“I don’t trust the guy. Have you been intimate with him?”
I pull back, affronted and shudder.
“God no, we're just close. He’s my closest friend.” I’m trying to hold in a laugh, and thankfully, I do because I doubt Callan Scott would take kindly to me mocking him.
He nods.
“Go grab yourself a shower. We're going for dinner,” he delivers, dropping me to my feet.
“I can't. I faked a bug.” I drone sarcastically. How can he have forgotten?
“It'll be private. Go, get ready,” he instructs. His phone rings, and I’m left to get on with his demands whilst he talks quietly, heading back to his office.
An hour later, I’m spritzing myself with perfume. I've got a deep claret strapless dress on, and my lips match. I've straightened my hair into a sleek bob and drawn enough eye-liner around my eyes to write an essay. I’m sliding into my heels when Callan strolls in, all in black. I’ve never seen him wear anything else but black and the odd white shirt.
“Ready?” I nod and follow him out of the penthouse down to his car. Stalin is already in the Range Rover, waiting with the engine running. I always felt I was waited on, but this is just something else. We each get in, and I sit mostly in silence whilst Callan taps away on his phone. I don’t recognise the location, but I soon register that is because we are arriving via the service entrance. Callan helps me out, and we walk through a series of corridors until we are at a lift. It takes us straight up to an empty corridor. Callan takes my wrist, and we walk down until we reach a door. It slides open, and inside is a private dining area. A big window overlooks a myriad of people below, eating, drinking and laughing. I stop, worried that we will be seen. Hands cup my hips.
“No one can see up here. A friend owns this place. We will be undisturbed.”
On a slight nod, I follow him inside. The walls are velvety smooth, and the deep rich tones give it an indulgent feel. Candlelight is the only light on offer, and my breath stutters because this is oddly romantic. Callan holds out my chair, and I slip in, grateful we will be seated a few feet apart. The table is wide, a rich mahogany wood to match the coal-like stone floor.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask. There is a bottle of water sitting in ice, and Callan pours us both one before he takes his seat.
“You are,” he enlightens me, “your request led to intrigue, which led to a lot of deadends and obvious curiosity, and the more curious I’ve become, the more I keep asking myself why.” He lifts his glass and turns it, watching a droplet pool over the edge down onto his thumb before lifting his gaze back to mine. “Why does such a highly paid, well sought out and respected model want to disappear? So, Zara Reid, this is all for you. You've got two hours to win my favour and make me change my mind about you. Otherwise, you can kiss your request goodbye.” His words, although softly spoken, are as lethal as a sharpened blade. There is a threat in his tone. Either way, I’m not leaving this room without a confession of sorts. To really drive his meaning home, he places his gun on the table, and I clench my hands in my lap. My lungs expel all my air, and I find myself feeling less confident and more like the twelve-year-old I was all those years ago. Callan is like a dog with a bone. If I walk now, he will still dig and dig, even if it only leads to scraps. He will move mountains and rivers to find out everything because this is more about sating his own curiosity than helping me. I could sit here and lie, make up some elaborate story, but he will follow it, and when that comes to a deadend, he will be straight back to me, more pissed off, more determined.
I’m in too deep with him now to walk away. I deduce. Should he be able to help me, he will to his best ability. I can trust in that. I lift the glass of water, hating that my hand is shaking. I take a sip, wetting my dry throat.
“I angered some questionable people,” I admit slowly, my mind racing back to remember those terrible events. “I’m on the clock. I have enough money to live on, but I need to disappear for good.” I’m shaking as my mind drags me back, back to the dark, back to the pain. It’s a trauma that grips me when I allow myself to think or voice it.
Dust, thick and gritty, sticks to the roof of my mouth and batters my lungs. I’m wheezing and crying hysterically. We’re going to die. They’re going to kill him. My lungs are burning. I cough, but each deep staggering breath pulls more dirt and grime into my throat. It claws its way down my windpipe, and my eyes stream with the effort to breathe. I need help. We’re going to die. Somebody has to save us.
My father begs for his life, for mine. A low wail exits my mouth. His fear travels to me, and I’m sobbing against the cold floor.
“Shut up!” A heavy boot hits my jaw, and I’m flying back, crunching into a post, my face on fire. The pain is dazing.
“No, please, stop,” my father yells, his deep, raspy voice wavering with tears. “She had nothing to do with this. I’m begging you, let her go.” His tear-stricken face moves to me. “It’s okay,” he reassures me. I cling to my father’s deep olive eyes, praying silently that we make it out of here alive, but something about the sickly look in these men’s eyes tells me we’re going to die. When someone moves on my left, my head snaps around, and any reassurance dries up like my throat.
“You stole from me, lied to me, Monroe, you piece of shit. Now I steal something from you,” the man spits furiously, and his anger rings out through the abandoned warehouse, his accent unrecognisable to my uneducated ears. Who are these people? My father would never lie or steal. He’s a good man. I want to scream, but I’m too scared.
My face is plastered to the floor, and I slow my breathing, trying to calm myself. I stare at the blurred feet, moving about in a scuff. An array of male voices attacks my ears, and before I can search for my father once more, I’m being hauled up by my hair. I scream as each strand threatens to leave my scalp. I hold my hands out for my father, but he is held down in a chair, his face a bloody mess. He is wheezing too, his chest rising in short, sharp painful pants.
“Quit it, you little bitch.” I’m slapped around the face with such force I go dizzy, and my head hangs limply. “Maybe I should show your little girl all about the birds and the bees, compensation for your treachery. An early introduction into our business.”
“No, god, no, she's twelve, she’s a child.” I blink at my father, who is as bloodied and broken as I am, and he mouths, ‘I’m sorry’. I close my eyes as a fresh wave of hot tears slip over my cheeks and soak my face.
“You fucked with the wrong man!” The guy roars in my ear. “Strip her,” he instructs with a careless demand. My father flaps about like a fish, his body snapping about crazily as he cries out, pleading with these monsters. A few men call out, struggling with my father’s desperate plea to get to me. He wrenches himself up and fights against the men as his panic for my safety aids him in overpowering them. I feel the cold air on my limbs, and then my father is grabbing me. He runs a few short feet, and I’m falling back down a dark hole with a high scream.
“Run, run, Olivia!” he screams. I land with a painful thud and look up to my father's tearful gaze. “I love yo-”
BANG!
I cry out as blood splatters my face and I flinch, knowing that the one person who was able to protect me is no longer here to help. A sob wracks my body, and fear tears through me. My feet move of their own accord, and then I’m running, running for my life.
“Get her. She can’t live. We will get you, bitch, no matter how long it takes. You’ll die!”
“Zara, who did you anger?” Callan’s harsh words bring me back around, and I blink at him, trying to clear my mind. I’m panting, my hands gripping the table for support.
“I don’t know who. It was a long time ago now.” I had never seen those men in my life. I wish to never lay eyes on them again. But I remember every violent detail of their faces.