Page 39 of Their Cruel Love
I cannot believe I just did that—am doing it. Even though I’ve practiced for a week, shoving a small phone up my ass will never be a good thing, in my humble opinion. Not grimacing is difficult. This had better be worth it.
“You okay?” Razor asks.
I nod, curtly. “Haven’t talked to Phoebe yet?” I jerk my chin her way. She has the airport windows and the sunlit runways and planes as her backdrop, and looks stunning, in a yellow dress and black leggings.
“No.” He looks at her. “You wanted to wait until we arrive before saying hello.”
“She made that stipulation at the meeting. Everything starts when we get to wherever we’re going. I’d rather fuck with her then.”
“Okay.” He takes out his phone and starts reading something.
“Stock market? Research?”
“The fuck, no. I do have fun. It’s a novel by John Birmingham—Shattered Skies. Quite good, if you like sci-fi.”
I grunt and shift my butt on the cushioned seat. “Maybe later.”
“Your last chance to read an eBook, actually.” Still reading, he points at an attendant with a forefinger he lifts from the phone. “All our electronic devices are going to be confiscated after we land.”
I stare at the man indicated, but I’m not really seeing him. What Queen Fucking O and her IT man predicted will come true. The phone up my ass might be handy if I don’t shit it out too soon. Whether this is worth it for what she’s promisingdepends on many things. I trust her as much as I would a snake carrying an AR-15.
“Are you wondering, as I am, why all these very rich people have agreed to take plane flights for a day just to go on a kinky holiday?”
“It does seem likely they expect a really good time at the other end.” His eyes are packing a sudden seriousness.
“Yeah. Something you can’t get on your doorstep. Something illegal, maybe.”
“Mmm.” He goes back to reading. “Soon, we will find out. Relax.”
Relaxing is impossible due to not just the phone, but to the monster I’m now allied with. I may have sold my soulandmy ass to Emma Bartholemew. At the slightest sign this is going south or that she has been messing with us, for her own profit, I will ditch her. Which side of that equation Phoebe ends up on depends on her.
The difficult part is figuring out The Truth. Is there even a murder to investigate? I wish I was certain. Even Razor…
I check him out the corner of my eye. He’s still reading, still as calm as a man going on a normal plane trip. Even he makes me doubt. Can I trust him one hundred percent? If this is really some snuff film event, revealing it to the world might unleash a nightmare of epic proportions.
At the other end of a three-hour plane flight on a Gulfstream jet, at a small, unidentified airport, helicopters wait to transport us on the final leg.
We’re shepherded straight to the second chopper but are leftmilling on the tarmac while they load our cases. No one grumbles, even when we are frisked for more devices after they’ve collected our phones and laptops. It’s odd how casually this is done. My fellow passengers are accustomed to luxury and deference.
When three men in black approach wheeling a trolley, and when that trolley turns out to be stacked with hoods, an ill feeling settles. Are we being kidnapped? When they come to us shaking out two hoods, Razor is ice cool. A few of the passengers are already hooded. If they are okay with this, we should be?
Unless this is a show for our benefit? The others might be acting?
Fuck.There is no way to tell.
I draw a deep breath as they lower the hood over my head and bring night to my day. Mouth and nose holes are adjusted, and when they ask if the position is okay, I nod.
This is getting scarier. Whoever organized this event is determined to make it difficult to guess where we are. Somewhere near Indonesia or Australia is my best estimate. Unless we’ve gone north.
“I wish I knew constellations,” I mutter, not caring who hears me.
My ass phone is getting impatient to see the world, but I sit on it, literally, and I pray for a restroom at the end of this flight.
An hour or two later, we arrive and are unhooded. Our chopper has landed on a pad that connects to a jetty that is connected to our island.Ta-dah.This might be a jewel in the middle of the ocean but it’s also a long-ish walk to the shore. No fucking restroom, yet. I squeeze my ass muscles and pray the rescue cord attached to the plastic sleeve hasn’t been sucked inside me.
The island waits, rising from a clear blue sea in a perfectrepresentation of paradise. Fish frolic, flicking their tails beside the chopper pad. Waves are rolling in and frothing at the shore. This is a small, curved bay, with two arms, two forested spits of land, reaching outward to either side. Higher up, gray-black stone shows through the treetops on the one hill.
Where the trees peter out and become the beach, a timber-and-pale-stone building begins and steps upward with the land. The roof is corrugated, white metal that comes to a high peak here and there. An architect who loves a scattered, modern look of varied surfaces has been playing here.