Page 23 of Sweet Torture (Torture Games #1)

EIGHTEEN

NAZ

I t has been a week since Griffin abandoned me at the restaurant. He hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts and has been actively avoiding me at his office.

He sorely underestimated my tenacity. Therefore, I am waiting in his lobby, keeping Herb, the doorman, company while I wait for him to return from wherever he is. It is after five, and I have been here since lunchtime.

It has given me enough time to admire the fine craftsmanship of the crystal chandelier and the quality of work found in the finishings. It truly is a remarkable building. But not if it becomes your prison for four hours.

Granted, the geometrical wallpaper has been distracting but not enough to convince my stomach not to growl louder with every tenant passing through the glass doors.

“Miss Adams, is there something I can help you with? I noticed you have been here for quite a while. Can I call Mr. Maxwell and inform him you are waiting for him?”

The younger face looking down at me is cautiously friendly. Like a meek lamb to slaughter, he must have difficulty standing up to the more obnoxious occupants. I know of at least one very difficult tenant.

I get up from the chair Herb commissioned for me from somewhere and set up in a quiet corner, and walk with my hand stretched out towards the newcomer.

“Hi there, I am Naz. I am just waiting for him. That is why I have been keeping Herb company. Didn’t want to miss him on the way in, but how did you know?”

He thoughtfully shakes my hand and ushers me to a corner further from the front door before he speaks in hushed tones.

“I am very good at my job. Do you have an appointment? Mr. Maxwell has been in a foul mood the last week, and it is better not to blindside him.”

I laugh it off and want to deny it, but I have no idea of the reason for the sudden change in Griffin’s demeanor. One moment, he was subdued and wanted to wash his hands in the restroom; the next, he disappeared and left me with the bill. I decided my best bet would be to tell the truth.

“Honestly, I don’t know how much I can tell a total stranger, but I still need to make sure he is okay.”

“Kyle,” he says .

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Kyle Johnson. You are Naz. Now that we know each other, we are not strangers anymore. I would love to help you, if that is okay. It would be better for all my staff if we could improve Mr. Maxwell’s mood. Now, what would you need to accomplish that?”

I throw my arms around his neck, and the relief elicits a tear or two.

“You are amazing. Thank you. As I said, I just want to make sure he is okay. Do you perhaps know what his favorite food is? It is harder to turn me away when a person is hungry,” I utter through a silent sob.

He smirks, “Looks like you have it all planned out.”

Now it is my turn to laugh, “No, but I am starving, and if I don’t get some food in me soon, I might just start to nibble on you. And where I come from, cannibalism is still frowned upon.”

He leads me to the elevator and swipes what looks like a skeleton key before he answers, “I guess it depends on what part of the body you nibble on first.”

The door closes, and we ride in silence.

Was he flirting with me just now?

I turn his phrase over in my mind, and it sounds like something I would have said to a random man – that was before I met Griffin.

Doors open, and he walks to the penthouse door and opens it for me.

“There you go, my lady. I will order the food and bring it to you as soon as it arrives.”

I dig in my bag for my wallet, but he stops me.

“The building takes care of it and bills the tenant at the end of the month. You can sort it out with Mr. Maxwell if you are still around. I am sure a beautiful woman like you can find a way to convince him. Good Luck!”

Hesitantly, I say, “Thank you. I'm not sure if that is a compliment, but I will take it anyway.” He seems too shy to flirt outright.

He nods, and I close the door behind me, dropping my bag under the side table at the door.

The penthouse still looks the same, except the air is stale, more desperate.

I walk over to the couch with so many memories and wonder who cleaned up our mess. There must be some housekeeper, but I have never seen a single other human being in his space.

I stroll around, familiarizing myself with the scene of total human absence, and feel something tug on my heart.

I touch every cold granite surface in the kitchen and feel it seep into my bones.

How lonely it must feel to surround yourself with such depressing colors and reveal absolutely nothing about yourself in order to keep yourself safe.

I know he must be very good at his job because every piece of furniture speaks of money and a lot of it.

And it was most likely chosen by a decorator .

But this is just another example of how money can’t buy you happiness.

I walk to the couch we had ‘dinner’ on the other night, sit down with my hands caressing the buttery leather at my sides. Fond memories capture my attention, and I sigh contentedly.

That was a good night.

I’ve barely sat down, attempting to make myself comfortable, when I hear a keycard being swiped in the door. The door flies open, and Griffin steps in with a furious look on his face.

“I don’t fucking care how much money he is offering. I said no, and that is final,” he bellows.

He presses two fingers into his left eye socket and looks tired. His suit is rumpled like he had slept on a very uncomfortable couch. He storms in the direction of the kitchen.

I sit very quietly, too scared to move. Maybe I could slip out while he is in the kitchen? I hear the cell clatter on the counter and the telltale sound of a fridge opening.

I didn’t realize he would look this bad.

In the back of my mind, I still assumed he wanted to walk away.

But this doesn’t look like a decision. It looks like an internal struggle that is tearing him apart, and I can’t play any role in that.

I need to make sure he is whole before I let him go, if that is what is best for him .

I hear the doorbell ring at the worst possible time, knowing it is the food I ordered.

Damn it. If I had decided and left one minute earlier, I would have caught up with Kyle in the elevator. Now, I have no other choice but to face the music.

I get up from the couch and wave to Griffin's dumbstruck face, a bottle of water forgotten in his hand. I pass the kitchen and open the door to accept the food.

Kyle smiles brightly and hands me a big bag of containers.

“Here you go, Naz, a big order of Italian from his favorite restaurant. He must eat there regularly because when I told them it was for him, they already had an order on file. I did order a few extra dishes for you, though. I hope you like risotto.”

Kyle continues to ramble without noticing the hunter stalking his prey from the kitchen. The bag is grabbed from my hands, and I am shoved behind his back.

“Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing talking to my woman?”

I slap his back, “Griffin, you have no right to talk to him like that. Apologize.”

I peer around Griffin and give Kyle a helpless look. “I am sorry, Kyle. One would think he would recognize his own building manager, but he is always so distracted by work. Thank you again for bringing the food. We really do appreciate it. ”

I try to close the door, but Griffin holds it back and doesn’t wait before he growls, “I am getting sick of your admirers popping up everywhere. Maybe you could start a brothel with your extensive client list.”

Shocked, I gape as he slams the door in Kyle’s surprised face and stalks to the kitchen.

My feet carry me there of their own volition.

“Did you just call me an expensive whore?” I ask breathlessly.

He dumps the bag on the counter and begins to unpack the containers. “If the crotchless panties fit,” he says.

I inhale the indignation he has hurled towards me and take a measured step closer. “Anything else you would like to add? Maybe something to explain your actions?”

My breathing is labored, and heat floods my face. My skin wants to combust from keeping the fury inside, and I know it would only take one more insulting sentence for me to go ballistic and give him a piece of my mind.

He opens a drawer and takes out a fork before opening a container and stabbing something resembling pasta Marinara.

“Are you really so stupid that you couldn’t take the hint of me avoiding you for a week?

One would think your roster is already filled with the next gullible chump you fooled into thinking you cared for him.

Oh, wait, that is the difference between me and the rest of them, right?

You will bow down to the others, but me, you want to break,” he sneers.

I slap the container out of his hands, and pasta flies everywhere.

It is going to be a bitch cleaning this up, but I don’t care anymore.

I turn away from his outraged face, gather the containers, and start packing them back into the brown paper bag.

“For your information, I have no idea where you are getting your facts from, but you are the only one in my life and bed. Were. You were the only one. And since you are too much of a coward to do this properly, allow me. We are through. I am glad this happened before I was really invested. And to think I imagined myself falling for you.”

I take the bag and stride to the side table to pick up my handbag. I stop and hold the bag high on the way out the door.

“And I am taking this with me. I came here to ensure you were okay and look after your heart. But you don’t deserve even a bite of this or my compassion. Goodbye, asshole. Hope you relish in your miserably solitary existence.”

I slam the door behind me and practically run to the elevator.

But I was mistaken. There is no door opening, no Griffin calling out to me to come back as I frantically press the button multiple times.

All I am met with is silence, and the first tear falls unhindered on the elevator floor before the door closes.

Before the door opens, I wipe my face with my sleeve and take a deep breath. I will not be sacrificed to the scrutiny of other because of one gigantic asshole. The door opens, and I hurry around the group of people waiting to get in.

I wave to Herb on my way out the glass door and hurry to get back home.

I need to be alone.

I took a cab here, so I hail one with a loud whistle and gratefully get in when one stops next to the curb.

I give him my address and absentmindedly listen to his animated story of all his years as a cabby in New York.

When he stops at my playhouse, I thank him for the ride and give him a generous tip.

I watch him leave. As always, I first survey my surroundings looking for something suspicious.

Finding nothing, I walk to my front door deep in thought.

A lightning strike of fear goes through my body when I see the manila envelope leaning against my door. I almost drop the phone in my haste to call Rose when I see a message from my Private Investigator, Sandi.

Sorry it took so long. This was a particularly interesting assignment. I left a package on your door with all the info I could gather. Will let you know if I find any more.

I look around, making sure I am not being watched, before I pick up the parcel, unlock my door, and push through my front door, locking it behind me.

I toss my bag on the floor and go to the kitchen to put the food away and shake out the contents of the envelope.

I am still furious.

I lied about the food. I couldn’t see my way to taking a single bite when I knew I ordered everything for him. I put the containers in the fridge before I give my full attention to the pages spread out on the kitchen counter.

Usually, I feel less guilty doing this to my potential toys, but with Griffin, this feels wrong.

Pacing up and down, I considered the fact that I didn’t really know Griffin Maxwell that well. I wanted to believe that there was good in him. I saw glimpses of vulnerability when he pursued the acceptance of others. Or me. Just me.

At other times, he was this fierce force that swept everything and everyone in his path away.

The blonde at the gala already warned me that he was a criminal. Not that I was really surprised. Rich men in important positions always had a rotten side to them.

I should have been relieved that I was rid of him, but my heart was shattering with the thought that I would never get to play with him again. Or was it something more that created this dull ache inside me?

Had I somehow already fallen for him?

Ignoring the possibility, I charge forward.

The only thing I could think of to do last week was make a proactive plan to get him back.

I grab the page closest to me. I scan the official document that states he was placed in foster care at the age of fourteen.

With no apparent family willing to take him in, he aged out and built everything he had from the ground up.

Knowing what I know now, it is much less impressive if your empire is built on the backs of criminal enterprises, but I still have no idea what exactly makes him a criminal.

I lose myself in the tragic events of his history that unfold in clinical terms on the pages before me.

Various medical reports and accounts presented by concerned neighbors and family members tell a tale of inconceivable desolation.

He really had no other choice but to become the man he is today.

Whatever that may be.

Somehow, although my eyes can see the evidence, my heart tells me there is so much more to this man.

At face value, I should steer clear, especially considering my own situation.

But I stubbornly refuse to admit defeat.

Or is it the inexplicable desire consuming my mind and body that sways my opinion?

Either way, I am in no position to deny myself the toy that I have claimed for myself.