Honey (25 page)

Feet dragging along plush corridor carpeting, Marc fought against throwing up. “Where are you taking me?” he asked, swollen lips slurring the question.

Dawes shot him a smile over one beefy shoulder. “To a party, and this time, you get to be the guest of honor.”

That didn't sound good.

Ahead, the suite door opened. “Welcome, welcome,” Drew called out from inside.

They released him and shoved him through. He shot a hand out to the wall, catching himself at the last minute before falling on his face and sliding slowly to the floor though his right knee refused to bend. A gasp sent his head shooting up. He cracked open an eye, the one that still opened, and saw her. “Honey.”

White-faced and wet-eyed, she ran to him. “Oh, my God, Marc.” She sank down on her knees beside him. “This is all my fault.”

He shook his head, or at least he tried to. The effort doubled his vision and sent his senses swimming. “Y-you look really … pretty. Meant to tell you earlier but I … forgot.”

“Oh, Marc.” Gentle hands, Honey's, slipped over his shoulders. She braced him against her, her light floral fragrance cutting through the stench of sweat and blood.

Holding his head up felt like a feat but somehow he managed it. Regardless of whether or not she'd gotten Winterthur's confession on record, and judging by the stricken look of her, he didn't think she had, she needed to save herself.

“G-get … get yourself out of here. Forget …
everything
. Just say the word and … go.”

She shook her head. “I can't.” She touched her hair, and for the first time he noticed what was different about her. The fancy headband was gone, and with it, the wire.
Shit.

Expensive wingtips sidled up to them. “So, Doctor Sandler, we meet again. Pardon me for not recognizing you with your clothes off.”

“What do you want?”

“For starters, I want to know why Honey was wearing a wire—and why you were helping her.”

The inside of Marc's mouth tasted coppery. His saliva was the consistency of paste. He spoke slowly, focusing on enunciating the words without spitting blood or drooling. “She didn't have a choice. The feds are on to you, Winterthur. They may not get you tonight, but they'll get you eventually.”

Drew paused as if considering. “Maybe … but I doubt it.”

Kneeling beside Marc, Honey lifted her tear-streaked face to her tormentor. “I knew you were a bastard, but even I underestimated just how far gone you are. You have plenty of money, more than you know what to do with. You could retire today and never have to work again. Those people downstairs, all those people, you don't need their money, so why? Why do all of … this?”

Straightening, Drew shrugged. “It's what I do.”

Marc felt Honey stiffen. Shoulders back and head high, she didn't seem so much frightened as furious. “What … you do? Wreck people's lives? You're proud of that?”

He let out a laugh. “Sure, why not? I don't build anything. I've never wanted to. What I do is trade in dreams—fucking castles in the air.” His mouth curled in disgust. “Every sucker down there is a loser with a capital ‘L.' They're born to be screwed, and guys like Frank and me—” He gestured to Dawes hanging back by the door “—were born to do the screwing. People like them don't deserve money. They don't have the first idea of what to do with it. The way I look at it, keeping wealth in the hands of the One Percent of us who know how to use it is performing a public service.”

Disgusted, Marc spoke up. “So you got what you wanted. What's left?”

“Oh, that's where you're wrong, Sandler. I want a lot of things. Maybe Honey hasn't mentioned it, but I'm a man of big appetites.” He slanted her a sly look, and despite feeling like a scarecrow that had the stuffing knocked out, Marc wanted to murder him.

Drew squatted down beside them. “Right now what I want is for us to play a little game. Honey here is going to suck my cock and then Frank's cock and then Frick and Frack's cocks, and maybe to liven things up, we'll bring in a clit and she can suck it, too. But here's the catch. Every time she stops, every time she so much as thinks of taking a break or a breath, a breath that doesn't have cock or pussy in it, you doc, are going to get whacked with that bat.” He flung an arm out toward the bouncers, the one brandishing the bat. “Everyone clear on the rules? Great, I'll take that as a yes. Okay kids, let's get started.”

Marc snagged Honey's gaze and shook his head. So much for him being her knight in shining armor. So much for thinking he could keep her safe. “Honey, don't do it.” He'd let himself be bludgeoned to death before he saw her sacrifice herself in that way.

High on booze, power, and God only knew what else, Drew bounced about the room. “Oh, she's going to do it all right, and the best part is, you're going to watch. Pretty cool, huh?”

“No, she's not.” Lowering his voice, Marc twisted toward Honey. “Baby, please, hang tough, if not for me, then for
Audrey
.”

With the wire gone, saying the name aloud was pointless so far as rescue went, but invoking Honey's role model might just jar her into remembering who and what she was. With or without him, she needed to get her GED, go to college, have a life she could feel proud of—a life that didn't include scumbags like Winterthur.

She sent him a pitying look as though he must not quite understand. “The wire, Marc, he found it.”

Winterthur broke in. “That's right, I did. You two can scream your stupid code word to the rafters, and it's not going to help you. The cavalry isn't coming, Sandler, so do yourself a favor and sit back and watch the show. In her escort days, Honey here commanded a grand per date.”

Her escort days!
Marc's Cyclops gaze flew to Honey—but for once, she couldn't look him in the eye.

Smug-faced, Drew sallied forth. “Don't tell me she failed to mention she spent two years as an escort—or a call girl, as you people would say. I can't say I know how she fucks when it's for free, but when there's money involved, believe me, she works her ass off.”

“Yes, it's true,” she finally said, saving Marc from asking. “I was going to tell you eventually, tonight actually. I came to New York as a runaway with no diploma and no money, and being paid to wear pretty clothes and go on ‘dates' with professional men seemed exciting, even glamorous. Once I realized what was … involved, I told myself I'd stop as soon as I figured out something else to do, only—”

“She met me,” Drew finished for her. “You would have thought I was Prince Fucking Charming the way she looked at me back then.”

Marc swallowed hard. “It sounds like you took advantage of a desperate situation.”

Drew snorted. “Believe me, I didn't have to twist her arm. A few shopping trips to Tiffany's, and she couldn't get enough of sucking me off—or whatever else I wanted. The first time I had her lick my boots, she came so hard I thought I was going to have to call 911.”

Honey snapped back as if struck. She shot to her feet and whirled on Winterthur. “Kill me if you want, but you don't own me, not now, not ever again!” Arms outstretched, she dealt Drew a pretty impressive shove.

Only goading guys like Winterthur was a seriously bad idea. Adrenalin sent Marc surging to his feet. He took his first hobbling step, determined to do whatever he could to defend her. Maybe if they were busy beating him, she could slip out and escape.

The door to the suite flew open. “FBI, freeze!”

The three federal agents burst into the room, weapons drawn, Carlson at the front. The baseball bat clunked to the carpet as the two thugs and Dawes all lifted their hands high.

Marc sagged against the wall. “You took long enough.”

“What can I say? I can't resist a grand entrance,” Carlson deadpanned. Holding his gun on Drew, he shouted, “Hands in the air, Winterthur—now!”

Marc's relief was short-lived. Drew grabbed Honey, shoved her in front of him, and grabbed her in a chokehold, the blade of his arm cutting across her windpipe.

“Anybody make so much as one fucking move toward me, and I'll break the bitch's neck.”

Carlson trained his cocked pistol on Drew. “It's over, Winterthur. Let her go. You're only making things worse for yourself.”

Perspiring profusely, Drew shook his head. “Whatever you think you've got, it'll never hold up in court. It's entrapment, pure and simple.”

“In that case, why not turn yourself in?” Carlson reasoned, edging toward Drew and Honey.

Wilkes moved closer, covering his partner. “He's right. Guys like you have their lawyers on speed dial. Surrender now and maybe you can cut yourself a sweet deal.”

Supporting himself on his good leg, Marc launched himself at Winterthur. Focused on Carlson and the other agents, Drew didn't see him coming. The sideways strike knocked him back, loosening his grip on Honey, who slipped free. Though the beating he'd taken had been brutal, fortunately they hadn't gotten around to messing with his hands. Making use of them now, Marc grabbed the slighter built man and slammed him into the wall. Drew screamed, the back of his skull smashing into drywall.

“How's it feel to be on the receiving end of being beat, big man?” Marc hissed.

Holding him pinned, Marc hauled back—and swung. His fist smashed into Winterthur's nose. Blood spurted. Beneath his knuckles, cartilage crunched. He drew back, prepared to keep going.

Carlson's shout cut through his craziness. “That's enough, Sandler. I said
enough
!”

Marc unfurled his fist, dropped his arms, and backed away.

Chest heaving, Winterthur folded to the floor. “Don't just stand there. I need a doctor.”

Weapon lowered, Wilkes walked up to him. “Yeah, yeah, we'll see about it,” he said, slapping on the cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent … ”

Honey rushed over to him. “Oh, darling, we have to get you to a hospital,” she said, wrapping a steadying arm around his waist.

Adrenalin ebbing, he realized he didn't feel well at all. Pain pulsed through him. Woozy, he turned toward her—and reeled. Dark dots danced. A tunnel loomed ahead. Freed from the harness of gravity and fear, he felt himself being sucked toward it. Frantic voices rose up around him, but he was too far gone to answer. Honey's was the last he heard before he disappeared into the blackness.

Stay with me, Marc. Please, darling, I love you.

*

It was all for nothing.

Honey watched through a waterfall of tears as the two paramedics lifted Marc from the board onto the gurney. His face was a mask of bloodied cuts and bruises. Whatever skin wasn't lacerated and swollen was the color of ash.

Standing aside while they strapped him in, she smoothed a hand over his arm. “I love you, Marc.”

Like the foiled sting operation, the declaration was pointless. Unconscious, he couldn't hear her. At least she didn't think he could.

Weapon holstered, Agent Carlson came up beside her. “You did good, Ms. Gustafson.”

“So I've fulfilled my obligation to the Bureau even though—”

“You have.”

“I want to ride with him in the ambulance,” she said, still looking at Marc.

“Of course,” he said. “We'll follow you to the hospital and take your statement there.”

Honey jerked her gaze from Marc to Carlson. “That's fucking generous of you, agent, but unfortunately I'm not feeling especially thankful at the moment.” Despite her past, she made it a point never to curse, certainly not in public, but the day's events called for an exception.

“You're in shock.”

“Damn right I'm in shock! The man I love is lying unconscious on an ambulance gurney. He may have internal bleeding and God only knows what else, but that's not even the worst of it. The worst of it is I put him there—me, no one else. When he wakes up,
if
he wakes up, he's probably going to hate me.
I
hate me.”

“I know it's hard to see the bigger picture right now, but what you did today has saved a lot of people not only money, in some cases their life's savings, but their futures.”

She slanted him a look. Could a FBI agent really be that naïve? “Granted, you've got Drew for assault and battery and whatever other charges go with having the crap beat out of someone, but you have to understand, he can afford a team of top lawyers. He'll pay a stiff fine and maybe do some community service or a few months in an anklet under house arrest, but in the long run he'll be fine—and back to running his next scam.” Marc, on the other hand, might not walk right ever again. Was that really justice? Honey didn't think so.

Carlson stared at her for a long moment. “You don't know, do you?”

Honey swiped a hand through her hair, a wreck like the rest of her. “Know what?”

“Winterthur, we got him.”

“Yes, yes, he's in police custody for now, but what I just said—”

“His confession. On record. We got it. He's not just getting a wrist slap. He's likely going away for a while.”

“But I don't understand. The bug you planted in my hair fascinator, he found it. Whatever he said, confessed, afterward, I'll testify to, but it's his word against mine and I'm … a former prostitute.”

“Every successful undercover operation always allows for the unexpected.”

Honey paused. Hope could be a dangerous thing. It sucked you in, spitting you out when life didn't come through. “Are you saying you had some sort of … backup plan?”

Carlson smiled, actually smiled, his mouth stretching so wide Honey marveled his face didn't crack. “We didn't only rely on the wire in your headpiece, Ms. Gustafson. We also bugged the suite.”

 

“I have learnt how to live … how to be in the world and of the world, and not just to stand aside and watch.”—Audrey Hepburn

One year later, School of Visual Arts, Manhattan

Marc: “I'm so proud of you, baby.”

Peter: “I knew you could do it, Honey.”

Liz: “This is beautiful work, seriously stunning.”

Sarah: “I'm doing a non-fiction coffee table book on raising kids in NYC. Would you consider being one of my contributing photographers?”

Brian: “Awesome!”

All the praise had Honey's face heating. “Thanks, everyone, but I've still got a long way to go before I graduate.”

“On the flip side, look how far you've come already, and in just a year,” Liz said, arm draped around Jonathan.

As usual, her friend made a good point. Thanks to Marc helping her cram, she'd passed her GED on the first try and began taking summer courses for college credit. Starting her freshman year at the ripe age of twenty-eight seemed almost sitcom material, but her worst fears had proven overblown. So far, everyone had been super nice, and several of her classes had a few continuing education students who were even older than her—thank God!

Since enrolling in SVA, she'd come to know the work of Depression-era photographer Dorothea Lange, whose photographs of migrant workers had often been captioned with words from the workers themselves, and Richard Avedon, the first staff photographer for
The New Yorker.
It was Avedon who'd famously said, “What I hope to do is photograph people of accomplishment, not celebrity, and help define the difference once again.”

Inspired by their legacy, Honey had focused her first student show on portraiture. By far her own worst critic, even she had to admit that the poignant black-and-white photographs of children and adolescents living in the Marcy Houses in Brooklyn had turned out better than she'd hoped, well worth the past few frenzied months of shooting, culling, editing, matting, and framing. Once home to the rapper Jay-Z, the low-income city housing project was notorious for its crime statistics. During the shoot, Honey had felt herself tearing up on more than one occasion, but she'd also found plenty of hope amidst the despair, especially reflected in the eyes of the children.

Pursuing the project had quickly become about more than academic credit. If even one of her photos motivated someone, be it a private person or public official, to prioritize working on better solutions for the Marcy House kids and those living in similar circumstances throughout the five boroughs, she would view the show as a success regardless of what grade she got.

But among her “fan club,” as Marc insisted on saying, she'd already earned best in show. Nearly everyone she currently knew in New York had turned out to support her, as well as a few people she was just now meeting, and one very special guest …

“Hortense, these are just wonderful. I am just so gosh darn proud of you.”

Honey turned to her mother. Betty's once-brunette hair was salt-and-pepper now, her eyes and mouth bracketed by fine lines; still she looked more vibrant and relaxed than Honey ever remembered seeing her. Small surprise, the key to her rejuvenation had been deep-sixing Sam. Honey's running away had been a wakeup call. Religious principles notwithstanding, once Sam had bragged aloud about using his fists to keep not only his wife but also his stepdaughter in line, “'til death do us part” or not, her mother was done with him. A restraining order, a divorce, and a small business loan had secured her a fresh start as the owner of her own hair salon.

But Honey—Hortense—remained lost to her. In reading the news about Drew's indictment, she'd seen Honey's picture in the paper and, though the name was different, the face undeniably belonged to her baby. There'd been the first tentative reaching out on Facebook, followed by phone and Skype chats; still nothing could prepare Honey for standing face-to-face with her mom after almost a decade.

She'd flown in four days ago, a blowout surprise orchestrated by Marc. Once the initial awkwardness faded, they hadn't been able to stop touching—or talking. Ironic how the woman to whom Honey had worried she wouldn't have two words to string together was the very person to whom she couldn't seem to
stop
talking. Then again, they had a lot of years to catch up on—and considerable mutual forgiving to do.

They weren't the only ones.

Marc's older brother, Anthony—Tony—had been released on parole in time to attend the event. Living with their mother for now, he too had come by earlier to meet “Marc's girl” and wish her well. A hulking, soft-spoken man with sad eyes, he didn't much match Marc's memory of his brash, big-talking older brother. Seeing the siblings embrace for the first time in eight years had been an emotional moment for everyone, especially their mother; the latter had greeted Honey with the now habitual hug.

Happier than she could remember ever being, Honey reached out and squeezed her own mother's hand. Even after four days, she still couldn't quite believe she had her mom back in her life. “Thanks, Mama, but I couldn't have gotten this far without Marc. He spent all his days and evenings off last summer helping me cram my basic coursework so I could apply in time.”

They'd moved in together that previous spring into an apartment occupying the first floor of a converted Brooklyn Heights brownstone that accepted tenants with pets. Honey still had a hard time grasping that she lived in New York City with an actual backyard.

Marc shook his head. “You didn't need my help. You were doing just fine on your own.”

Honey shook her head. “In the science part, I so did need your help.”

“Okay, well, yes, that's true. In science she did.”

Grinning, Peter's husband, Pol, piped up, “Will you look at them. Bickering like an old married couple already.”

Honey caught Marc's eye and hid a smile. Considering what they'd done in the shower that morning and on the kitchen counter the night before, they were still solidly in the “honeymoon” phase.

Peter caught her hand. “Ooh, I see someone's gone and put a ring on it.”

Feeling shy suddenly, Honey nodded. “Marc was so sweet. He waited for Mama to get here and then he proposed.”

“Asked my permission like a proper gentleman,” her mother put in.

Pol sent her a teasing smile. “And do you mind telling us all what answer it was you gave, Betty?”

Resting fisted hands on her still slender hips, Betty replied, “What do you think I said? Look at him—smart, polite, easy on the eyes—and a doctor! I told Honey if she didn't marry him, I sure as heck would.”

Marc broke into a blush. Fighting laughter, Honey shook her head. “Oh, Mama, you said no such thing.”

“Maybe not,” her mother conceded, “but I thought it.”

The others crowded around to ooh and aah and generally admire the ring. The modest diamond set in white gold might be a mere chip compared to Sarah's multi-carat rock, but Honey couldn't imagine a more perfect symbol of their love—or a finer man to commit her life to. That Marc wasn't only incredibly kind-hearted and principled but also brilliant, sexy, and, well, an actual doctor, still sometimes overwhelmed her. She felt like Cinderella—and though she didn't have a fairy godmother, collectively and individually her four FATE friends more than filled that role.

“It's perfect,” Liz said.

Sending Marc a sideways smile, Honey nodded. “It is, isn't it?” she said, not only thinking of the ring.

Marc carried her hand to his lips and kissed the top. “I did good?”

“I think I'll keep it—and you.” Standing on her toes, Honey brushed a kiss across his smoothly shaven jaw.

Other than a tiny scar topping his cheekbone, he'd healed without a trace. Though his knee had required arthroscopic surgery, it too had mended. He still pleaded pain whenever Honey suggested they go dancing, and yet he was back to boxing and playing basketball. Go figure.

“When's the big day?” Sarah asked.

Honey and Marc exchanged smiling glances. He held back, letting her take the lead on answering. The small gesture spoke volumes. He wasn't interested in controlling her. When the time was right, they'd formalize their relationship in a church of their mutual choice, but for now, whether engaged or married, it was no less true—they were equal partners, a team. Having never had anything close to a true romantic partnership before, Honey recognized their relationship for what it was: more precious than platinum.

“Once we set a date, you all will be the first to know—promise.”

Jonathan piped up, “Me, too?”

Laughter made the rounds. Smiling, Honey reached down to wipe cookie crumbs from one corner of his mouth. “Yes, darling, you especially.” She lifted her eyes to Liz, and added, “Right now I'm just really focused on school.”

After Marc's, Liz's opinion probably mattered to her the most. Though her life was her responsibility and no one else's—she got that now—knowing Liz was proud of her felt good.

Liz and Sarah exchanged smiles. “Smart girl,” Liz said.

“Getting there.” She slanted Marc a look. “I like to think Audrey would approve.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips along the arc of her cheek. Even though they were in public and the kiss was a chaste one, still Honey felt the familiar tingling heat building—the sensation that suddenly had her counting the hours until they could be alone at home once more.

“I'm sure she would, sweetheart. I'm sure she would.”