The Girl Who Wasn't Page 5

  Gus’s mouth tightens. “Yes, sir.”

  They glance my way, but I pretend to be fully engaged in adjusting my shoe. The elevator bell dings and the doors slide open. I step inside behind them and stare straight ahead without a sound. I am no longer thinking about fresh air and getting outside. I am thinking about how my dress will look stained with my blood. And whether satin sheets are worth whatever—or whoever—is coming for me.

  The entire car ride over, Titus’s mood is heavy, a reminder of what is expected when the car stops and the doors open. Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing more to say unless I live.

  Our journey is made up of short bursts of speed and frequent stops at red lights. By the time we arrive, the excitement of being inside a car—even a car as nice as this one—has dulled. I pile out between Titus and Gus and follow them to the main entrance.

  Streetlights illuminate every corner of the otherwise darkened sidewalks. There is a fair amount of hustle and bustle on the sidewalk, though this group is dressed more extravagantly than any I saw on my trip into the city. I suspect it must have something to do with evening apparel being fancier than daywear.

  When I reach the entrance, a man in a gray jacket holds the door and nods as I pass through. “Miss Rogen,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, trying hard to sound like I don’t mean it.

  Titus and Gus walk behind me and I am so focused on being her that I do not see them coming until they’ve almost reached me. A boy and a girl, both redheads, approach me at a speed that has me pulling up short. Terror grips me. Gus is at my elbow in an instant, tugging me back a step.

  When I catch sight of the girl, an instant of recognition sweeps over me. She reminds me of Lonnie, the way she moves, the way she carries herself with utter confidence. But then I focus on her features and the resemblance dissolves. Her hair, the freckles on her cheeks—it is not like Lonnie at all.

  “Hi there,” the girl says with a bright smile. “You’re Raven Rogen, right?” Her attention shifts from me to Gus to Titus and back again. She pushes on without waiting for confirmation. “My cousin lives in this building and I heard you might come tonight. I would just love to get your autograph and maybe your picture. I mean, I follow your fundraising projects. That orphanage rebuild you did? Amazing. I am such a huge fan. Would you mind signing this for me?”

  She shoves a pen and paper at me expectantly. The boy she is with hangs back. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and he is staring at some spot on the wall. Gus wanders away, clearly not considering the young couple a threat. Titus has already pushed the button for the elevator. I look to him for direction but he isn’t paying attention any longer.

  When I look back at the girl, she is still smiling and waiting. On impulse, I grab the pen and scribble Raven Rogen on the paper and shove it back at her. As if taking a cue, the boy straightens and lifts a small camera. The girl wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and the camera clicks. It’s over before I can even pose.

  “Thank you so much,” she gushes, folding the paper carefully around my name.

  I try for haughty or at least impatient when I say, “No problem,” and walk away.

  Across the lobby, the elevator dings, and I hurry to catch it. Gus holds the door while Titus waits inside, his foot tapping. Once inside, I turn around and look for the two teens but the lobby is empty. They are already gone.

  The elevator ride is silent. I focus on who I am—her, not me—and when the doors open I smile widely, donning the mask.

  The first thing I notice is the music. I cannot see where it comes from but it is floaty and wistful in a way that makes my heart ache. Music in Twig City is rare, mostly children’s songs and lullabies. Nothing like this.

  I wander toward the sound, smiling and nodding at men and women in dark suits who do the same for me. No one approaches and I have the sense this is more Titus’s crowd than mine. No one here is my age. Some I recognize from the albums, which makes me think of Linc. I wonder if he’s here.

  I am disappointed to realize after two laps around the apartment that the music is only being poured in through overhead speakers. Instead of turning back, I choose an empty hallway, taking in the sight of the expensive art mixed among fancy molding. Muted conversations float up from the party I’ve left behind. It’s an almost enjoyable atmosphere, being here but being apart somehow. The doors I pass are mostly closed but a few are cracked, inviting those who seek privacy. I am curious to find out what goes on in those rooms but too scared at what I’d find if I looked.

  Female laughter bubbles out of a room as I pass, light and airy and Authentic. Before I can turn toward the sound, someone grabs me from behind. I spin quickly, terror and surprise mingling. Any noise I could’ve made sticks in my throat at the sight of Linc. He is dressed in black slacks and a pressed white shirt. It is more formal than yesterday’s ensemble of corduroy and cotton. I suppose he is trying to blend in.

  “What are you doing back here?” he demands.

  “I was … looking for the music,” I say. He is standing close enough that I catch the scent of something man-made, some sort of cologne on him. Mixed with the outdoorsy smell that seems to be his signature, it distracts me. My face heats when I realize he’s noticed my reaction.

  He drops my elbow. “It’s not safe to wander alone.”

  “I’m not alone. There are people everywhere,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  I pause, understanding his meaning. Someone here—even in this elite crowd—could have it out for me. Before I can form a response, the trilling laughter comes again from the room behind me, followed by my name.

  “Raven! There you are!”

  A petite blond appears in the doorway as Linc moves away from me. She smiles brightly at me, completely ignoring him. I recognize her from the albums. Taylor. She is Raven’s—my—best friend.

  “Taylor,” I say. It comes out breathy because I am relieved to remember something this important when I am still reeling from Linc’s touch. It was meant to remind me of danger. Instead, it thrilled me and left me wanting more time with his fingers on my skin.

  Taylor inspects me critically and I freeze. “You look … better than I expected. How’s your head? I didn’t expect you out so soon.”

  “My head’s fine. Sore,” I amend, knowing I should be feeling something from whatever injury I’ve sustained.

  “I should’ve known it wouldn’t keep you away from a good party,” she says. “Did Daniel come with you?”

  Daniel. I recall a face from the photos. A senator’s son. Titus’s right-hand man. The way Linc spoke of him, this boy is being groomed to take over Titus’s business someday. Linc didn’t mention a connection between Daniel and me so I’m not sure what to say to Taylor’s expectant expression. “Um …”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t talked to him yet,” she says. “The paparazzi have been driving him crazy from what I hear, trying to get the dish on what you two were doing together that night.”

  Paparazzi. I remember Linc saying the word when we paged through those albums. Men with cameras, always angling for gossip or secrets or something to sell. As if Raven’s private business is a commodity.

  I stare at Taylor, trying to understand what she’s not saying. Was I with this Daniel the night I—Raven—was injured? Is he special to me—to her?

  “I’ve been so busy with doctor appointments, I guess I haven’t had time,” I say with a careless shrug. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  She smiles and the way her lips curl is insinuating. “I bet you will. Nothing like a good piece of ass to get you back into the swing of things. Come on, let’s make the rounds and then find the bottle the maid stashed for us.”

  Linc’s expression twists. I keep mine carefully blank of any evidence of my cluelessness. Taylor doesn’t notice either. She loops her slender arm through mine and I let her lead me toward the party. Linc falls back and soon I don’t see him anymore.

&nbs
p; We wander from gathering to gathering. Taylor does most of the talking, her tinkling laughter cutting through even the most serious conversations. Taylor knows everyone and everyone knows Taylor. She is a master at small talk and compliments and leaving everyone smiling in our wake. I wonder if I am usually just as talkative but she doesn’t seem to mind my silence.

  More than once, I feel eyes on me from across the room. I turn, expecting a glower from Titus or Gus’s unsmiling watchfulness. Instead, I find Linc studying me with a careful stare that seems to see everything all at once though he only looks at me. Despite his judgmental treatment, I feel safe with Linc watching.

  When we’ve done a full lap and spoken with everyone present at least once, Taylor leads me through a side door and into a dimly lit room containing rows and rows of coats. Small aisles span right and left, too narrow to walk through without my shoulders brushing the jackets hanging on either side.

  “Shut the door, will you?” Taylor goes to the nearest rack and begins searching pockets.

  I push the door until it latches and then wait while she continues patting down jackets. “What are you doing?”

  “I had the maid leave a stash for us. Should be right around … here!” She pulls her hand free from the pocket of a fur wrap, grinning triumphantly. From her fist dangles a clear glass bottle with blue lettering.

  She motions me over and pulls me down beside her. We sit on the carpet with our legs tucked under us. I try to read the label on the bottle but Taylor uncaps and upends it before I can make out anything beyond the word vodka. She takes a quick swig, grins, and holds it out for me. I take it, trying to seem sure, like I’ve done this a million times.

  Taylor busies herself with the contents of her purse. She sets items aside, keeping hold of a small handheld mirror and a bill of paper money. She continues to fish around, muttering, “It’s here somewhere, I know it.” I don’t bother to ask what she’s looking for. I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

  I wrap my lips around the bottle’s opening and tip it back. The moment the liquid hits my mouth, it burns. I wrench the bottle away and squeeze my eyes shut to block out the fire ripping a trail down my insides. I swallow and then cough hard enough to rack my shoulders.

  Taylor laughs. “Damn, Rav. Did hitting your head affect your ability to hold your liquor?”

  I grunt something that isn’t really an answer. She grabs the bottle and takes another swig. All too soon it is my turn again. Like before, I cough and sputter as the liquid cuts a molten path down my esophagus.

  “Finally!” Taylor exclaims. She withdraws a small, clear bag from her purse and holds it aloft. “You down for a line or two?” she asks.

  “A line?” I ask, watching blankly as she dumps the powdery contents of the bag onto the mirror. She sifts and straightens it using a plastic card and then rolls the money into a tight funnel.

  “Yeah, a line.” She laughs but otherwise doesn’t react to my lack of knowledge. Maybe the liquor’s made her slower. “You know, coke.” Without waiting for my answer, she leans down and snorts a row of powder into her nose. She tips her head back and sniffles a few more times before eyeing me again. She hands me the paper bill. I don’t move to take it.

  “I do that?” I ask.

  “You do that,” she confirms with a laugh. “Along with many other things.”

  I ignore that and eye the powder. The only thing we’re taught about street drugs is they’re harmful to the body. I don’t know the direct effects of the strange white substance but the alcohol alone is already burning a slow hole through me. “Maybe I’ll skip it this time,” I say.

  I brace myself for Taylor’s protests. Or worse, suspicion. But she just rolls her eyes and leans down for another line. “Suit yourself. More for me.” I watch as she sucks another line of powder into her nasal cavity and shudder.

  “God, it burns,” she says, pinching her nose a few times as she sniffles. I’m just about to ask if that’s good or bad when she grins at me and adds, “That’s how you know it’s the good shit.”

  I wonder what it means if it’s bad shit.

  “This totally reminds me of the Rafferty party last month,” she says. “I forgot to tell you what happened. So, remember how we were doing lines in the bathroom? Oh, right, you probably don’t. Well, we were, and Caine and Daniel walked in on us. I was so sure they were going to third-degree us because you know how Daniel feels about street drugs. Whatever.” She pauses to roll her eyes.

  “Anyway, so I shoved everything under the sink and then you guys slipped out but Caine stayed. I had to distract him somehow. So I pretended I was on my knees for a different reason.” Even though we’re alone, she lowers her voice and goes on, “I didn’t even ask his permission. I just unbuttoned his pants right there and gave him the best blow job of his life. He didn’t even know what hit him.”

  I giggle with her, pretending I have some clue what a blow job is. Before I am tempted to ask, I take another swig of the vodka.

  By the next swallow, the burning lessens and I feel … looser. Taylor is laughing, though neither one of us has said anything remotely funny. For some reason, this makes me laugh too.

  When the door opens, we fall abruptly silent, but that just makes the whole thing funnier and sound erupts around my closed lips.

  I recognize Linc’s shoes before I see his face and manage to shut up, although I can’t help the brilliant smile that remains. This relaxed version of me is elated to see him again. He appears around the aisle of coats, glaring when he spots Taylor beside me—and the bottle and dusty mirror between us. Only then do I realize neither of us bothered to try and hide the evidence of our exploits.

  “Your father is looking for you,” Linc says to me.

  His voice is low and deeper than usual. His brows are drawn and I can’t tell if he’s angry because I don’t feel the least bit disturbed by his expression. Or by anything else, thanks to the drink. Then I realize who he means by “father” and the image of Titus wipes the smile from my face in an instant.

  “Call me!” Taylor says as I hurry out. I can tell by the sound of her voice she is not the least bit disturbed by the interruption and has every intention of continuing the party on her own.

  I follow Linc out the door and he whirls on me before I can leave the shadowy alcove that shields us from the rest of the party. “That was monumentally stupid disappearing like that,” he says.

  “I didn’t—I thought you were watching,” I say, stumbling over words that feel thick in my mouth.

  “It doesn’t matter. You should be more careful. You can’t rely on me to be everywhere, to see everything.”

  “Why not?” I ask, cocking my head in genuine puzzlement. “You’ll protect me. And it was just Taylor.”

  “How do you know? There could’ve been someone waiting for you in that room, and I wouldn’t have gotten there in time.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Now that I have, I am afraid—and angry with myself for being so stupid. I try to think of some flippant remark, some quick comeback to hide my fear or the fact that he’s right, but my thoughts are cloudy.

  “And to top it off, you’re drinking?” He throws up his hands. “Do you want to die?”

  “No,” I whisper, but he ignores me and keeps on.

  “How am I supposed to protect you if you won’t even protect yourself? I can’t save an idiot. You’re already dead if you keep this up.”

  I step back, feeling as if I’ve been struck.

  Before I can answer, Gus appears. He seems oblivious to the tension between Linc and me as he says, “We’re leaving. Meet us downstairs in five.”

  I reach for the door behind me but Linc shakes his head and steps around me. “Wait here. I’ll get your things.”

  He disappears inside the coatroom before I can argue. The sound of his voice lingers in my ears, an accusing loop of his harsh words. Somehow I know that if Linc has given up protecting me, I don’t stand a chance. But more than that, I hate that
I will never, ever earn his respect.

  It takes me all of three seconds to come to a decision. I head for the elevator with quick steps and a fixed stare. I hope my expression is determined and detached enough that no one will question me. And that I don’t run into Titus or Gus. I am sure there are other security officers here watching but none have approached me. I’m counting on them remaining far enough back they won’t notice my intention until it is too late.

  When I reach the foyer, I push the button that will call the elevator and glance around. A few partygoers wander this way but they are wrapped up in their own conversations. I sidestep and slip out the door into the stairwell. It is seventeen flights down but I don’t go that way.

  It is three flights to the roof. Even so, I am winded when I reach the door marked “Exit” in glowing red letters. I pause to catch my breath—and curse myself for that last swig of vodka. So far, I’ve heard no sounds behind me, no indication I am being followed.

  I shove the door open.

  The chilled air sobers me and the tingly feeling in my fingertips and toes lessens. I scan side to side and spot a ladder extending up and over the edge of the roof. My shoes click loudly as I break into a run. For a fleeting moment, I believe I have escaped and it is exhilarating. The liquid fire in my belly burns through my veins, charging me with energy. I increase my speed.

  I’ve never actually allowed myself to imagine something like this. It’s too far-fetched, too impossible. And too dangerous. If I’m caught trying to leave, I will be terminated for sure. If I succeed in escaping, I have nowhere to go and will probably succumb to the elements or starvation anyway.

  My plan is crazy, ridiculous. Forbidden. But I don’t stop. I would much rather die on my own terms than according to the plans of someone like Titus Rogen.

  I am two steps from the edge when a hand closes over my wrist and wrenches me sideways.

  I scream and then my head hits the brick wall and I am abruptly silent. The pain is instant and overwhelming and I cannot see past the blackness that closes in like a widening funnel around my pupils. My knees buckle and the hand on my wrist is not enough to keep me upright. As I slide to the ground, the hand releases me. I hear a grunt and am not sure whether it belongs to me or my assailant.