Say the Word (31 page)

Sebastian pushed a button on a sleek box affixed to his windshield, and we pulled into a gated, ground level garage. The gate lowered behind us and he nodded to a security guard as we rolled past the enclosed glass office.

“Where are we?” I asked nervously, seeking unnecessary confirmation.

Tight-lipped, Bash pulled into a parking spot and shifted the car into park.

“Can you please just take me home?” The hopeful naivety in my tone bordered on desperation.

He didn’t answer or even look at me as he climbed from the driver’s seat and walked around to open my door.

Shit.

I spun in a circle, taking it all in. The loft was gorgeous in an understated, luxurious kind of way. The entire space was white, with gleaming hardwood floors and lots of exposed wooden rafter beams
crisscrossing the vaulted ceiling overhead. The kitchen was all stainless steel and chrome, a stark contrast to the warm earthy tones of the wood, and the walls were covered in a series of framed, black and white photographs from Bash’s many travels across the globe. I recognized famous landmarks and cities in many of the photos.

Du
brovnik, Sydney, Venice, Paris, Beijing, London, Amsterdam.  

There were so many photos, the loft could’ve easily passed for an art gallery — except for the bed, of course.

King size, low to the ground, draped in a white down comforter, and scattered with huge black throw pillows that looked like they’d be heavenly to sink down into, the bed took up a big portion of the loft space. It was bathed in light from the setting sun, as it sat by a bank of windows. There was no headboard; instead, the space on the wall above the bed was taken up entirely by a huge canvas, at least ten feet across, which showcased the only color photograph in the entire apartment.

I stepped closer, bringing the vivid photo into better focus, and felt my breath catch.

It was a tree —
our
tree.

His lens had captured the huge oak at its most beautiful — in the heart of fall when the leaves had begun to redden and wither, drifting down to lay like fallen soldiers beneath the huge sentinel. The massive tree towered over the clearing, its graceful boughs backlit by a warm autumn sun and its leaves a kaleidoscope of orange hues.

It was beautiful — there was no question about that.

But as to why it was here, in Sebastian’s apartment, after all these years — I had no explanation.

I turned to him, the question on my lips, but froze when I saw his face. He was staring hard in my direction, a thunderous expression clouding his features. I felt my hackles rise immediately and whatever warmth I’d felt at the sight of the photograph began to dissipate.

“What?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring right back at him.

He stepped closer to me. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He stared at me with narrowed eyes. “You have no good reason to be going down there alone.”

“You have no idea what my reasons are or what I was even doing there,” I countered.

“Sneaking around in warehouses that are practically falling down? Spying on dangerous fucking people with a fucking iPhone camera?” Bash snorted. “Yeah, I’ve got you pegged, Nancy Drew. You’re looking for that girl — your friend. And you’re going to get hurt in the process.”

He was probably right, so I couldn’t really argue with that statement. But I could still glare at him.

Bash took a few steps closer. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you stumble into a situation you have no idea how to handle. And, Freckles, from what I’ve seen — there’s not much you
can
handle.”

“You’re a condescending ass!” I yelled, taking a step toward him. My entire frame trembled with barely-contained rage. I knew I wasn’t an expert investigator, but I was doing the best I could with the few resources I had at my disposal — and rather than acknowledge that, he’d chosen to belittle my every effort.

“Well, you’re a naive little girl!” he shouted back at me, the vein throbbing in his jugular.

“I hate you!” I spat the words, getting right up in his face.

His hands shot out, grabbed hold of my upper arms, and yanked me closer, crushing our bodies together so tightly the breath was stolen from my lungs. “Yeah, I hate you too,” Bash muttered, just before he closed the remaining gap between our faces and his lips crashed down on mine.

Once our lips met, there was no stopping us. It had been far too long since our hands had explored the secret places of each
other’s bodies. An eternity since my fingertips had skimmed over his rippled abdominal muscles. Eons since his palms had slipped down my sides and beneath the bottom hem of my top. Forever since my shaking fingers had worked at the buttons on his shirt, or tugged his belt from its loops with impatience.

His lips were relentless in their pursuit, his kiss demanding as he stole my breath and pushed my control to its absolute limits. There was a small part of my brain that was screaming out that I should stop this,
now
. That this couldn’t go on, or I’d be triggering a scenario that would end badly for everyone involved — a conclusion doomed from its very inception.

But that part of my brain was quickly overridden by the wave of passion that swept through my system as I savored the feeling of finally,
finally
, having my lips pressed against Sebastian’s. I’d hungered for this moment — longed for it, wept for it, even prayed for it — for seven years, like an addict who needed her fix. Now, I was a junkie confronted with her greatest vice on a veritable silver platter; there was no way I could summon the strength to walk away.

And so, reason was lost. Inhibitions, shredded. Clothing, discarded.

Sebastian’s lips moved down to kiss my neck and his fingers dug into my flesh as they roamed the bare skin of my back, beneath my shirt.  With one swift tug, he pulled the sweatshirt over my head and tossed it to the ground, his mouth only lifting from my skin for the fraction of time it took the material to slide past my shoulder blades. I wound my hands into his thick hair, luxuriating in the feeling of the smooth strands against my fingertips, and he raised his head to look at me.

His eyes burned into mine, their normal frozen hazel tundra now a molten pool of desire. He pulled me closer roughly, as though any amount of space between us was far too much, and cupped the sides of my face in his palms. My hands slipped from his hair and twined around his neck, our faces hovering so close we shared the same breath.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, his voice laced with awe.

His right hand moved from my cheek and up to the clip in my hair. One deft motion of his fingers had it spilling free, my long blonde locks tumbling down around my body in a cascade of curls that fell to mid-back. Bash’s eyes turned scorching at the sight, and his lips crashed down again on mine. His hands moved to trace the straps of my bra and tank top, pulling them down off my shoulders with twin tugs. His lips followed his fingers’ path — down my neck, across my collarbone, and between the valley of my breasts. I felt my breath catch when he moved up over the swell on my left side, his lips trailing kisses as they went.

And just when I’d reached the point of combustion… When I was ready to tumble to the ground and lose myself completely… When his lips and fingers were about to bring me to my knees…

Everything stopped. Or, more specifically,
he
stopped.

My eyes opened, my spine straightened from the arch it had unknowingly bent into, my head
lifted, and I saw that Bash was immobile — frozen with his burning eyes locked on the ink over my heart. I watched as he mouthed the words, each soundless syllable forming on his lips and contorting them into varying shapes of astonishment.

Shit.

I tried to step back, to turn from his sight, but it was no use — not now that he’d seen it. His hands clutched my shoulder blades and he lifted confused eyes to meet mine. There was really only one question for him to ask and though I braced for it, I still didn’t have an answer prepared for him.

“Why?”

I stared at him, frustrated with myself but unable to tell him what he wanted to know. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs,
Because you were right. Because I love you, you idiot! I’ve
always
loved you. Can’t you see that?

But I couldn’t.

“Lux,
why
do you have this?” His thumb skimmed over the tattoo, his eyes never wavering from the inked skin.

I didn’t answer, but my eyes were tingling with the formation of useless tears.

“This isn’t fresh. When did you get this?” His disbelieving stare moved across the script as he read the words over and over. When I remained silent, he finally managed to tear his eyes away and raise them to meet mine. His grip on my shoulders tightened and he bent in close to my face.

“Tell me.” His tone was
ardent, his eyes desperate. “Tell me what happened back then. Why did you run? What made you go? I have to know, Lux.”

Walk away
, my brain shouted at me.
For your own good, and his, walk away. Now.

“I know there are things you think you want to know but, in all honestly you
don’t
,” I whispered in a small voice, taking a step backward and watching as his hands fell limp to his sides. “You think I’m the victim here, but I’m not. As much as you might wish it, I’m not the damsel in distress in your story, Bash — I’m the villain. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”

“Goddammit!” Bash cursed, running one hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. “You are fucking impossible.”

“I have to go.” I turned and headed for the door, picking up my fallen sweatshirt on the way.

“Walk away again, Lux. You’ve
had plenty of practice at it,” Bash called after me.

I flinched, but kept walking.

“All that tattoo does is prove that I was right,” he called to my back. “You didn’t leave me back then, not by choice anyway. Something drove you away. And even if you won’t tell me, I’m going to figure it out. I’ll either find a way or make one — thanks for reminding me.”

Freaking fantastic. I was such a monumental fuck-up.

“So I wouldn’t run too far, Freckles,” Bash added, his voice a blend of frustration and determination. “Because we’re not finished. Not by a fucking long shot.”

“Baby, what are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you — I am, always.” Standing in the doorway, Simon tilted his head sideways and looked me up and down. “But first you pull a vanishing act for the past three days and then you show up on my doorstep unannounced and, it
must
be said, disheveled in an I-just-had-sex kind of way?” 

Damn, he was good.

“Do you have tequila?” I asked in a voice that was pathetically close to begging.

Simon’s brows went up. I was a wine girl — he knew this better than most — so if I was asking for liquor, the shit had really hit the fan. I shoved my way past him through the doorway and headed for the kitchen, passing by a shirtless Nate who was sitting on the sectional drinking a beer. He lifted his glass to me as I barreled by, but I didn’t stop to chat. I was a woman on a mission.

Simon trailed me to the kitchen and made short work of grabbing two shot glasses from the cabinet over the sink. I pulled the bottle of Patrón from its spot on top of the fridge.

“You’re drinking too?” I asked him, raising one eyebrow at the sight of the second glass.

“Friends don’t let friends do tequila shots alone.”

I smiled as I poured out two helpings. I lifted one, clinked it against Simon’s mid-air, and prepared to toss it back.

“What are we toasting?” Simon asked.

“Bad decisions,” I said, tilting the shot glass and pouring the burning liquid down my throat.

“Which, of course, are only ever improved when tequila is involved,” he noted in a wry voice, before throwing back his own serving. He coughed delicately, set both of our glasses in the kitchen sink, and put the cork back in the bottle.  “Come on, baby. I have a surprise that’ll make you feel better, and then its story time.”

“You’re going to read me a story?” I felt my brow furrow as I laced my fingers
with Simon’s outstretched hand and allowed myself to be led across the open loft toward his bedroom.

He snorted. “No, don’t be an idiot. You’re going to tell
me
the story of why you’re at my apartment at—” He glanced at his watch. “—8:15 p.m. on a Monday night. Call it payment for the tequila shot.”

I rolled my eyes and followed along in his wake. “What’s my ‘surprise’? It better not involve anything with glitter — and no, before you ask, I will not let you wax my eyebrows again. Last time, I ended up looking like Lindsay Lohan pre-rehab.”

“That waxing pot was defective!” Simon protested. “It wasn’t my fault!”

“Mhmm.”

“You’ll be sorry you ever doubted me when you see what I have for you.” He dropped my hand when we reached the door to his bedroom, and I hopped up on his bed.

“The suspense is killing me,” I drawled.

“No need for sarcasm.” Simon crossed his room and grabbed a large garment bag from his closet. I looked from the bag to his face, which bore an alarmingly happy expression as he approached.

“Oh, no,” I muttered,
realization dawning.

“Oh, yes,” Simon squealed, unzipping the bag with a flourish to reveal a floor-length, Grecian style gown in ice blue. Elegantly draped fabric covered each shoulder and an ornate, silver-gilded belt gathered the material below the breast line to create an empire waist and a plunging v-neck. The daring neckline was far riskier than I’d ever choose for myself and would be sure to turn heads if I tried to squeeze my C-cups into it — but the dress’ real eye-catching feature was the back.

Or lack-thereof.

On the other side of the dress, material from each shoulder fell straight down on either side and draped in a low cowl at the small of the
back, leaving the entire spine exposed. From there, the sheath of blue fabric cascaded to the floor in a short yet elaborate sweeping train that was designed to drag several inches on the ground with each step.

“Ta-da!” Simon yelled. “Surprise!”

I stared at him, more confused now than I’d been the time he told me I was no longer allowed to wear wedge-heeled sandals because they were ‘cheating’ — apparently, in his world, heels don’t count as heels unless they’re a chore to walk in.

“Um, Si, are you sure this isn’t for Fae?”

His face contorted into a look of disgust. “Of course I’m sure. Fae’s an olive-toned brunette — a summer color girl, not a winter. Ice blue would be a disaster on her. You, on the other hand, will look fabulous in this. That creamy skin and blonde hair — my little ice princess.” His eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“But where would I ever wear this?”

Now it was his turn to don a look of disbelief. “Um, I don’t know, maybe to the huge, once-in-a-lifetime celebratory ball we’re required to attend next week at our place of employment?”

Shit. In all the madness of my investigation and Sebastian, I’d completely forgotten about the upcoming
Luster
party — and the fact that I had yet to purchase a dress.

“Centennial,” I muttered.

“There’s the lightbulb!” Simon grinned and pulled me from my perch on the end of his bed. Leading me over to stand before his full-length mirror, he circled around behind me and held the dress to my front.

“It’s perfect,” he whispered.

I stared at the dress in the mirror, picturing the frost-blue against my porcelain skin and my hair twisted up in an elegant knot. I’d look like Cinderella — a sluttier version, perhaps, but a princess nonetheless. If not for Simon, I’d have been attending in whatever I could find last minute at Macy’s.

“I’ll never be able to pay you back. This must’ve cost a fortune,” I murmured, thinking it was worth every penny even as I mentally reconfigured funds in my bank accounts to cover the expense.

Simon simply chuckled.

“Wh
ere’d you get this?” I asked, breathless as I examined the gown more closely. “It’s amazing.”

“I made it,” he said, shrugging as though it
was no big deal. “Figured I should put all those skills I learned at Parsons to good use. It’s not like I use them at
Luster
.” 

“Simon!” I exclaimed. “Are you serious? This is an incredible dress! It should be on a model, walking down a runway somewhere.”

“I know,” he huffed. “Took me freaking forever to get the draping right. But every incredible girl needs an incredible dress to match.”

“Thanks, Si.” Our eyes caught in the mirror and I reached up to squeeze his hand.

“Anytime, baby girl.” He grinned at me. “Plus, a model totally wouldn’t have the boobs to fill out this top, let alone the booty needed to hold up that train.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.”

Careful not to wrinkle the dress, I turned to face him and wrapped my arms around his frame. “Love you.”

“As you should,” he repeated.

I laughed into the crook of his neck until he complained that I was messing up his new bow-tie and pushed me away.

When I got back to my apartment, still glowing happily from my visit to Simon’s, it was past ten but I knew I’d be up for quite a while. I changed into comfortable clothes, grabbed my laptop from my desk, and climbed into bed. First, I updated my blog. It had been over a week since my last
Georgia on My Mind
posting, and my followers were likely wondering if I’d fallen into a manhole or been hit by a train. After posting an apology for my absence, responding to a week’s worth of backlogged comments, and composing a brief anecdotal story about my first time in a citywide blackout, I logged off and pulled up a blank word document.

It was time to catch up on my typical
Luster
column for Jeanine. I had deadlines rapidly approaching and I’d been procrastinating, as was often the case when I was confronted with writing about a topic I had little interest in. This month, it was juice cleanses. I laughed to myself as I wrote about the latest, greatest cleanse that promised to keep you full for days, drinking only a unique blend of lemon juice, honey, and cayenne pepper. I wasn’t sure what women out there could possibly be satisfied by a diet of pure liquid, but I didn’t ever want to meet them. Personally, I got pretty damn grouchy if I didn’t eat every four hours — after a week, I’d be ready to commit double homicide for a doughnut.

Thankfully, I’d done all the research for the piece already, so it was written and ready for edits within two hours. I emailed it off to Jeanine for her inevitable critical feedback, pull
ed up a Google page, and typed “NYC Labyrinth” into the search bar.

Nothing. Not one credible result popped up.

There was a company out of Jersey called Labyrinth Fences, but their website boasted a poppy-red logo and pictures of a family-run, small-time business. There was a story about a prostitute who’d legally changed her name to “Labyrinth” after ten years working the streets. There were countless movie credits and photos from the set of
Pan’s Labyrinth
. But there was absolutely nothing that would help my investigation.

My eyes grew tired as I scrolled through page after page of Google results. I’d been searching for hours, growing more frustrated with each dead-end I clicked on, and was ready to call it quits for the night when something caught my eye. A single link to a forum of questions about New York City’s best-kept secrets. A conspiracy theorist’s paradise.

I clicked it and scanned the screen with raised brows.

There, at the bottom of the page, was a thread of comments from anonymous posters. My eyes devoured their words, and I felt my heartbeat begin to race. 

StarGazer86
: Anyone on here ever heard of
Labyrinth
? On weekends, I bartend at this bar on the Upper East Side. Over the past few years, I’ve heard some patrons whispering the name, but I’ve never been able to figure out what it is.

PinkySwear91
: Supposedly, it’s a club. Caters to the elite, members-only. Lots of rumors about backdoor deals and political alliances being made there, but no one knows for sure. It’s all speculation.

StarGazer86
: So… secret society or urban legend?

GoodGuy33
: Urban legend. It doesn’t exist.

PinkySwear91
: Agreed. Probably a myth made up by someone with an overactive imagination. Tourists love the idea of secret clubs and shit. Makes them excited about the city — excited tourists spend more money. Simple.

Stargazer86
: Damn, too bad. I was hoping it would be something cool.

MadHatter666
: It’s not a legend or a myth —
Labyrinth
is real enough. It’s on E. 65
th
between Madison and Park. Though I wouldn’t recommend walking through the front doors. Not unless you’ve got a death wish.

GoodGuy33
: A name like MadHatter really makes you sound legit, bro. Go back to playing World of Warcraft and stop cluttering our threads with bullshit.

There were no more comments, and the thread had been inactive for more than four years.

I felt a chill race up my spine. So
, it wasn’t the most credible lead. GoodGuy33 was probably right  — MadHatter666 was likely insane.

But what if he wasn’t?

There was only one person I could think of who made knowing about the city’s most exclusive venues a priority. If there really were a secret society called
Labyrinth
, she’d have heard of it. I scrolled through my phone to her name and dialed, wincing when I saw it was past midnight. Fae was a big proponent of beauty sleep and, as such, had a strict
no-calls-after-ten-unless-you-are-dying-or-pregnant
policy on weeknights.

Oh well. The phone rang in my ear three times before it connected.

“I know you’re not preggers, so you better be dying,” she muttered into the receiver.

“Well, I mean, technically we’re
all
dying. Just at different paces,” I noted. “But am I bleeding out at this exact moment? No.”

“Hanging up, now.”

“Wait! I’m sorry to call so late, but it’s important.” She couldn’t have missed the strain in my words. “Please.”

“Fine, five minutes,” she agreed, sighing. “What is it?”

“Have you ever heard of
Labyrinth
?” I asked. “It could be a club or a restaurant, I’m not sure.”

There was a pause over the line. I pictured her lying in bed, her tired mind reeling through thousands of restaurants, nightclubs, and organizations as she tried to conjure up a memory of the place I’d mentioned.

“Is it in Upper East? Near Madison and Park?”

At her words, I felt my throat constrict. I stared at MadHatter’s comment with wide eyes. “Yeah, that’s the one,” I whispered.

“I don’t know much.” She yawned audibly. “I think it’s members-only. Elite —
very
exclusive. We’re talking old money. Some of the city’s oldest, wealthiest families are supposedly affiliated. Politicians, professional athletes, mega-wealthy power players. But I don’t know for sure; no one does. They don’t exactly publish members’ names in the
Post
on Sundays.”