Page 8 of Shaman

Her grin widened, lips blood-red, teeth gleaming like a predator’s. “You don’t understand. Saul Gerard recommended you to us.”

Oh, fuck.

“And I’m guessing he doesn’t know what a great dancer you are, does he? I didn’t think so. Come back in the morning to finalize the transaction, or Saul’s going to learn some things about you that you probably don’t want getting out.”

Ian opened his mouth…and could say nothing.

Everyone in his professional circle, the people whose lives and bad habits he held in the palm of his hand, knew him as Shaman, the sophisticated, biting gentleman with resources beyond their wildest imaginings. If any of those clients found out he used to be a dancer…worse, a victim. Aslave. His reputation would be shattered.

“Do we have a deal?” Rebecca purred.

Ian stared at her a long moment, hating her, and finally nodded.

He heard her laughing behind him as he fled.

Three

Ian had the driver stop at a bodega on the way back, where he bought a pack of smokes and a bottle of Smirnoff. When they got out at the hotel, he went walking instead, Bruce his constant, faithful shadow, and he found a green metal bench at the edge of the park, flickering orange maples leaves throwing dappled shadows on the sidewalk.

He lit a cigarette, took three long swallows of vodka, and slumped back on the bench with a hard sigh. “Well. Fuck.”

He waved the bottle toward Bruce, who stood a few steps away, hands folded in front of him. “Would you like some?”

“No, sir.”

“Good man, Bruce. If only you had that same attitude when it came to my Milanos.”

The big man’s brows jumped in a rare show of shock.

“Oh, yes, I know all about your biscuit stealing. I suppose I’ll forgive you for it.” After all, it was the least nefarious crime he’d ever suffered.

It was cold, but beautiful, the air crisp and clean, spinning with falling leaves. The park was full of joggers, and mothers pushing strollers, children’s shouts of delight carrying down the paths. Three benches over, an old man fed pigeons from a paper bag of birdseed, wrinkled face graced with a happy, peaceful smile.

Ian took a drag on his cigarette and felt a few carefully-stitched threads of his life come loose at the edges. How long would it take, he wondered, for the whole meticulous tapestry to come unraveled?

He held his cigarette between his teeth and dug his phone from his pocket. Found the emails Marissa had sent him and followed the links he should have clicked on weeks ago. There they were, airbrushed and smiling: Daniel and Rebecca Breckinridge, promising the utmost devotion to their models, vowing to launch epic careers. They’d been in operation for ten years, it said. Ian recognized more than a few names of superstar clients who’d walked all the Fashion Week runways.

How was this happening? Yes, he was a bad person, and yes he sold drugs, manipulated junkies, exerted leverage over gangsters. But after what he’d been through, wasn’t he entitled to that? Did he deservethis?

He was a fool to think there was such a thing as karma, that anyone got what they deserved.

He realized that his breathing was ragged, his heart pounding a panicked rhythm against his ribs. He took another swig of vodka and opened up his contacts list in his phone. Scrolled until he found Kev’s number, thumb hovering over the call button a seemingly-endless moment.

Kev had been victimized by these people, too. He would understand, could make soothing noises in Ian’s ear and tell him that he was nobody’s pet anymore, his own man and no longer a plaything to be passed around.

But he couldn’t dump this on Kev. OnTango, he corrected. Tango who was something like whole now, with a wife, and friends, brothers, a whole family who loved him and who worked hard to drive the darkness from his heart. Tango had been saved, and it wouldn’t be fair for Ian to drag him back into the shadows.

But tears burned his eyes, and he thought he might have a heart attack on a bench in Central Park, because nothing about the last few years counted at all if he was still beholden to the kind of animals who’d abused him.

He scrolled again, and called a different number.

Ghost Teague picked up on the second ring, the sounds of a busy garage clanging in the background. “Yeah?”

Ian realized he had to take a deep, shaky breath before he could talk. His voice wouldn’t quite settle into his usual haughty tone. “Hello, Kenneth. I wanted to beg a moment of your time.”

“Yeah…” Ghost said slowly. “Yeah. Hold on.”

The garage sounds dimmed. A door shut. And then it was quiet.

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