The Redemption (16 page)

“Sarah, now,” he whispers fiercely. “
Right now
.”

“No,” I whisper. “Trust me.”

As I close the door on his face, he flashes white-hot anger. I turn back around, making sure to keep the door unlocked. “My wounds are healing surprisingly well,” I say, sitting back down. “Thanks for your concern. This one on my neck is hardly anything.” I tilt my head so they can get a good view of it.

“Yeah, not too bad,” Oksana agrees.

“And the one on my ribcage isn’t too bad, either—and it’ll get better over time.”

“Let’s see it,” Oksana says. “I need to see for myself.”

“Actually, we have a little tradition here at The Club,” Max says, his tone suddenly lecherous. “I audition every single girl before we send them out on the circuit—just to make sure they’re worthy of our high standards.” He looks at his mother and says something in Ukrainian.

My stomach drops into my toes. I glance at the door, suddenly feeling panicked. Holy crap.

“It won’t take very long,” Max says. “Five minutes.” He stands and holds out his hand.

Holy shit. He expects to fuck me in the bathroom right now?

“Maksim,” Oksana chastises. “
Ne zaraz
.”

My throat is closing up. “Faraday is right on the other side of the door,” I sputter. “And he’s already wondering what’s going on—you saw him. He’s freaking out. There’s not enough time.”

“Maksim,
nemaye
,” Oksana says sharply. “
Ne sʹohodni
.”

Max scowls at his mother and exhales loudly. “Well, if not today, then before she leaves Las Vegas.”

I try to smile, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m failing at the attempt. I have to get out of here—I’m freaking out—but goddammit, I’ve got to get Oksana to open a frickin’ email.

“When can you get away from him for an hour or so? I’ll do it right.” Max winks. “Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. He’s high-maintenance—kind of intense.”

“I’ll drop whatever I’m doing at a moment’s notice.”

“Aw, how sweet—you’ll take a break from stabbing me to fuck me?” My mind is racing. I’ve got to think of some reason to send Oksana an email. I’m running out of time.

Max laughs. “You
are
a little firecracker, aren’t you? I see why he likes you. This is going to be fun.”

“Maksim,
tysha
,” Oksana says sharply. “Sarah, I need to see your scars before you leave here. I can’t put you on the circuit unless I know what the clients will see. I keep a private catalogue of pictures so I can assign girls to our client’s specific preferences.”

Think, Sarah, think.
 

“Faraday’s right on the other side of the door waiting for me,” I say. “I’m not going to get naked for you right here and now. You saw him—he’s suspicious. He could knock down the door any second.”

“Well, I need to see your body right now or there’s no deal.”

Lightning bolt. Hallelujah.
 

“Okay,” I concede. “I’ll go into the bathroom and take a naked selfie right now—for your
personal
catalogue only. Hand me my phone. But I’ll tell you right now, I’m only gonna take the photo from the neck down and I’m keeping my undies on, too.”

Max smiles. “You’re just going to take a photo off the Internet.”

I throw up my hands, exasperated. “How would I do that? I’ll clearly be in
your
bathroom in the photo—and I’ll be wearing
these
.” I quickly lift up my skirt and flash my red G-string.

At the brief glimpse of my undies, Max’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“I’ll take the photo right now and email it to you. I’ll even stand here while you open the photo to make sure it’s acceptable to you.” I grab a coffee mug decorated with cartoon-cats off Oksana’s desk. “And, hey, I’ll hold this cat-mug in the picture, too. I can’t very well Photoshop a picture of me in
your
bathroom, wearing a red G-string, holding a cat-mug, now can I?”

“
Pravda
,” Oksana says, satisfied. “Maksim?”

Max looks dubious for a moment, but then he nods.

I hold out my hand. “May I have my phone, please?”

Max rummages into my purse, pulls out my phone, and scrutinizes it for a long beat.

“It’s not set to record,” I say. I grab the phone from him and hold it against my mouth. “This is Sarah Cruz and I work for The Club. I’ve been bilking Jonas Faraday out of his money since day one and I’m about to embark on a fancy new career as a high-priced call girl.” I smirk at Max. “Not recording.”

He grins at me. “I’ll come into the bathroom with you.”

“Maksim,
budʹ laska
,” Oksana barks.

I hope to God that means “no.” Without waiting to find out, I beeline into the bathroom with my cat-mug and quickly close the door behind me. The minute I’m alone, my knees buckle. I grab the sink ledge to steady myself. “Holy crap,” I whisper, panting. “Pull yourself together, Cruz.”

I pull my sundress over my head and quickly take a photo of myself in the mirror from the neck down, holding the mug; and then I stare at the photo of my almost-naked body, my pulse pounding in my ears. This feels wrong. So, so wrong. Then why am I so sure it’s going to work?

I shake my hands and exhale, trying to calm myself. What’s the worst that can happen here? They try to blackmail me with the photo? They post it to a porn site? I stare at the picture again, trying to imagine it posted on some skeezy porn site filled with topless women. Not the end of the world, right? My face isn’t in the photo. There’s nothing to identify this particular pair of boobs and torso as mine—other than the scar on my ribcage, I guess. In theory, someone could connect that scar to me—but not definitively. Not like they could with a tattoo. I could always deny the photo is of me, if I had to. I could say they Photoshopped that scar onto the photo.

Gah.

This feels like such a bad idea. What’s my alternative, though? They’re not going to open an email from Jonas—that much is clear. They don’t fully trust him for some reason. But they trust me.

Yep, Plan A is officially done-zo. Now it’s time to push ahead with Plan B or accept defeat.
And I refuse to accept defeat.
I embed my photo into the email template Henn gave me, throw my dress back on, and exit the bathroom.

“You want to make sure this isn’t recording again?” I hold out my phone to Max with a shaky hand.

“I just won’t say anything particularly interesting.” He smirks.

“Fabulous.” I look down at my phone. “What’s your email address, Oksana?”

She tells it to me and my hands tremble as I type it into Henn’s email template.

“Max? I’m assuming you want this photo, too?” His expression leaves no doubt his answer is yes. “What’s your email address?”

He tells it to me and I quickly type it into my email header—and then I press send.
Oh. My. God.
I’m about to hyperventilate. I’m sure my cheeks are cherry red.

“Okay, I sent it,” I say, trying to sound calm, but I can barely breathe. “Why don’t you both make sure you got it.”

It feels like time moves at glacial speed as Oksana logs onto her computer and opens her email account.

“Do I meet your high standards?” I ask, my voice quavering and my knees knocking.

“Oh yes, very nice,” Oksana says, viewing the photo.

Oh my God. She opened my email.
She opened it!
 

“You’ll be a top favorite for the ones who like spicy,” Oksana continues. “The scar is okay. You can blame it on a surgery. Your appendix, maybe, like Marilyn Monroe in the famous photos.”

I smile politely at the Marilyn reference, though I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about. “What do you think, Max?” I ask. “Do you like what you see?” I try to sound flirty and inviting, but I’m sure I just sound carsick.

Max taps the screen on his phone—
oh my God, he’s opening the email!
—and I have to breathe through my mouth to keep myself from fainting.

He studies the picture. “I see why Mr. Faraday’s such a big fan of yours.” He looks up at me and licks his lips. “I look forward to sampling this tomorrow.”

“How much are you planning to pay me for the pleasure?”

He scoffs.

“A smart prostitute never gives it away. Right, Oksana?”

Oksana chuckles. “To Maksim, she does—if she knows what’s good for her.”

“I always get my freebie,” Max says. “But don’t worry—I’ll make sure you enjoy it, too. I’m very considerate in that way. Especially for a woman with your
problem
.”

My stomach churns. “I...  I don’t know if I can get away.” I motion to the door. “Faraday is pretty possessive—”

“You’ll figure out a way—if you know what’s good for you.”

There’s an urgent pounding at the door.

“Sarah,” Jonas yells. “It’s time to go. Right now.” He shakes on the door, but it’s locked. When did they lock it?

 I’m suddenly racked with panic. I’ve got to get out of this room.

“Sarah!” he shouts. “Time’s up!”

“I’m coming,” I call back, trying my damnedest to keep my voice light and bright. I whisper to Oksana and Max, “He’s really intense.”

The door shakes again as Jonas tries to open it.

I turn to go, but Max grabs my arm with a vise-like grip.

“Just think. If Yuri had killed you like I’d told him to, I would have missed out on so much fun.” Without warning, he swoops into my face and kisses me on the lips, thrusting his tongue to the back of my throat. I jerk back, utterly repulsed, and he twists my arm. “I guess things always work out for the best.” He smiles like a shark. “I’ll text you my phone number—and I’ll expect your call
tomorrow
.”

Sarah
 

Just a tip. If you’re ever planning on being in a relationship of any kind, but especially a monogamous, romantic relationship, with one Jonas P. Faraday, do not—I repeat,
do not
—do
what I just did. Holy shitballs, as Kat always says, that did not go over well.

The minute Jonas and I were out of earshot from the bad guys, even before we’d reached our car, Jonas let me have it. To say he was angry with me is the understatement of the year. To say he ripped into me and created several new orifices in my body doesn’t do it justice. For the first time ever, I got to see what Jonas’ fury looks like when directed at me instead of his ever-patient brother—and I’ve got to say, it ain’t pretty.

Of course, I cried my eyes out when Jonas started screaming at me, but his meltdown wasn’t the only thing making me cry. The countless conflicting emotions simultaneously slamming into me probably had a lot to do with my tears, too. I felt relief, fury, anxiety, righteous indignation, apology, and shame, all at once—but, mostly, if I’m being honest, pure elation and pride that I’d figured out a way to get Oksana
and
Max to open Henn’s malware email. And I was pissed as hell at Jonas for being so consumed with anger or anxiety or both that he couldn’t appreciate and applaud my savage badassery.

After Jonas’ verbal assault had died down and he was finally capable of speaking rationally again, he demanded I tell him every single thing that happened inside that room with Max and Oksana, from the minute he walked out until I joined him again—and I did. Well, almost everything. I didn’t mention Max’s disgusting demand for a “freebie” or the repulsive kiss he planted on me. What would have been the point of telling him about either wretched thing? I knew Jonas would only turn around, march right back over there, and try to kill the bastard with his bare hands—and I was deathly afraid he’d die in the process. I mean, jeez, I know better than anyone what kind of a monster Max truly is—and I wasn’t about to let anything happen to Jonas.

I did, however, tell Jonas about the naked selfie I emailed to Oksana and Max, and that’s when my hunky-monkey boyfriend went DEFCON-one ballistic on me. Understandably so, I guess, but, wow, the degree of horror and outrage he expressed about that one itty-bitty photo made me wonder if he’d heard the other thing I said, namely, “They opened the email.”

He didn’t react when I said it the first time, so I said it again. “They opened the email, Jonas—both of them. It worked. We did it.”
But he didn’t frickin’ care. Not in that moment, he didn’t, anyway. Nope. He was just angry as hell and nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to distract him from his rage.

I felt empathetic about Jonas’ anger to a point. Who would
want
their girlfriend to email a naked photo of herself to a murderous pimp? But come on. At the end of the day, what’s the big effing deal? My face wasn’t in the photo. It’s a photo of a random, naked body, just like all the other bodies on this planet. A neck, two boobs, a belly button, a red-G-string, a pair of legs, and a cat-mug. Big effing deal.

Frankly, if you want to know the truth, I’m proud I did it. I’m Orgasma the All-Powerful, after all, and today I proved it. When Orgasma’s on a mission for truth and justice, when she’s hell-bent on decimating the bad guys and protecting the innocent, Orgasma stops at nothing to accomplish her mission. Hellz yeah! Orgasma. Will. Be. Victorious. Fuckers!

And, anyway, what the hell was I supposed to do? Go back to the hotel room and say, “Sorry, guys, we did our best—better luck next time?” No effing way. Before stepping foot into that office, I’d promised myself nothing would stop me. And nothing did. So I took a stupid picture of myself—so what? Considering the situation, it could have been worse. And, by the way, did I mention, it worked? Because, holy crappola,
both
of them opened the frickin’ email.
Boom.

It’s been a solid fifteen minutes since Jonas and I have exchanged a single word. Both our chests are still heaving from our argument and my face still feels flushed. I glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw muscles pulsing in and out. I look out the passenger window of the car, fuming. I can’t stop yelling at him inside my head. I’m certainly not going to be the first one to speak.

Jonas pulls our rental car up to the front of the hotel and we wait silently in line for the valet attendant behind several other cars. After a minute, Jonas pulls out his phone and taps out a text. “I’m telling the team to meet us in our suite in ten minutes,” he mutters, breaking the silence.