The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) (14 page)

I ate dinner that night with Lilly and the Martins at the
Martins’ home. Paulina was on her best behavior, as she usually was around
Lilly, so I didn’t have to put with too much lip from her bossy self. Not that
I minded it too much. I had to admit that sometimes she got off some good ones.

I briefly spoke with Gibson on the phone before I went to
bed. He sounded tired, stressed, and when I asked what the trouble was, he said
it didn’t matter, that he just wanted to hear my voice. I told him about my
day, about visiting Rose and dining with the Martins.

I had already told him, the night before, about vacating my
apartment, noting the satisfaction in his response, and the relief, too. He
wasn’t as enthusiastic about my visit with Rose. He hoped it didn’t depress me.
When I told him it hadn’t, he said he was glad; he didn’t believe that his Aunt
Rose was unhappy overall.

He knew that Lilly was upset about Rose’s continued
residency in the nursing home, and he understood why. The most important thing,
however, was that Rose was content and lived in general peace and quiet. Those
rare times when Rose hit bottom, Gibson helped her through it.

After we hung up and I stretched out in my big empty bed, I
tried not to miss Gibson. I did the old, clichéd smelling of his pillow, and
snuggled with it for a while, until it made me feel like a silly sap and I
tossed it over onto his side of the bed, determined to toughen up.

When I woke in the morning, though, I was snuggling up to
his pillow.

I drank my morning coffee on the deck and when my phone
chimed, I saw it was Gibson. I answered in a flash.

“Hey!” I said. “Does this mean you’re coming home?” He’d
told me, the night before, that if the situation didn’t change by morning, he’d
be flying home right away.

“No, I’m not,” he answered, his voice calm and cool, rather
remote. “Do you have a valid passport?”

“Uh, yeah, actually. I do. But I’ve never been out of the
country.” I got a sudden inspiration. “Are you going to fly me —”

“Can you have a bag packed and be ready to travel in say, a
couple of hours?”

“Yes! Hell yes!”

“Don’t get excited. It’s not a pleasure trip. Not this time.
Some other time, yes. But not this time.”

He sounded strange to me, dire almost.

“Oh. Okay. What’s going on?” I asked, not sure I wanted to
hear the answer.

“I wasn’t completely truthful with you. I didn’t leave for a
business emergency.”

“Okay.”

“Nonnie, I’ve found Michael.”

Chapter 13

Gibson helped me down the final few steps that descended
from the small plane to the steaming tarmac. The temperature was in the upper
eighties, but the humidity made it seem much warmer. The air felt thick in my
lungs, buoyed with frequent moisture from the brief, but heavy downpours. This
was life in the topics. This was Belize.

An official-looking man in a uniform stepped up and shook
Gibson’s hand. They spoke together briefly in Spanish, then the official nodded
briskly and marched off toward the main building of the small airport.

Gibson waved his arm at a group of vehicles in the distance
and within seconds they raced across the landing strip and stopped in front of
us. There were three vehicles in all, a black sedan with dark windows, and two
open jeeps with a pair of forbidding-looking men in the front seats of each
one.

Gibson opened the back door of the sedan and gestured for me
to enter. I did so quickly, spurred on by the blast of cold air that blew out
the door. Gibson told me he’d be back in a moment, then closed the door.

I slid across the cool leather seat, adjusted my dress as I
went, tugging it down. Two large, silent men sat in the front of the car, both
wearing dark glasses and ear pieces. I wasn’t sure what protocol called for in
this situation so I said hello to the backs of their heads.

They didn’t turn around, only acknowledged me with a
clipped, “Ma’am.”

I plucked at the fabric that stuck to my chest, clinging to
the sweat that drenched me the moment I stepped from the plane. The dress was
an expensive garment, purchased for me by Gibson’s assistant, Kurt.

Kurt insisted that the locals required a show of wealth if
we wanted our importance and authority to be recognized. Hence, I was decked
out in enough designer labels to satisfy a Kardashian. Dress, jewelry, shoes,
handbag, even my melting makeup was top shelf.

Here I was on my first trip into a rain forest and I was
dressed to go shopping on Rodeo Drive. Absurd, I thought.

The day before, Kurt had flown with me from the U.S. to
Belize City, keeping me company and handling all the travel details. Right now,
he waited for us back at the hotel where we stayed the night.

This morning, Gibson and I boarded a small, hired plane and
flew into the country’s interior. The driving part of the trip was upon us now
and according to Gibson, shouldn’t last much more than an hour or so.

We were heading to an isolated town in the countryside. The
small caravan of vehicles Gibson hired were meant as both a show of power and a
deterrent against criminals.

Gibson warned me that drug traffickers regularly moved
through the area. In addition, kidnappings of the wealthy and influential were
not unheard of. As a result, we were traveling fast, and with heavy protection.
Gibson told me we would get in and get out before anyone was the wiser, before
any moves could be planned against us.

I was nervous, of course. I would have been a fool not to
be. At the same time, I had a suspicion that some of this security was
overkill, put in place by Gibson in order to ensure my safety. He wouldn’t have
brought me here if he weren’t certain he could protect me. As close to one
hundred percent as possible, as he was fond of saying.

The back door opened and he slid in beside me. He told the
men in the front seat to head out, then he reached for my hand. “Are you okay?”

The car shot forward, bouncing over the uneven tarmac at the
edges of the field. I gave Gibson a small smile. “I’m fine.”

He scanned the surroundings of the small airport. “Reports
are that no one knows we’re coming. Exactly the way we want it.”

I nodded. I felt like I was in a movie, ripping down this
half-paved road in a rural area of a Central American country on a quest which,
I had to admit, might not be worthwhile.

In less than an hour, if all went well, I’d be talking to
Michael. I needed to figure out what I was going to say, and I needed to do it
in a hurry.

After searching for Michael all this time, it was ironic
that the way Gibson finally found his cousin was that Michael sent word to
Gibson for help. Of course, Gibson already had some people in Belize, and
several other Central American countries, seeking Michael’s whereabouts.
Michael had spent time down here in his twenties, mostly in the touristy areas
around the coast.

“I hope you’ve considered my suggestion,” Gibson said.
“You’re the person he hurt the most, so you have the right to be the one to
decide what happens.”

I breathed in deeply. Yes, it should be me. However, I
didn’t know if I was ready for that responsibility.

Gibson tried to reassure me. “No pressure. We’ll go in
together at first, I’ll talk to him, then I’ll leave you both alone. You can
ask him whatever you want. When you’ve heard everything you want to hear, you
can find me and tell me your decision. If you don’t want to decide, I will.
Either way, I’ll be the one to tell Michael. You stay out of the line of fire.
Period. Understood?”

“Yes.” I appreciated that he was giving me the chance to
make the choice without having to actually deliver the judgment, protecting me
from potential reprisals.

He squeezed my hand. “It’ll be fine. This will be good for
you. I promise.”

I nodded. I believed he was right, or I never would have
agreed to come on this insane trip. Closure was something I once thought I
didn’t need from Michael. I’d come to realize I was wrong. There were a few
things I needed to know, had a few questions only Michael could answer.

Gibson warned me again to be sure to obey his directions at
all times. I was never to separate myself from him or the bodyguards. I was to
stay alert, be aware of my surroundings, never let my guard down. I was
frightened and exhilarated at once.

The caravan was forced to stop a number of times, waiting
for animals to pass, and once for some locals to fill in a hunk of road that
had been washed away in a downpour. All the while, I eyed the sky with
suspicion, already knowing from my brief visit how quickly a clear sky could
darken and instantly deluge you.

After an hour and twenty minutes or so, we came upon a town
that Gibson said was our destination. We headed slowly through the main
streets, into the center of town. I hardly registered the places and people we
passed, so focused was I on our target.

I stared at the building as we approached. It was sizable
and reached far down the block, not that the streets were laid out as neatly as
that, not in this old section of town.

It seemed unreal. Here I was, in Belize. Outside a police
station. Outside a jail.

Somewhere, inside that rambling edifice, Michael waited.

Inside a cell.

Gibson made a show of our arrival and we walked straight
into the police chief’s office. His title was not police chief, however, more like
inspector. Regardless, the middle-aged man behind the big desk was obviously
the man in charge.

He and Gibson spoke genially in Spanish and I nodded and
smiled whenever the policeman looked my way. I tried to be kind of snooty about
it, tried to channel my inner ice queen as Kurt had told me to do, but I didn’t
pull it off. Aloofness and disdain weren’t attitudes I was accustomed to
displaying.

After a few minutes, the inspector called an officer into
the room and gave him an order. The officer quickly left and closed the door
behind him. Gibson seemed pleased.

The chief chatted until the officer returned and told him
something I couldn’t understand. Gibson nodded and stood up, motioned for me to
follow the officer. I gave the chief a small wave goodbye, ice queen be damned.

The officer led us through the station, past a barred entry
then down a long hall. The deeper we went into the facility, the more run-down
it appeared. The walls in this area were half-covered in peeling grey paint.
The officer stopped outside a banged-up wooden door and spoke to Gibson.

Gibson turned to me. “Michael’s inside. So you know, he’s
cuffed at ankles and wrists and secured to the floor for everyone’s
protection.”

I swallowed hard. “Has he turned violent or something?”

“I don’t know. I requested it. I want you to feel safe.”

I glanced behind me at the four big bodyguards from our
caravan who had followed us every step of the way. “I think you’ve got it
covered.”

“Good. Are you ready?”

I was as ready as I was going to get. Gibson opened the
door, walked inside, then stepped aside so I could enter.

The room was decently lit and of a good size with nine or
ten wooden tables arranged in the space. There were no decorations in the room
of any kind, just beat-up tables and chairs. There was another door on the far
wall and two uniformed officers stood guard on either side of it.

Only one of the tables was occupied. Michael slouched in his
chair, looking both sullen and aggressive. His hair had grown longer than
normal and it hung in greasy hunks around his face. He was thinner, the weight
loss carving his features into sharper focus, leaving his cheeks sunken, his
expression hungry. Several bruises in various stages of healing marked his
pasty skin.

I was shocked at how rapidly his appearance had degenerated.
He had been in the jail for around two weeks. Gone was the playboy. This was
someone else entirely.

When he saw Gibson and I enter the room, his expression
changed from antagonism to astonishment, mostly at my presence, I thought. Then
it changed again to a cautious gratification. He ducked his head down to his
shackled wrists and made a futile attempt to tidy his hair.

“Nonnie, Gibson,” he said as we took our seats on the side
of the table opposite him.

We said hello.

Michael studied us both, taking us in, I believed. He said
to Gibson, “Thank God you came. You must have gotten my message. I’ve told
everyone I met in here to send word to you when they got out. One of them must
have reached you.”

Gibson nodded. He looked calm and serene as always. He might
have been in a cafe back in the states, not in a jail in Central American that
smelled like sweat, urine and human desperation.

“Obviously they did, yes,” said Gibson.

Michael scanned me, then looked to Gibson again. “How soon
can you get me out of here? This place is as unpleasant as you might imagine.”

“Yes, let’s get right to it, shall we? I’ve spoken with the
father of your accuser and he doesn’t appear willing to drop the charges.”

Michael gripped the edge of the table, the chains on his
wrists clanking together, punctuating his agitation. “She’s a lying slut, of
course. She was willing. I’ve never had to rape a woman in my life.”

“Her father claims she was a virgin and you forced her.
Well, you and Kamun forced her.”

“See.” Michael leaned forward, his voice lowered and
intense, almost hissing. “That’s bullshit. She came onto us and everything we
did she not only agreed to, she invited. She’s lying because Daddy caught us
and she doesn’t want him knowing she’s a slut. Believe me, that one hasn’t been
a virgin for a long time.”

“It’s not about what I believe,” said Gibson. “It’s about
what her father believes. He’s a rich plantation owner, on the town council and
his brother is in charge of the police force. I just had a nice chat with the
brother, by the way, on our way in to see you, and he politely told me he’s
committed to defending his niece’s honor.”

“Fuck!” Michael twisted his fingers. “Bad fucking luck.”

“No doubt.”

“What about Kamun? They keep us separated. I haven’t heard anything
about him.”

“He’s charged with assault and rape, same as you. He’s
somewhere in the jail, that’s all I know.”

“Will you be able to help him, too? I don’t want him
desperate. They might be able to convince him to lie about me if they promise
him release,” Michael said.

“I know nothing about the loyalty or the lack of it in your
friends. I think the salient question is whether or not I’m going to be able to
help you, personally, alone.”

“Come on, man. I know we’re on the outs right now, but we’re
family!” Michael’s pale blue eyes darted between me and Gibson. “You could buy
this whole damned district if you wanted.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Mr. Castillo
would drop his charges against you.”

“Look at me! I’ve been beaten by guards and other prisoners.
You should see my ribs. They’re black and blue. I’ve been kicked for God’s
sake. And they’re starving me. The food here is disgusting and I’ve been sick
nonstop.” His hair fell into his face and he jerked his head backward to flip
it out of his eyes. “I won’t survive in here if I have to stay much longer!”

 “I think you’ll find that your body will adjust to the
food, eventually. You’ll survive okay, maybe not happily, but you’ll survive,”
Gibson said.

“Are you serious? Are you here to help me or not?”

“I asked the inspector if he thought his brother might be
willing to discuss options for you.”

“What did he say?”

“He said there might be a chance of something being worked
out. He’s talking to Mr. Castillo now, I believe. I could go check and see if
they’ve —”

“Pay them anything they want.” Michael’s tone was ferocious.
“I’ll repay you somehow, if it takes the rest of my life, I’ll repay you.
You’ve got to get me out of here. Any amount. Pay it. I swear you won’t regret
it.”

“Hmm. You think they’ll want money?”

“Of course they want money. That’s all their kind ever
want.”

“Their kind?”

“Greedy rustics, hicks. Blackmail, that’s all this is.
Country’s filled with criminals. Every cop here knows the charges against me
are trumped-up lies. They’re out to get what they can from a rich American.”