Say the Word (48 page)

“Sebastian,” she whispered. “Don’t let them do this to me! You know I’m innocent.”

Bash dropped his arms and stepped around me, walking in his mother’s direction with measured strides. When he reached her, he leaned down and spoke in a voice that held no traces of love or familial loyalty.

“You did this to yourself.” His tone was as cold as his words. “You’re not innocent — you haven’t been innocent a day in your life.”

“I’m your mother!” she protested.

“Not anymore.” Bash lifted his head and looked at Conor. “Take her away. I don’t want Lux to have to look at her for another second.”

Judith’s face went pale and her arms went limp as Bash turned his back on her and walked to my side. She didn’t fight the agents as they led her to a black sedan parked nearby and locked her inside.

A parade of nearly a dozen criminals soon followed, as each of her thugs was led f
rom the ship, loaded into a waiting van, and chained to the benches inside. Smash-Nose was one of the last to emerge from the ship, his bloodied nose still seeping and his cold eyes narrowed on me with hatred.

“Bitch,” he hissed as he was led past.

The agent restraining him yanked harshly on his handcuffs, and Smash-Nose fell to his knees several feet from me. “You say something, Miller?” the agent hissed.

Smash-Nose whimpered and shook his head, his eyes averted from me.

“Good.” The agent pulled his prisoner to his feet and shoved him into the waiting van.

Andrew was the last off the ship — brooding in silence as he walked past, too proud to even look in our direction. That was more than fine with me; I had no desire to listen to more of his angry ramblings or promises of revenge. And, anyway, there were much more important things to focus my attention on at the moment.

Like Miri, who was rushing down the gangplank as fast as her legs could carry her.

She hit the docks and flew in my direction — all I could do was open my arms, stand still, and brace for impact.

Her arms wrapped tightly around my midsection and I could feel her labored breathing against my collarbone. The comforting weight of Sebastian’s hand landed on my shoulder and I squeezed Miri tighter, my eyes locked on the gangplank over her head. They filled slowly with tears as I watched the procession of girls.

Each supported or carried by an agent, the girls were ushered off the ship and into the arms of waiting paramedics. I held my breath when Vera finally appeared, lying limp in Conor’s arms. When he lowered her onto a stretcher, Miri and I rushed to her side.

“Vera,” Miri breathed, leaning close to her cousin. “Can you hear me?”

The injured girl was still and silent, lying unresponsive on the cold stretcher. Tears tracked down my cheeks as I reached out to gently cup the non-battered side of her face. I bent forward, so my lips touched her ear, and saw my tears fall like raindrops onto her dirty hair.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I have to tell you how sorry I am,” I whispered, my voice hollow. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Vera. I’m so sorry.”

A sob rattled in my throat as I leaned over her, and Bash rubbed a soothing hand over my back.

“You did everything you could, Lux. She knows that.”

The paramedics were eager to wheel her away. I brushed a final kiss against her forehead and pulled back, allowing Bash to wrap me up in his arms. I reached out blindly for Miri, and felt her small hand slip into mine.

“Lux?” The ghost of her voice was nearly undetectable, softer than the scrape of two butterfly’s wings as they beat against the air, but somehow, I heard it. So did Miri.

We turned, as one, back to the stretcher, where Vera’s eyes were fluttering open. She wasn’t lucid, but she was conscious — a good sign, I hoped, as I slipped my hand into hers. “I’m here,” I whispered. “It’s Lux.”

“I’m here too,” Miri added, her voice cracking with emotion.

Vera’s eyes seemed to focus for a moment as she scanned from my face to Miri’s. “Hi,” she croaked in an uneven voice.

I felt a smile break out across my face.

“Hi,” I echoed.

“Did you see it?” Simon gushed, throwing open the door to Sebastian’s loft with Fae short on his heels.

I lifted my head from its resting place on Bash’s chest. We were lying on the couch with our limbs entwined  — we’d barely moved from this spot in the two days that had passed since the night on the freighter. In part, because we were both happy to be alive, unharmed, and reunited after everything that had happened. Mostly, though, it was due to the media circus that the
Labyrinth
bust had set off.

A famous family in trouble with the law always captured the attention of gossip magazines and news outlets.

But when both parents in a rich, famous, politically-connected family were involved in a sex-trafficking ring, which was brought down by their son and his girlfriend — well, you could only imagine the press. We couldn’t step outside without being bombarded by questions and photographs so, for the time being, we were stuck in our private bubble in Bash’s apartment.

I
pressed a kiss to his t-shirt in the spot directly over his heart and smiled. I was more than okay with our temporary confinement.

He sighed and climbed to his feet, pulling me up after him. Simon and Fae were milli
ng about the loft like two five-year-olds hopped up on too many Pixy Stix.

“Did you see it?” Simon repeated, shoving a newspaper into my hands. My eye
s fell to the printed black script, instantly recognizing the ornate block font.
The New York Times
. I allowed my gaze to drift down an inch and felt my heart stutter to a stop when I read the front-page headline.

“Ohmigod,” I squeaked. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”

“What is it?” Bash asked, plucking the paper from my trembling fingers with impatience. His eyes scanned the front page. “Oh my god,” he whispered.

“I’m above the fold,” I breathed, turning to him with wide eyes. “My story is in
The New York Freaking Times
! ABOVE THE FOLD!”

Bash grinned and tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table, his arms hooking around my body and lifting me into the air. I laughed down into his face as he spun me in a circle. “You are incredible,” he told me, lowering my body just enough that our lips could brush. “And I am so fucking proud of you.”

Our kiss was interrupted by Simon’s voice.

“No, no, no. That’s not what I meant at all.”

Bash set me down and we both turned to face my deluded friend as he retrieved the newspaper from the coffee table. Holding it open, Simon pointed to the photograph that took up a large portion of the front page, accompanying my story. The picture had been snapped by a news photographer as he’d arrived at the scene. In the foreground, a departing ambulance was speeding for the nearest hospital with one of the injured girls inside. The background showed the freighter, illuminated by spotlights from several news and FBI surveillance helicopters as they circled overhead. And in the center, a couple stood, locked in a comforting embrace.

The woman was dressed in a fabulous — though slightly tattered — ice blue ball gown, her harrowed eyes fixed on the ambulance as it pulled away. The man’s face was shown in profile, his forehead resting on the woman’s
hair and his arms wound tightly around her body, as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

The caption was simple enough:
Sebastian Covington, son of alleged sex-trafficking ringleaders, embraces girlfriend Lux Kincaid, whose investigation was vital to the tracking and eventual capture of the criminals. Behind them, the freighter where nearly thirty victims were held for transport.

“It’s a photo of us,” I said, looking up at Simon. “I see it.”

“No,” he huffed. “You don’t get it.”

I glanced at Fae with raised brows and she grinned.

“The dress!” Simon yelled, pointing at the picture. “
My
dress! On the front page of
The New York Times
!”

I rolled my eyes and heard Bash chuckle behind me. “Oh, of course,” I drawled. “How could I have missed that?”

Simon was walking in rapid circles, clutching the newspaper tightly. “This is going to change everything. Everyone will want to know what you’re wearing. This really couldn’t have worked out any better if I’d planned it myself.”

I snorted. “I’m so glad my abduction and near death, the arrest of both of Bash’s parents, and the kidnapping of twenty eight underage girls was all worth it, Si.”

He looked over at me and grinned. “Oh, shut up. You know how worried I was about you.”

That was true enough. After I’d left the docks, I’d been taken to a nearby hospital for treatment. Bash hadn’t left my side as doctors stitched the cut on my breastbone, wrapped my damaged hands in bandages, and gave me a cold compress to bring down the swelling in my eye, though he refused to accept any aid for his own wounds. Apparently, scraped knuckles and a bloody lip weren’t serious enough to merit a doctor’s attention.

Psh
. Men.

I’d been released from the hospital into Conor’s custody and taken immediately to the FBI field office for a debriefing. They’d given me a pair of wome
n’s regulation sweatpants and a black sweatshirt that said SWAT on the back — which I immediately decided to confiscate as payment for my help with their investigation — so I didn’t have to stay in my torn dress while they interviewed me in a small, grey conference room.

For nearly three hours, I’d answered their questions, speaking until my voice grew raspy and my eyes began to droop closed. Every now and then, I’d turn to look through the small window in the door and catch sight of Bash, who was pacing like a caged animal in the hallway. When Conor finally told me I could go home, it was nearly dawn.

A federal agent drove Bash and me back to his loft in SoHo, and I’d passed out only minutes into the trip. I stirred awake when I felt Bash’s arms hook beneath my body and cradle me to his chest.

“Where are we?” I’d mumbled tiredly.

“Home,” he’d said simply, carrying me into the elevator.

I’d smiled at his words, thinking that after the night I’d had, there could be nothing better than a warm bed with the man I loved. I couldn’t wait to sink beneath his fluffy down comforter and sleep for the next three days or so.

Unfortunately, it was clear as soon as Bash opened the door to his loft that no such rest would be possible.

Simon and Fae had been inside waiting for us, their eyes glued to the muted television screen as they watched helicopter footage of the freighter. Apparently, Bash had passed off his house keys to them when he left
Harding Tower and they hadn’t hesitated to use them. When Bash stepped through the entryway, they’d both leapt to their feet and rushed to my side.

I had to hand it to Bash — he hadn’t batted an eye when he sat down on his bed, my body still cradled in his arms, and both Fae and Simon
climbed on after him. With the four of us crammed in like sardines on the king size mattress, it hadn’t been the restful night’s sleep I’d been envisioning. But I couldn’t complain — I was surrounded by the people I loved most.

My family.

Now, looking from Simon to Fae to Bash, I grinned.

“I love you guys,” I whispered.

“You better,” Fae responded, smiling back at me.

“Obviously,” Simon chimed in, still staring at the photo in the paper.

Bash leaned forward until his mouth brushed my earlobe. “I love you more.”

Ask any experienced climber — not your Average Joe, who tops the peaks and hills just beyond his backyard, but the true daredevils who attempt to conquer the Seven Summits — about his excursions and he’ll say the same thing. When you’re near the summit, in that precarious slope of rock and ice known by many as the Death Zone, the air is so thin you can literally feel each one of your cells screaming out for oxygen. The sun is so bright, you can actually become blinded by its endless glare off the bleached white snow. The altitude sickness affects your cognition, dizzying you to the point of disorientation and death. The pain in your limbs as they ascend higher, the burning in your joints as you force them to pull you ever-upward, only increases the
closer you get to the top of the peak.

There are a thousand reasons to turn back, and precious few — perhaps only one — to keep going.

Of the many climbers who attempt to reach the summit, few actually succeed. Two men, armed with identical skill sets, might be placed on the same mountain at the same time — and yet, in all likelihood, only one will make it to the top.

The mountain is climbable; that’s been proven a hundred times over.

The conditions are perfect; a clear, sunny day with a light breeze.

Th
e equipment is state of the art; better than any climbers in the past ever had.

So the question remains — why does one man ascend while another remains at the bottom of the peak, his skyward gaze riveted on a summit he’ll never see up close?

It turns out, the answer is pretty simple: the difference lies deep within the hearts of the climbers.

Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to successfully climb Mount Everest, said it best.

It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.

Centuries before Hillary was born, a brash conqueror named Hannibal knew that same thing, as he gave the order to lead his elephant army across the Alps.

Because when you’re faced with an insurmountable task, when you’re on that peak, and your body has reached its absolute limit, you have to reach inside yourself and find that stubborn, reckless, insistent part of your own psyche that refuses to quit. That tiny part of your mind that’s howling at you to either find a way or make one, dammit, because you can’t return to the ground now. Not when you’re so close to your dreams you could reach out and touch them with your fingertips.

I might not have always been one of those people. I might not have always listened to that little voice inside my head, that insisted I carry on. But I swear, as long as I live, I’ll never ignore it again. Not when, on the occasions I did listen, it helped me find my way.

When Jamie was sick and we were losing the house, something deep within my soul told me to press onward.

When everyone — including me — doubted my theories about the missing girls, something made me keep searching. 

And when everything was stacked against us — time, family, history, heartache — Bash and I found our way back to each other.

I didn’t know what the future would hold. I didn’t need to.

For the first time in a long time, I was so happy I didn’t look down the line at what was coming for me. I lived fully in my present, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Two weeks after the freighter raid, I’d given up the lease on my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and officially moved into the loft with Bash. It wasn’t a tough transition, since I’d already been sleeping there every night and half my clothes were moved into his closet — and, anyway, it was where I wanted to be. Bash gave me a few more drawers in his dresser and there was now another color photograph brightening up his walls: a large, blown-up canvas of Jamie, Bash, and me that had been taken the summer we were all seventeen, our tanned skin and sun-bleached hair a testament to our many hours outdoors that season.

I remember that day at the lake like it was yesterday — eight years may’ve passed, but it remained painted bright and bold in my mind, rather than watercolored in the typical washed out hues of distant memory. We’d
wheeled Jamie’s chair to the edge of the dock and helped him stand, supported between Bash and me with all his weight on his right leg. A woman at the shore snapped our photo as we jumped off the edge of the dock in unison, our three forms suspended midair over the lake in the fraction of time before our feet broke through the water. In that moment, when the camera shutter clicked down, we were flying — forever frozen in our youth, with our arms stretched high above our heads as though if we reached hard enough, we might extend our flight for another few seconds or maybe never return to the earth at all.

Looking at that picture every day brought a little Jamie back into our lives and always put a smile on my face.

There were other changes, too.

The day after my story hit the front page of newspapers across the country, I walked into Jeanine’s office and officially gave my two weeks notice. I wish I could say I called her a cow and stormed out in a blaze of glory, but that would be a lie.
There was no grand exit — in fact, Jeanine barely looked up from her laptop as I told her I’d be leaving the post I’d held for nearly three years.

With little fanfare, I cleared out my desk and left
Luster
behind, the murmured goodbyes of my coworkers chasing me through the elevator doors and down onto the street. As I stepped out onto the curb and pulled a breath of fresh — well, fresh by city standards — air into my lungs, I felt an enormous weight slip off my shoulders.

As I’d once told a young, terrified, Swedish maid — there were other jobs, but there was only one of me. It was about time I started doing something I was truly passionate about, rather than staying somewhere I was miserable because of good health benefits and a steady paycheck. I had three interviews lined up next week at small newspapers throughout the city, for freelance positions that would no doubt pay me in peanuts. I knew I’d have to start at the bottom and work my way up the totem pole. I knew it would likely be tougher than my worst day at
Luster.
Yet, I was surprisingly okay with that. With Bash at my side and my investigation into Vera’s disappearance well behind me, nothing seemed quite as scary as it had two months ago.

I wasn’t the only one who quit
Luster
to chase their dreams. Simon gave his notice the same day I gave mine. He was full of plans to start his own fashion line of evening wear, spurred in no small part by the recognition he’d received since photographs of his dress had been plastered all over the internet and every major media outlet for the past few weeks. I couldn’t wait to see his designs on the pages of
Vogue
— and maybe even
Luster
— someday.

Fae was, of course, mournful that both Simon and I were leaving her alone at the magazine. But I had a feeling she wouldn’t be sticking around too long either. That girl was like a ticking time bomb of secrets — I co
uldn’t help but think that someday soon, she was going to explode from the sheer pressure of keeping them all contained. Thankfully, she had two extremely overbearing friends to help put her back together if and when that happened.

Vera, Miri, and the rest of the missing girls were back with their families. Several prominent government agencies had stepped forward to ensure that the victims of the
Labyrinth
trafficking-ring would receive the best psychological and physical treatment to help them cope with what had happened and, hopefully, learn to move on. As for
Labyrinth
itself, the club was shut down pending further investigation. The freighter had been seized as evidence in the trial against Judith Ann Covington, which was set for six months from now. She’d been denied bail.

I hoped the aesthetics of her cellblock were to her taste.

Former Senator Andrew Covington was also in jail awaiting trial, as were at least twenty men in connection with the organization – including Santos and three other dirty cops. Footage recovered from Judith’s personal files allowed the FBI to pinpoint exactly which government officials had taken part in those “anonymous” auctions on the fourth floor of
Labyrinth.
I’d heard at least four senators and two congressmen had already resigned from their posts and were facing federal charges.

Conor told me the FBI had an airtight case, between everything they’d found on the freighter, at
Labyrinth
, and at the Red Hook brewery. No one involved would serve less than the mandatory 20-year sentence — and Judith might serve up to three times that.

The day after I quit
Luster
, I withdrew some money from my carefully hoarded savings and bought Mrs. Patel a massive massaging recliner chair to sit in during her long hours behind the counter. It was the least I could do to repay her for saving my life. As I’d anticipated, the old woman huffed and puffed when I’d had it delivered to
Swagat
and the delivery men wheeled away her ancient, faded maroon chair. But, miraculously, as soon as she’d settled into the plush cushions of her new La-Z-Boy, her glare had disappeared and a smile — a real, actual smile — had crossed her face. She was also thrilled to discover the side cup holder made a convenient holster for her Glock.

As for Bash, well, he was Bash. He was wonderful.

And bossy and sexy and annoying and funny and so many other adjectives it would take me another seven whole years to list them all. I suppose it was simplest just to say that I loved him and he loved me, and, for the moment, we were thrilled to simply be together again.

Things had changed, for the better. I’d gotten my unexpectedly happy ending, complete with my fairytale hero. Everything was perfect. At least, it was until something came along that completely knocked me for a loop.

One change I absolutely hadn’t seen coming…

I awoke to the sensation of
a pair of lips trailing across my bare stomach, leaving featherlight kisses in their wake. My eyes blinked open and I glanced down to see a familiar golden head hovering over my belly button.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, my voice cracking with sleep.

He pressed another soft kiss to my stomach.

I glanced to my left, the small glowing clock on the bedside table next to Bash’s bed informing me that it was just past 5:00 a.m. “Bash?” I asked, slipping one of my hands into his hair. I watched my fingers weave through the thick strands for a moment, my bleary eyes not registering the sight before me for several long seconds.

I finally realized what was wrong — starting with the fact that there was something shiny wrapped around a very important finger on my left hand and ending with the fact that I was pretty positive it hadn’t been there when I’d fallen asleep five hours ago. My hand stilled as my gaze caught on the ring.

Bash raised his head, his warm eyes cutting through the darkness to meet mine.

“What is this?” I breathed, my eyes flickering from his face to my left hand, which I held aloft as though it wasn’t part of my body.

“I’m pretty sure it’s your left hand,” Bash said, grinning.

The lack of air passing through my constricted throat made my voice rise to a nervous squeak. “And the ring?”

“Oh, that.” He laughed.

“Yes,
that.
” I glared at him. “Is this a joke?”

His laughter died mid-chuckle. “Why would this be a joke?”

“There’s a ring on my finger, Bash!”

“I’m aware of that,” he said in a patient
voice, as though I were a five-year-old who didn’t quite understand what was happening. “I’m the one who put it there.”

“But… what…” I trailed off, dazzled by the large rock on my finger.

“Words, Freckles. Use your words.” He grinned again, his hands skimming up and down my sides in a soothing motion.

“You want to marry me?” I breathed, turning wide eyes to him.

Bash smiled. “Well, I don’t make a habit of putting rings on girls I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life with.”

“But you didn’t even ask me!” I narrowed my eyes on his grinning face. “Maybe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with you!”

His laughter rang out louder than ever and his grin widened. “Yes, you do.”

“How do you know? Huh?” I teased, a euphoric smile fighting its way to the surface. “You snore. And you hog all the covers.”

“Those are your criteria for not marrying me?”

Damn, I needed some stronger material. “You’re always taking pictures of me without makeup on.”

“Can you blame me? You’re beautiful.”

I huffed, but my lips were twitching dangerously. “It’s five in the morning! I have morning breath! People are going to ask, ‘How did you two get engaged?’ and I’ll have to tell them I had bed-head and bad breath,” I
whined playfully. “You couldn’t have waited to ask me at a decent hour, huh?”

“Sorry
. I couldn’t wait another second.”