Page 7 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
“Damon Scott,” I tell the robotic voice.
A digital sound and a pause, like a catch in her mechanical breath. Even the natural language processor knows I’m making a mistake. Then there’s a ring, and another, before I have time to rethink what I’m doing. Miles away, over plains and mountains, across state lines. We’re so far away, but he sounds like he’s right next to me.
“Hello?” That low voice. That arrogance, that mystery.
There are years between us, a lifetime, but it might as well have been a minute. It all comes crashing back to me as I huddle on my twin bed, remembering the man who saved me, the man who stole me. The man who holds my father’s life in his hands.
Chapter Four
In the space between us there’s a cool breeze, full of sweet memories and dark secrets, bringing with it the unique scent of boy and man. Everything that I tried so hard to forget, rushing back to me in a deep, soul-waking breath.
A fist tightens around my throat, but I don’t know if it’s in the shape of Damon Scott’s hands. Am I afraid of him? Or am I afraid of who I am around him?
Silence stretches out in mocking accusation. Afraid, afraid, afraid.
“Penny,” he says on a sigh that sounds almost obscene, so carnal and pleased.
I’m no longer a sixteen-year-old girl, even if I feel like it right now. “Where’s my father, Damon?”
There. I spoke in an even tone, not tripping over the words. No tremor to match how I’m feeling inside. It’s a testament to years spent around young women like Avery, most of them raised with good breeding and high-society manners. The kind who have their picture in the newspaper after a night at a charity gala. I can pretend, even if that will never be me.
His rough laugh obliterates all my grand ideas. “Is that how you say hello? You don’t call. You don’t write. If I were inclined to that sort of thing, I might think you didn’t care about me.”
“He works for you. That means you know where he is.”
“Then he’s probably busy. He must be, for what I pay him.”
“Every Wednesday he calls me. And now nothing.”
“How much do I pay him?” he asks, his voice thoughtful. “I’ll have to check the books to be sure, but it must be a lot. Enough to cover your private college tuition.”
I flinch, glad he can’t see me across two thousand miles. Even working in the kitchens most nights only covers my food, my textbooks. Not the tuition bill. “You’re the one who wanted him to work for you. You’re the one who made him the stake in our last game.”
“And you’re the one who lost,” he says lightly.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Of course. Like you said, he works for me. I would be a careless employer if I let my men go wandering off, gambling and racking up debt and questioning their loyalty to me.”
A shiver runs through me. “Then where is he?”
“He’s a grown-up, Penny. Like you are now. He’s responsible for himself. You only need to worry about your studies. I’m sure Algebraic Topology is taking up plenty of your focus.”
It’s one of my courses this semester. How does he know that?
“Stop playing with me.”
“Why should I?” he says with a soft laugh. “It’s so much fun.”
Frustration stings my eyes, hot and damp. I look up at the wide-open sky, willing myself not to cry. There are a million stars visible here, most of the land owned by Smith College or one of the other campuses. So much land, so much pride. There aren’t buildings climbing on top of other buildings, as if they might sink into the concrete ground if they don’t. There aren’t glass towers reaching to an endless black sky.
“I’m never coming back,” I say abruptly.
His laugh falls silent. “I know.”
“I hate it there. I hate Tanglewood and being powerless. And most of all I hate you.”
The last part is a lie, because I don’t hate him. I’m drawn to him; I’m repelled by him. It’s far too complex a relationship, an equation I’ve never been able to write. It makes me wonder if I’m lying about the other parts—if maybe some twisted part of me misses home.
If some twisted part of me misses being powerless, too.
“Ah, Penny,” he says, sounding infinitely weary. “I hate you too.”
The words shock me, but the hurt inside shocks me more. He shouldn’t be able to wound me. Three years away from home, growing up, growing strong. It should have been enough armor to protect against anything he could say to me. But the arrow sinks deep, proving that I’ll never be able to escape him.
“What did I do to you?” I ask, quiet, in a voice like I’m six years old again. Like I’m speaking to the wild boy I found by the lake, one I lured into my trailer like a wolf.
