TWENTY-ONE
That saved a wretch like me…
Within a week, Sambo and I were heading to the airport to get on Org’s—my father’s—private jet and soar off to Barbados. I had a new passport with a new name: Cindy Vrez. Not exactly sure why I needed a name change, but I got the feeling Org was trying to hide me, bury me deep where no one would find me, or findoutabout me.
I didn’t ask questions, though. Because my life, it wasn’t mine anymore. Hadn’t been mine since the night Chad wiped out my parents. Just been bouncing from one form of imprisonment to the next, always owned, never free.
Although, with Chad, Iwantedhim to own me, Ibeggedhim to master me, Ilovedbeing beneath him. Unfortunately, despite my craving to be ruled by him, he set me free. Something I never asked for. He never closed the birdcage and melted the key.
Now Sambo was my new owner. Or maybe it was Org. Whatever, I couldn’t give a shit about semantics. I was in someone’s prison, and no matter whose it was, prison was prison.
Sambo slipped his big, thick fingers through mine as we sat in the back of a town car, like we were a contented couple. “You okay, babe?”
I didn’t pull my fingers free of his, but I didn’t reply or gave him my attention either.
He was sick. Seriously sick.
How could he just steal me and expect me to ease into arelationshipwith him? It’s not even like I was faking shit with him. I’d been pretty straight-up with him about the whole situation, that I wasn’t attracted to him, period, and might never be. Let him know I thought this was imprisonment. And he’d never given any reaction whatsoever. The man was like a bucket of dirt.
What he was expecting out of all this, I had no idea. Didn’t he have an ego or something? Or did my revulsion turn him on? Did he get off on women cringing from his touch? Or did he like the pomp feeling of knowing he had complete ownership of me. Not control, but ownership, granted by my so-called father and my reluctance to beat him senseless and run. Did he not know that if I so desired, I could turn this all around in a snap? Thathewasn’t the one in control, but me?
Men. Such fucking idiots.
Soon we were on the tarmac, rolling up to a jet. Usually, whenever I boarded one of these impressive white jets with that familiar gray and red stripe on the side, it’s because I had someone somewhere in the world to go “take care of”, or when I was returning from “taking care of” someone, somewhere in the world.
I idly wondered how many of those babies The Organization owned, seeing as sometimes there were as much as five assignments being carried out at the same time in different parts of the world.
When the car stopped, I removed my fingers from Sambo’s, opened the passenger door, and clambered out. No need waiting on him to get out and open it for me, pretending to be something we weren’t.
The driver got out at the same time and busied himself with our luggage.
Bringing my hand above my eyebrows to shield my eyes from the sun, I looked up at the jet, at its length, its height. Then all of a sudden, I didn’t feel like moving to Barbados anymore. I was a confused wreck. Unstable, with suppressed grief. Grief I needed to let out before it fucked my head to smithereens. No matter where I ran off to, I would never be content. My life was a shitfest. Pointless. And what Ireallyneeded right then, more than anything, was death.
A pretty blonde hostess appeared atop the steps leading up to the jet, a trained smile plastered on her face. By now I knew the hostesses on these jets weren’t just hostesses, and the pilots weren’t just pilots. They weren’t assassins, but because they worked within the realm of The Organization, they were all trained in defense, to kill without hesitation if necessary, or to off themselves should it ever appear they’d be compromising The Organization.
At the time when I’d learned all this from an air hostess while heading out on an assignment, I hadn’t known about The Organization. Just The Voice. Now I had a full understanding of it all.
Rounding the vehicle, I headed toward the jet, then up the steps. The hostess’s eyes on me were sharp, assessing. She had curly, honey-blonde hair cropped just above her shoulders, a gold hairpin scooping up one side. The shade of her lipstick, a pinkish-red, was fucking hot, nothing short of a turn-on. I wanted to kiss that lipstick right off her lips then transfer the residue to her pinker lips down below.
She stuck her hand out when I finally got to the top of the steps, and I studied it before I took it, noting that she had long, slim fingers—which I preferred—with square nail beds painted a similar pinkish-red as her lipstick. “Nice to finally meet you, Jhay Byrd. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Her hands were a little too soft, though. Made me wonder how often she’d ever had to grip a gun. “It’s undeniably a pleasure to meetyou…”—I dropped my gaze from her distractingly luscious lips to her name tag—”Ayra.”
I slackened the clasping of our hands but didn’t let go, and instead swept my palm up the erogenous soft skin on her inner wrist. When the expected sound of her breath catching hit my ears, I whispered, “And I look forward tolearninga lot about you during this flight.”
She tried to utter something, but only a soft sigh came out as I cruised my thumb-pad from her wrist down to the center of her soft palm and drew a few circles.
I felt Sambo come up behind me on the steps but I didn’t stop.
Ayra glanced over my shoulder and cleared her throat. “I’m not sure what you—”
Gripping her wrist, I yanked her in closer to me and whispered against her blushed cheek, closer to her ear, “If you’ve heard all about me as you formerly stated, then you knowexactlywhat I mean.”
Ayra swallowed, and I let her go, allowing my hand to fall to her hip then drift teasingly across her waist before I walked off into the jet.
Tan interior, big, comfy chairs, monitors, fruit salads and champagne, red and gray striped carpeting down the aisle—it was the same as the others.
I opted for a seat closer to the front, hoping Sambo would take a seat far from me to give me some space, instead of the empty seat facing me across the table.
