Jaked, page 9
When I looked up, Bianca was staring down at my stomach. And grimacing. "What on Earth was that?" she said.
I looked down. "What?"
Right on cue, my stomach gave a low rumble.
"Is that you?" she said.
"Hey," I said, "Give me a break. I haven't eaten yet today." Funny, in all the commotion, I hadn't even realized I was hungry. But now that I had thought about it, I was utterly starving. "Is there a food court around here?" I asked.
"Have you forgotten we're on a schedule?" she asked.
"So I'll just grab something to go."
Her lip curled. "And eat while your nails are getting done? Tasha will just love that."
"Jeez," I said. "What's the big deal?"
With a pained expression, Bianca looked heavenward. "Fine," she said. "I'll get the manicure. You get a pretzel, or whatever it is that you eat."
"Wait a minute," I said. "I thought I had to get a manicure."
"Do you see a gun to your head?" She gave an exaggerated sigh. "Look, you've got one minute. Choose. Manicure? Or food?"
At the mention of food, my stomach gave another rumble.
She stared at me like I'd just farted at the dinner table. "Are you going to be doing that all day?" she asked.
Great. Now I felt cheap and disgusting.
Five minutes later, I was standing in the food court, trying to decide between nachos or a cheeseburger. And that's when I heard it – my own voice, screaming out from someone's phone.
Chapter 19
I glanced around, and heard it again. It was coming from two college-age types standing near the seating area. More specifically, it was coming from one of their cellphones.
Grinning like idiots, the guys were peering down at the small screen. The one holding the phone, some dark-haired guy in a University of Michigan sweatshirt, was saying, "Wait for it. The best part's coming up."
Suddenly, they both burst out laughing. "Oh man," the other guy said, "he was so Jaked."
Jaked?
Almost like in a trance, I moved closer, listening to my own recorded voice carry across the small distance. As if feeling my gaze, the second guy, a tall blond in a hockey jersey, looked up. When he saw me watching, he did a double-take. He elbowed his friend, and said, "Check it out. It's her."
The guy in the sweatshirt was still chuckling. He didn't look up. "Who?" he said.
"Damn it. Hit pause," the blond said. "Like now."
Sweatshirt tapped the screen and looked up. His eyes widened. He looked down at his phone. When he looked up again, his face split into a wide grin. "Holy shit," he said. "It is you."
"Me?" I croaked.
"So," the blond guy asked, "are you his girlfriend or something?"
"Nah," the guy in the sweatshirt said. "Jake doesn't do the girlfriend thing. She's gotta be an actress." He turned to me and said, "Am I right?"
"I, uh." I held out a shaky hand toward the phone. "Can I see that?"
He grinned over at me. "Sure," he said, handing over the phone.
Cradling the thing with unsteady hands, I looked down at the small screen. On it, I saw a frozen image of Jake in a bloodstained shirt standing near the hood of an exotic red sports car. I recognized the car. I recognized the shirt. And, a moment later, when I tapped the play button, I recognized myself, screaming, "That's not what I meant!" as windshield wipers whacked that Chainsaw guy in the face.
"Oh my God," I said, scanning the details on the small screen. When I saw the number of page-views, I almost choked. It was over a million. And I knew firsthand, the video was just a few hours old.
"So what's he like?" the guy in the sweatshirt asked.
I gave my head a quick shake. "Who?"
"Jake. Who else?'
I felt myself swallow. "Um, well the thing is…" I glanced around. "Who is he?"
Both guys burst out laughing.
"Good one," the blond said. "But seriously, what's he like?"
An image of Jake flashed across my brain. He was raw and dangerous. He had stormy eyes, dark hair, and an even darker reputation. And yet, for whatever reason, he'd come for me. To rescue me? Or to ruin my life? In one short day, he'd done a little of both.
In front of me, both guys waited.
I considered their question. "First," I said, "tell me what you know about him."
The blond gave me a dubious look. "Is this part of some market research or something?"
"Uh, something like that."
Fifteen minutes later, I knew more than I ever imagined.
Apparently, Jake was some sort of internet mogul – a sensation, actually, with twelve million subscribers worldwide and a rabid fan base of frat boys, groupies, and mixed-martial arts fans.
Standing in that crowded food court, I hunkered down with the stranger's phone, watching Jake's greatest hits back-to-back until the phone ran out of juice and I ran out of questions.
Some of the videos were absolutely brutal – with blood-spattered fighting that almost hurt to watch. Some were hilarious, like the one with the Chainsaw and – from what I could tell – quite a few other high-dollar athletes, who tried – and failed – to kick's Jake's ass.
In every single one, Jake looked like a god – a cocky mass of guts and muscle, wrapped in a package that had girls drooling from the sidelines, whether their boyfriends were with them or not.
The way it looked, the whole thing was just a game to him. He took some brutal hits, and yet never seemed to give a crap.
I considered the fight I'd witnessed firsthand. He'd been literally yanked out of his vehicle. Now that I thought about it, he hadn't done a damn thing to stop it.
He had wanted that fight to happen. Anything for his fans? Or anything for fun? I felt my eyebrows furrow. Maybe it was something else. Anything for a buck?
A lot of bucks, actually. The numbers the guys threw around were staggering. For someone who'd grown up in a dump, Jake had come a long, long way. Suddenly, the penthouse seemed a modest investment for someone with his financial means.
After the two guys left, I sank down at an empty table and tried to make sense of everything. I was still trying to make sense of it when Bianca's shrill voice sliced into my consciousness. "You were supposed to meet me at the South entrance, remember?"
I glanced up. "What? I was?"
She blew out an irritated breath. "We talked about this. Remember?"
"Oh." Actually, we had. "Yeah. Sorry about that."
Her brow wrinkled. "What's wrong? You're not sick, are you?"
Still dazed, I shook my head.
"Good," she said, "because we need to run, like now. Henry's waiting."
"Who's Henry?" I asked.
She looked heavenward. "The driver. Remember?"
"Oh."
"Are you sure you're not sick?" she said. "Because if you are, you'd better do it here. Not in the car."
"Do what?"
She lowered her voice. "You know."
Reluctantly, I stood. "I'm fine," I said.
She gave me a dubious look. "If you say so."
Chapter 20
By the time we reached the hair salon – a twenty-minute drive away – I was absolutely famished. Stupidly, I'd completely forgotten to eat and was starting to feel light-headed. Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with food, and had everything to with Jake.
Sitting in the stylist's chair, I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd learned.
The way it looked, Jake had tapped a gold mine. I never would've pegged him as the entrepreneurial type. He was too brash, too obnoxious, and way too reckless to build a stable anything. And yet, somehow he had.
At least one thing finally made sense. I now realized why he was famous to some people, and not to others. Except for the random viral video here and there, I almost never watched videos on-line. Neither did most of my friends.
I had a sneaking suspicion that I'd be watching a lot more of them from now on.
Carlie, my impromptu stylist, was just finishing up when Bianca appeared over my shoulder. She frowned at me in the mirrored reflection. "That's not what we talked about," she said.
For the last hour, Bianca had been on the far side of the salon, getting her own hair done. Unsurprisingly, it looked totally gorgeous – gathered in a thick mass high on her head, with long, styled tendrils framing her perfectly made-up face.
I glanced in the mirror at my own hair. It wasn't nearly so elaborate, but it didn't look too bad. Under the stylist's care, my highlights practically shimmered, and my hair fell in soft waves around my face.
Bianca gave my stylist a sour look. "You were supposed to put it in a bun," she said.
Carlie, who'd been setting aside a spray bottle, paused in mid-reach. She said nothing.
So I did. "I know," I told Bianca, "but I wouldn’t let her."
Bianca's gaze narrowed. "You wouldn't let her?"
It was true. The last thing I needed was a schoolmarm hairstyle to go with my schoolmarm dress. Enough was enough. "If I were going to wear my hair in a bun," I told Bianca, "I could have done that myself."
"Not as well as Carlie could." Bianca glanced toward the stylist. "Of course, that's assuming she can follow simple instructions, which I grant you, is debatable."
In the mirror, Carlie looked from me to Bianca. She opened her mouth, and then stopped short at a low rumbling sound that, embarrassingly, was coming from me.
"What was that?" Bianca said.
In unison, we all looked down toward my stomach. I slunk down in the chair and tried to become invisible.
"God, do you always sound like that?" Bianca said. "Do you have a medical condition or something?"
My face absolutely flaming, I lifted my chin. "No. I just didn't get the chance to eat. That's all."
"You can't be serious," she said. "What were you doing in the food court?"
"Nothing."
"Whatever," she said. "Forget it. At this point, I don't even want to know."
I was tired and starving, and yes, a little bit humiliated. "Good," I said, "because it's none of your business."
She drew back. "Excuse me?"
Facing off in the mirrored reflection, I studied Bianca's hair. "And why isn't your hair in a bun?" I asked.
"Because," she said, "I have my style. You have yours."
"Right," I said.
"What, were you expecting?" she said. "To go as twins?"
"You know what?" I said. "You've been giving me a hard time all day. And honestly, it's getting old."
Behind me, Carlie glanced toward the front register. "I'm going to, uh, check on something," she said, "I'll be back in five minutes, okay?"
"Don't bother," Bianca said. "We're leaving." She gave Carlie a scornful look. "And I hope you realize, you're not getting a tip for this."
I narrowed my gaze. "Yes, she is," I said.
"Really?" Bianca said, meeting my gaze in the mirror. "With whose money?"
I glanced down at my purse, where Jake's money – what little remained – was folded up in an inside pocket. I opened my mouth, hoping for a snappy comeback. Nothing came out.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Bianca said with an overly sweet smile. "I forgot. You're a charity case." She gave a condescending laugh. "I guess it's easy to be generous when you're not the one paying. Isn't it?"
I whirled around and pushed up from the chair. I faced Bianca head-on, trying to control my rapid breathing. I gave her hair a good, long look. "So," I said, "who paid for yours?"
She drew back. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Around us, the salon had grown oddly quiet. Carlie looked from me to Bianca. I glanced around, hoping for something, anything to fill the deathly silence. And then, something did – a low, rumbling noise that seemed to fill the whole salon.
My stomach.
I wanted to die of embarrassment.
Silently, Carlie reached past me. She opened a side drawer on her station. She pulled out a granola bar and handed it over. I glanced around. Everyone was staring. At me. I blinked long and hard before turning to Carlie.
"Thanks," I said, "I'll, uh, just eat this in the car."
But I didn't. Sitting in the back seat, food was the last thing on my mind. Between the stress of the day and uncertainty over what I'd find at Jake's place, my stomach was churning with more than hunger. Next to me, Bianca sat in frigid silence, neglecting even her phone as she looked out her car window watching the miles pass.
In front of the glass partition, Henry navigated the streets, apparently oblivious to the tension in the back seat.
About five minutes from Jake's, Bianca turned to face me. "I suppose you're going to tell on me," she said.
"Tell on you?" I said. "Like we're in grade school?"
When she spoke, her voice was very quiet. "If you're smart, you'll stay away from him."
She didn't need to say who she meant. But I made myself say it anyway. "Who? Jake?"
Slowly, she nodded.
"Yeah?" I said. "Why's that?"
"Because," she said, "if you're not careful, he'll destroy you." Her voice hitched. "Just like he's destroyed me."
Caught off guard, I stared at Bianca. Sitting in her perfect clothes, with her perfect hair and perfect nails, she looked anything but destroyed. "What do you mean?" I asked.
She glanced toward her lap, not meeting my gaze. "You see," she said, "he gives me money. And…" She let the sentence trail off.
"And?" I prompted.
"I do things for him."
My gaze narrowed. "What kind of things?"
She looked up, finally looking me in the eye. "Things you'll be doing if you're not careful."
My stomach, already churning, gave another lurch. The implication was obvious. "And he pays you for that?" I said. "I'm finding that hard to believe."
She gave a bitter laugh. "Really? Why's that?"
"Because," I said, "you seem to really like him." I blew out a long breath. "I guess I figured you wouldn’t—" How to put this? "—uh, need money for that."
Her voice became brittle. "It's not all fun and games," she said. "Some of the things are—" She looked away, breaking eye-contact. "—unpleasant."
I recalled the sounds that were coming from Maddie's room the previous night. As far as I could tell, nothing remotely unpleasant was going on in there. Then again, Jake wasn't paying Maddie for those kinds of services, not that I knew of anyway.
Did Jake expect something extra when money exchanged hands? I shook off the whole idea. Jake didn't pay anyone for sex. I was sure of it.
Or was I?
A horrible recollection hit me. Every once in a while, Maddie did get paid for sex – from Julian, and from a few other customers from the strip club. Was Jake one of her customers too?
My queasiness grew.
Next to me, Bianca was turned to stare out her car window. Was she serious? I shook my head. She couldn’t be. I knew Jake. He wouldn’t pay for it. He was smoking hot. He wouldn't need to pay for it. When we pulled up to Jake's building, I still didn't know what to think.
I opened my door, grabbed my packages, and stumbled out on shaky legs before Henry could even think of getting the door.
From inside the car, Bianca called out, "Luna?"
Relucantly, I turned toward her. "What?"
"If you tell Jake any of this," she said, "I'll be fired." She fidgeted in her car seat. "I know it doesn't look it, but I do need the money. So please don't. Okay?"
This was way too strange. "I don't know," I said.
"Believe me," she said. I am sorry. I know I was awful today. But about the dress, you'll look great. Trust me."
I wasn't born yesterday. I didn't trust her one bit. Still, the smartest thing was to let it drop. So silently, I turned and trudged into the building.
But an hour later, as Jake and I faced off in his penthouse, I wasn’t feeling terribly smart about that, or anything else for that matter.
Chapter 21
"What the hell is that?" Jake asked.
I looked down. "What?"
"That thing."
"You mean this?" I grabbed a handful of black fabric and lifted it outward. "The dress?"
We were standing near the balcony doors of his penthouse. I'd just emerged from his guest room, dressed for the museum thing – whatever it was – and eager to get it over with. It was sad too, because I should have been excited. But today, I'd had way too much excitement already.
When I'd returned from shopping, Jake had been gone. I'd let myself in using his extra key card, only to find a note on the entryway table. "Be back soon."
At the time, I'd been relieved. After everything I'd learned, I hadn't been ready to face him. I still wasn't ready to face him. Bianca's words weighed on my mind. Did I believe her? I still wasn't sure. But what did it matter? Whether she was lying or not, I was still dressed like a schoolmarm.
Jake eyed the dress with undisguised loathing. "A dress?" he said. "That's what you're calling it?"
Even though I didn't love the dress either, Jake's reaction still stung. As he eyed me with obvious disgust, I felt my face grow warm. "What would you call it?" I said.
His jaw tightened. "Tell me something," he said. "Did you pick that thing out?"
As I met his gaze, I felt my own temper rise. Yes, the dress was butt-ugly. But what if I had picked it out? Just because he didn't like something, that didn't give him the right to be so nasty about it. I threw back my shoulders and said, "What if I did?"
His mouth opened. No words came out. He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "It's uh, really—" He glanced toward the door. "So you did pick it out?"
Unlike me, he looked fabulous, in dark slacks and a dark dress shirt and sports jacket that matched perfectly with his dark hair and dark eyes – and yet somehow managed to accentuate his amazing body.
The fact that he looked so good – while I looked awful – only made me more irritated.
"You know what?" I said. "You've been bossing me around since I got here, and I've just about had it." My voice rose. "Do you even realize what you cost me today?"
He leaned back against the wall. "Go ahead," he said, crossing his arms. "Tell me."
