Page 27 of Guardian
The small rectangular bar, gleaming with cut glasses and polished wood, is the most elegant thing I’ve ever seen.Michael has wandered over there, admiring the glossy surface and tracing the golden trim with the tips of his fingers.It definitely looks like the sort of place wealthy people would drink.Not people who simply have a lot of money, but classy people, stylish people.People who are friends with politicians and who use their money to pull strings from the shadows.
If I listen carefully, I can almost hear my mom chiding me for my overactive imagination.
Honestly, though, I don’t belong here.My clothes are damp and muddy, and even though the place isn’t open for business yet, the few employees milling about are all polished and well dressed.Over at the bar, Michael has seated himself to chat with a guy who looks like he’s stocking bottles, his clothes somehow pristine even after slogging through Liam’s muddy yard.
Trying to tamp down my envy, I turn to take in the rest of the massive room, gasping at what’s in the middle of the floor.There are clusters of comfortable-looking chairs and loveseats, each surrounding a sort of padded table, a low bench similar to what I’ve seen in Liam’s garage.One group of chairs is situated around a hanging contraption that looks as if it’s maybe meant to tie a person to it?If I had my phone, I’d take a picture so I could look it up later.
The carpet under my feet has a dark, abstract kind of pattern, sort of like at the movie theater.Absurdly, I remember an online video about what the carpeting of pricey hotels looks like under a blacklight.Would it be the same here?Worse?People have sex here, but they have sex in hotels, too.People who aren’t me, obviously.
I make a circle in the middle of the room, picturing it with the lights low and full of people.Do they come here dressed in cocktail attire like the employees, or black latex like I’ve seen in the movies?
Guess I’m about to find out.
“Like what you see?”
“Ah.Sorry.”I’m certain my feet leave the ground when I spin around to find the voice.It’s the quiet growl of a guy who has power and money but doesn’t need volume to get people’s attention.Like Liam, sort of, but this guy looks more refined, and he has an accent.Not sure what kind.British-ish?But not quite.I don’t know.
“You must be Ravi.”He’s looking me up and down, and immediately I wish I could sink into the floor.I know what I must look like.Soggy.Dirty.At least I had the foresight to clean my feet off on the mat out front.Now, though, I realize I should’ve asked Michael if he could take me somewhere to change.
It’s real work, fighting the urge to turn around and slink back out the door.
“Mr.Corvus?Hi.”I hold my hand out, see a smear of mud on my palm, and then pull it back.“I-I’m sorry we’re late.I was kind of…being held prisoner?”
He raises one eyebrow.He won’t believe me, I know he won’t, but I wasn’t sure what else to say.Anything else would be a fake excuse and would probably sound like one.
From living with Liam, I know how easily some people can detect lies.I’d bet my stolen moving fund the owner of Shadow is that kind of guy.
Still shouldn’t have told him you were a prisoner, dumbass.
Daniel Corvus stands close enough that I have to crane my neck to make eye contact.He’s as built as Liam muscle-wise, and he’s got the same calculating look in his eyes.Like even if he sounds friendly and casual he’s probably already thought of how to pin you to the floor if you step out of line.
The thought makes me shiver.Or maybe it’s the air conditioning on my wet clothes?
He’s also very…I don’t know…stately?Like, I could picture him on the back of a horse with a helmet under his arm.His voice makes a weird rumbly sensation in my chest.Not sure what to do with that.
I do my best to hold still as he circles me, his feet silent on the dark carpet beneath our feet.Whatever he’s looking for as he sizes me up, I don’t know if he’ll find it.
“Held prisoner?I don’t see a tattered dress or long, flowing hair.”
Shaking my head makes my glasses slip down my nose.I push them back up again.“I’m sorry?I don’t understand.”Was that sexist?Should I be offended?
He tilts his head to one side and then the other, examining me.Self-consciousness has me wanting to shrink back, but then again, I’ll have more than one person staring at me on the night of the auction.It’s probably something I should get used to.
“You don’t look like a helpless maiden.”
“Oh.Uh, I’m not?I had to pick a lock, though.I’d seen videos of it but never practiced on that kind, so it took me a while.”
Why am I even blurting these things out?Why does he keep staring at me like that?I don’t like the way he pauses and stares after every sentence.It gives me this squirmy, uncomfortable sensation that he’s rooting around in my brain or looking into my soul or something.
God, imagine if someone could really do that.I’m not sure they’d like what they found.
“Ravi…Novak.is that correct?”
“Is that correct?”Wait, he’s asking me.“Uh.Yes.Sir.”
I don’t know why I tack on the last part, only that it feels important.
“Your parents are Polish?”
