Page 20 of Chained
Then Edge exhaled loudly. “When we were grown, the boss bought us and took us here.”
“Bought you. With money?”
“I guess.”
“So… Whitaker literally owns you.”
“Yes.”
Fuck. “That’s not legal, Edge. A person can’t—”
Edge spun around. “Legal? Does the law even acknowledge that we exist? The boss could afford us, and there’s nobody to stop him.” Although he’d begun with a shout, he ended in a strangled whisper. “We’re just animals.”
Terry, God help him, wanted to hold Edge tight, but he held his ground. “You’re not. Why don’t you just leave, Edge?”
“No.” And he shuddered.
“But there’s a whole big world—”
“No!” In a single stride or two, Edge was right in Terry’s face. He was a little shorter, yes, but a lot more muscular. And possibly possessed of supernatural levels of strength. He snarled, showing his teeth. “I’m a good fucking dog. I’m loyal to the boss. That’s all.” He shoved Terry out of the way and stomped out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Well. That wasn’t the climax Terry had hoped for.
Edge didn’t show up for breakfast. Terry thought about ordering for both of them and marching next door with the food when it arrived, but he didn’t. He used the house phone to request something light—last night’s chemical and emotional adventures had left his stomach slightly queasy—and ate his toast and grapefruit by himself. Then he rattled around for a while, listening to the radio and trying not to dwell on Edge’s story, because that wasn’t the mission he’d been sent on. But Jesus, images kept dancing through his mind of Edge as a youngster, treated as a beast and a commodity rather than a person. And Edge as an adult, collared andowned.
Terry had just decided to change into gym clothes when two knocks shook the door and it immediately swung open.
“Boss wants to see you.” Edge wore his usual black suit and white shirt, his usual blank expression. Terry could see the chain peeking from under his collar.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Dress code?”
No response. Terry pulled off his tee and switched to a pale pink dress shirt and lightweight yellow blazer, both courtesy of Whitaker’s tailor, but he didn’t change out of his jeans. Edge showed neither approval nor disapproval before he spun around and led the way.
The walk seemed longer than usual, the sun too bright. Terry worried whether Edge had told Whitaker about the previous night’s events. If so, well… the results wouldn’t be pretty. Terry wished he’d had the chance to retrieve his gun from behind the dresser.
As they passed the pool, Terry very nearly grabbed Edge by the arm and begged him to leave the estate together that very minute. Between the two of them, they’d find a way out. But he knew Edge would refuse. And even if Terry managed to somehow drag him away, the mission—Terry’s mission—would fail. Terry didn’t yet have enough evidence against Whitaker, and he didn’t know if Edge had information that would help. Or whether he’d be willing to share anything with the Bureau. Fuck, what if the Bureau decided Edge was complicit in Whitaker’s wrongdoing and locked him up in that Nevada prison? That would be much worse than his current captivity.
“Goddamnit!” Terry muttered just before entering the house. Edge cast him a quick glance but didn’t otherwise respond.
They went to a room not far from the kitchen. It had an intimate feel, partly because it was fairly small but also because the walls and built-in shelving were the color of dark chocolate. Small abstract sculptures adorned the shelves. The room also contained a gray love seat, a pair of brown upholstered chairs, and a gold-painted coffee table that was all angles and corners, like a giant chunk of rock. The overhead light fixture had long arms and reminded him of a giant spider.
Whitaker wasn’t there yet. Terry stood near the sole window, overlooking a little flagstone terrace, and Edge remained just inside the door with his legs slightly spread and his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t look at Terry, and they didn’t speak to each other. Somewhere outside, an engine hummed—probably a lawn mower or hedge trimmer—but the inside of the house was as silent as a tomb. Itfeltlike a tomb, despite the luxury of the surroundings. Terry had no particular fondness for his Culver City apartment, but he would have chosen it over this mansion any day.
Almost half an hour passed before Edge stiffened; a moment later, the door was flung open. Whitaker marched in wearing another tennis outfit, lit cigarette in hand. “What did you think of my party?” he asked without preamble.
“I appreciated the chance to meet so many influential people.”
“Hmm.”
“Did I make a good impression on them?”
Whitaker laughed. “The important question is whether you made a good impression on me.”
God, Terry hated this prick! His arrogance and his game-playing made Terry want to beat him to a pulp, even if he hadn’t known what he did to Edge. Or suspected what he might have done to a lot of other people.
