Page 51 of Cruel Fate

Zane signs my paychecks, and that’s all I should care about.

At the end of the day, when I don’t hear from him again, and still nothing from Zarah, either, I decide I need to put a little distance between me and the Maddoxes. I wish I had more friends, but while I was in school and working a day job, I didn’t have much mental energy left over to meet people or nurture relationships. Any friends and acquaintances I made during my time in foster care have dwindled down to almost no one.

I text Quinn, a girl I grew close to in one of my foster homes before I was placed with Maryanne, and use my old cell. Quinn would never answer a text from an unknown number, even if I say it’s me. I’ll give her my new number, and she can keep both since I’m reluctant to toss my old phone. It’s a link to my old life, a life I’m not ready to part with just yet. As much as I love the lifestyle Zane and Zarah have introduced me to, it’s shakyground and every second it feels like it could be ripped out from under my feet.

She messages me back saying she’s working tonight and to stop by. Her invitation releases an amount of tension I didn’t know had built up. Before meeting Zane and Zarah, I felt okay knowing I didn’t have anyone.

Zane’s touch made me realize how lonely I’ve been, and Zarah’s friendship filled a void. I’d been yearning for companionship and didn’t know it.

I look over my shoulder at Zane’s door and log off my computer. He’s not in his office, but I say a silent goodbye. He must feel the pressure now that the party and press conference are in place. I wish he’d confide in me, but I have to give him time. He’s busy, and I don’t want my petty insecurities to distract him.

Quinn Sawyer works in an old warehouse located in one of the industrial parks along the river. The city bus won’t go too deep into that part of town, and the driver drops me off, frowning in concern. I walk a quarter of a mile, the gravel road crunching under my heels. The sun is starting to set, and I hug my trench coat to me. I’m not scared. If anything, I belong among these dark and dirty roads better than I do in Zane’s office. That should tell me something, but the pain in Zane’s eyes won’t let me walk away.

I hear the music a block from the warehouse, a pounding techno beat similar to what played at Temptations.

Quinn’s leaning against the side of the building, one boot anchored against the brick, smoking a cigarette. She’s not much taller than me, but she’s rail thin. Heroin chic. That’s what they called the supermodels back in the nineties grunge era. Quinn would have fit right in.

Her jeans have so many rips I’m surprised they stay together, and her cropped top shows off a bellybutton ring. I was withher the day she got it. She made me promise not to tell anyone she cried like a baby when the woman pierced her skin. I drool over her black leather jacket, and her newsboy cap looks cute. I’d never tell her that, though. She wants to look tough, and that helps her feel tough. It’s the only thing that keeps her going.

She pulls me into a hug and kisses my cheek, her lips lingering over my skin, and I breathe in cigarette smoke and a hint of vanilla under the scent of leather. She wants to do more, and in our foster home, we experimented. She liked it. I didn’t. We were able to stay friends, and it never bothered me she likes women. In fact, I wish I could have, too, or at least been bisexual. Whenever you can find someone who cares about you, you pray you don’t lose them.

“Hey, Stell. You’re looking good.” A note of longing tinges her voice.

“Thanks. You’re looking pretty good yourself.”

Trying to appear tough doesn’t take away the beauty from her face, and the cigarette adds to her allure. Clear blue eyes like mine, freckles sprinkled along the bridge of her nose, lush lips. Her hair is cut into a shag, but when we fostered together, she had to wear it long. Our foster mother didn’t spend money on haircuts, and we didn’t trust her to do it. Maryanne was the first to introduce me to the inside of a hair salon, and a trim every six months is all I can afford.

“Let’s go inside.”

The music blares as she opens the door.

Workers scurry around the cavernous space like little ants, and Quinn leads me to a corner in the back. A large table is full of purse pieces waiting to be stitched together.

A huge, burly man who has a thick beard lumbers by and shoots a warning glance at Quinn. “Thought I said no visitors.”

She rolls her eyes. “She ain’t gonna tell.”

No, I won’t rat on my friend who invited me into the biggest black market reproduction operation in King’s Crossing. The fake leather on a side panel of a purse is stamped with pastel-colored entwined Ds and Bs. They’re counterfeiting Dooney and Bourke bags.

Quinn lounges in a rickety chair, her feet propped on the table, the burning cigarette caught between two fingers. “What’s going on?” she asks, sizing me up. She probably pegged my cheap suit a mile away. What Quinn lacks in cash she makes up for in knowledge and intelligence. Street smarts. And a love of clothing that can’t compete with anyone’s. She would die if I told her about the clothing allowance that came with my new position. “Nice shoes. How can you afford those?”

Okay, so my Donna Karan pumps and Goodwill skirt and blouse don’t look quite right together.

“I’m trying the new high/low fashion,” I say.

She takes a drag from her cigarette and laughs long and hard, smoke puffing out of her mouth. “Nice try. Celebs don’t slum it anymore, sweetheart.”

I sink into a chair. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat? I’m starving.”

“I’m starving” could be taken quite literally with the way we grew up, but she knows I don’t mean for real. At least, not today.

“Sure. Luis! I’m grabbing dinner.” She stubs her cigarette out in an ashtray on the table and slams her boots onto the concrete floor.

The huge guy shoots her the bird.

“He loves me,” Quinn jokes.

She pulls a burner cell out of the back pocket of her jeans and connects to a number in her contacts list. A tinny voice answers, but I can’t make out the words and don’t know who she’s calling. She murmurs a response and then puts the phone to sleep. Looking quickly over her shoulder at Luis, she gestures for meto follow her. I grip the handrail as I hurry after her down to a basement and through so many narrow and dark hallways I lose count. If she left me down here, I’d never find my way back up.

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