Arlo and Felix just stared. Fuck it. I sorted out the cash, threw it on the table, and excused myself, wandering back through the maze of glittering lanterns, gauzy curtains, and sprawling banquettes to the back of the restaurant, with the vague idea that I could find the boy and hand him one of the C-notes, of which I still had plenty. Because if I’d learned nothing else recently, it was that money made bad things go away.
At least, if you were free, it did. At best, though, if the manager found the boy with it, he’d confiscate it; at worst, he’d accuse him of having stolen it and beat him double for that. Besides, he’d have nowhere to spend it. The best he could do would be to find a good hiding spot under the floorboards. And then hope to get another one hundred dollars from another equally generous or guilt-ridden person every day for the next five years, at which point he might have saved up about half the price of his freedom, assuming his owner ever let him buy it.
I spotted the boy on the floor of the pantry, chained by one wrist to the bottom shelf, a short length of cuff and steel looped through the slats like he was part of the inventory. Looked familiar.
He’d stripped off his stiff uniform, down to a thin T-shirt that left the bruises in plain view — black and blue stripes across his shoulders and neck, fading to sickly yellow at the edges. His face was swollen, eyes nearly shut. No food in reach, just dry goods stacked neatly around him like a joke.
He flinched when he saw me, then looked away.
Helplessly, I came closer, hastily undoing the watchband, revealing my half-limp wrist, which was really becoming a work of art—the pale line the chain had concealed; the purple, swollen bruise from the hammer; the reddish indentations from the links.
He didn’t turn. He barely moved his eyes. But he was looking.
I knew that trick.
“Yeah?” the boy muttered. “So?”
“So? I’m—” I glanced behind me. “I’m sorry.” I held out a cold can of ginger ale I’d palmed from behind the bar, and grabbed a bag of melba toasts from the top shelf, but he shook his head. He couldn’t eat or drink it fast enough to conceal the evidence, and they’d still probably find out no matter what.
Then I held out the one hundred dollars. As if he could eatthat.
“Fuck your sorries and fuck your money,” he said. “I’d rather be a slave forever than whatever you’re pretending to be.” He looked away.
I left the food, drink, and money next to him. He’d have to make the choice. Because while it may not make the bad thing go away, at least it might make myguiltgo away.
Right. As if anything could ever do that.
The restroom was luxurious, dimly lit, and paneled with burgundy leather. I swallowed four ibuprofen from the bottle in my pocket and splashed cold water on my face. The night wasn’t even half-over, the second part was going to be worse, and the beat-heavy, melody-free music was boring into my brain like a drill, competing for space with the alcoholic fuzziness of the two cocktails I’d downed without tasting.
I shouldn’t have even hadonecocktail. Maeve and Lemaya needed my helpnow. Theyallneeded my help. The slave boy was right to be disgusted with me. And the girl in the lace dress, and Louisa herself, who’d risked everything she had to help Maeve, to helpme—would be appalled that I’d wasted two weeks on expensive booze, ridiculous outfits, and sucking up to my boss while tooling around town in a Porsche. Emphasis ontool.
I blinked at my dim reflection in the mirror. Max Langer had been only half right. It wasn’t the clothes. It was my face I didn’t recognize anymore.
But the guy who threw open the door sure did.
I spun around. “Hey, bruh, I?—”
“Don’t ‘bruh’ me,” said Felix. “I want to know what the fuck’s going on here.”
5
HIM
“How dumb do you think we are?” Felix’s face and neck muscles bulged inelegantly in the garish purple mood lighting of the porte-cochere as he and Arlo cornered me between two potted palms where I’d instantly fled after pushing past Felix and out the door of the restroom.
Muscles taut, throat dry, legs weak, I instantly recognized it as the kind of question where no possible answer I could give would improve the situation. Over Felix’s shoulder, I scanned the drive, but there was still no sign of the Porsche pulling up. Fuck valet parking, I decided. Sure, it was cool and all, but what good was it for a quick getaway?
Meanwhile, Felix was looking me up and down with contempt. “It’s so fucking obvious. Avoiding the office. The cash. That shirt.”
Well, that was uncalled for.
I wasn’t sure which was preferable—that they call the police and report me as a runaway, or just beat me into a pulp and leave me there. Arlo, at least, had some serious muscle on him, andit wasn’t like I could do much to defend myself in my present physical condition. And either way, I’d be fucked the second Langer—never mind my master—found out about it.
“Langer doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” Felix demanded.
“Wait. What?”
“Do you seriously not speak English, dumbfuck? I said Langer doesn’t know you’re here. He doesn’t know anything about this entire trip, does he?”
