Say the Word (34 page)

“Your house is in foreclosure. Your b
rother is ill — perhaps dying. His osteosarcoma has a precarious prognosis. And you have no resources to pay for his care.”

I stared at him, horrified realization beginning to dawn.

“It’s simple, really. You need money.” He stared at me, a gleam in his eyes. “I have plenty of it.”

My mouth went dry and I tried to convince myself that this was some kind of terrible nightmare, from which I would awake at any moment. This couldn’t be happening — could it?

“No.” I shook my head in denial. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Don’t be so quick to turn me down, my dear. You haven’t even heard my offer yet.” He straightened his tie and seemed to gather himself, as I’d seen him do countless times before political rallies and public appearances on television. This was it — he was gearing up before the big pitch. I tried the door handle again, but it was useless.

“You and I both know you aren’t meant to be with my son. He’s destined for greatness. You are destined for…” His gaze scanned up and down my body, lingering on my chest. “A different life. One with a nice farm boy, perhaps, in a double wide somewhere out in the country. You’ll pop out a few babies, eat Hamburger Helper for dinner, maybe even make your way to the polls to vote for a politician like me who promises to really
change
things for you.” His eyes were empty of feeling. I didn’t bother to answer, afraid to show how much his scathing words mirrored my deepest fears.

“But my son — he could be great. A co
ngressman, a senator. Even the President someday. And you, my dear, are poised to ruin all of that.” A flicker of annoyance flashed on his face, but was quickly smoothed away into a clear expression meant, no doubt, to persuade me. “You love him, that much is obvious. Don’t you want what’s best for him? Don’t you want him to have that future? Because, if you do, we both know you have to let him go. To Princeton, to Washington, to the successful life he’s meant to live — without you.”

I took a steadying breath. “Sebastian is an adult. I think he’s old enough to decide what he wants in his future. If that doesn’t include you, or your plans, well — I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m really not. You’re just going to have to let him make his own choices. It’s not my place, or yours, to decide a damn thing for him
.”

His grin widened in response to the challenge my words had presented. “Even if it meant you could pay off your family’s debt? Even if it meant James would have the best care?” He paused to guarantee that his words would have the ultimate impact. “How much is your brother’s life worth, Lux? Is one, short-lived, high school romance that, in all likelihood, won’t even last, worth your brother dying before he turns twenty?
Face it – men like my son might fuck girls like you, but they certainly don’t marry them.”

I pressed my eyes closed. As much as I hated to admit it, as much as I wished it weren’t true, his words had their intended effect. They rattled around my mind like loose marbles in a jar, jumbling everything I thought I knew — turning immovable morals and ethical codes into adjustable, ever-shifting margins. I had to consider his offer. The stakes were too high to disregard it without a thought.

Money could change things for my family — for Jamie, especially. He could have the best treatment, at a state-of-the-art facility in the city rather than a small, regional hospital in Jackson County. He could afford to apply for a place in clinical trials and have a private nurse to help him with rehab for his leg. He’d have the best doctors, surgeons, and medical staff at his disposal. A custom-fitted prosthetic. A unique treatment plan specifically tailored for his condition. A house with more than four rooms — somewhere that he could walk and exercise his atrophied muscles until his strength was fully recovered. 

But could I give up the love of my life? My heart began to tear at just the thought.

“I can’t,” I whispered, seeing the beautiful future I’d painted for Jamie in my mind dissipate and fade to black. “I won’t.”

I’d find another way to give Jamie that life — this bribe wasn’t the right path for us. No one made a deal with a devil and walked away wholly unscathed.

“Tough girl.” Andrew chuckled, his Cheshire Cat smile only widening. “I thought you might say that. Thankfully, the first rule of political negotiation…” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another thin envelope. “Never put all your cards on the table in the first round, dear.”

He slid a thick, off-white document from the package, his fingers tracing the county clerk’s green stamp by the signature line with reverence.

“This, my dear, is a very special piece of paper. Do you see what it says here?” His index finger pointed to a line at the top of the sheet.

When I saw the property address and the name Andrew Covington listed as the new lot owner, I knew, with absolute clarity, that he’d backed me neatly into a corner. I’d been outmanned, outplayed — he held all the cards in this game, and I’d never even had a shot at beating him. There was the date of sale, in clear black and white — signed and stamped last week, by officials at the bank. My home, in the hands of a monster. My life, my family’s life, at his mercy.

“This is the deed to your house, dear.” Andrew turned fully in his seat to face me. “So, you see, I’m not just holding a document — I’m holding your fate in my hands. I thought
you might need a little extra
incentive
to see things my way.”

I swallowed roughly.

“What, no brave words? Where did all that honor and courage go?”

I bit my lip to contain my scream.

Andrew chuckled. “I’m really doing you a favor by teaching you this lesson early on in life. See, honor only gets you so far.” He leaned in closer and I shied as far away from him as possible in the confined space, my side pressed firmly against the cool glass of the window. “I’ll let you in on a little secret: people who fight with honor are the ones who
lose
their battles. The winners write the history books — and winners rarely let things like integrity get in their way, dear.”

I took a deep breath. “What do you want?” I forced the quiet words from my lips, feeling like the worst kind of traitor.

“There’s my good girl! I knew you’d come around,” he crowed, tasting victory. “Tell me, Lux… Do you know what a non-disclosure agreement is?”

“Are you sure I have to do this?”

“Yes,” Fae said.

“It’s the only way,” Simon agreed.

I sighed. We’d been going back and forth about this for hours, discussing options and strategies for getting inside
Labyrinth
. Despite the absolutely feasible alternative plans I’d suggested — bribing a bouncer, finding a back-alley entrance or window, locating and utilizing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak — they were resolute: I had to ask Sebastian to get me inside.

“But he’ll think this means he’s won,” I appealed, hoping they’d see reason. “He’ll think I’m conceding to tell him about our past. He’ll think I want to sleep with him!”

“You do want to sleep with him,” Simon pointed out.

“And you should tell him about your past,” Fae added.

“You know I can’t do that,” I muttered. “Plus, I called out sick from work today! If I call him, he’ll know I was lying. I could get in trouble.”

“Love, chances are he already knows you weren’t sick. You’re a terrible liar, so it
’s doubtful Andrea or Angela or whatever her name is even bought your story.” Fae laughed lightly. “He probably thinks you’re just avoiding him — which is partly true. He just doesn’t know the rest of your reasoning.”

“True,” Simon chimed in.

“Also, I need a copy of that NDA,” Fae said in a casual voice, her eyes averted.

“What?!”

“I won’t even read it, I swear,” she promised in a bored tone, staring at her cuticles.

“Let me guess…” Simon quirked an eyebrow. “You
know a guy
?”

Fae shrugged.
“I just want to show it to a friend of mine, see what he has to say. He’s a lawyer, he really knows his stuff. Maybe there’s a loophole in that contract. If there is — he’ll find it.”

“If I give you the NDA, do I still have to call Sebastian?”

“Yes,” Fae said.

I sighed.

“It’s the only option that makes any sense,” Simon said, handing me my cellphone. “He’s the only one who can get you inside.”

I grimaced as I accepted the phone, but resigned myself to their plan. After everything we’d learned about
Labyrinth
since opening that package yesterday, it was more imperative than ever that I get inside that club.

The document had been a manifesto of sorts, containing a detailed history of the exclusive organization as well as a list of members’ names. After we’d scanned through a few pages at the bar last night, we’d headed back to my apartment where we could pour through it with a fine-toothed comb, safe from watchful eyes out in public.

From what we could tell,
Labyrinth
was more “secret society” than it was “club” — its history was full of tawdry love affairs between famous members, high profile business mergers that had shaped our country’s economy for hundreds of years, and backdoor political deals that had far-reaching effects on our government to this day. The society had been around for so long, no records could pinpoint its exact year of origin. One source claimed that the decision to invade Vietnam had been made in a tea parlor on the second floor of
Labyrinth
in the early 1960s. Another, that the Constitution itself had been drafted by our country’s forefathers in the front atrium at the original club site, long before the document ever made its way to the Philadelphia Convention in 1787.

Despite those high profile anecdotes, there was one piece of information that captured my attention more than any of the rest. In 1981, a reckless, still-wet-behind-the-ears rookie of the NYPD had stumbled onto something far above his
pay grade.

Thomas Monroe, a twenty-six
year-old New Jersey native, was on patrol when a transmission went out over the police scanner about a white moving truck parked illegally in an alley outside a new restaurant in the Upper East Side. When the call came in, Monroe responded that he would follow up. His supervisor also heard the call and quickly radioed back that Monroe should stand down, as another officer was already en route to the scene. But Monroe, eager to prove his worth on the force, disregarded that order and arrived at a chic address on E. 65
th
Street within minutes.

What he saw that night became the source of immense friction within the NYPD. Monroe attested that he’d witnessed three large men dragging what appeared to be a half-dozen bound, listless women from the white truck in
to the back door of the club next door to the restaurant — a club, according to city records, by the name of
Labyrinth
. His supervisor contradicted Monroe’s statement, reporting that another officer arrived at the same time as the young recruit and had seen no such thing in that alleyway.

Monroe became the laughingstock of his precinct, the butt of every joke from his fellow officers. He was branded a too-keen rookie, an attention-seeker, and accused of imagining grand scenarios in which he’d be the hero of the force.

But the young man refused to recant his statement, despite immense pressure from his supervisor — and his supervisor’s supervisor. When they switched his patrol route to the heart of the South Bronx in a crime-riddled neighborhood with a murder rate twice that of the rest of the city, it came as no great surprise that Monroe was murdered one night — knifed and left to bleed out in an alleyway, his assailant never brought to justice. With little fanfare, Monroe’s name faded into the annals of NYPD history. And with his death, his far-fetched story about a suspicious club in the Upper East Side also died.

The week following Monroe’s murder, the fledgling restaurant owner who’d placed that call to
the police abruptly sold his property and left the city. The building was purchased and demolished within days. As soon as the dust had settled, the new owner broke ground on a fully enclosed parking garage, complete with tunnels connecting to the club next door. No truck would ever be carelessly parked in that alleyway again, and the newly-expanded
Labyrinth
now sat on a double-plot of land.

I gripped the phone tightly in my right hand as it rang. Once, twice, three times.

“Hello?”

Deep breath.

“Hello, is someone there?” Bash repeated.

Fae whacked me on the arm violently. “Say something,” she hissed.

“Hi,” I mumbled into the receiver, rubbing my smarting arm with my free hand. “It’s Lux.”

There was a beat of silence over the line. “Can’t say I was expecting your call,
Freckles.” I could hear a teasing smile in his voice. “Does this mean you’re giving in already? I have to admit, I was expecting a bit more of a challenge…”

“Don’t be an ass,” I muttered. “This isn’t about us.”

He laughed. “Oh, so you agree there’s an ‘us’ now?”

“You’re impossible,” I complained, rolling my eyes. “Can you meet me tonight? I have something to ask you. And, before you get yourself all worked up, you should know — it’s for the story I’m working on. The one about the missing girls.”

“Where?” he asked, his tone suddenly serious.

“A coffee shop in the East Village. I’ll text you the address.”

“I’ll be there. What time?”

I glanced at my watch. “Seven?”

“See you then.”

I clicked off.

“I must say, you’re looking remarkably healthy for someone with the flu.” Bash stared at me with raised brows as I approached him. He was standing on the sidewalk, just below the café awning.

“The wonders of modern medicine,” I drawled, coming to a stop by his side. “Thanks for coming.”

He grinned at me. “Your wish, my command.” I rolled my eyes as he pulled open the glass door an
d ushered me inside. “After you.”

I made my way to the counter and ordered a chai tea. I looked around for the tattooed, eyeliner-wearing barista who’d given me Miri’s note, but she didn’t appear to be working today. Before I could pay, Bash placed his own order for a cappuccino and a croissant, handed a sleek black AMEX credit card to the cashier, and grinned down at me infuriatingly.

“What are you doing?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. “This isn’t a date. You’re not supposed to pay.”

He laughed at me and shook his head, the bastard.

I turned to the cashier. “Can you refund that chai? I have cash.”

Bash looked from me to the cashier, who was watching us with wide eyes. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered conspiratorially, nodding his head in my direction as he retrieved his credit card from her outstretched palm. “Her money’s counterfeit.”

“Wha— Are you serious right now—Bash!” I spluttered as he led me away with one hand at the small of my back.

“Just sit,
Freckles.” He steered me toward a table and pulled out my chair. “I’ll get our drinks.”

“I can get my own—”

He cast a dismissive frown in my direction, before heading back to the counter to accept our drinks from the barista. I sat, tongue-tied, watching him and feeling spectacularly off balance as I took in the sight of his broad shoulders and well-toned arm muscles from behind. He was too gorgeous for his own good — mine weren’t the only set of female eyes on him at the moment – but he didn’t seem to notice the attention his looks drew. He tossed a quick smile over his shoulder at me when he reached the counter, and I heard two appreciative girls at a nearby table sigh in unison. Somehow, it was a comfort to know I wasn’t the only one left dumbstruck in his presence.

Balancing two mugs and the small plate holding his croissant, Bash made his way back to our table and sat down across from me.

“Thanks,” I murmured, accepting my tea mug.

“Anytime,” he returned, smiling as he tore off a chunk of his croissant and popped it in his mouth. He chased the bite with a sip of cappuccino, swallowed, and adopted a solemn expression. “So
, spell it out for me.”

I took a deep inhale. “You know I’ve been investigating that old brewery down in Red Hook.”

He nodded.

“Well, there’s a bit more to the story,” I admitted.

“I figured as much.” A wry smile twisted his lips.

“It started with Vera.” My voice cracked when I said her name, but I forced myself to go on. For the next hour, I spoke without interruption, laying out the whole sordid tale as my heart pounded in my chest. The flea market, Roza, the tenements in Two Bridges, Miri, the significance of this very cafe, the note, Santos, Red Hook, the brewery, and, finally,
Labyrinth
. By the time I reached that portion of my tale, my tea was long gone and all that remained of Bash’s croissant was a small smattering of crumbs on the white ceramic plate. As I spoke, his eyebrows lifted higher and higher, the frown lines around his mouth becoming more prominent with each passing moment. He was quiet for a long time when I finally finished speaking.

“Let me see if I have this right,” Bash muttered, his wide eyes intent on my face. “You want me to help you get inside a highly-secure, tightly-guarded, entirely dangerous secret society, and then gather incriminating intel on some of the most powerful people in this country.”

I gave a hesitant nod.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he bellowed, causing several people at surrounding tables to look in our direction warily.

“Bash!” I protested quietly. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?
Calm down?
” He snorted. “Yeah, I’m feeling extremely calm after learning you’re on some halfcocked mission to get yourself killed. These people are dangerous, Lux. You know that better than anyone. I can’t fucking believe you’ve been going after them alone.”

“Well, if you come with me, I won’t be alone anymore,” I
pointed out. “I need your help, Bash. I need to see what’s going on inside that club.”

“And you don’t think, if these people are as powerful as you say, that they’ll notice a blonde sleuthing wannabe traipsing through their back rooms and looking through their computer files?” He laughed. “That’s optimistic.”

“There won’t be cameras.” I pulled out a page from the dossier that I’d stashed away in my purse before leaving my apartment. I held it out so he could look it over, pointing to a highlighted section. “See? It’s apparently part of the club charter. Too many important people are members — they’d never feel safe if potentially illegal actions were being recorded. The only cameras are on the perimeter.”

“You’re putting blind trust in the research of a guy you don’t even know.” Bash shook his head. “How can you
be sure it’s accurate?”

“I know Fae — I
trust
Fae,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “If she says we can trust him, we can trust him.”

Bash stared at me for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. “You’re the same,” he muttered eventually, his eyes incredulous.

“What?”

“You haven’t changed a bit in all these years. You’re still stubborn as a mule — set in your ways and utterly impossible to negotiate with once you’ve made up your mind about something. Pigheaded, really.” He cracked a smile.