22. Lia

22

LIA

It'd been so long since I'd had anything good or happy in my life—Caleb made me laugh and I was doomed.

That Tuesday I went from folding cranes with my boyfriend's handsome but awkward older brother to falling for him, and I was even more certain of my realization the next morning, when I was in the kitchen pouring cereal. Caleb emerged from his bedroom, his brown hair a bird's nest on his head, with a sleepy expression. He shuffled out to join me, pouring coffee for himself in silence, and I knew it was too late.

For some utterly unfair reason, I was in love with him—and my love made me a bad person.

—Sarah, from One of a Thousand Wishes by A. R. McGeorge

I 'd tried to stick to the parameters of the task Rhaim had set me to, but it was hard. I wanted to impress him so badly, but I didn't even have forty-eight hours. I decided to do what he wanted to the letter, sorting through the chaotic mess I'd been handed, profit-and-loss statements—more like loss-and-loss statements, with how bad the distillery had been hemorrhaging money—to organize them into something that I could sit with and understand.

Numbers were easy. They couldn't lie, and they had to make sense, and so while I calculated the somewhat astronomical debt the distillery was in due to the idiocy of its owners—who at the time of its purchase had been going through a messy divorce—I lost myself safely for hours just as if I'd been reading, and I managed not to glance at my phone even once.

I went home at five that night, taking everything with me, feeling a little bit like a business-bitch on the way to my driver's car, with my back-breaking bag that I had earned, and hauled it upstairs, where I was subsequently greeted by the doorman, holding all the office supply purchases I'd made through-out the day—I'd gone to fucking town.

And some of the clothes I'd put on Rhaim's card had arrived too. Enough for me to choose my outfit the next morning carefully: pretty emerald slacks that fit my hips and ass, but that filled out enough through the leg to have a swing at the hem, and a long-sleeved shirt in a complementary teal that had a scalloped neckline. I swept all of my long hair up into a pristinely done bun, and put on enough makeup to show I'd tried, but not too hard—my lipstick was Mauve #3, a tasteful deep purple-pink jewel tone. Then I tucked my feet into heels, and put everything back into my red satchel again, only this time well-organized.

The bag clashed, but there was nothing I could do about that.

And when three thirty rolled around, I could barely contain my excitement.

All I wanted to do was make the man in the next room happy.

I took in the most important binder with the copies of my presentation for his perusal and held his out to him. I'd figured out where the nice color copiers were in Corvo that morning.

He took it, started reading, and waved at me to begin without looking up.

"Appensworth's Distillery has had a troubled recent history," I said, keeping my voice neutral but pleasant. "It was a family operation for thirty years, but after the tragic death of Roger Appensworth the Third, the operation is in shambles. Logan Gill, the lone Appensworth remaining, is in the process of getting a contentious divorce?—"

Rhaim looked up at that. "Three reasons, Ms. Ferreo," he reminded me.

I frowned, which seemed to disappoint him, as he closed the pamphlet I'd handed over. "First reason, page four," I directed him, pointing at it, hoping he'd open it up again. "Taxes. I don't know what state the rest of Corvo is in, but maybe my father needed something to write off. Appensworth definitely meets that criteria, it's so far in the red it's like a victim in a slasher flick."

Rhaim snorted. "And the other two?"

"It's already got all the licenses in place plus the infrastructure, so he wouldn't be starting from scratch in this endeavor. If you turn to page six, you'll see my list of what I believe to be tangible assets, with the caveat that I haven't personally seen the site. According to my research, some of the equipment in the distillery listed in the sale is out of date and needs to be replaced with newer models, but there's a tasting room, which leads me to," I said quickly as he began to spin his hand in the air impatiently, "the third reason—that the rest of my father's hospitality groups can begin to purchase and use what will shortly be his luxury liquors at a wholesale. For instance, if the casino deal you're working on goes through," I said, and one of his eyebrows peaked, "you'll be able to lock them into buying only from Appensworth—or, Iron Oak, as I'd like to rebrand it." I hadn't put that precise, hopeful, fourth part, about my father's vanity in writing, but I knew if we named things after him—my last name meant iron in Italian—he was far more likely to tolerate the extra time it would take to get the distillery off the ground.

I didn't want to just run a distillery—but it would be a start. And I'd decided in the course of my research that it would be a fantastic place to prove myself to my father. If I could turn Appensworth around, he'd have to believe in me.

"Well, this is a very pretty brochure," Rhaim said, after too long a pause, and thumbing through it again.

"I'd like to go see it, and look at their books in person?—"

"Sure," Rhaim said, dismissively, and I knew that I was losing him, even though I couldn't quite understand why. I'd done exactly what he'd wanted me to— to the very letter! But I clearly must've missed something. Panic raced through every neuron I owned, but for once it was very different from the horrifying instability I felt whenever my "interruptions" occurred.

No, now for the first time, it was a tool for me, hammering my intellect into the point of a blade—and instead of using it to cut myself, I slashed outwards with it to make sense of the world around me, as quickly as I could so I make myself worthy of him.

I took a step forward and picked up the notepad off his desk that he'd used to write his dinner order down the other night, a pen, and quickly wrote a list, in tiny letters, at the bottom of a page.

It's five miles from the Atlantic.

It's near a major highway.

Thus access to both land and sea, and excuses to ship in heavy things, and also ship them out.

You can hide a lot beneath several tons of grain/potatoes/or bottles.

They were all things that were true—and they seemed like they rose to the level of secrecy Rhaim required, so rather than speaking them out loud, I tore off the bottom of the page.

"If this is why," I said, as I handed it over, "I recommend we shift into vodka production. It'll be slightly déclassé as compared to the current whiskey—of which we should definitely keep hold of the aged barrels and slowly release them—but if we rebrand for hospitality use, vodka's probably the more functional liquor anyhow. Plus, far less overhead, since there's no aging—and theoretically, far more volume, which will lead to far more opportunity," I said, pointing at the paper I'd given him.

Opportunities for what went unsaid, but I remembered the kind of people my father associated with when I was a child, and the stories my mother had told me of the danger he was in. Being worried about my dad getting shot just like Freddie was probably half the reason that she'd started drinking.

And then I realized I'd put stars around the world "lot" out of habit. I regretted it immediately, but it was too late.

Rhaim read it, rocked back, and looked at me. I had very clearly indicated that the distillery could be used for illicit purposes—because I knew where I came from, and I wasn't ashamed of it. I wanted to be fucking useful. I wanted to prove myself. And fuck Freddie Junior—and his father too, for that matter—someday I wanted to be in charge of things.

He set the piece of paper down, then leaned over and started going through his desk drawers for an inordinate amount of time, until I couldn't stop myself from asking, "What are you doing?"

"Looking for a gold star," he said.

"Fu—" I started, then the curse word died on my lips, remembering his prior commandment.

"No, that's okay," he said, closing his drawers to look at me with a bemused sense of pride. "You're part of the financial services sector now. You can cuss if you want to."

I snorted and fell into one of the leatherbound chairs opposite his desk with relief.

"I was worried for a moment your only skills were in brochure making," he went on.

"Fuck you," I said, trying it out—and he laughed and stood, coming to the front of his desk to lean on it, not all that far away from me.

"It's a nice brochure. I mean, I don't even think I know where the color copiers are, so kudos for that as well," he said, before holding the separate piece of paper I'd given him up. "This—is wrong and immaterial. Your father's name is all over the paperwork for the distillery, and he signed for it in person."

My jaw dropped a little. Which meant he wouldn't be doing anything nefarious from it—it would be far too easy to trace back to him. I hadn't thought to consider that in my panic, and I was disappointed in myself as Rhaim went on.

"But that you had these thoughts?" he said, tapping the edge of the paper to his temple briefly. "Good. And even better that you wrote them down. You catch on quickly, and I like that."

My silly chest swelled with pride. Even the briefest amount of positive attention from him was thrilling.

"If these were real, though," he went on, showing the paper to me, "what do you think I should do with this?"

I hadn't stopped to consider what my next course of action should be when I was writing things down—but he had a point. You could never leave evidence behind—or if you did, you had to make sure it was only the kind of evidence you wanted other people to see.

"Shred it?" I guessed, then whipped my eyes up to his office's high ceiling. "Burn it?" I went on, as I looked for fire alarms, before catching his curious gaze again.

And then I had no idea what possessed me, but I took the paper from him, crumpled it up, and popped it into my mouth.

Actually, I knew exactly what I was thinking about—the time I'd had to hide a poem from an old roommate at boarding school. She'd been held back like three years, she was twice as big as I was, and such a bitch to me. I was already the weird kid who came in halfway through the semester who didn't have any friends or family nearby and who wasn't going anywhere for the holidays. If she'd caught me writing poetry it would've been like signing my own death warrant.

I'd only written down the poem—something simple, about Rhaim, go figure—so that I could have something for myself in that dismal place.

And I remembered at the time, thinking that they were the only words I'd ever swallowed that didn't turn to knives inside and hurt me.

Because they were about him.

So I chewed and swallowed, on instinct almost, and then out of long habit from all the places I'd been trapped in, and all the pills I'd ever been given that I'd been told I had to take—I opened my mouth to show him how it was empty inside like a goddamned baby bird.

I caught myself a second too late and gasped.

To say I wanted to melt with humiliation was not enough.

I wished for the earth to crack open and save me.

All the blood in my body rushed up to my skin as I sank back in the chair, bowing my head, collapsing, wondering if maybe I fell to the ground I could seep through the carpeting to make my escape.

And then I felt his fingers against my skin—holding my chin again, like he'd asked permission to at Vertigo—a permission which I would never, ever revoke. Rhaim stared down at me and I wished with my whole being that he could just read my mind.

"Lia," he said, in a calm tone, "what is it that you want?"

I felt my heartbeat thundering in my face.

If I told him the truth—that I wanted him and only him—I'd have to bring up Uncle Freddie and the fire, and I didn't know if I could do that, even if I wanted to.

So I gave him the next truest answer I could stand. "I want Corvo." One of his eyebrows cocked imperiously, but he didn't move otherwise, so I continued. "I know my father doesn't believe in me, and I know Freddie Senior's next in line." At the thought of my uncle being responsible for anything about my future life or finances, I full-body shuddered. "And then Junior, probably. But it should be mine—and I know I can't get it without you." A long moment passed between us and made me reckless. "And I'm willing to do anything to make that happen."

His expression darkened. "You already know my opinion on offering yourself wholesale, Lia."

I did—I remembered him chastising me at the club. "I'm not a fool. But I am desperate." And he hadn't walked away yet, so I doubled down. "You could teach me. Train me. Here...and anywhere else you wanted to." I hoped he saw what I was implying in my eyes.

A muscle beneath his jaw clenched. "And wait for your father to kill me?" he asked.

"I would never tell." I shook my head in his hand, willing him to believe. "I haven't yet, have I?"

"Because apparently I have something you need." His voice had turned acerbic.

I straightened in the chair and spoke primly, staring up at him with challenge in my eyes. "You've been hard around me often enough—apparently I have something you need, too."

He met my gaze head on, and spoke with the gangster drawl he must have had before neckties choked it out of him. "You think tight pussy's worth burning down my world for?"

"Fuck me and report back." I watched his nostrils flare and his pupils almost imperceptibly widen, then added, "Sir."

The corners of his lips rose cruelly. I wouldn't have said that he was happy with me, so much as he was happier when I was fighting—and I wondered what that boded for my future.

He continued to contemplate me, and then shook my chin a little. "Open."

I did as he commanded, dropping my jaw, same as I had when I'd swallowed the note, only this time not fading back, just staring willfully up at him, as he brought up his thumb to swipe across my mouth. It caught on my lipstick, dragging the tender flesh a little as he traced it in a circle around my lips, and it felt like the beginning of everything I'd ever wanted—and then he sank his thumb between my lips.

I sucked on it without thinking—and without asking, he pulled it back and shoved his two forefingers in, instead, skating my teeth up to his knuckles. I tasted him on my tongue and when he hit the back of my throat I—I dropped.

Not physically, but mentally, spiritually, emotionally—and any other "ly" words that could be associated with who the fuck I was?

I wasn't anymore.

There was nothing but being his.

Ten years of my life had led to this very moment, and no matter how shitty the intervening time had been, everything suddenly became worthwhile.

I felt all the other confusing doors in my soul closing, one by one, until it was just him and me, and when I fluttered my eyes open, feeling calm for the first time in a decade, I found him watching me like a dark deity. His face was nearly expressionless, his lips tilted towards their omnipresent frown—but his eyes were so frighteningly bright they made me shiver.

And then he leaned down, bringing his lips even to my ear. "Did you really want a daddy, Lia?" he whispered roughly.

A brutal mélange of hope and atrocity rose up inside my chest, and I nodded so hard I almost gagged myself on his fingers. Maybe I hadn't known it until that night at Vertigo, but now that I was with him, I wanted it with my whole being.

He rocked back to standing and he pulled his hand away, a string of my saliva dripping from his fingers. "What a good girl you are," he said softly, retrieving a handkerchief from inside his suit to wipe off the rime of mauve I'd left against his skin. "Don't ever be embarrassed again unless I tell you to be," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Go fix your lipstick."

My consciousness crash landed back into my body—and propelled all of me back into the real world. I closed my mouth with an audible click as my teeth met.

I was here, with him, and we'd just done that ? —

But I'd just been given my first command. I stood shakily and walked into the other office in a daze, picking up my phone and flipping the camera on so that I could see myself on my still-cracked screen, like looking into a broken mirror.

Who's the craziest of them all? I thought, and snorted softly, before using my thumb to touch up the edges of my lipstick he'd streaked as he came up behind me.

"We need to talk," he said at a normal volume, and it was his turn to hand me a note—with an address and a date and a time—noon, Sunday morning.

I said the only thing I could. "Yes, sir."