Say the Word (23 page)

It didn’t open again for two hours.

Fae was snoring lightly
in the backseat and Simon was nodding off sporadically, slumped over the steering wheel with drool pooling in one cheek, when the warehouse door finally creaked open and Santos walked out. I elbowed Simon in the stomach and he jerked awake with little grace.

“Whaaasgoinon?”

“Look,” I hissed, pointing toward the windshield.

Simon wiped the drool from his face and turned his eyes to Santos.

“Duffel.”

“What?” I asked, thinking he might still be half asleep and babbling nonsensical dream words.

“The duffel bag,” he clarified. “Look how full it is.”

I looked. He was right; Santos had definitely picked something up in the warehouse. The question was,
what
?

“When he went in, it was limp. N
ow, it’s practically exploding,” Simon noted.

“That’s what she said,” Fae chimed in from the back seat with a faint giggle.

I rolled my eyes. “Really, Fae?”

“It’s two in the morning.” She shrugged. “My humor isn’t exactly on-point at the moment.”

“So what’s in the bag?” I muttered.

“Could be anything. Money, drugs, you name it.” Simon’s brow furrowed as he watched Santos start up his car and pull away from the curb. “But he was in there for
more than two hours. His shift is pretty much over now, and he barely patrolled. I don’t think that’s standard operating procedure for an NYPD officer.”

We all fell silent as we contemplated what that might mean.

Simon waited until Santos was a few blocks out of sight before starting the car and steering us back to Manhattan. I didn’t know how I’d do it, but I needed to find out what was in that duffel bag. And then, I had to come back here to see what was going on behind the tightly sealed doors of that warehouse.

As we wound through
the streets and back across the bridge to the bustling island we called home, I thought about the missing girls, and how I was essentially no closer to finding out what had happened to them. But mostly, I thought about Simon and Fae, both of whom had work in less than six hours, and how they’d insisted on coming along with me on this charade just so I wouldn’t be alone. As it turned out, stakeouts weren’t like the movies. I’d been bored to tears, my butt had gone numb after sitting for hours in the same position, and I’d learned virtually nothing about Santos other than the fact that he liked to frequent strange, abandoned places in the dead of night. Which may have been suspicious, but was certainly not illegal.

I
wanted a smoking gun, something we could easily pin on him. I wanted to feel like I was doing something other than spinning my wheels while more girls became targets and vanished off city streets. I wanted Vera back home, and Miri safe again.

But, as I knew better than most, life rarely w
orks out the way we want it to.

Remember when you were eight years old and the most entertaining thing on
the planet was challenging someone on the playground to a staring contest? And the most important thing on the planet was winning said staring contest and becoming the dry-eyed, unblinking champion of the recess yard?

I was engaged in a new kind of staring contest right now, and it was imperative that I win. Because, you see, I wasn’t eight anymore, and Sebastian and I weren’t gazing into one another’s eyes willing the other to blink and cry uncle. Oh, no. We were in a uniquely adult version of the staring game, with new rules. In this round, the goal was to see who could go the absolute longest without so much as a glance in the other’s direction. 

So maybe it wasn’t so much a staring contest as an
avoid-at-all-costs
contest.

An
absolutely-do-not-stare-at-me
contest.

An
I’m-afraid-what-might-happen-if-I-look-at-you
contest.

Anyway, I think he was winning.

See, after his absence for the last two days, I’d kind of gotten used to not seeing him. Yesterday, Cara and her posse had been at a fashion event across the city, modeling for a new fall line, and I’d had a gloriously normal day of discussing set designs and hashing out costume ideas with the designers for the 1920s shoot. The roaring twenties was an exciting era, so our team had a lot of options to play with. And despite a terse email from Jeanine, reminding me that I was still on the hook for my normal
Luster
column at the end of the month, I’d had a great time.

So when I walked in on Thursday morning, yawning widely after my late night of stalking and stakeouts, I’d been content with my new position. I’d even been looking forward to the coming day, knowing that I’d be surrounded by creative thinkers and working on a project unlike any in the magazine’s history.

Those warm fuzzy feelings deteriorated as soon as I arrived.

I’d slept fitfully, my mind racing with thoughts of Vera, before finally giving up on sleep altogether and rising before dawn. I was too tired for a run, so I’d headed into work early, hoping I could become an asset to the 1920s team and avoid another errand-girl assignment. When I arrived at the ArtLust building, the lobby was quiet and empty but for a security guard, who nodded at me from his desk before turning his attention back to his crossword puzzle.

I’d hit the button for the fourteenth floor and was watching the elevator doors slide closed when a deep, masculine voice called out.

“Hold the elevator!”

I froze, horror dawning as the voice registered in my ears, but it was too late. His hand slipped between the closing doors and they sprang apart to allow him entrance.
Damn.

Sebastian stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened but otherwise his expression was stony as ever. There was no remorse in his gaze, nor was there any recognition that Monday night had happened. With a deep inhale, he stepped across the threshold and into the elevator with me. I shuffled a few steps left and looked away as the doors closed behind him.

It grew painfully quiet.

No other riders were there to break the silence with their chatter and no tinny elevator music detracted from the building tension between us as we ascended slowly up fourteen stories. It was just the two of us, trying not to breathe too loud or make any sudden movements, looking anywhere but at each other.

I wanted to laugh. Or cry. I wasn’t sure which.

We were about halfway through our ascent when I felt Sebastian take a step toward me, so his front hovered mere inches from my back. I could practically feel the molecules in the air between our bodies compressing, compacting, as he leaned closer into my space.

If you pressed two strong negative magnets together, they’d repel with every bit of force they could muster. And maybe if you were strong enough, you could hold them against each other for a short period of time, though doing so might eventually sap all your strength. Once you let go, though — once you stopped using all your energy to force them together against their will — chances were, those damn magnets that had repelled with such intensity would flip, changing course and snapping together so fast you couldn’t believe your eyes. And, once they’d realigned, no amount of pulling was liable to separate them again.

What once repelled quickly morphed into an unbreakable pull.

Oh, and how quick that flip was, from abhorrence to attraction, from disdain to desire. Love and lust, hostility and hatred— they were two sides of the same coin. So though Sebastian had made it clear how he felt for me, the charge between us grew anyway, despite all sense and reason. I could hear the pounding of blood in my ears as I mentally calculated the exact amount of space separating his body from mine. I could feel the sharp pain radiating in my mouth as I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself in check.

Attraction
was a life-force. A physical presence, swirling in the air around us and tethering us together. With my hair twisted up in an elegant knot, my neck was exposed to him and I felt his breath there, at my nape, closer than any stranger had a right to be. I fought against the pull, replaying his words in my mind and trying to snap myself back into reality.

I should fuck you right here like the little whore you are.

I loved him.

I hated him.

I wanted him.

I wanted to kill him.

He’s isn’t your Sebastian anymore
, the reasonable side of my brain whispered.

Maybe you could bring him back
, a small, insane portion of my cerebrum — probably my hypothalamus, that sex-driven little slut — countered.

Thankfully, before I could address the fact that my brain wires were severely crossed, the elevator chimed, the doors slid open, and the moment was shattered. I felt Sebastian step away and the breath I’d been holding slipped from my lips in a relieved whoosh. Stepping from the elevator, I
hurried for the bathroom across the room, not once looking back at him. To my relief, when I emerged ten minutes later Angela was there with a group of assistants, firing off orders at hyper-speed, and Sebastian was on the opposite side of the room by the conference table, staring out the windows in deep thought. His right hand rubbed at the back of his neck in a familiar gesture.

Some things never change, I suppose.

I tore my eyes from him, headed for Angela and, from that moment on, I’d fully committed to our non-staring contest. Or tried to, anyway. I couldn’t speak for Sebastian, but I was having an extraordinarily hard time keeping my eyes off him. Especially when Cara arrived just before noon.

“Baby!” she squealed, sauntering from the elevator with long-legged strides and crossing the room to where he stood with a group of designers. Disregarding the fact that he was in a conversation with his colleagues, Cara sashayed her way to his side and wrapped her abnormally long arms around him from behind. I cursed myself as I broke my own rules and turned to watch their encounter. 

“Take me to lunch,” Cara whined loudly, leaning in to kiss his neck.

I felt my eyebrows go up.

“Cara.” Sebastian reached up and took light hold of her wrists, removing them from where they’d locked around his middle. “I’m working.” His tone wasn’t playful in the least and, though his back was to me, I could only imagine what his face looked like.

“But I want to go to lunch!” Cara began to pout, jutting out one hip and crossing her arms across her chest. I saw Sebastian’s shoulders heave upward in a deep sigh, before he turned to face her. “You have to take me,” she carried on in a childish tone. Reaching out one manicured finger, she poked Sebastian in the chest to further emphasize her words.

“Right.” Poke. “Now.” Poke.

Oh my god.
I winced as Sebastian’s expression clouded over with annoyance.

The entire office held its breath in silence, waiting to see the fallout from Cara’s actions, and I could feel the beginnings of a laugh building in my chest. This girl was ridiculous. If I’d liked her at all, maybe I’d have warned her to quit while she was ahead, before she completely embarrassed herself. As it was, though, I’d happily watch her dig her own grave with Sebastian.

“Cara, I’m not going to lunch with you. Look around. What do you see?” Sebastian’s tone was cool, dismissive. “People are working. I am working. And
you
are causing a disturbance.”

“But—” Cara protested.

“And, for the last time,” Sebastian cut her off. “Don’t come here again until we need you for test shots next week.” With that, he turned his back on her and resumed his conversation, as though she didn’t exist. Cara huffed in outrage, whirled around on her heels, and stormed out in a Prada-patterned blur, leaving nothing in her wake but the faint, lingering scent of Chanel No. 5. I had to hand it to the girl, though — on her way to the elevators, she somehow managed to simultaneously throw a severe glare in my direction and mouth “bitch” at me as she trounced her way to the exit.

A solitary giggle
escaped my lips as the elevator doors closed at Cara’s back.

My boring, bland life had somehow become a telenovela in the space of a week.

I’d reached my drama limit for the day — for the year, actually — and I could feel the hysteria coming on. My lips twitched until I could no longer contain myself. My giggles turned to full out laughter, then erupted into gasps. As tears gathered in my eyes, the two Jennys made identical concerned faces — no doubt worried I’d had some kind of psychotic break — which really only made me laugh harder.

I reached up to wipe my tears away and in the process locked gazes with a set of hazel eyes that were staring hard across the room in my direction. The laugh caught in my throat and I nearly choked, but not before noticing that Sebastian’s lips were upturned just the slightest bit around the corners.

He was almost smiling at me.

Of course, as soon as we made eye contact, his expression shuttered and his lips pressed into an uncompromising frown of disapproval. If not for the idiotic flare of hope that had erupted within me at the sight of his smile — which was still burning an uncomfortably optimistic hole in my chest cavity — I’d have thought maybe I’d imagined that expression on his face, or that it was some kind of deluded product of wishful thinking.

Delusions notwithstanding, I had to turn my face away to hide the private smile twisting my lips. Maybe my Sebastian was still in there after all, buried somewhere so deep down he’d been forgotten entirely. Perhaps I hadn’t destroyed him all those years ago and, somehow, he could be redeemed.

And that gave me hope.

Not for myself, not for my own future — but for his.

After work, I hopped on the subway and took the F train down through Manhattan and over into Brooklyn. I didn’t text Simon or Fae, knowing they’d either want to come with me or try to talk me out of going altogether. I would’ve been better off in a car, of course, but this was something I needed to do alone, without drawing unwanted attention.

I’d changed into my well-worn black UGA sweatshirt, flats, and a pair of dark skinny jeans in the lobby bathroom before leaving work. I had a feeling that I’d stick out like a sore thumb in my freshly pressed skirt, blouse, and heels on the streets of Red Hook, so I’d stuffed my work attire deep down in the small canvas backpack I’d slung over my shoulder. Plus, I’d be walking and, if I’d learned anything at all since moving to
the city, it was to never risk ruining designer footwear if it could be avoided.

The Point was a dead zone — meaning that the subways didn’t run there and cellphone reception was spotty, at best. I rode the
F as close as possible, hopping off at the Carroll Street station and hailing a cab to bring me the rest of the way.

“Red Hook, please,” I directed the driver, settling into the backseat
and rattling off the cross street we’d tracked Santos to last night. “By the old waterfront.”

The gray-haired cabbie glanced over his shoulder at me, his thick Brooklyn accent booming through the plastic and metal partition dividing our seats. “You sure, lady?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, swallowing my nerves and pulling my hair up into a ponytail. “I’m sure.”

He drove for about ten minutes
, the streets outside my window growing emptier the closer we got to the waterfront. When I judged that we were about a block away from the pier, I asked the cabbie to pull over.

“Thanks,” I said, handing him a few bills to cover the fare.

“You sure this is where you want me to drop you?” He accepted my money, shoving it into his pocket as he looked out his window and scratched at his graying beard. “Not the best neighborhood.”

I nodded in agreement. The view outside my window was bleak.

It had begun to drizzle. The sky had darkened as a thick cloud cover rolled in overhead, casting the streets further into shadow and sending whatever pedestrians had been outside scurrying back indoors as fast as possible. The streetlights had yet to illuminate, as it was still relatively early, and the rain-slicked streets looked both desolate and uninviting. I had no desire to venture out in them alone. Still, I made myself smile at the concerned cabbie, forcing my tone to reflect a cheery disposition I didn’t feel.