Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(56)

Nothing.

“Goddamn it, Philip. This isn’t funny. This is not okay. Let me out of here.”

I imagined him with a glass of amber liquid in his hand, shirtless, his tattoos stark against his broad chest. If he was in his study, would he even hear me?

“Philip. Open the door now.” In a fit of frustration, I slammed my palm against the door. The solid wood didn’t give a single millimeter, and I winced as my hand smarted from the blow.

Then I had a worse thought: what if he wasn’t downstairs in his study? What if he had actually left me here? What if he had gone to the drop himself, without me, alone.

As soon as I had the thought, I knew that was exactly what he’d done. He would have thought he was protecting me, the same way he’d pushed his brother away, his sister. He pushed everyone he cared about away, and I couldn’t pretend that he didn’t care about me—not after everything we had been through. He wouldn’t ever be the sweet, emotionally available kind of man. This was the kind of man he was, the kind who would lock up the woman he cared about to keep her safe.

The walls closed in on me, and no amount of will could hold them away. I gasped out a breathless denial, but it was too late.

“Philip,” I tried again, my voice cracking. My hand curled against the door, shaking. Please. You said you would protect me.

This isn’t protection. This is hell.

Slowly I slid to the floor, fighting for breath, spots dancing behind my eyes as consciousness faded out and then back again. I could feel the metal handcuffs around my wrists, the cold pipe against my arms, the cracked tile beneath my legs.

I was back in that bathroom, in an abandoned tenement not far from the meat market. Kidnapped. Restrained. The lack of oxygen made me hazy enough to almost believe I was really back there.

There was laughter outside the bathroom—male laughter that sounded cruel to my teenage ears. There would be grunts and slaps when women would visit them. And long stretches of silence that somehow became scarier in my mind.

The worst part wasn’t what I heard outside. It was what happened when they came in.

Some of the men would just ignore me, as if I wasn’t even a person—as if I were part of the plumbing.

Other men would speak to me—dirty words, cruel words.

They would taunt me. Mock me.

I was back in that moment, in that dirty tenement, in the bathroom.

One man in particular—they called him Red for the bloom of red roses tattooed across his chest and down his arms. That might sound sweet, maybe even feminine, but it was terrifying on him, the blooms settled between black-eyed skulls, the petals dripping with blood, the thorn-studded stems wrapping around his arm like barbed wire.

The toilet seat remained up most of the time, and the men—they weren’t always conscientious about staying within the bowl. I would cover my face with my hands as best I could and close my eyes, trying in vain to ignore the pungent smell that filled the air in the small, dank room.

Red wouldn’t miss on accident, though. He would miss on purpose, swerving toward me and then away again, painting the wall, splashing warm piss on my curled-up toes. I had tried not to let him see me cry. That was what he wanted. For me to scream or beg or break down. And I tried not to give it to him.

It was that same stubborn bravado that had carried me through the penthouse, that had punched Shelly in the face, that had let me strip in front of Philip to pay a debt I owed.

I swam around in that space, fighting to breathe, fighting not to cry.

Fighting to survive.

All I could see was red, all I could smell was hot piss. All I could think about was Philip, and how he had left me here, chained to these pipes.

Except no, I hadn’t known Philip then.

I was hallucinating, mixed up between the past and the present. I wasn’t in the bathroom, not really. I was in the present, curled up on the floor in Philip’s room, having a panic attack.

*

I DIDN’T KNOW how long I remained like that, shivering on the floor, desperate and alone. I thought I would die—and sometimes I wanted to. It seemed like anything would be better than fighting for breath and losing.

From some faraway distance I heard the sound of voices.

“Philip,” I whispered hoarsely.

It wasn’t him. I realized that as the voices got louder, echoing my own plea.

“Philip!” someone said. “Where the hell are you?”

Help me. I’m here. Let me out. I tried to form the words, but they came out as rough breaths.

“There’s a million rooms,” someone said. A female. Could it be…Rose? Philip’s sister. I had only met her once, but that time period was emblazoned into my mind, never to be forgotten. “It will take forever to check them all. He might not even be here.”

“A car was missing,” came a male voice. Her husband. Drew. “They might have left already.”

Oh no, they were leaving. I had to do something. With all my strength, all my desperation, all my twisted love for Philip, I slammed my foot against the door—the pain of it reverberated through my shin, a sharp and welcome ache that distracted me from my lungs.

There was silence on the other side of the door, then footsteps.

“Philip?” Rose called. “Are you in there?”

I couldn’t answer, but I could already hear them discussing how to break down the thick door. I would get out of here. I would be safe, but if Philip had made me stay here, it meant he thought the drop would be too dangerous. It meant he thought he might not make it out alive.