Deceptive Innocence (5 page)

Before either of them can delay me longer I back out of the room and then rush to the door. Hopefully they’ll attribute my haste to a desire to escape an uncomfortable situation.

“Bell!”

I turn to see Travis standing in the hall. “Please remember, this job pays very well. It will be worth it.”

Really? Worth watching you demean and humiliate your wife for your amusement? But then, there will be other rewards
, I remind myself.
Rewards that have nothing to do with money. Yes, it
will
be worth it.

“Don’t disappoint me, Bell.”

“Oh, Mr. Gable,” I say solemnly, “I may be many things, but I’m never a disappointment.”

And I mean it. To Travis I won’t be a disappointment at all.

To him? I’ll be a disaster.

chapter seven

L
ast time I
saw Jessica she wasn’t more than nineteen and I wasn’t even in middle school yet, not nearly on Jessica’s radar. Jessica hadn’t been quite so . . . strained back then. Her voice, now so thin, was rich and robust as she bemoaned Nick Foley’s fate from the witness stand.

And Jessica had been such a perfect witness. A sweet-faced girl from a good family, what could she gain from testifying against my mom?

Nothing. That’s what everyone thought.

But isn’t it interesting that only six months after my mother’s sentencing, Jessica was engaged to a man no one even knew she was dating: Travis Gable, a man who knew Nick Foley quite well.

• • •

I tuck the
memory away as I walk past the line of co-ops on Travis’s block, my eyes quick, looking for any sign of Lander. But he’s not here. I got out in time. Pulling my phone out of my handbag, I make a quick call to him, but it goes directly to voice mail.

“Hi, I’m sorry I had to cut you off before. I just finished a job interview not too far from you—right across the park in fact, and I was hoping you had a few minutes to catch up. Call me before I head out of here.”

I put the phone back in my purse and keep walking, another block, then two. It would be better if Lander called me before he went to see his brother, though there’s a good chance Travis won’t actually mention the name of his new assistant. After all, he doesn’t know the name means anything to Lander. Hell, he might not even mention that he’s hired an assistant at all; surely they have other, more important business to discuss.

Still, there’s a possibility that Travis
might
tell Lander that he’s hired an assistant named Bellona. The name is notably unique, so he might mention it as a casual comment. It’s a possibility I need to eliminate.

I walk another block, picking up my pace a bit. My whole body begs to be in motion, like it’s trying to keep up with my mind.

The streets of New York are alive with their usual organized chaos, people with briefcases walking blindly past the tourists, who are taking pictures of the street without even noticing the rock star strolling out of the deli a few doors down. Everyone is blind to what’s going on around them.

Just like Lloyd, Jessica and Travis’s last assistant, when I tailed him to a dive bar in Queens only last week.

• • •

He was standing
on the side of the building when I approached him. I smiled weakly, my eyes cast down. “Got a light?”

Lloyd looked up, a Marlboro hanging from his full lips, his eyes narrow as if they were squinting, as if it were the middle of the day instead of late into the night. His posture was tense, his demeanor a little aggressive. Maybe he was hoping for a little action that night.

I was there to make sure he got it.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter as I held out a menthol cigarette. It’s the only kind I can stand. Normally I don’t smoke at all. But that night . . . well, I was a different woman.

I was the woman he wanted.

My hands shook as I brought the cigarette to my lips. I struggled not to shrink away as his eyes roamed over my torn tights and my dirty black miniskirt. I felt their cheapness against my skin, I felt the desperation of my sheer, skintight white nylon top over my black bra. I was exposed, easy prey . . .

. . . and Lloyd, with his hair styled for bad-boy appeal and his wifebeater shirt paired with his worn leather jacket, with his pouty lips and perfect skin . . . Lloyd was looking at me like a predator.

That’s all I needed.

I shivered as I reached for him, as I took his hand, as I moved into his space. My intentions left no room for subtlety. He looked at me questioningly, wondering who I was and what I was up to.

I wasn’t quite able to keep my voice steady when I asked, “Wanna party?”

His smile returned. The haze of smoke separated us, keeping the moment from feeling too real or too scary.

“What do you do?” he asked, his eyes hungry. “X?”

It’s the question of a novice. Anyone who actually does drugs would have seen my trembling hands, the dark circles under my eyes, my slumped shoulders . . . They’d see all that and they’d know X wasn’t my addiction.

“I’m thinking about a different letter,” I said. “Like . . . ‘H.
’
”

I sounded like a little girl . . . or maybe like Marilyn Monroe or even Jennifer Tilly. It was a new sound for me. I could tell he liked it.

“Heroin?” he asked. “You got some?”

I knew by the way he asked that he wouldn’t actually do any . . . but he’d be happy to watch and then he’d take me, making the destruction complete.

I shook my head and gently grabbed hold of his jacket, moving my hand down the jagged open edge of the zipper all the way to the very bottom, which fell below his waist. I let the back of my hand brush against his jeans and felt the evidence of his building desire. His need for me mirrored the need of an addict.

“I know a guy,” I whispered. My menthol cigarette was still in my hand. I had only brought it to my lips twice and the neglect had turned it into a cinder, both dangerous and eerie.

“You want me to buy for you?” he asked. “Why would I do that?”

I swallowed and breathed in the smoke. “I got the money,” I said. “But the guy who sells . . . I owe him a little more than what’s in my wallet, ya know? So . . . if you could help me . . .” Again my hand brushed against his jeans. He was staring at my bra, watching my chest rise and fall, wondering if it was the drugs or desire that made each breath so shallow. “I’ll give you the money for the score.” I sucked in my cheeks, moved in an inch closer. “I’ll give you the money and so much more.”

“Oh yeah? What exactly are you going to give me?”

I let go of his jacket and cupped him. I let his smoke surround me, making my eyes water as I pressed my breasts against him. “Whatever you want, baby. I’ll get on my knees right here. I’ll fuck you in an alley . . . in a cheap motel . . . You can touch me, spank me, tie me up—you can do whatever you want to me.” I leaned in farther, grazed my teeth against his earlobe. “You wanna fuck me with a cigar? Or just your cock?” I rubbed my hand up and down. “It’s big, isn’t it?” I looked up into his eyes, let my cigarette fall to the pavement. “Whatever you want to do to me . . . I’ll like it,” I whispered. “I want you to use me. I want to be fucked by a stranger . . . by you . . . All you gotta do is get me the hit.”

He had pulled back a little, tried to catch my eye . . . but I stared at the ground. I wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“This the first time you doing this, babe? Pimping yourself out for drugs?”

I hesitated a moment before nodding.

“But you’re doing it now, so you must be jonesing something serious,” he said. “And when we’re done you’ll feel even worse than you do now because then you’ll be nothing more than a cheap whore.”

Finally I forced myself to look into his eyes. “Have you been with whores before?” I asked.

“Yeah, a few.”

“Did you care how they felt afterward?”

“Not so much.”

I took a deep breath and voiced the only question that mattered: “I told you what I’ll let you do to me. I’ve told you what I’ll do for you. Do you really care how
I’ll
feel afterward?”

He reached out, stroked my cheek with his thumb. If there was a question in his voice before, the leer in his smile settled the matter. “No. I don’t care at all.”

It’s all I needed to hear. In minutes he was following me down the street, down one alley, then another. He ignored the other pedestrians, drunk stragglers trying to weave their way home. Every few steps he reached out, touched my butt, brushed his fingers against my bra as I smiled, warming my hands in his pockets. “Soon, baby,” I promised. “Soon.”

In minutes we were in the right place, hidden in a dark alley between two buildings staring at the dealer on the corner. “That’s him,” I whispered. “He’s got the good stuff. It makes every cell in my body come alive—I swear when I’m on it I can fly.” I took his hand, pressed the bills into his palm. “When you’re inside me we’ll fly together. I’ll be like a supernova . . . just for you . . . Whatever you want.”

His eyes brightened. His hand slid over my hip. “I’m gonna fuck you good.”

And with that he turned and approached the dealer. I watched as he pulled out the money. I watched as he made his request.

I watched as the dealer pulled out a pair of handcuffs. I watched as Lloyd was pressed against a wall and read his rights. I listened as he cried out in protest, as he tried to explain . . . but it was too late . . . I was already gone, walking quickly down the alley, away from the scene, already wiping away the makeup that created the illusion of dark circles while whispering to myself, “I bet you care now, asshole.”

I needed to make my escape quietly . . . but it was hard not to giggle. Any jerk with half a brain would have been able to peg that dealer as a narc. But Lloyd didn’t have half a brain. Just a hard-on and a desire to prey on weak women.

Unfortunately for him,
I’m
not weak.

And, of course, it was only a matter of time before the police found the meth I planted in his pocket, which made his protests even more futile.

It was a minor victory, but it was still kinda sweet.

• • •

Some might think
what I did was cruel. Some might see it as vigilante justice.

But my motivations were simpler than that and much more mundane.

The truth is, I just needed him out of my way.

• • •

I come to
a stop several blocks from Travis’s place and wait to cross a street. Taxis and cars and limos fly past me . . . except for one limo, which pulls to a stop right in front of me.

The door opens, but no one comes out. The sun is low in the sky now, and I squint as I try to see into the dark interior of the vehicle . . . but I don’t really need to see anything to know who’s inside. I know even before I hear his voice:

“Warrior.”

Some words carry their own music.

Silently, I slip inside the limo, closing the door behind me, locking out the streets of New York as I take my place by Lander’s side.

“When you said ‘soon,’ I didn’t realize you meant this afternoon,” he says.

“Actually, it’s officially evening now,” I counter. He looks good in his slim-cut suit and skinny tie. His hair is neat, but he’s unshaven, and his stubble gives his polished look a roughness that’s intensely appealing. “Have you been searching all over town for me, Lander?”

“No,” he says simply. “If I had been, I wouldn’t have thought to look here . . . at least not until I got your message a moment ago.”

“Like I said, I had a job interview nearby.”

The limo starts to move toward Travis’s building. “Another bar?”

“No, something different. Better. Let’s get a drink. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’m supposed to stop by my brother’s to drop something off for a charity auction my sister-in-law is putting together. If I don’t do it now I won’t have a chance until Sunday.”

“So do it Sunday,” I press, adding a slight note of pleading to my voice.

He looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to explain the urgency. When I don’t, he chuckles. “You are a study in contradictions, aren’t you? Running away from me one moment and then demanding my immediate attention the next.” He lowers the partition between us and the driver. “Change of plans, Roger. We’re not stopping yet. Take us on a scenic tour, will you?”

“A scenic tour?” the driver asks, keeping his eyes on the street.

“Yeah, you pick the route.”

I flash him a grateful smile before turning to look out tinted windows as Lander sends a quick text to his brother, postponing the drop-off. Pedestrians stare at the car, but they can’t see who’s inside. Limos are so funny that way. They’re one of the most conspicuous vehicles on the street and yet when you’re inside one you’re completely invisible, isolated from the outside world. You’re literally living in a bubble, if only for the space of a commute.

“So getting back to last night,” he says. “You left without saying good-bye.” His tone is teasing but there’s a hint of a deeper emotion there. Not anger . . . more like concern.

For some reason that rubs me the wrong way.

“I told you, you were sleeping heavily. It seemed criminal to wake you.”

“Now, there’s an interesting choice of words,” he muses.

I give him a quick sidelong glance, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I don’t know why I was so tired last night,” he continues. The car rolls past his brother’s building. I keep my face arranged in an impassive expression, careful not to give away that I know the place.

“Perhaps,” I say, stretching my legs across the spacious limo floor, “I wore you out.”

“Not an entirely unreasonable explanation.” But he doesn’t sound like he means it.

He’s beginning to make me nervous. “How long are we going to be driving, Lander?”

“Oh, I don’t know, long enough to get some answers.”

“You can’t interrogate me in a bar like a normal person?”

“I prefer the quiet of the limo,” he says with a shrug. “Why aren’t you working at the bar anymore?”

“I wasn’t happy there.”

“I did offer to help you find something else.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t need your help. That job I just interviewed for? I got it. I landed something better in less than a day.”

“Did you? Well, I suppose it wouldn’t take much. And why did you disappear on me?”