Page 32 of Gilded Fake

“It’s quite impressive, the things these tech bros come up with to combat every new technology that they themselves create,” he muses. “Almost as if they can’t decide if technological advancement is an asset to humanity or the tool leading to its inevitable destruction.”

“Unblock me!” I demand.

“It must be difficult to sleep with such questions weighing on one’s conscience,” he continues. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I look up from my phone, gaping at him. Suddenly, my heart is pounding, and the room feels claustrophobic with all the white, like it’s closing in on us. Like I’m a fish in a tank with a shark, and he’s circling, getting closer with each pass, and there’s no escape.

Then I conjure a different image—sitting by Colt’s bedside in the equally white hospital room, determined to be the first thing he saw when he woke up, so my loyalty would be imprinted into his subconscious. I was always running a marathon while others did sprints and burned out, and I won’t give up when the finish line is so close I can reach out and rip through the ribbon.

This guy is just one more runner I have to pass to get there first.

“Money tends to make people sleep well,” I answer. “I doubt they’re lying awake battling their consciences.”

“Are you offering to bribe me?” he asks, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Me, pay you?” I say, shaking my head. “For what?”

“It sounded as if you were trying to buy a clear conscience,” he says. “My mistake. It appears you’re trying to shake me down.”

“My conscience is crystal clear,” I grit out. “And I don’t need your money. My husband’s loaded. Which is why I need you to stop him from coming here and wasting all our money.”

“That wouldn’t be a very smart business move on my part, would it? Especially if you’re not replacing the lost revenue with a… Donation.”

“I’m not paying you to do the right thing,” I snap, waving my phone at him. “Now, I told you the choices. What’s it going to be?”

“You’ve forgotten a few options,” he says calmly. He’s so still it’s putting me on edge, the way he’s barely moved a muscle since I came in. I expected him to jump up, throw me up against the wall, and threaten to cut my throat, but he’s just sitting there cool as a cucumber while we talk, like he’s not worried about the repercussions of crossing me at all.

“What options?” I demand.

“Yours.”

An icy shiver rolls over me, and I glance back at the door I came through. Scarlet still stands in the doorway, arms folded, a frown on her twisted face. Beyond her, Maverick sits on the edge of her desk, apparently having joined her while I was talking to the pimp. I suddenly know without a doubt that he’s there to stop me if I try to run, that he’s a hired goon for this guy, and I hate him more than I’ve ever hated him before. I knew he was scum, but knowing that his connection to Colt is about which hookers they’ve gangbanged together more than what ink Mav has put on him makes me hope he gets syphilis and dies.

“You think you can scare me?” I demand, wheeling back to the pimp. “You can’t touch me. My uncle is the mayor. My parents will have the cops out looking if I’m not home by midnight. I’m not some junkie hooker who no one cares about that you can make disappear.”

“We don’t bother with all that complication,” he says, casually adjusting his black tie over the buttons of his black shirt, his tone conversational but disinterested. “Punishments fit the crime.”

“You’re the criminal,” I cry.

“A snitch loses a tongue,” he says matter-of-factly, as if I never spoke at all. “If they’re lucky, they die of blood loss relatively quickly. Sometimes they’d rather be left outside the Serpent’s Nest, since they have what some would call a doctor, though I gather his only training took place on other inmates while he was in prison.”

I swallow hard, my heart racing as I check the door again. Maverick is leaning back on his hands now, watching through hooded eyes, an expression of bored detachment on his thuggish face. He’s probably a regular at the Serpent’s Nest, a roadside biker bar halfway between Faulkner and Shallow Creek that my parents cautioned me to never even drive by. I’ve heard the stories though, people disappearing without a trace, speculation that they were trafficked or brainwashed into joining a cult or chopped up and sold for parts on the black market.

When I look back, the sophisticated psycho pimp is on his fancy computer, apparently having finished with our conversation.

“You’d never get away with it,” I say. “My uncle—”

“Was the mayor,” he says, not even bothering to look my way. “He’s no longer in that position as of a few months ago. He was accused of taking bribes, si? How apropos.”

“You’re lying,” I say, though the tremor in my voice betrays my fear. “You don’t know who I am, and there’s no internet in here for you to search.”

“The wireless signal is blocked,” he says, his voice distracted as he scrolls his tattooed finger over the sleek, white mouse. “A wired connection is primitive but effective.”

“You’re going to kill me?” I ask, making my voice small and pathetic. I stare at him, not blinking, summoning the tears that work so well when nothing else does. If I can’t power my way through a situation, I can always cry my way out.

“What gave you that idea?” the man asks. “I’m simply making conversation.”

“You’re threatening me,” I cry, relief welling inside me as the first tears swim in my vision.

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