Page 17

He stares for a fistful of heartbeats. “Thank you, Elly.”
“Yeah…sure.”
He walks way without a backward glance, leaving me with a strong notion of what it feels like to be a victim of mind control.
Because Quinn Blackwood, in those thirty seconds he pinned me with his eyes, could’ve talked me into doing anything for him.
I return the tray to the kitchen in a daze. Although I do my job, I remain in a mild fugue state until Chef Fancy Pants dismisses me from his lofty kingdom.
Sully calls me into his office when I return downstairs and hands me an envelope. Inside I find two hundred dollars, enough to secure a roof over my head and food for a week if I’m careful. I form the appropriate words of thanks, but when he dismisses me, I hardly recall changing my clothes and leaving Blackwood Tower.
The incident upstairs still has me in its grip.
I regain my common sense long enough to mind my surroundings as I take the subway back to Queens. I devour half of the leftover sandwiches I took from the rec room and wash them down with a can of soda, then shower with tepid water from a barely functioning showerhead.
There was no time to pack personal items when I fled The Villa, save for a couple of precious keepsakes, one of which is a picture of my mother and me, taken on my sixth birthday. I fish it out of my backpack and stare at it beneath the harsh motel room light.
She was stunning. According to some of the girls at The Villa who knew her back in the day, she used to be Clayton’s prized whore until she messed around behind his back. Knowing Clayton Getty, I’m not exactly sure how she managed to talk him into letting her stay at The Villa after I was born.
I lie back on the bed that stinks of urine and other unthinkable fluids, clutching the picture. Out of the meager possessions I grew up with, I know why I’m hanging on to the photo.
Amid the telltale signs of her losing battle with alcohol abuse, there’s hope in Renee Gilbert’s face. She didn’t give up hope despite Clayton Getty’s single-minded mission to turn her life into a living hell. It was that hope with which she clung to my hand.
Despite the futility of my situation, a part of me desperately channels that hope.
Eventually, my body and mind let go of the perpetual fear long enough for me to fall asleep.
I jerk awake somewhere around two a.m., heart hammering. The glaring light bulb blinds me for a few seconds before my eyesight adjusts. I raise the picture from my chest and stare at my mother’s face, wondering if my fate will echo hers and we’ll both perish at the hands of Clayton Getty.
As my fingers glide over the glass, another face slides into my mind.
Quinn Blackwood.
There’s no room in my life to ponder other people’s shit, but I find myself intrigued all the same.
His body.
His deathly stillness.
His mouth.
His unwavering focus on the view.
His soulless eyes…
My breath catches. Mild shock engulfs me as I set the picture aside to watch my nipples peak beneath the T-shirt I wore to bed. I’m semi-fascinated by my body’s reaction. Enough to jerk upright in bed seconds later when I feel a distinct tingle between my thighs.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Lucky?
He’s hot, granted. But he’s clearly fucked up in that special way only rich, powerful people can be, despite having the world at their feet. Fantasizing about Quinn Blackwood will bring me nowhere near finding a way to get Clayton off my back.
In a last-ditch act of desperation, I grab my phone, take a deep breath and turn it on.
My heart leaps into my throat when the mail sign pops onto the screen. Fingers shaking, I press it.
Monday. 6pm. Midtown. Be punctual.