Page 38 of Their Cruel Love

The moment melts into a puddle of hot, sticky seconds.

I’m sure he wishes he could come over and do something to me, right now. Instead, he clamps down on his emotionsand turns to my stepmother and Sir Greg. “Where are we going?”

Emma tucks the mask under her arm; the snakes protrude and wriggle. “That, we do not know. We’ll look into that image, make inquiries of our members, and get back to you.”

“Wait. I may know,” Sir Greg says, thoughtfully. “I think Bastion has been there. I recognize the roofline and the palms from a photo he once showed me, but not the room. It was not advertised as a Killer Crew event, I think.”

“Really?” Emma sounds as shocked as I am.

“Yes.” My phone was left on the table, and he taps the black screen. “He may know who can get you in.” Then he pulls out his own phone and walks away, calling someone. “Bastion! I have a query. Can you get me an invite to that island you went to last year? A year ago, yes. Good. Good. Not for me, no. For Marcus Thompson, for Phoebe, who you just saw, and for Razor. When? Okay. Thanks. Send the details through my other phone.”

He ends the call and strolls back.

“Not next weekend but the one after, there is a party. You’re in. Or he’s fairly sure you will be. If they are making snuff films there, if…then we have our place. We will havethem.”

“Gregory, you are our savior.” He gives her a small bow and a hand flourish. My stepmother picks up my phone and weighs it in her palm, contemplating the dark screen. “That was simple. Now to see if you three can find our murderers, without getting murdered yourselves.”

She has said that far too calmly.

“You make it sound like we’re off to a knitting party, Mother.”

“Well, I suppose it could be.” She smiles, brightly. “If they carve out hearts with crochet hooks.”

How does one prepare for going to a kinky party where any of them could be murderers of one’s friend? I spend the time before we depart saying goodbye to my apartment, having my furniture and stuff I don’t currently need sent to storage, and visiting Seth. Luckily, or not, he lets me stay with him.

Though I dearly need some ultra-hot hacking tips in case I have an opportunity to use them, that’s not practical. I have to choose between replicating the USB-shoved-up-my-vagina trick or doing the same with a spare phone. A phone? Just in case my own is confiscated, apparently.

The problem is that even I have trouble keeping something that large up there. It is a no.

Seth is not Q, and I am not 007.

I decide on the USB, knowing I may have to toss it away in an emergency.

For a week and a half, I share Seth’s cramped flat, wondering how I’m going to get through this if Marcus hates me and drinking champers when the sadness needs drowning. The days tick by. I could have been partying somewhere, could’ve looked for new accommodation, or found a lawyer to try to get my money back.Trybeing the operative word when it comes to the fraternity.

Mother was impressed by my new focus, but I feel rudderless as well as annoyed she praised me in her back-handed way. Even Seth seems to have absorbed my ennui. I hardly see him. As the days ooze past and the departure day looms, I suspect he’s avoiding me.

The nightmares are still happening. Most mornings I wake with a thudding heartbeat, as if someone is jackhammering inside my chest.

It’s the day before I have to be at the airport, and I’m sitting on a creaky chair, on his small balcony with the rusted railings. I’m observing suburban London life in all its glory, with a headache gnawing at my temples. That might be from the sleeplessness or from my partaking of too much Moët. Below, people walk small dogs in the bleary Brit sunshine. A van pulls up to deliver something and a white terrier pees on its wheel while the owner chats with the driver.

I’m not Rambo, Bond, or some assassin coming out of retirement. I’m a girl who can kickbox and shoot a gun, and also drink like a fish and pole-dance. My last two skills are not ones I boast of. On reflection, I do them to say eff you to my remaining non-blood family—Mother.

Life goes on.

Is that enough? Can we dig up the truth with pole dancing and champers? Maybe if we shoot someone in the dick, we will. I raise my glass to the street and then on second thoughts, I raise it again. “To you, Milli.” I’m going to find out soon.

15

Marcus

Juanda International Airport

The restroom door swings closed behind me, and I emerge into the special lounge the fraternity has arranged for us. Razor and I are sitting close to Phoebe but not beside her. There is a gap between where we sit and the other passengers. We arranged that so we can talk without being overheard. Fourteen or so others are waiting here, dressed casually—men and women in almost equal numbers. If Bastion is here, the one who gave us the heads up, he has not come over to say hi.

My stride is a little awkward at first—not surprising—then I hit the casual gait I want to show. I keep it going until I reachRazor and sit down.

Relieved is the word. It’s been five minutes since I violated myself. How many more hours of this?

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