Page 8 of Tide of Treason
“You think too highly of yourself if you believe you’re worth an aide’s time.”
I scowled at her back.
An aide would’ve been a bit nicer, I was sure.
At the elevator, she gestured for me to step in first. I hesitated, a ghost of old paranoia brushing ghostly fingertips down my spine. The last time a woman trapped me in a closed-off space, I left with some questionable memorabilias and a vow never to let it happen again.
This wasn’t a dank, musty basement, I reminded myself. It was New York State’s Health Institution.
Stepping inside, I immediately felt the cage close around me. The elevator moved with a rough, uneven rhythm, and I pressed harder against the throbbing pulse at my temple, jaw clenched. Claustrophobia wasn’t supposed to be part of my fucked-up catalogue of psychological issues, though it was amazing how four steel walls and a woman I’ve been cursing for years could make me question everything.
She cut into my silence. “Do you faint whenever you get annoyed?”
“Angry,” I bit back. If I bled before Kayla Sforza, at least let the label be accurate.
Her eyes slid sideways, studying the stitches on my temple with a sort of cold detachment. “I guess I should be more careful in what I say, then. Wouldn’t want you toppling over like a delicate flower.”
Rage surged in hot currents beneath my skin, darkening my mood to pitch black. By the time the doors slid open again, she’d already stepped out with predatory grace. I followed, taming the urge to close my hand around something and squeeze until my frustration dissipated. The front doors loomed ahead, freedom on the other side. But if freedom meant following her, maybe I’d take my chances here, thank you very much.
Everyone in the vicinity watched her. Every. Single. One.Even the graying security officer at the desk—easily twice her age—watched with open fascination. He tried for subtlety, pushing a clipboard across the counter with trembling hands.
Yeah, I thought bitterly, freedom was overrated.
Kayla signed my release papers with a neat, elegant cursive, handing them back to the non-blinking guard. The poor sod’s badge was practically strangling him at this point. I could only imagine the hit of serotonin she got from men tripping over themselves on a daily basis.
“You’re not his wife?” he tried.
“No.”
I gritted my teeth.
“You must be his lawyer then?” He leaned forward, a grin tugging at his chapped lips. “Either way, if you ever need help . . . well, anything really . . . I’m usually around after five.”
“I don’t fuck men who breathe through their mouths.”
Oof.
She reached my side and shoved a wad of paperwork at me. I took it, flipping through the pages without bothering to read anything printed there.
“Sign and date the last page,” she instructed.
When I only stared down at her, she rolled her eyes, pointing a manicured finger at the indicated area.
“Right there.” Her voice was stern. “With a pen.”
A muscle along my jaw ticked.
I scribbled my signature on the indicated page, making sure it was as illegible as possible for no other reason than to annoy her. All Kayla did was raise a disinterested row, probablyused to more elegant signatures. The kind written in cursive and signed with flourish. I could’ve mentioned that growing up in the gutter left me little time for posh penmanship lessons, but I decided not to give her another excuse to look down on me. She’d find one anyway.
We walked out of the building without another word. Wind slapped me in the face with a fury that made me miss the sticky heat of Rio. I hunched into my sleeves, breathing through the chill. The car that stood waiting by the curb matched its owner. A GLC coupe. Brand new. Shiny. Clean. Everything about it screamed money and wealth, from the silver body to the leather seats that were probably heated and cooled, the latter only something I thought was a luxury exclusive to luxury vehicles.
Feeling her stare on my back, I slipped into the passenger seat, leaned back, and tried not to groan. What a dream. The temperature was so warm I could practically taste the hot air in that enclosed space. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in a car this nice. In an attempt not to look too obvious, I shifted subtly, letting the seat warm more than my back.
Kayla got behind the wheel and turned it on. Buckled in without a glance in my direction. The temperature display read 39 degrees Fahrenheit, and the radio flashed 12:13 AM across the screen.
Sincerely, I said, “Your car is nice.”
“It’s my sisters.”
