Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear— not absence of fear.
Mark Twain
JENNIE
When everyone else gets up, the girls that filled the front row linger, their eyes jumping from Lalisa to me. Nella even remains seated next to me until Lalisa stands up, swings my backpack around her broad shoulder and grabs my hand. As we get up and leave, over a dozen girls follow, Nella included.
I never thought I would be grateful to have Nella's company, but I am. It means that I have a witness. But at the sound of the high pitched giggles, Lalisa shoots a menacing glare at the girls behind us. They instantly scramble, quicker than I thought possible in their sky high heels. There go my witnesses.
Lalisa and I exit, hand in hand. That shallow part of me wonders if this is what it looks like to be in a relationship, two people holding hands and walking from class. Except we aren't even close to being a couple, and I'm trying really hard to hold myself together, so I won't look like a mess on the outside. I don't need Lalisa to know how vulnerable I am and use that against me.
I also must look ridiculous in my shirt that's practically lingerie. At least my jeans cover my legs. And Lalisa, as gorgeous as she is, looks out of place with the dangerous glint in her eye and the tailored suit she wears like a second skin.
Okay, so we look nothing like a normal couple.
I'm saddened by the knowledge that I will never have the opportunity to experience a real relationship. I need to find a way to save myself. There are so many things I want to do with my life, things I've never experienced and won't get the chance to if I die now. I decide it can't hurt to stall.
I turn to Lalisa and say, "I have another lecture to get to."
I'm stunned when she nods her head. But she doesn't let go of my hand. Instead, she tilts her head, as if asking me to lead the way. I sigh, and we head in the direction of Sproul Hall, where my lecture on the advanced applications of statistics in genetics is being held. This class is smaller, with less than ten people in it, and I wonder what will happen when I enter the class with Lalisa by my side.
As we walk, I considered my very limited options. I know that Lalisa won't be letting me out of her sight anytime soon, so whatever I do, I have to do it under her watchful eyes. I don't know anyone well enough to pass any covert I'm-about-to-be-killed-by-the-world's-hottest-woman looks.
Plus, if I tell someone, there's a large chance they won't believe me or won't be able to do anything about it. And then I'll be left in the same position, only Lalisa will have even more reason to hate me. I decide to keep an eye out for any better opportunities to get away.
Part of me doesn't even think I should be trying to get away. Horny Jennie perks up, and I sit her ass right back down. I have enough on my mind without adding Horny Jennie into the mix.
Sane Jennie reasons that there's nothing to do that isn't worse than what's currently happening. If she wants me dead, I would already be dead. I can't hide from her. I don't want to run from her and leave Wilton. Having a degree from here will almost definitely change my life for the better, and there's no way I'll sacrifice that.
I can't go to the police either. I've watched enough movies and read enough Romano fan blogs to know they probably have a lot of police officers on their payroll. I won't know who to trust. It would be a gamble to turn to them. I also don't have anyone in my life besides Doyeon, whose advice would be to sleep with Lalisa.
Inside me, Horny Jennie lifts her head. I mentally duct tape her mouth and force myself to stop thinking of Lalisa before Horny Jennie takes over my brain and body, and I do something stupid. Like try to jump her bones.
Once we enter the class, I'm flabbergasted when Dr. Lance greets Lalisa with a warm smile. She's an older woman with white hair, a round body, and keen eyes. But with the way she's looking at Lalisa like she adores her, I have to question her intelligence.
"Lalisa! What a pleasant surprise!" she greets. She eyes our joined hands curiously. "Have you come to brush up on your statistics? Unfortunately, this is statistics for science majors not business."
Ah.
I read online that Lalisa completed a six-year joint Bachelor's and Master's of Science degree program at Wilton's Jefferson School of Business in just three years. I didn't believe it when I read it, but I'm starting to now. Dr. Lance teaches advanced statistics across many disciplines, including business. If Lalisa has a B.S. and M.S. from Wilton's business school, they have to have crossed paths before.
"May I sit in?" Lalisa asks. Her voice is lacking the hard edge it usually has. She sounds almost… pleasant.
But when I look at her, her face is as impassive as ever.
"Of course, of course. You may sit anywhere you'd like."
I subtly yank my hand out of Lalisa's grip, knowing she can't grab it back with the attention Dr. Lance is giving us. She's too sharp not to notice something like that. I briefly consider sending her a signal to call the police, but I know they'll never arrive in time.
And Dr. Lance is far too old to take on Lalisa. Hell, it's unlikely that anyone of any age can. Her body is molded into a dangerous weapon that's probably more lethal than a loaded gun. It's definitely scarier, and I would know—I've had experience with both.
With her back turned to Dr. Lance, Lalisa sends me a warning glare. I try to ignore it, heading towards the seats. These seats aren't stadium style, like the lecture hall's are. These are tiny individual desks, consisting of plastic chairs attached to undersized wooden desks with metal screws.
Everyone is already sitting down, staring at us with varying looks of disbelief. I'm not sure if it's because Lalisa is one scary dude or because I brought a date to class. I find an empty desk, surrounded on all sides by people. If I sit in this one, Lalisa won't be able to sit near me. I take a seat at the desk, my face all sorts of smug. I'll get another 50 minutes of peace sitting without her beside me. With the way my day is going, that's more than I can hope for.
My grin drops when Lalisa glares at the student sitting next to me. He all but jumps out of his seat and scrambles to the empty one on the other side of the classroom. Lalisa takes a seat at the newly abandoned chair. She reaches over, grips my desk with one hand, and easily drags it closer to her until it's touching her desk. Then, she slings her arm around my shoulders.
I don't react. I'm still too stunned. She just scared off some poor guy and dragged all 125 pounds of me along with this 50 pound desk with one hand. I know that she could have done it even if I weighed 150 pounds more. I am so fucked.
And this, sitting next to her and under her arm, is ridiculous. This is unnecessary. I'm not going anywhere, whether her arm is around me or not. I don't have the guts. We both know that. We also both know that running is an illogical move. She's doing this to spite me, and I know that I won't be paying attention to yet another class.
Not that it matters.
Chances are I'll be dead after this class anyway.
Of course, I don't pay attention to the whole lecture, but I am astonished when Dr. Lance asks questions and Lalisa answers all of them. Know it all. Lalisa is in the middle of another answer when a rare smile graces Dr. Lance's face, because Lalisa doesn't just answer the questions.
She explains her answers with a level of depth and thoroughness that is both impressive and inimitable. Not even Dr. Lance, who has long since reached emeritus status at Wilton, can explain the concepts as well as Lalisa. And the stupid boys in the class are eating it up.
I'm the only girl in the class, which isn't exactly a shocker, because STEM fields are always heavier on the male enrollment. Couple in the fact that bioinformatics and genomics is such a specialized field, and I'm the only girl at Wilton in the entire major.
It's lonely and it sucks, but what can I do? Go around knocking on doors and asking girls to convert to the sciences, bible salesmen style?
No, thanks.
After a few minutes, the boys in the class stop caring that Lalisa is intimidating as fuck and affiliated with the Romano family. Hell, I wouldn't be amazed if some of them don't even know, given how focused these guys are on their studies. What they do care about, though, is getting an A. And Lalisa is someone that can explain convoluted concepts to them better than their professor can.
I can see the worship in their eyes.
It pisses me off.
When class finally ends, the kid Lalisa scared off actually has the guts to come up to Lalisa and ask a question about fiduciary inference. And Lalisa actually answers it. Ronald Fisher, the inventor of fiduciary inference, didn't even fully understand it. But Lalisa does. I'm stupefied.
Who is this girl?
After fielding a few more questions like a damn celebrity, Lalisa turns to me and says, "Are you going to talk to me or are we going to waste another hour sitting in a lecture you won't pay attention to?"
I sigh, unsurprised that she caught onto my plan. I don't have another class today anyway. And then I process her words again.
"Talk? You want to talk? I thought you were here to 'take care of me.'" My voice dips at the end, mimicking her deep tone unsuccessfully. I sounded like the prepubescent offspring of the Cookie Monster and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
She finally removes her arm from my shoulders and grabs my hand instead. We're standing up now, and my backpack is somehow already across one of her shoulders.
"I said I was," she admits. "But not anymore."
"Not anymore," I parrot, disbelief coloring my words. "And why the Hell not?"
Gosh, I'm stupid. I didn't just say that. It's like looking a gift horse in the face and spitting on it. And stomping on its toes and throwing 'yo mama jokes its way.
Why can't I be mute?
"Let's go somewhere private," she says.
It's then that I notice we have the attention of everyone. Even Dr. Lance. They may not know or care about Lalisa's mafia connections, but drama is still drama, and these boys look hooked on ours. I'm glad that we were whispering.
I nod to her. Lalisa would take my hand and drag me away if I say no anyways. I might as well go of my own volition. We leave Sproul, and Lalisa tugs on my hand, pulling me into another building and hallway I didn't even know exists.
I'm led into an elevator, where there's a sudden and quick flash of light that startles me. She steadies me when I jump back, and I let her because I'm too stunned to stop her. Then, we're headed downward. The elevator opens up into the basement of the building.
It should be scary—I'm in a basement with a killer, a classic setup to just about every horror movie—but I'm way too fascinated to register the threat. The basement is a giant secret lab I've never seen on any Wilton map or directory.
And it's perfection.
I even pass a state of the art centrifuge that's nicer than the expensive ones stocked in the genomics building. This is incredible. It's better than Tumblr porn.
Don't even think about it, Horny Jennie.
I can't help but ask, "How do you know about this place?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business."
Her sharp tone snaps me out of my awed reverie. I pause abruptly at the sound of it, then continue looking around, using my wonder as a stalling tactic. I search for exits, pretending that I'm continuing my visual exploration of the lab.
Lalisa's perceptive eyes narrow at my theatrics, and I suspect she knows what I'm doing. I still pretend that I'm exploring the place anyways. She surprisingly lets me.
There's a door to a stairwell, but it has an ID scanner next to it. I doubt I have access to it, and my student identification card is in my wallet, which is in the backpack Lalisa is still holding, anyways. The only other exit is the elevator, which is already on the third floor.
If I want to get in, I'll have to wait for it to come back down to the basement. Plus, the flash in the elevator earlier was probably some crazy security measure, like a biometric scanner or something. I can't know for sure, but I'm not about to take the risk.
Which means I'm trapped.
The look on Lalisa's face tells me she knows that. That's probably why she took me down here in the first place. How she even knows this place exists, I don't know, but that's a mystery for another time, even though it's killing me not to prod. If I even live past the next few minutes. Now that I think about it, this is the perfect place to kill me—secret, isolated, and full of chemicals.
Done with my perusal, I don't say anything, waiting for Lalisa to talk.
"You're different than I thought you'd be."
My eyes shoot to her in confused interest. "What'd you think I'd be like?"
"I thought you were a plant. A spy for one of the families. Maybe even a corporate spy, a honey pot to steal secrets. Someone with an agenda at least. But you're not, are you?"
My eyes widen. She thought I was a spy? For one of the five families? The idea is so ridiculous that I have to laugh.
"You thought I was a spy?"
I'm not even going to touch the honey pot comment.
… Because, seriously? Me? A honey pot?
If I was a honey pot, she wouldn't have ditched me pre-orgasm…
Must not think about it.
Must not think about it.
Must not think about it.
Her voice cuts through my mental mantra. "What was I supposed to think?" Her eyes harden with anger. "You called the cops in the middle of an importa—" She stops herself. "You called the cops on an international burner phone paid for in cash over two years ago in a remote city in Mozambique."
When she puts it that way, I actually sound pretty badass.
But she isn't done. "The sim card was in the toilet. It took my tech guys a while to recover it. They didn't even think they could, but when they finally did, there was nothing on it. Not even a single contact."
That's because I knew no one at the time. I have no family, and bouncing around from foster home to foster home makes it hard to make friends. Even now, I only have Doyeon and my boss' number. No one I met during my time volunteering has the money for a phone either. It's a luxury most people in America don't even realize is luxurious.
"The phone had severe water damage, and most of its serial number had been scratched off."
I wince. It wasn't scratched off purposely. I'm just horrible at taking care of my electronics. Plus, the phone was a ten dollar flip phone that I didn't really need. It was just a precaution in case of an emergency while abroad. I didn't even consider keeping it unscathed by my carelessness and penchant for ruining electronics.
She continues, "And in every camera footage we had of you, your head was either down or behind that friend of yours. Doyeon. I knew how you look like, but we needed an actual photograph to distribute. The sketch artist's wasn't good enough."
I don't even register that she knows Doyeon's name. I'm too focused on how lucky I am to have avoided the cameras. I didn't avoid them intentionally. In fact, I didn't even consider the cameras until now.
Doyeon is just really tall, especially in heels. It doesn't shock me that her height shielded me from the cameras. As for looking down, I was avoiding looking up because of the dancers hanging above us in the cages.
"That's your dancers' faults!" I cry. "Blame them!"
She frowns. "What are you talking about?"
"I wasn't sure if they were wearing underwear! So, I didn't look up!"
Lalisa rubs her forehead roughly and glances up at the ceiling in exasperation. It's the universal what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you look. And honestly, I ask myself the same question a lot.
She makes a noise between a sigh and a grunt. "When we saw the video footage, you were the only one that was even near the restrooms at the time the cops were called. That part was easy. Identifying you was the hard part. Your face wasn't on camera, and it looked like you were alone. You didn't dance with Doyeon at all, and while you guys were near each other, you didn't look like you guys came together."
I remember. I was lost in my head, imagining Rogue as a strip club. Then, I was focused on Lalisa when my eyes caught sight of her heading into the VIP area. After that, Doyeon danced with some guy, while I danced with strangers.
"Your 9-1-1 call was a dead end. You never identified yourself. Your phone was a dead end. It took forever to trace, and when we finally did, we found out that it was bought in cash." A dry laugh ripples through her. "I thought someone was after me. You were a fucking ghost. Last week, we got our hands on video footage from someone who filmed my encounter with the cops."
Memories of people in the crowd that surrounded the two cops and Lalisa flashed through my head. I had seen people with their cameras out, but I didn't think to hide my face. I'm so damn stupid.
"Your face wasn't in it. It was shot from behind, but your hands were on your friend's back and that guy she was with. I knew it was you. I recognized the dress. After that, it was easier. We pulled the guy's info from his bar tab. He was just some nobody lawyer you met there. We questioned him, but he knew nothing."
I'm shocked. They questioned him? Guilt fills my stomach, and I hope he didn't get hurt because of me. Wait… I remember him exchanging numbers with Doyeon. Huh. He didn't rat us out. I'm giving him mad props, but I don't even remember his name.
"But your roommate was even easier to find. She posted dozens of pictures from that night on Instagram." He laughs. "She even geotagged Rogue in them. Imagine my surprise when I saw your face in one of them."
Our resident advisor took a picture of me and Doyeon before we left to Rogue, and Doyeon immediately posted it to Instagram—#Rogue #Exclusive #Roomies4Lyfe.
She gives me a sardonic laugh. "All we had to do was look at Rogue's Instagram feed. We would've identified you in minutes. Instead, it took a month. I wasted a damn month and almost a million dollars to find someone who isn't even a damn threat."
Hold up. A million dollars?! I can't even fathom that amount of money.
"You know, I wasn't even sure whether or not you were a threat when I came here. Your background check came up empty. Not just clean but empty. As in there's nothing on you past this last month."
That's because my last foster dad, Steve, the one that gave me the shirt I'm currently wearing, is a crazy fuck. He had an unhealthy obsession with me. Maybe he still does. He was starting to act on it, sneaking into my room at night and staring at me.
One time, I woke up to go to the bathroom, and he was there, stroking himself at the foot of my bed. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, figuring I was safer asleep than awake. I was relieved when he didn't touch me that night, but I'll always wonder if he had in the past and I just never woke up to it.
The next morning, I packed my bags, ditched school and headed straight to my social worker, who got me the Hell out of there. I spent my last month as a minor in some shitty group home, where Steve kept trying to visit me, even though he was warned by the cops not to.
My social worker even got me an emergency protective order against him, but that didn't stop Steve from trying. It's why I never bothered with a restraining order. I just left once I got the chance.
Once I turned 18, my social worker agreed to seal my file and help me change my name, which used to be Jennie Ruby Jane Reeves. Now, it's Jennie Kim. I changed it to my name and my biological mother's maiden name. Then, I hightailed it out of the country.
For two years, I was gone. And now, here I am, in danger again and wearing the shirt Steve got me.
The irony isn't lost on me.
Lalisa laughs again. It's a lifeless sound. "You're a damn ghost, but I don't think you're connected to the mafia. I wasn't sure before, but after meeting you again, I don't think so." Her eyes peruse my body, causing me to shiver. Her full lips curl up in disgust. "I mean look at you. You're shaking, for fuck's sake. It's pathetic." Those chilling brown eyes narrow on me, and she takes a menacing step closer. "Why'd you call the cops?"
I take a step back and occupy myself by eyeing the floor.
It's a really interesting floor.
Looks like a floor.
Feels like a floor.
Floor.
Floor.
Floor.
Floor.
Floo—
Lalisa interrupts my beautiful ode to the floor. "You're going to have to answer me eventually."
I keep my eyes trained on my dirty friend, the floor. "I-I… I thought that b-big guy was h-hurting that girl."
"He was."
I look up at her, surprised that she would admit it.
She continues, "But that was the point. She knew it. I knew it. He knew it. Everyone that passed them knew it. Everyone but you."
She takes a step closer, and I try to take one back, but I'm already pressed against the wall. She's so close now, I can feel her breath on my forehead. I can even smell the mint in it, as cold as the indifference in her eyes.
The look of indifference is replaced by mirth. "Jennie, did you call the cops because you were mad I didn't finish you off?" Her hands trail down my body, resting below my hips. "We can fix that easily."
When her fingers brush against my jean-clad ass, I shout, "No!" I'm not sure if it's a reply to her question or a response to her touch.
I can't believe I ever had the courage to touch this woman, though that was before I learned that she's in the mob. It's as if the second I found out, my fear extinguished my bravado in its entirety, ensconcing it like a solar eclipse. I can only hope the world will continue to rotate, and one day, the sun will reveal itself—along with my nerve.
The amusement in her face is gone, and she leans down and whispers in my ear, "So, what are we going to do with you?"
Is this where I'm supposed to beg for my life?
I'll do it if it means I'll live. I'm building a future for myself at Wilton, and that's worth begging for. I don't care if that makes me pathetic or weak. I know my strengths and weaknesses enough to know that I will never get away from this woman unless she lets me.
"Don't kill me." I look up at her.
Gosh, she's so close right now.
"Please, don't kill me," I beg again, the pleading in my voice so unfamiliar to my own ears.
Her smile is patronizing. "I won't kill you. You're an innocent. You stepped wrong, but you're still an innocent."
"What are you going to do to me?" I wince.
That sounded more suggestive than it was supposed to.
The smirk on her face tells me she heard it, too. She leans even closer, dipping her head so we're almost eye level with one another. She lifts her finger under my chin and tilts my face up. I let out a shaky breath, and she breathes it in. It's the most intimate thing I have ever experienced, and I'm not a virgin.
When she speaks, her lips brush lightly against mine. "You'll owe me a favor."
My eyes drop to her lips. "A favor?"
Each time we speak, we're practically kissing, stealing the air from one another but not quite giving it back. I don't fight it. Frozen in fear and lust and stupidity, I can't, and that's frustrating.
What am I doing?
This is a woman who has killed before. Hell, a couple hours ago, she was about to kill me. Yet, here I am, brushing my lips against her, stealing her breaths like they're mine to take. But other than going along with this, I can't see any other options that don't end with my body floating in the Hudson River.
A part of me sees this for what it is. A fear tactic. A power play. She's letting me know that she controls me, reminding me how afraid I am of her. And she's right. I'm too scared to put up a fight, but I value my education at Wilton too much to run.
She backs away. "A favor. I take it you have a new phone?"
When I nod, still dazed, she holds out her hand. I point to my backpack. She grabs my phone from the front pocket and enters something in. A few seconds later, I hear her phone ringing. She returns my phone to my backpack.
"You have my number. I have yours."
And then she's gone without a goodbye. Though she left the door to the stairwell propped open for me, I stand there for an hour, pressed against the wall. Shocked.
I owe a favor to a mobster.
How the Hell did that happen?