Page 72 of House of Cards
Three days of nothing, and now here he is—pressed charcoal gray suit with the jacket open to show off his black tie, dark leather suspenders, perfectly styled hair and clean-shaven face, eyes hidden behind designer glasses that reflect the harsh overhead lights like mirrors.
“I’ve got it from here, Troy,” he says, voice clipped.
“Thought you were still indisposed.” Troy eyes him for a second. “Took hell of convincing to let Rich swap out with me.”
Smith’s eyes are still locked onto mine. “I owe you one.”
Troy retreats into the elevator without another word.
When I stay rooted to the spot, Smith steps forward, angling his head a fraction like he’s wondering what the hell’s the holdup. I can see his eyes as they sweep over me. Clinical and cold as they are, there’s a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his shoulders.
“Come.” He turns without waiting for a response, leading me down a corridor I’ve never been in before.
Every time I’ve cataloged the extent of Smith’s world, I’m forced down another weird hallway, into another lavish elevator, through another mysterious door.
Those rooms in the sex trafficking dorm? Not all of them have beds inside.
Anita woke me up from a muddled dream where I was being chased by drug dealing thugs on jet skis trying to inject me with heroin. The one in the lead looked like Smith, and Buzzcut was just behind him, both of them grinning like fucking Jack-o’-lanterns.
I’ve been a bit too preoccupied to dwell on the life I left behind. Or, should I say, the one Smith forcibly wrenched me from. I’m not even that mad at Ricky anymore. I’m used to his disappearing acts by now.
I just hope he’s okay.
Anita jammed a protein shake in my hand, and began chattering about how she’d have loved ‘this gig’, but they never give it to her because of her asthma as she led me into a walk-in closet larger than my burned down apartment.
A closet filled with everything from Halloween costumes to evening gowns. Shelves crammed with shoes. Mink stoles and feather boas. Handbags in every size, shape, and color. Jewelery, makeup, and wigs.
For a moment, a sweet, gorgeous moment, I thought I was still dreaming as I ran my hand through the evening gowns and felt the creamy fabric.
But when I turned back to Anita, she was holding out one of the Halloween costumes.
She was adamant it wasn’t a joke.
My stomach had dropped to my fucking toes back there, but that creeping unease I felt is nothing like what I’m feeling now.
Gone are the sterile gray carpets and beige walls of the staff corridors, the fake windows and pastel pink towels where the Angels live. Now I’m surrounded by darkly paneled walls, and walking over elaborately patterned carpets.
The hallway ends at an ornate door with a brass plaque.
THE LABYRINTH
Smith should look surreal against such a moody backdrop, what with his pressed pants and immaculately styled hair…but he blends right in. Like a distinguished crypt keeper.
As I reach him, Smith slides his large hand into his jacket, his back angled to me. I freeze, convinced he’s reaching for a gun. That this is the hallway where they snuff out girls who are taking too long to repay their debt. Or who made fun of their clients.Or who just put up too much of a fight…even when that’s exactly what the clients wanted.
Smith’s hand emerges with a black collar. The words ‘Property of—’ are embossed in gold across the leather. His fingers cover up the last bit, leaving my mind to fill in the blanks.
Property of who? Myles, the guy Smith so reluctantly reports to? Or maybe they sold me to someone. One transaction, nice and neat, no more fuss.
Property of…
…Smith?
A feeling courses through me, so strong goosebumps break out on my skin, and my nipples harden. I can’t figure out if it’s fear or fascination.
“Turn around,” he orders calmly.
Always so fucking calm…until he’s not.
