Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(15)
The woman smiles, too, and then she watches the man head back over to the ticket counter where the same three women watching them from afar are waiting. A few seconds later, after he informs them of his early break—and no doubt gives them the scoop on the odd exchange—he approaches the woman again, keeping his hands down at his sides and to himself just to keep the encounter professional.
“Shall we?” he says.
The woman stands with him; her only possession is her purse, small and made of faux leather, bright yellow, with just enough space inside to make a man wonder what she’s hiding in there.
They walk side-by-side to the café.
Izabel
Tonight’s the big night; after weeks of training with Cesara—or pretending to train, because I know this stuff better than she does—I get to attend my first auction party. Well, technically it isn’t my first, but it will be the first time I attend as a trainer, as one of the pieces of shit I hate more than anything. But I learned from the best of them—and Cesara is far from being the best—and what better way to play this role effectively, believably, than from the one who taught me? And that is why I chose Izel, Javier’s sister, who, for so many years made my life a living hell.
The girls here are terrified of me, as they should be; I’ve had to make examples of some, and the punishments I chose were cruel, I admit—because they had to be, to avoid blowing my cover—but it was better than killing them. And I’ll never do that; I’d kill myself before I ever went that far with an innocent life. Besides, part of my plan is to get them out of here too, whenever I make my exit.
“You look good,” Cesara tells me, looking me over with the hungry sweep of her eyes. “And you seem so…relaxed. I thought you’d be at least a little nervous your first time.”
I slide another ring onto my finger, and then a gold bracelet around my wrist. When I go for the necklace, I see Cesara behind me in the reflection of the mirror; I feel her naked breasts pressed against my back, her minty breath moving along the shell of my ear, her fingers at my neck, closing the clasp on the necklace for me. “I had hoped you’d be a little nervous,” she says, and a shiver moves along my spine, attacking the back of my eyes.
“Is that what you want me to be, Cesara?” I whisper seductively, my eyes closed, tingling.
The warmth of her tongue traces my ear, over my cheek, until her mouth finds mine. She kisses me, one hand against the side of my face, turning it roughly toward her, the other hand sliding down my hip, my thigh, and then to my knee where my silk dress stops.
“I want you to be yourself,” she says, and then kisses my neck. “Your savagery, the way you carry yourself in front of men who want you, how you deny them, and despise them; it does things to me that no one has ever been able to do.”
I gasp and rest my hands against the vanity when I feel her fingers inside of me; she presses her other hand to the small of my back and gently pushes me forward so that I’m bent over the vanity in front of her. The coolness of the silk slides over my bottom and I feel it pool in the center of my back, exposing me naked beneath it; her warm hands caress my bottom, followed by her lips as she kisses it all over, taking her time with each spot.
“You sure you want me to be myself, Cesara?” I ask, my breathing shifting with her touch. “Even with you? I thought you”—I gasp again—“I thought you…liked the control.”
“I do,” she says as she crouches behind me. “Only with me do I ever want you to show weakness, Lydia. Is that understood?”
“Only with you…” I say, and shut my eyes as her tongue lashes me into guilt-filled euphoria.
It’s just after nine, and the guests—some, rumor has it, the biggest buyers in the business—are starting to arrive. This place is a fortress, located approximately fifty-miles from Cesara’s mansion and the compound she runs. Like every mansion I’ve ever been to, there have to be one hundred armed men guarding the grounds, and the roads at least five-miles out in every direction. Nobody gets into a place like this, or even close to it, without an invitation and proper identification. And anyone who tries is shot on sight. No questions asked. No chance to prove innocence.
Cesara and I make our way into the theatre where a stage is perched against the far back wall, surrounded by tall, heavy, black velvet curtains pulled open. Instead of theatre seats lined neatly in rows, there are about one hundred round tables with four matching chairs pushed underneath; place-cards are set upon the tables nearest the stage, reserved for those ‘big buyers’ everybody’s whispering about in the halls. Admittedly, the big buyers are the ones I’m most interested in, too. If Vonnegut is here tonight, he would have to be among them.
I am nervous; I can’t lie to myself to make myself feel better—if Vonnegut is here, chances are he will know who I am before I can figure him out.
“Come,” I hear Cesara say, and she gestures for me to follow her through the theatre and out a side exit.
Two slave girls, not trained enough to sell yet, tag along behind us everywhere we go. The redhead, Sabine, belongs to me. I glance back at her to make sure she’s keeping up and not doing anything to make me look bad.
“I want you to meet someone special,” Cesara tells me as we enter a much smaller room.
My heart nearly falls into my knees when I see the tall Mexican standing there in his dark suit and fancy silk tie, and for a moment I hope like hell no one but me notices I have to steady my breath—the resemblance is frightening.