Page 12 of Master of Chaos

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Page 12 of Master of Chaos

“Dean was next in line for this apartment when Nicole died, did you know that? It’s a prime unit. Three times as big as the others, ocean view, big deck, etc. By tradition, it goes to the senior sibling, and he was all set to move. Then you arrived, and Halliwell insisted that you have it. The newest. The youngest. His new favorite.”

“Thus ensuring that everybody here hates me,” I said. “Including you.”

“Not really,” Jana said. “I don’t care enough to hate you.”

I stopped myself from laughing just in time. “That just might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today,” I said wryly.

She leaned closer, and whispered, her lips barely moving, “You should run.”

I took a step back. “I would if I could.”

“Don’t look back,” she hissed. “Run. Stay far away. Hide from him. Forever.”

“It’s not that simple,” I explained. “I have my little sis?—”

“Don’t explain. I don’t want to know. They’re always listening. It doesn’t matter anymore for me. They can take me to the boneyard whenever they want. But you’re still in one piece, at least for now. You could make it out there. Not me. I’m done for.”

Her words chilled me. “Jana, you can’t mean that.”

“Wow, you still don’t get it. And you’re supposed to be so fucking bright.” Her face went blank, and the brief moment of emotional aliveness was over. “We should get to work. If you make him wait, he’ll rip you to pieces.”

So it was out of my clothes and into the shower to shampoo my hair. Jana combed it out as I sat wrapped in a towel, staring in dismay at the outfit I was supposed to wear during the long, tedious process of blowing the frizz out of my long red hair.

The dress was a designer brand that even I recognized, but there was nothing much to it. It was black, and sheer, and no bra could be worn. Some skimpy black lace and beading were stitched over the chest area to hide my nipples but they did a bad job of it. Anyone looking at me would assume that Halliwell was my pimp, not my father.

Jana got to work on my up-do, as mandated, and a long session of twisting and wincing and tugging and scalp-scraping hairpin stabs ensued. The final result was sleek, tight, abstract sculpture on top of my head.

She spread out the makeup kit, and I held up my hand. “Look, Jana, you can go. I’ll finish here myself. I can make my freckles go away if I put my mind to it.”

She shook her head. “Don’t argue. It just makes it harder. First, that tattoo has to go. He’d be so angry if he saw that. As if you were vandalizing his property.”

So, I waited, gritting my teeth as she painted over the tattoo on the inside of my forearm. I hated to see my honey-girl’s name disappear. I didn’t like the metaphorical implications. But Jana was right. I had to be practical.

After the tattoo was hidden, she started in with the freckles on my face. The process was long and ticklish. I flinched back as she came at me with the lipstick.

“Why is it always me who has to go to these things?” I said rebelliously. “I barely know anything about Halliwell Enterprises. I’m not that scintillating, and if it’s eye candy he wants, the rest of you are all better looking than me, you included. Why can’t we take turns?”

“Aw. Poor you, forced to dress up and get ogled.”

I was about say something sharp when my cell phone rang. I picked up, but Halliwell was only drawing my attention to his text.

Enough chatter. Car waiting.

It was uncanny, like he really was listening to every word, in real time.

The driver didn’t acknowledge my existence. I wasn’t the usually the type that would notice, but after weeks of hostility, I was raw to it. The one person in this place who actually saw me when he looked at me was Shane Masters.

I hung on grimly to the image of Reggie in her hospital bed, full of tubes, to work up the courage to walk into the restaurant. This sexy-hostess bullshit had not been part of our initial deal, but he had all the power. So I put on my best fake attitude and minced into the swank restaurant with my sky-high heels and my terrifying up-do, my slinky dress with the vee plunging practically down to my cooch, just thin beaded straps holding the bodice onto me, my nervous nipples poking the fabric. My girls were relatively small, but I tried to glide so that they wouldn’t jiggle.

I needn’t have bothered. They all stared at my chest anyway.

The Hwang Group was exclusively men, mostly older men. I was sure they took me for a call girl until Halliwell introduced me as his daughter. Halliwell sensed my discomfort at their surprise and was amused by it. Sleazy old prick.

I was seated next to the youngest guy, Andrew Hwang, the son of the CEO of the Hwang Group. I gritted my teeth, made an effort to be pleasant and talk tech with him. The meal was long and fancy; many courses, tiny portions of meticulously presented food. I was incapable of eating much, or tasting what I ate. Halliwell’s hell-bunker killed my appetite. The wine was good, but I didn’t dare drink more than a sip. I was scantily clad, and not among friends. The last thing I needed was to be tipsy.

Time crawled by. At a certain point, Andrew refilled my wine glass. “So how is Nicole doing?” he asked. “I expected to see her tonight. Is she out of town?”

My belly clenched. “No. I’m sorry, but Nicole passed away a few months ago.”




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