of his couch. Billy perches on the edge while Petra continues to stare at him. Her gaze is bringing out blotches of color on his face.
"You think women owe you sex," she asks. "That you should not have to pay?"
Billy Ray throws on a smile and meets her gaze. "I have no interest in discussing anything with you."
Petra laughs as he turns his attention to me. I raise a brow.
Boris sits forward. "Billy Ray," the American name sounds harsher in his accent, "is offering to provide the same services as you two."
"He does not have the networks," Petra says, her voice silky smooth.
"He says that he does," Boris says. "That he is working in a whole new way—with men who share his values."
"Yes," Billy Ray says. "They won't just work for the highest bidder. They won't cave to Joyful Justice or anyone else. They are loyal." He glances at Petra. "Loyal in a way that only men can be." Petra holds her tongue. "Women can't run businesses," Billy goes on, his confidence building at Petra's silence. He clearly doesn’t understand women. "Boris will be working with me from now on."
"Is this true, Boris?" Petra asks.
Boris shrugs. "Why shouldn't I work with Billy?"
"He has no experience," I point out, "and belongs to a movement of men who don’t think they should have to pay for sex." I smile. "Paying for sex is the basis of our business."
Billy Ray laughs—the sound like the braying of a donkey. He stands and paces toward the window, then turns back to us, his chest puffing out, an orator preparing for his speech. "I am a supreme gentleman," he begins. "This arrangement with Boris," he sweeps his arm out, "is necessary to provide my followers—who are all being denied sex—the opportunity to take back control."
He clenches his fist and draws his arm in tight to his body, as if grasping the submission of women he so deeply desires. "It is the perfect union. My brothers and I believe in the equality of the sexes, but that is not what is happening now. Men are being oppressed while women use their sexual prowess to subvert what is best for our society.
“Look at you, Lenox." He lifts his chin, gesturing to me. "This woman sits beside you as though she is your equal when it is clear that you don’t need her to run your business."
I blink at him but do not respond. He is clearly delusional.
"She can't possibly figure out the complexities necessary to move bodies across borders. And then to suggest that we must be completely honest with them. Why? Women are all lying sluts. Why should we show them respect that they will never return? It is time for us to reclaim our dignity."
Billy sits again, smiling, his dissertation delivered. I open my mouth to respond, but Petra stands, pulling my attention.
She reaches into her blazer and draws her gun in one smooth, fast movement. Billy's eyes widen. She aims while Boris's men are fumbling to draw their own weapons—no one expected the petite bombshell to draw a gun with such speed and precision.
She fires. Billy's head snaps back, and his brains explode on the couch, spattering Boris in the process. She shifts her aim, the muzzle landing between Boris's eyes. He puts up a hand. She fires through it.
Boris flops off the couch, dead. His men have their guns out, but so do Hans and Ramona. She looks at the men, their weapons trained on her. "Do you think a woman can run a business?" she asks them in their native tongue.
They don't answer right away.
"Well?" she asks.
One shrugs and looks over at the other. They lower their weapons. "Good," Petra says. Her gaze wanders to the glass doors. "I like this view."
My brain catches up with the quickly unfolded events. Petra glances over her shoulder at me, and I recognize with a clarity as loud as a church bell. I love her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sydney
Felicity hurls one glove and then the other across the open-air dojo, sweat-sticky curls plastered to her face. "I'm such an idiot," she yells.
“What's up?" I ask.
She jumps and lets out a small screech of alarm, her hand thudding against her chest as she whirls around to face me. Color brightens her already red face. She closes her eyes and frowns deeply. She might be about to cry.
My chest tightens, and I want to turn and leave, not face this bundle of insecurities in front of me, but Blue's nose taps my hip, reminding me that I’m a leader. That I can do this. Felicity deserves my attention. Merl is training with Nila and Frank; the least I can do is help out one of his students.
I take a step forward even as the tightness in my chest moves up into my throat, trying to silence me. "You're not an idiot. You might have done something stupid, but that doesn't mean there is something 'wrong' with you." I put wrong into bunny quotes, feeling like a dill weed. But a dill weed who’s right… and should not call herself a dill weed.
Felicity opens her eyes, and there are tears filming her gaze. "I—" She closes her mouth, dropping her focus to her bare feet on the mat.
"You trying to learn something and getting it wrong?" I ask with a smile.
She nods, still staring at the ground.
"Show me," I say. "Maybe I can help."
Her eyes jump to mine. Fear and excitement war in Felicity’s expression. Her hero is offering to help. I want to tell her not to look at me that way, but I swallow the words. She will eventually realize on her own that I am just a person. Telling her won't do a damn thing except make us both feel bad. Look at me, learning. And you thought pigs couldn't fly and hell always broiled.
Felicity is
working on a roll that Merl teaches. In my present condition, I can't show it to her—my belly gets in the way—but I talk her through it. Within twenty minutes, she's dropping onto her shoulder, rolling, then popping up into a high kick like a pro. I clap my hands, her success feeling like my own.
"Good job!"
She beams at me. "Thanks so—" The warning sirens whirl to life, vibrating through the air. Felicity and I both look up at the speaker mounted in the eaves of the outdoor practice space. "This is not a drill," Merl's voice comes over the loudspeaker. "Evacuate immediately. I repeat, evacuate immediately."
Felicity's eyes meet mine, sparking with a mix of fear and fascination. Movement breaks out across the compound as trainees run in choreographed, practiced, evacuation plans.
Time to go.
I jog along the narrow trail through the thick, tropical foliage, weaving and dodging the larger branches, letting the thinner ones slap into my upraised arms. Wet leaves soak my shirt. Vines reach for my ankles. My breath comes in easy draws. The weight of the baby tugs at my belly.
Blue stays right behind me, moving like a silent ghost in my wake. The sound of a helicopter drones overhead. Shouting back at the camp reaches us in quiet waves. I find my marked tree, spotting the camouflaged package up in the limbs.
Running my hand along the trunk, I feel the rope. I try to unwind it from its post, but the knot has swollen. Shit. Pulling my knife from my waist, I saw through the thick line. The pack falls through the leaves with a crash. I separate my bag from Blue's.
Blue barks a warning, leaping through the underbrush to my side. I scan the forest but see nothing. Blue's nose points back toward the compound. There are people hunting us. I better just keep moving. They heard that crash. Blue's chest rumbles with warning; then he goes silent. They must be close enough to hear him.
I lower to my knees, hiding amongst the foliage. Blue flattens himself to the ground. Moving ever so slowly, I lower to my hands, then my side, curling around my stomach.
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