Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(87)

As usual, Z had thought of everything.

I handed Ashlyn her baby blue waffle-knit shirt. Raising her arms over her head clearly pained her, so I helped drag the form-fitting sleep top over her oversize jumpsuit. The jumpsuit top bulged awkwardly, while the bright orange collar poked through the waffle shirt’s crewneck like an out-of-place bird of paradise flower.

Z took one look and shook his head. “Top of the jumpsuit, off.”

Ashlyn and I looked around. The room was one open space. No alcove to tuck inside, or half wall to duck behind.

“We need privacy,” I stated primly.

Z stared at us, cobra tattoo nearly hissing. “Why? Radar’s already seen it all, and I could care less. Get it done.”

We remained standing there, staring at him. Myself, I could do it. But strip my daughter, bare her to these two men who’d already taken so much from us? Ashlyn’s shoulders had hunched, her body unconsciously rounding as if to make herself small. I couldn’t take it. I positioned myself in front of her, crossed my arms over my chest, and faced off against Z.

“We need privacy,” I repeated.

Z sighed. He spoke as if addressing two small children. “Let me explain how this is going to work: You will do exactly what I tell you to do. You will say exactly what I tell you to say. Or, if you misbehave”—he leveled his gaze at me—“I’ll let Mick beat the shit out of your daughter. Or, if you misbehave”—his gaze switched to Ashlyn—“I’ll let Mick beat the shit out of your mom. Now, fix the wardrobe.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Ashlyn whispered behind me. “Remember, when I was little, at the beach? We can figure it out.”

When Ashlyn was little, it was often just her and me at the beach, given Justin’s work schedule. Ashlyn hadn’t the patience for the overcrowded changing room, let alone the long line. So I would hold a towel around her as a makeshift curtain, while she wiggled her suit on or off. Later, I got to the point where I could lie in the sand with a towel draped over the top of my body, and make my own wardrobe adjustments while my four-year-old giggled uncontrollably.

If I thought about it, it had been her and me against the world for a long time. And my daughter was right: having come this far, no reason we couldn’t figure things out.

She reached her hands under her waffle shirt and worked the snaps. She got one arm out, then the other. With the waffle shirt hanging loose around her shoulders, she divested the short sleeves of the jumpsuit top, then got her arms back in the waffle top. We left the top of the jumpsuit hanging down at her waist, where it would be out of the video frame.

Next, my turn. I’d been wearing a champagne-colored wrap top. Also form-fitting, and never going to work layered on top of a baggy jumpsuit. I gave Z and Radar my back, and got to it. Undressing wasn’t so bad. Snap, snap and the top of the jumpsuit dangled down while I kept my arms crossed protectively over my chest. Ashlyn handed me my top.

For a moment, I smelled oranges and my eyes welled with longing before I realized it was simply the citrus notes of my perfume, embedded in the silky fabric. Postcards from another life, one that I knew hadn’t been that long ago—one day, two days?—and yet already was completely alien to me.

It felt wrong to pull such a delicate fabric over my sweat-encrusted skin. To surround myself in silken finery after days of wearing a stiff, oversize man’s jumpsuit. My hair was too rank, my nails too dirty. A jail cell made the filth easier to take. But this, a visit to the past, a note of refinement amid the abyss…

“Mom? Let me.”

I’d been trying to fasten the complicated tie system at the waist of the wrap shirt, but my fingers were shaking too badly. Now Ashlyn brushed my hands away and took over working the knots.

I admired her dexterity as much as I admired her bravery. We had screwed up, obviously. A family of three absolute f*ckups. And yet, each of us, in our own way, was holding up. My fifteen-year-old, highly privileged, officially sexually active daughter had not collapsed. She was not sobbing hysterically or shutting down or whining constantly. She was functioning. We were all functioning.

We would get through this, I told myself. We’d survive, we’d return home and we would…

We would forge on. We’d forgive, we’d forget. That’s what families did, right? Muddled through in full, imperfect glory.

Ashlyn and I finished our preparations. Her top in place, my top in place. We moved to the spot Radar indicated on the dais, then Z handed me a newspaper, the Sunday edition. I tucked it beneath my arm as he gave each of us a one-page script. He had the piece of paper flipped over, blank side up.

Now he said, “On the count of three, Radar will start filming. You will each start reading, alternating line by line, Ashlyn going first. Remember, no adlibbing, no straying from the script, or the other one pays the price.”

My first tingle of apprehension.

“One.”

Why wouldn’t he let us preview the script?

“Two.”

Why the need to threaten us with Mick?

“Three.”

Radar nodded his head. We flipped over our pages and once again, my heart sank in my chest.


“MY NAME IS ASHLYN DENBE,” my daughter whispered. In the background, Z scowled at her, cupping his hand around her ear.

“My name is Libby Denbe,” I filled in, my voice louder, as he’d indicated.