Misty (9 page)

So what if he's a drug dealer, I like him,
she admitted to herself. Doctors turned more people into addicts than drug dealers did, she rationalized. Still, sensing that an involvement with Sergio would only bring her despair, Anya decided to push him out of her thoughts. She pulled off the layers of bedding and replaced them
with a fresh set of sheets and a different comforter. She still wasn't over Brick and having another man's scent in her bed seemed wrong. And even though Brick had encouraged her to move on, it was too soon to get entangled in a relationship.

Taking her mind off Sergio, she decided to focus on the business of finding her father.

•  •  •

Jonathan Whitman, the private investigator from Philadelphia, whom she found online, assured her that he could find her father.

“How can you find someone who has been missing for years?” Anya questioned, speaking to him over the phone. “I looked everywhere and he seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.”

“I specialize in finding missing persons.”

“Suppose he's dead?”

“Then I'll get that information and let you know.” Whitman cleared his throat to fill the silence after his last comment, and then said, “Fax me the info I asked for—a copy of the most recent picture of your father, his approximate height and weight, date of birth, and make a note of any tattoos or scars. You can go to my website and make a down payment of the fee, using a debit or credit card.”

After Anya agreed to fax the info and to take care of the down payment, she asked, “How long does it usually take you to find a missing person?”

“At least thirty days. Sometimes sooner; sometimes longer. I'll keep you posted.”

“Okay,” Anya agreed. Paying someone that she found online probably wasn't the smartest move, but it was time to resume the search for her father. If Whitman turned out to be bogus, she'd
go to Philly personally and find someone who could get the job done.

•  •  •

By early evening, Anya found herself eyeing her phone for a text from Sergio, and she was beyond surprised when the concierge called to let her know she had a guest named Sergio in the lobby.

He was in her building? Suddenly, she was more annoyed than flattered. How dare he pop in on her? She bet he wouldn't be pleased if she showed up at his place without an invitation. “Put him on the phone, please,” she said to the concierge.

“Hey, ma-ma. I was in your neighborhood and thought you might want to make a run with me.” He sounded completely at ease as if asking her to make a drug run was normal.

He must be out of his damn mind.
“No thanks. I'm not interested in your proposition.”

“I'm not propositioning you; only asking you to accompany me to one of my favorite places.”

“Where?”

“I don't want to ruin the surprise.”

“I have to be cautious.”

“You win. Look here, an artist I know well and admire is having an exhibit and a party at a gallery not too far from your apartment. I thought you might like to check out his work.”

Now, Anya was flattered. A smile crept across her face. “I don't know anything about art, but I'd love to go. What time does it start?”

“It starts at seven, but people trickle into these events throughout the evening.”

“What should I wear?” she asked, feeling flustered.

“I'm sure you'll look amazing in anything you select.”

“I need at least thirty minutes to get myself together.”

“Don't rush, ma-ma. I'll be waiting in the Range outside your building.”

She raced to her closet and selected a black cocktail dress. A woman couldn't go wrong in a little black dress. A little makeup, a quick touchup to her hair with the flat iron, and she was good to go.

Holding a beaded clutch, she felt pretty in her black dress and stilettos when she exited the elevator and crossed the lobby. The concierge smiled in appreciation of her classy look, and she smiled back. But her smile vanished when she stepped outside and saw Majid and two other men sitting behind the wheel of a Range Rover that was exactly like Sergio's. She'd forgotten that Sergio required bodyguards to accompany him everywhere.

Like a perfect gentleman, Sergio, looking spiffy in a black suit, got out of his Range and opened the door for her. They made a striking couple, she thought to herself. During the short drive to the art gallery, she found herself constantly looking in the side mirror and watching Majid. He was tailing them for Sergio's protection, but he seemed more like a shark tracking prey.

The party at the gallery was lively and crowded with champagne and finger foods being served to guests on silver trays. The artist was from the Dominican Republic and his work was a vivid reflection of island life. Sergio introduced her to the artist and then the two men chatted briefly in Spanish. Anya drifted away, giving them privacy while she used the time to admire the art that looked vibrant and realistic.

As she stared at a painting of a boy holding up a big fish he'd caught, she felt arms encircle her waist. “See anything you like?” Sergio said softly.

“I like everything. Your artist friend is very talented. I've never
bought any original art, but I'm considering getting this piece. It'll look good in my place.” She glanced down at the price tag and whistled. “Jesus!” she said in response. “Thirty-five hundred dollars! Wow, that's steep.”

“If you like it, it's yours,” Sergio said.

“No, I can't let you—”

“Shh.” He held a finger to his lips. “Have another glass of champagne while I make the arrangements to have the painting delivered to your apartment.”

Sergio strolled away and a server magically appeared with more champagne.

Anya felt so warm and fuzzy inside, she was no longer annoyed by the presence of Majid and the crew. In fact, she nodded her head at Majid, acknowledging him. He stretched his lips into a smile that looked more like a sneer. Anya shuddered.

Sergio returned and draped an arm over her shoulder. “I missed you,” he whispered.

She smiled up at him, basking in the warmth of his attentiveness. She was proud to be with such a strikingly handsome man and the way he kept her cuddled close to him, she could tell he felt the same. They admired the paintings together, and Sergio seemed to have a personal experience with every scene depicted in the artwork. He told her interesting stories about Santa Domingo.

“You'll have to go there with me one day; you'll love my island,” he told her with a wistful look in his eyes.

“Have you been there lately?” she asked.

“No, I've never gone back since I left. I've been waiting for my princess to be my side when I returned.”

Was he inviting her to travel to the Dominican Republic with him? she wondered. Why was such a hot-looking man with loads
of money sweating her to such an extreme? She made a mental note to let him know that it wasn't necessary to stroke her ego simply to get her in bed. His sex skills made him more than welcome.

Revealing his bad-boy persona, Sergio swiped a bottle of champagne from a serving tray before they left the gallery. “One for the road,” he said with a devilish smile. In his Range, they both sipped from the bottle, laughing as they passed it back and forth. Anya felt naughty and carefree as she drank from the pilfered bottle of champagne.

Back at her apartment, she never got a chance to bring up the subject of him stroking her ego. With him drizzling champagne down the center of her back and letting it trickle down to the crack of her butt cheeks, she forgot all about the conversation she wanted to have with him.

When his tongue stroke followed the liquid trail, she grasped the sheets and bit into her pillow as she surrendered her body to him.

G
avin Stallings' long money and clout had worked miracles. After arranging a speedy consultation with the esteemed Dr. Cavanaugh, he orchestrated a swift date for Misty to undergo surgery. And now, lying on the operating table, Misty was surrounded by Dr. Cavanaugh and his capable team.

“I'm going to make you even more beautiful than you were before,” the doctor reassured with a twinkle of confidence in his eyes. That promise had Misty dreamy-eyed and feeling lightheaded before the anesthesiologist had administered the injection.

She woke up to excruciating pain after the ten-hour surgery. It didn't help that each time a nurse checked her pulse and accidentally brushed her palm, Misty would see flashes of light as head-splitting images raced across the screen of her mind. She was too dazed to make sense of the images, but possessed enough awareness to wish she could hit the pause button on her gift of sight. The random images that depicted the lives of people she couldn't even see, due to the mummified bandages wrapped around her face and head, were giving her a migraine.

She released an agonized moan and someone mercifully put her out of her misery with a painkiller injected into her IV.

•  •  •

It was finally time for the big reveal. She'd yet to meet her benefactor, the mysterious Gavin Stallings, but they spoke on the phone regularly.

Brick was there, holding Misty's hand and maintaining a poker face when the last bandage was stripped away.

“Am I beautiful, Brick?” she asked in a voice strained by anxiety.

“You'll always be beautiful,” Brick responded, rubbing her hand.

“There's still a lot of swelling, which is to be expected, but it should go down in another week or so,” Dr. Cavanaugh said.

Needing to see for herself, Misty slowly worked her gnarled fingers around the handle of the mirror that was at her side and determinedly brought it up high enough to see her reflection. “Oh, God; I'm still hideous. I look worse than before the surgery,” she said, shooting the surgeon an accusatory look.

“I'm an expert in my field and I can assure you that you're going to see evidence of your new, beautiful face very soon,” the doctor said.

Misty surveyed her image. “My face is bloated and distorted; I don't look anything like myself,” she whined.

“Healing from surgery takes a while, but you must have faith in me and be patient,” the doctor said as he began scribbling in Misty's chart. “Trust me, Ms. Delagardo, your beauty will be astonishing,” the surgeon said. His voice didn't waver; he didn't blink. He seemed utterly convinced that her face, distorted by lumps, blisters, and bruises would settle into something beautiful.

“If you say so,” she said, sulking.

“Oh!” the doctor said, suddenly remembering something. “I have some rather good news for you.”

“What's that?” Misty looked at the doctor through eyes with lids so swollen, she could barely make out more than an outline of the man.

“I know you're weary of being in the hospital, and I've spoken with your other doctors and we agree that you're well enough to be discharged, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! You want me to leave the hospital and go out in public looking like this?” Misty was dumbfounded.

“It'll be all right, babe. It's time to start getting used to doing some things for yourself,” Brick added.

“I'm not ready. I can't leave here until I look like myself, again.”

The doctor's eyes shifted downward. “Actually,” he said, his gaze aimed at the floor, “your coverage won't allow you to continue convalescing here. We can get a social worker to speak to you about long-term care facilities, if you'd like.”

“I know you're not trying to put me in one of those places for invalids,” Misty said, indignant.

Brick shook his head defensively. “No, that's why I got the apartment for us, so you wouldn't have to go into a facility.”

Misty wanted to give Brick an appreciative smile, but was too swollen to manage it. She directed her attention to Dr. Cavanaugh. “What about Gavin Stallings? I thought he was paying for everything.”

“He paid for the reconstructive surgery and has promised to pay for extensive dental work once your face has healed,” Dr. Cavanaugh replied, writing additional notes in Misty's chart. “Your coverage does include a home health care nurse for a few hours a day,” he said with an encouraging smile.

Misty sighed audibly.

“I'd like to see you in my office in two weeks.” The doctor left his card on the nightstand, shook Brick's hand, and then squeezed Misty's arm in parting.

“This is some bullshit,” she said to Brick after the doctor exited.
“Gavin has enough money to keep me here while I'm healing. Why would he let them kick me out like I'm trash?”

Brick shrugged. “Who knows the ways of eccentric rich folks?” Brick gently placed a hand on Misty's shoulder. “I got you, Misty. You don't have to worry about anything…you hear me?”

She nodded mechanically as her mind raced with terrifying thoughts. Suppose Gavin Stallings was a crazy, vindictive former client whom she'd burned. Misty had been a ruthless pimptress and had hurt a lot of people in her life. Gavin Stallings was a wealthy, gay man and she'd sent most of the boys who hustled for her out on “dates” with men of means. Men who didn't mind paying hefty prices to suck young dick. And some of those men fell in love with her hunky recruits. Oh, God, suppose Gavin was out for revenge and had hired the surgeon to deliberately fuck up her face worse than it already was. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Was it possible that Gavin had hired the woman who had tried to kill her and was now intent on making sure she lived a fate worse than death?