Read Online Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tanya Thompson
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explained to him about the missing women. He heard it all out, asked some questions, and then wanted to know why she was telling him and not the police.
“Could I take this to the FBI?”
He knew what she hoped to hear and frowned to have to tell her, “I doubt it would be a large enough case to interest the FBI. What you are describing is a matter for the police.”
But before Tricia approached the police again, she wanted more evidence. She wanted to drop undeniable proof on their desks. She understood the Cambodians weren’t going to talk, but there was still the possibility that an American might know something.
Horse Power
Sergiu thought he was punishing me by not speaking to me in the weeks after I left surreptitiously with Rick, but I hadn’t noticed, so Daniel was forced to explain it to me. “He was very hurt and angry.”
“ Why ?”
“I think you know.”
But I didn’t. And I didn’t care enough to press. The whole Eastern Bloc of men were an unending frustration to me, never going for the job interviews I arranged, or sabotaging the ones they did. Eugene and Daniel still hadn’t accepted employment even though I had all but guaranteed them a dozen opportunities.
Daniel had arrived at Tricia’s house in a new BMW to tell me Sergiu had forgiven me and was coming to take me to dinner. Daniel had come with a bag of groceries and a plan to cook moussaka for Tricia, and he wanted me out of the house.
And I did what I was told. Get in the car. Sure . Make coffee. Of course . Pick people up at the airport. You got it . Go eat dinner with Sergiu. Okay .
I never said no.
Tricia thought it was my submissive training, years spent acquiescing to a master, but it was my adolescent mentality. I was out of my league, frequently overwhelmed by some new experience but on constant guard not to reveal surprise, thinking everything — the dismembered Cambodians, the missing women, Sergiu’s parade of expensive cars — was all just part of the adult world I had staked claim to. I was deeply tired trying to understand it, and every other bit of minutia as well, all the while maintaining pretenses, careful not to let my English accent slip or expose myself as a fraud. Having done one giant fuck-you-rebellion in getting to Dallas, my beleaguered mind was content to follow directions.
When Sergiu arrived, he said, “Constanzia, come,” and held out his arm to take possession of me. I was already familiar with this habit of his. Countless times before he’d had his hand on my shoulder, guiding me as though I might get lost crossing the carpet. Few people around him were competent enough to transverse small distances without help. But he was rougher with the men. Daniel and Eugene would get shaken while he laughed, gripped until they winced, or pulled into a good-natured, bone-rattling side-hug.
Within the first week of meeting Sergiu, I’d already given up trying to walk unassisted. At first I had tried to drop away, slinking off to the side to slip his hold, but this tended to result in a series of correcting dance steps, or worse, the question, “Why you act like this? I good with you. You want hurt me?” He’d touch his heart, and I’d feel guilty.
Thinking I had made an appalling social plunder, I’d apologize and he’d consider my sincerity. Then he’d smile, pat me on the cheek, and carry on directing me across the floor.
It was preferable to how he handled others. A newly arrived Bulgarian had tried to shirk him and Sergiu had seized onto his shoulder until the man was bending with the pain, but Sergiu was slapping him in the stomach, laughing, jostling him until the Bulgarian returned forced amusement, agreeing to whatever Sergiu said.
I figured it was cultural and was glad Sergiu was gentle with me. He was directing our path to the black Corvette three houses away, asking, “You understand Spanish?”
“No.”
“Is no problem.” He took us to a Mexican restaurant where he spoke
“Could I take this to the FBI?”
He knew what she hoped to hear and frowned to have to tell her, “I doubt it would be a large enough case to interest the FBI. What you are describing is a matter for the police.”
But before Tricia approached the police again, she wanted more evidence. She wanted to drop undeniable proof on their desks. She understood the Cambodians weren’t going to talk, but there was still the possibility that an American might know something.
Horse Power
Sergiu thought he was punishing me by not speaking to me in the weeks after I left surreptitiously with Rick, but I hadn’t noticed, so Daniel was forced to explain it to me. “He was very hurt and angry.”
“ Why ?”
“I think you know.”
But I didn’t. And I didn’t care enough to press. The whole Eastern Bloc of men were an unending frustration to me, never going for the job interviews I arranged, or sabotaging the ones they did. Eugene and Daniel still hadn’t accepted employment even though I had all but guaranteed them a dozen opportunities.
Daniel had arrived at Tricia’s house in a new BMW to tell me Sergiu had forgiven me and was coming to take me to dinner. Daniel had come with a bag of groceries and a plan to cook moussaka for Tricia, and he wanted me out of the house.
And I did what I was told. Get in the car. Sure . Make coffee. Of course . Pick people up at the airport. You got it . Go eat dinner with Sergiu. Okay .
I never said no.
Tricia thought it was my submissive training, years spent acquiescing to a master, but it was my adolescent mentality. I was out of my league, frequently overwhelmed by some new experience but on constant guard not to reveal surprise, thinking everything — the dismembered Cambodians, the missing women, Sergiu’s parade of expensive cars — was all just part of the adult world I had staked claim to. I was deeply tired trying to understand it, and every other bit of minutia as well, all the while maintaining pretenses, careful not to let my English accent slip or expose myself as a fraud. Having done one giant fuck-you-rebellion in getting to Dallas, my beleaguered mind was content to follow directions.
When Sergiu arrived, he said, “Constanzia, come,” and held out his arm to take possession of me. I was already familiar with this habit of his. Countless times before he’d had his hand on my shoulder, guiding me as though I might get lost crossing the carpet. Few people around him were competent enough to transverse small distances without help. But he was rougher with the men. Daniel and Eugene would get shaken while he laughed, gripped until they winced, or pulled into a good-natured, bone-rattling side-hug.
Within the first week of meeting Sergiu, I’d already given up trying to walk unassisted. At first I had tried to drop away, slinking off to the side to slip his hold, but this tended to result in a series of correcting dance steps, or worse, the question, “Why you act like this? I good with you. You want hurt me?” He’d touch his heart, and I’d feel guilty.
Thinking I had made an appalling social plunder, I’d apologize and he’d consider my sincerity. Then he’d smile, pat me on the cheek, and carry on directing me across the floor.
It was preferable to how he handled others. A newly arrived Bulgarian had tried to shirk him and Sergiu had seized onto his shoulder until the man was bending with the pain, but Sergiu was slapping him in the stomach, laughing, jostling him until the Bulgarian returned forced amusement, agreeing to whatever Sergiu said.
I figured it was cultural and was glad Sergiu was gentle with me. He was directing our path to the black Corvette three houses away, asking, “You understand Spanish?”
“No.”
“Is no problem.” He took us to a Mexican restaurant where he spoke
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