Page 23 of His to Possess
She laughs. “Hey, I have to take off. I’m meeting some friends tonight.”
There’s more I want to ask about Lilah, but I doubt I can do that without raising suspicion. So instead I give her my usual big brother spiel about being safe and not talking to boys. I can practically hear her rolling her eyes as she says good-bye.
As soon as we’re off the phone, I dash off a quick message to Jane directing her to look into Lilah’s school records before she dropped out. I sit for a moment, contemplating what I’ve learned so far. Lilah’s parents got a divorce two years ago. Her father immediately kicked her out, along with her mother and younger brother, and they moved to Raleigh. And sometime during the last two years, she dropped out of school—and apparently didn’t tell her friends. Now she’s here in Charlotte, working at some shitty dive bar, desperately in need of money.
What the fuck is going on?
My concern grows about three hundred percent when my driver, Dave, pulls up in front of Lilah’s apartment half an hour later. She’d been completely silent since we left the penthouse, tense and closed off next to me in the car, clearly still mad at me about earlier. As we get closer to the address she gave Dave, her discomfort seems to grow. “He should just drop me off here,” she says, wringing her hands. “Traffic is so heavy.”
“It’s not a problem, Lilah.”
But she doesn’t drop it. “He won’t be able to find parking anyhow. I can just run inside and be finished by the time he circles back. I don’t have much.”
“Love.” I place a hand over hers, stilling her fidgeting. “Why don’t you want me to see your apartment?”
She lets out a long sigh, closing her eyes. “It’s a friend’s apartment. I’m just crashing there for a while. And I don’t want you to see it because you’re going to freak out.”
Freak out is an understatement. When Dave pulls up in front of the derelict building, I feel my blood pressure hit the roof. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I bite out.
“Don’t start,” she sighs, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll be right out.”
“Nice try. You’re not going in there alone.”
“This weekend just gets better and better,” she mutters, but she doesn’t argue as I follow her up the trash littered sidewalk to a building she has no business stepping foot in.
The inside is no better. The hallway carpets are stained, the walls grimy, and the pervasive smell of pot lingers in the air. I have to shove my hands into my pockets to keep from grabbing her and throwing her over my shoulder to get her the hell out of here.
Her friend’s unit is down a half flight of stairs from the first floor—a half flight of dark stairs. The overhead light has burned out and I can count about six shadowed spots Lilah shouldn’t be walking anywhere near. Anyone could be hiding down here. I think about her coming home from work at night—her hours must be late at a bar—and walking down these steps and I can’t control the growl that erupts from my chest.
“Don’t start,” she says again, pulling out a set of keys. I hold my breath as she opens the door, wondering what fresh hell awaits. I’m only slightly relieved to find the apartment clean, at least. It’s practically shoe box size, and not much light enters from the minuscule, street level windows high on the walls. But it’s obvious the people who live here at least put some effort into making it livable.
That does little to calm my nerves when I note there’s not a single fire exit in the unit. Or when I realize Lilah’s “room” consists of the living room couch and a small chest of drawers in the corner. “How long have you been staying here?” I ask.
“Not very long,” she says evasively, while shoving things from the chest into a garbage bag. Jesus, does she not even have luggage?
“Take everything.” I can hear how cold my voice has gone but I can’t do a thing to calm myself until I get her out of this building. “You won’t be coming back.”
“That is definitely not up to you.”
I glare at her. “You’ll have four hundred thousand dollars at the end of this week. You won’t be coming back.”
Her face immediately goes scarlet at my reference to the auction, but I can’t worry about embarrassing her. I still have every intention of getting her out of the contract, but I also plan to make sure she has the money she needs when she walks away, virginity still intact.
No matter how loudly my dick might complain.
She starts slamming things into the bag, muttering under her breath, no doubt releasing a litany of horrible things about me. It would be cute if I wasn’t so eager to get her out of here. It doesn’t take long until the drawers are empty and her two garbage bags are full. Jesus—are these all the possessions she owns? I picture the house she grew up in, the house where her father still lives, to the best of my knowledge. The gaudy colonial had to be at least ten-thousand square feet. Just like all the other mansions in my father’s private gated neighborhood, Lilah’s childhood home had a pool, tennis courts, and a six-car garage. From what I can remember, she dressed just like my sister, in the most expensive designer items. Except for that seemingly untamable hair of hers, she was always perfectly put together, the perfect daughter of a millionaire and his socialite wife.
What in the hell could have possibly happened to bring her from that life to this one?
From the rigid set of her shoulders when I wordlessly take the garbage bags from her, I can guess that it’s going to be like pulling teeth getting her to tell me. But that’s okay—I have every intention of finding out anyhow.
Lilah
Idon’t think I’ve ever been so mortified in my life. And that’s coming from a girl who spent a good portion of the previous night standing on a stage half naked while creepy old men tried to buy my virginity.
Well, not all of them were creepy old men. Case in point the one sitting next to me in this fancy Bentley that probably cost more than all the possessions in all the apartments in the building we just left. But since that not-so-creepy man is also the person who has me so embarrassed right now, I’m not inclined to think too highly of him.
I could feel the judgement rolling off him in waves from the second we parked on Michelle’s street. I can’t really blame him. I’d pretty much had a heart attack the first time I set foot in that neighborhood. But beggars can’t be choosers, and after I left my stepfather’s house, I would have taken anything I could get. I would pick Michelle’s couch over that nightmare any day.
