Page 51 of Take Her

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.

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