Feather Bound (15 page)

“He's a man, Deanna.”

I snorted. “Reductive.”

“But true. And he wants you. And he'll be bored. Nothing like a little bit of danger to spice up an evening. Just make yourself impossible to resist and the rest will write itself.”

“So what then?” I placed the invitation back on the table so I wouldn't crush it in my palm. “You want me to screw him on a table in the middle of a toast or something? Give everyone a show?”

I could tell Anton was stifling his laughter behind his lips. “As amazing as that sounds, no. As you can see on your invitation, the ball's being held at Arkham Hall. There's a secluded room that I'll be holding for my own private use: the Red Room. That's where I want you to take him to.”

“Oh.” My fingers twitched on my lap. I could feel the pressure rising in my throat. “And... what?”

With a finger, Anton pushed his glass of champagne toward me. “First offer him one of these. Set the mood.”

“Giving me lessons on seducing men?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Is this coming from personal experience?”

Anton ignored me. “Before you take him to the room, at midnight, I'll text you where to meet me.”

“Why? So you can give me one final pep-talk before I give it the old college try?”

“So I can give you this.” Anton reached into Girl Number Two's bag and took out a little black vial, lifting it just high enough for me to see before shoving it back out of sight.

“Is that… Are you insane?” I hissed as my nails dug into my jeans.

“I've invited reporters from five different tabloids, newspapers and gossip sites. Slip this into his glass. Make sure he drinks it. Seduce him. Wind him up to the point where he's up for anything.” Anton's slimy gaze slid to his girls, still coiled dutifully around him. “They'll do the rest.”

If Anton wanted to destroy the board's trust in Hyde, having a few reporters “accidentally” catch Hyde halfway through an orgy at a company event would certainly do the trick. My right hand flew to my chest, the palm pressing hard against the fabric. I couldn't help it. The pain in there was extraordinary – like my heart was going to burst through the skin and flop onto the table.

Not like I'd need that anymore anyway.

“H-how…” I straightened my back up, placing my hands back onto my lap. Controlled. Poised. Don't let him see you freak out. Don't. “So I'm just supposed to wait around for them to show up?” I flicked my head toward the models, folding my arms. “What if they don't show or… what if they're late?”

“They won't be. I'll be coming with them. My driver should get us to the hall just before midnight.”

“But it's a masquerade, right? How will I know it's them and not someone else entirely?”

“You'll know.” Anton slipped out his phone and after a few clicks, my own phone vibrated. I checked the text he'd sent me: a photo of a gorgeous gold mask with a cascade of lace just long enough to cover the lips. “It's what they'll all be wearing – already ordered and delivered. Jealous?” he added, when he caught me staring. “Don't worry. I'm sure whatever Hyde picks out for you will suit you just as well. Or would you like me to send you one?”

I grimaced. I already felt cheap. Having sugar daddies was the last thing I needed.

“I have to say, you're taking this all pretty well,” said Anton, half-amused.

Picturing a rusty rail spike skewering your head over and over again sure helps, I wanted to say, but I wasn't about to push my luck. You could never tell with a guy like Anton just how much snark his ego could take before he snapped.

“And after this… if I do that, you'll leave me alone?”

“A deal's a deal,” he answered simply. “Regardless of what you might think of me, it's not like I'm out to ruin your life.” I could have laughed. “It's just business. I need something. You need something.”

No, you made me need something, you asshole.

“Once we both get it,” he continued, unaware of my murderous glare, “it'll be over. Just do your job and we'll both go on our merry way.”

He must have noticed my lingering unease because he laughed, quietly. “Don't flatter yourself. If I were going to steal anyone's feathers it'd be someone more my type – taller, thinner, blonder.” He touched Blonde Number One's cheek. The way she giggled gave me acid reflux.

I might have believed him. I wanted to believe him. But as far as virtues went, Anton had none, so I could pretty much rule trustworthiness out right off the bat. There were no guarantees. I knew it as I slipped the card off the table and tucked it into my pocket before getting up to leave. As long as Anton knew about me, there was no way I would ever be safe. Even if he let me fly free today, what about tomorrow? Next month? Year? How could I know he wouldn't hang the threat of slavery over my head the next time he needed something? Best case scenario, I'd be a pawn in his little schemes forever. Worst case…

The thought of him stroking my cheek the way he did his models forced a grunt of disgust from my lips.

If I didn't stop Anton now, I'd be in his bird cage forever.

I wasn't about to let that happen. I couldn't. I had to find a way to protect myself. And in the meantime, I had to find a way to protect Hyde this Saturday. Simply refusing would piss Anton off and send me to the nearest massage parlor bound and gagged. There had to be something… some way to keep Hyde off the chopping block without screwing myself over. I wasn't a pawn, goddamn it.

No matter what, I couldn't let that bastard have his way.

14

PREPARATIONS

Despite my determination, the evening passed without one brilliant epiphany; not even so much as a bullet point list of possible options. I spent most of the night watching reruns of
Sew or Die
on Ade's laptop while Dad watched something on some Man Network. Beatrice Hoffer-Rey's talent for crushing designers' hopes and dreams was admittedly amusing, but it failed to help me get in touch with my inner ruthlessness, and ruthlessness was what I'd need to plot my way out of this mess.

“You OK, Deanna?”

I blinked. Dad was looking at me – probably because his show had just gone to commercial.

“Yes.”

But he kept staring. With a heavy sigh I paused the video. “I'm fine. Why? Do you need something?”

He shifted awkwardly in his chair, though we both knew he wasn't exactly allowed to be surprised that I'd be suspicious of his concern. As if suddenly aware of the beer can in his hands, he set it down onto the table next to him and started flipping channels.

“Hey wait, stop,” I said suddenly, when I saw the words “Hedley Publications”, right below a video of people waving around signs underneath a particularly tall tower of a building.

A marching circle of bodies practically blocked the sky-high building's entrance. Obviously a protest. I managed to catch a glimpse of a tall blonde carrying a sign that read “Freedom not Fashion” before the video cut to other protesters as the Wednesday morning news reporter explained, “There's still no word on whether or not the editors of
Bella
magazine will respond to the accusations, but the question still remains: does the magazine's advertising of the clothing line equate to promoting indentured swan labor? Or have the magazine's critics directed their ire at the wrong target?”

Advertising a designer who uses slave labor to make his or her shitty clothes. That sounded just irresponsible and disgusting enough to be true.

Smelled like a scandal. Big enough to lose the Colemans? If so, it would blow Anton's plan right up; after all, Beatrice was the editor in chief. She was the one this sort of thing would reflect badly on, not Hyde. Then what, Anton?

It was a satisfying thought, Anton pulling his hair out in frustration. Anton losing.

Still, without proof, accusations were easy enough to deny. I was back at square one.

Oh my God
. A familiar face popped onto the screen as the camera scanned the crowd with a few skips of jolty editing. She was a little less naked this time, and her black-rimmed hipster glasses covered about half of her face, but it was hard to forget the girl who feather-flashed a bevy of “mourning” millionaires at a funeral.

“Shannon Dalhousie,” I whispered. The long red hair was the same, as was the pale skin and righteous indignation. Tough bitch.

Exactly the kind of confidence I need…

That was the spark. Those half-baked thoughts I'd been sifting through since leaving Lucien, thoughts as useless as scattered crumbs on a dirty floor, slowly started to coalesce into a legitimate idea. A half-baked, plan, but a plan nonetheless.

I had to work fast.

She wasn't hard to find. With all her blogs, each one dedicated to various social justice issues – and baking? – Shannon was easy to track down.

Sprawled out on my bed with my doors shut, I scrolled down the browser screen, trying to find her contact information. Each of her social justice blogs had the same one. Click.

I spent the next fifteen minutes crafting a passionately worded email filled with half-truths, bullshit, and a sob story I hoped would be just believable enough to get her to hit “reply”.

I couldn't tell her exactly what was going on. I mean, I did ask her not to post up or mention the email on any of her blogs, but how did I know she wouldn't anyway? Even though I needed her, I didn't know her, and that meant I couldn't fully trust her. I doubted Anton used the internet for anything other than porn, but still, I had to be careful.

So instead I told her the story of a young swan whose feathers were taken by her now ex-boyfriend years ago. I threw in parts of my own life just to make it feel real – dead mother, deadbeat but well-meaning father, lazy middle sister, trophy-wife eldest sister. The part about how alone and scared I felt came from a real place too, obviously. Living in fear and paranoia, feeling other people's eyes on me, feeling used like my body was a site of transaction.

But I didn't want to get too bleeding-heart lest it all come off as fake. So I got to the point. I told her about how I wanted to do something, anything to help other people like me out there.

I want to help. After everything I've been through, I can't just stand by and watch more people be used the way I was. It's just horrifying.

Beatrice Hoffer-Rey, The editor in chief at Bella (which I'm sure you already know), is throwing a masquerade party this Saturday at Arkham Hall on Broadway (you know, that try-hard “swanky” Manhattan beehive of parasitic socialites). Can you freaking believe that? Like normal parties aren't epic enough for her. The arrogance.

I figured this might be the perfect opportunity to bring reality into their lives – force them to face it head on. Protesting outside the Hedley Building is all well and good, but after they get inside they can easily just shut you out. What about taking the protest inside?

I can't do it on my own. Honestly, I'm a little scared. That's why I was wondering if you and some of your friends wanted to help me out? I have a plan figured out. I live in East Brooklyn, so if you want maybe we could meet up somewhere and talk about it?

Please get back to me ASAP,

Dee

That was when I attached a photo I'd saved onto the desktop – the photo of me and Hyde someone took for us while we were up on the Empire State Building last Tuesday. Dalhousie would know exactly what that meant – that I had an in. I just needed the help.

With a sigh, I ran through the email once, pressed send and prayed that Shannon Dalhousie checked her inbox as obsessively as Ade did.

An hour passed. Two hours. I oscillated between stress eating, stress email-checking and then back to stress eating. Ade came home from evening shift at the telemarketing centre dismayed to find empty bags of chips strewn about the living room – not because the place was now an infestation waiting to happen, of course, but because I'd depleted her primary nutritional source and now she had to rummage through the fridge to find an apple to feast on.

I cleaned up. Three hours. False alarms in the form of junk mail from my years-old subscription to a Korean drama online streaming site. I was going crazy. Then at 3 o'clock in the morning, miraculously:

A new email from Lady Pen.

Lady Pen?

I was a mass of nerves. A twinge of excitement shook the breath out of my throat. Taking my laptop back into my room, I clicked.

Hi Dee,

Hey, girl, I'm totes glad you got in touch with me, not in the least because I'm always eager to connect with and possibly even meet other survivors. I'm hella sorry to hear about what's happened to you… and I just want you to know that I can honestly SYMPATHIZE! I've been there.

Some of us just don't have the luxury to ignore this kind of shit, you know? That's why I do what I do. I'm glad you kind of understand that. I'm so used to getting hate mail from clueless privileged assholes who assure me that having your autonomy stolen isn't really “that big a deal”, it's become basic instinct to side-eye every email I get now and days (and I was kind of sceptical about yours too, tbh). Some of my friends and I have been trying to spread awareness about Bella Magazine for some time, now, but the only news coverage that we got was this morning… and I dunno, if you watched the whole thing, but the reporter kind of painted us as fanatical random hippies with nothing better to do than to hurl baseless accusations at innocent fashion conglomerates.

If what you're saying is true (that pic isn't photoshopped is it? If not you did a hella good job, but srsly, it's not is it?) This might give us the opportunity to get more exposure.