The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

know if Julian will forgive me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to convince him to leave the city with me. I don’t know if I’ll make it through this alive. I just know I’m proud of myself and I will fight for my truth, the truth of the spoken survivors, and the truth of the unspoken until the fight is done.

“I wasn’t going to say goodbye,” Kat finally says. “Goodbye is beyond the realm of our bond.” I smile. “I was just going to say . . .” She stops herself, pulling away from me.

“I want you to look at me when I say this to you,” she says.

“Okay,” I say, moving to face her.

“Emma Louise Marshall,” Kat says. “I’m proud of you. I am beyond proud of you. And whatever happens,” she says, shaking her head. “Your voice will not be silenced, and your voice will speak for those who can’t.”

I’m reminded of Ashley Roy and wish that she could be here to see Beaux go down. I wish she wouldn’t have felt alone, and that there was no way out. Still, I understand how she could feel that. My hope is that no girl or woman ever has to feel that again.

“Thank you, Kat,” I say, squeezing her hand.

“Now,” she says, slapping her thighs. “You need an outfit that is both revenge-worthy and apology-worthy.”

Kat moves to my closet and starts yanking out dress after dress. I now see why this room is so hard to keep clean.

“I get the apology,” I say. “But what’s the revenge for?” I ask.

“For Beaux,” Kat says. She turns to me then, holding a burgundy, velvet tuxedo dress with a practically non-existent neckline. “If he really does come after you, best to leave him with an image of what he’ll be missing while he’s locked away in some dungeon with nothing but his thoughts.”

I’m not sure I want to leave a lasting impression on Beaux, but if Julian is to forgive me, I’ll need all the help I can get.

“Fine,” I moan. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing this. Get me some stripper heels too.”

“Hell yes,” Kat says. She tosses the dress on the bed and rifles for the most uncomfortable black, strappy heels she can find. Damn. I meant to throw those out.

“By the way, I’ve never seen you wear this,” Kat says. “When did you get it?”

Kat’s features shift from excited to disgusted as she sifts through my jewelry collection. I can’t help but laugh.

“In college,” I tell her. “Pair it with some angel wings and voila, sexy cupid,” I say.

“Well, honey, you’re going to have to trade in those angel wings for something a little more devilish, if you want your man back,” she says. “How about these?”

Kat holds up a pair of sheer, black stockings with small diamonds scattered across them. Yet another memento from my college days. I must have blocked more of that time out than I thought.

“Well, you only crash your ex-boyfriend’s record shop reopening party and apologize for completely breaking his heart and destroying his relationship with his brother once, so yeah, stockings it is,” I tell her.

* * *

Double-sided tape and a prayer are the only things keeping me in this scrap that passes as a dress as I make it down the steep steps into the speakeasy. The renovation of Lucid Records turned out beautifully. It’s clean and crisp, and with the recessed lighting and added windows, the space looks much larger than it did before. But that’s not what everyone is raving about. What’s beneath the surface has caught the attention of almost everyone with a pulse here in New Orleans. If I didn’t know about the secret entrance from the record shop, I’d be sweating my skin off in line with the rest of the soon-to-be patrons.

Unlike before, when I was met with darkness, bowling-ball-sized rats, and the stench of mildew, the bottom of the staircase has been expanded into a large, formal landing. Chatter fills the air along with the sweet smell of fresh wood and vanilla. From my elevated vantage point, I am able to take in the entire space. The large, underground speakeasy is adorned with hardwood floors, dark painted walls, and up-lighting to create a cozy effect. There are highboy tables on either side of the space with a large dance floor in the middle. Straight ahead is a bar with solid wood stools. Mirrors back the glass liquor shelves, reflecting the performance stage for those dabbling in the drinks and eats.

And the stage . . . I move from the stairs to the bar area to get a better view. It’s lifted high above the dance floor and is framed with dangling crystal chandeliers, black velvet curtains, and spotlights that shine red.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?”

I turn at the familiar voice and find Mason standing behind the bar. He’s dressed in a red suit with a black button-down shirt and lapel. It looks odd on him, but I suppose it matches the decor.

“It is,” I say, taking a seat across from him. “I knew Julian would do justice to it.”

Mason nods. He grabs a martini glass and mixes up a bright plum concoction in an attempt to match my dress.

“For you,” he says, placing the drink in front of me.

“I’ve sworn off purple drinks, but thank you,” I tell him.

Mason’s face shifts from playful to serious. He removes the drink from my presence and pours it down the drain without a word. I realize then he isn’t privy to my Purple Death story and probably thought I was referring to the purple drinks they serve the women at Club Gent. Despite my social slip, I don’t apologize.

“So, um, how is he? Where is he?” I ask, scanning the room for his impeccable hair. Nothing.

“He’s backstage,” Mason says to me. “What’s your drink of choice?”

“White wine—Moscato, if you have it.” Mason relays my order to the bartender. “So, backstage, is he performing?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Mason says. “He, um, he