Chapter 54 The Irony
I unzip the bag. It’s a tailored designer suit in a shade of charcoal so deep it’s practically midnight. The fabric feels expensive in my fingers. I drop it on the far side of the seat. No way. I'm not becoming his dress-up doll. And George is a colossal asshole, a trait he probably absorbed through osmosis from his boss.
I expect a fifteen-minute hop across town. Maybe thirty. But the city begins to thin out, the buildings giving way to stretches of greenery and open road. An hour passes. My rage has simmered down into a cold, hard knot in my stomach.
I lean forward and rap my knuckles against the privacy screen. Silence. I do it again, harder this time. The glass slides down, just an inch.
"Where the hell are we going? I didn't pack a passport."
George’s hand appears through the gap, holding a chilled bottle of water which he lets go of. I watch it drop. "Get comfy," he says, his tone final. The screen slides back up before I can get another word out. I slump back, grabbing my phone. I call Bastian. Straight to voicemail. I text him a string of profanities and demands for an explanation. Nothing. The 'read' receipts don't even trigger.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. Fine. Let him play his games. Let him drive me to the edge of the world. But the second I see that bastard, I’m ending it. No more "special person" speeches, no more midnight concerts, and definitely no more of this. I’m officially done. I’m going to look him in those cold blue eyes and tell him he can take his goddamn antics and bury them in the dirt.
The two-hour mark hits, and my bravado is officially turning into something that feels uncomfortably like genuine dread. I’ve been staring out the window so long the rolling hills and endless stretches of nothingness are starting to look like a green-and-brown blur of a nightmare.
Civilization is a distant memory. No Starbucks, no traffic, no judging eyes from passersby. Just me, George, and enough open land to hide a thousand bodies.
I lean my head back against the headrest, my mind spiraling. What if I’m being brought out here as a blood sacrifice? It makes sense, really. How else does a man like Bastian keep that hair so perfect and his bank account so bloated? He seduces unsuspecting, pretty-faced dumbasses, lures them into a luxury vehicle, and drains their life force in a stone circle somewhere between nowhere and the abyss.
Or maybe it's human trafficking and I’m the next item on the catalog. 'One slightly used, highly cynical musician.'
I know I’m being extreme, but two hours in a moving vacuum with a man who knifes tires for a living will do that to a person. Every time we pass a lonely, dilapidated farmhouse, I imagine my final moments. George probably has a shovel in the trunk. He’ll just drop me in a hole, adjust his tie, and drive back to the city in time for a late dinner.
I check my phone again. Still no response from Bastian. My texts are a graveyard of unanswered "Where the fuck am I?" and "I’m calling the police." Josie’s name pops up on the screen, asking where I am, and I can't even type a lie. My "lying to people who love me" quota was reached somewhere around the ninety-minute mark.
I’m about to have a full-blown existential crisis when something finally breaks the horizon. I roll the window down an inch, then all the way, sticking my head out like a dog catching a scent. The wind whips my hair into my eyes, but I see them....wide, ornate wrought-iron gates that look like they belong in a period piece. As we get closer, the afternoon sun catches the gold-leaf lettering arched above the entrance.
VIRELLI VINEYARDS
I blink, the name echoing in the hollow space of my chest. My heart, the traitorous little organ, starts to thrum against my ribs. It isn't the frantic panic from before, it’s something steadier.
The gates begin to open. I pull my head back inside, my skin tingling from the cool air. The car rolls forward onto a gravel path lined with ancient, twisting vines, and I know, with a bone-deep certainty, exactly who's waiting at the end of this road. I’m pressed against the window, my eyes darting between the rows of ancient, gnarled vines, searching for a flash of a silhouette or the glint of a watch.
George brings the car to a smooth, silent halt in front of a sprawling stone estate. I reach for the door handle, ready to explode out of the seat, but the latch doesn't budge. It's locked. The privacy screen hums as it retracts, exposing George’s profile. He doesn't look back at me. He just stares through the windshield, his hands still resting at ten and two on the wheel. The silence stretches, thick and pressurized, until he finally speaks.
"You seem like a smart kid," he says, his voice devoid of the edge he used earlier. It’s replaced by something far more dangerous.... sincerity.
I frown, my grip tightening on the useless door handle.
"I’m not entirely sure what it is you’ve done to earn this level of investment from him," he continues, finally turning his head just enough for me to see the cold, protective steel in his gaze. "But if I sense you’re exploiting his interest, or if you do anything that might actually harm him... I won't hesitate to intervene. My loyalty isn't to the games he plays, it’s to him. Keep that in mind."
I stare at him, my brain stalling. Harm? Exploiting him? After everything Bastian's done, I’m the one being issued a warning? The sheer irony of it makes my blood boil.
"What the hell are you even talking about?" I snap, the words vibrating with fury. "He’s the one who—"
A sharp rap on the window cuts me off. I whip my head around and there he is. Bastian has materialized out of the vineyard mist like a ghost. Like he’s been conjured into existence the second I needed proof this isn’t some elaborate hallucination. George presses a button on the console, and the locks click open with a sound that feels like a starting pistol.
"Off you get," he says, his eyes returning to the road ahead, dismissing me. I look at the back of George’s head, then through the glass at Bastian, who's waiting with an infuriatingly patient expression, his hand already reaching to pull the door wide. I take a breath, trying to steady the shaking in my hands, and step out of the car and into the lion's den.