by Megan Green
Let’s just say, there will be a substantial donation made to her medical expenses as soon as I can get a moment to myself. It won’t make up for the things she’s lost, but maybe it’ll help make them a little easier. And maybe, by making things easier for Lily, Lexi will be able to start forgiving herself.
I’ll be honest, if word got out, there’s no doubt in my mind some dumb-ass reporter would grab hold and not let go until I was finished. God knows, plenty of them tried after this shit with Angela. My only saving grace was the fact that she recanted. Still…I’m sure there are people who still want to see me ruined.
Jealousy is a fickle bitch. Something I’ve learned all too well in the past decade.
Pulling out my phone, I decide to do a quick search of my name. Last time I talked to Ray, he said things were starting to die down. I haven’t bothered to check the headlines since then. One, because I’ve been too busy with Lexi to check. And, two, because I’ve been too preoccupied with Lexi to give a shit.
I type my name into the search bar, cringing when the first article that comes up is a negative one.
Tag Taggart—Hero or Villain?
There’s a picture of Angela in the thumbnail, so I don’t even bother to click the link. I’m already certain which option the author chose.
I scroll a little longer, keeping a mental tally of the good versus the bad. Surprisingly, the majority seems to be in my favor. There are even a few attacking Angela. I click on one out of curiosity and almost feel sorry for her after reading the first few paragraphs.
Almost.
I see a particular name pop up in the byline over and over again, so I click on one of his articles, dated shortly after Angela dropped the charges.
America’s Dirty Sweetheart
By Paul Sharp
By now, you’ve surely heard the good news.
Tag Taggart is innocent.
Tag Taggart isn’t a rapist.
Tag Taggart is everyone’s favorite guy again.
Angela Hancock, the woman who formerly charged Taggart with sexual assault, dropped the charges on Thursday afternoon, following a lengthy meeting between her attorneys and Taggart’s. Sources say Taggart paid Hancock something in the vicinity of three million dollars, and in return, she recanted her previous statements. Hancock has fallen off the radar since the meeting, a fact that’s causing many to wonder if she fabricated the whole thing in order to extort money from Taggart.
Based on this new evidence, it would certainly seem so, wouldn’t it?
However, in this reporter’s humble opinion, Tag Taggart isn’t nearly the man he tries to convey. His humble, boy-next-door attitude is all well and good—until the truth comes out. And, ladies and gentlemen, the lens doesn’t lie.
Case in point, the week prior to the supposed rape, Taggart and the Rampage were in California for the first round of the playoffs. After every game, Taggart and the team would frequent a local bar. And, each night, Taggart would be seen leaving the bar with a different woman, most of them heavily intoxicated. As the photos below suggest, Taggart had to, quite literally, hold some of these women up as they made their way to his car.
My eyes flash over the pictures, each of them taken at such an angle that it would appear the woman present couldn’t stand, let alone agree to any sort of sexual activity. They’re total bullshit, of course, as anyone with half a brain can see. A woman’s head thrown back as she laughs is hardly the same thing as her being so drunk, she can’t hold her head up. But, to someone who already thinks I did it, they definitely look incriminating.
I scroll past the scores of pictures to find the rest of the story.
I mean, seriously, was this guy stalking me? How does he have so many?
As you can see, the evidence is there. Tag Taggart might have gotten away with rape, but there’s one thing that’s for sure.
He’s hardly innocent.
I stop there, not wanting to see any more about all the ways I’m guilty of being the worst person on the planet. My nostrils flare as I seethe over the words I just read. My gut reaction is to call Ray and find out exactly what in the hell is being done about this asshole. But I know that conversation won’t be quiet. And I don’t want to wake Lexi. Besides, this article was written before I last spoke with Ray. He assured me things were good.
I lock my phone and toss it on the floor beside me. There’s no way I’m going to be able to nap now, but I scoot down next to Lexi anyway, spooning her warm back to my front. Just the feel of her lying next to me is enough to lessen some of the anger and anxiety currently coursing through my body.
I close my eyes, reveling in the scent of Lexi’s sweet shampoo. There’s nothing I can do about this Paul dickwad today. It’s obvious from the entire tone of his article that the douche has some sort of vendetta against me. And the thought of him catching wind of Lexi’s past…exposing it for the entire world to see…
It’s the sort of thing that would give a fucker like that a chubby. He’d get his rocks off from destroying not only my life, but also the life of the woman I love.
And that won’t fucking happen. Not when she’s finally starting to get some of it back.
First thing tomorrow, I’m going to call Ray, and I’ll tell him everything. He won’t be happy with this turn of events. But he’s going to have to deal with it. We’ll come up with some sort of plan, something we can put into place in the event of Lexi’s past coming to light.
I don’t care what they say about me.
But if they try to fuck with her?
It’s war.
Chapter 22
Lexi
The sound of “Thunder” by Imagine Dragons blaring from my phone is what rouses me from sleep. I blindly fling my arm out, hitting the button on the side to shut it up and send the call to voice mail. Whoever is calling me this early in the morning can go straight to hell.
When Dan Reynolds’s voice immediately starts up again, I groan, rolling over and looking at the screen. The sight of Ella’s name causes me to jackknife out of bed.
There’s only one reason Ella would be calling me before eight a.m.
Something is wrong.
“Ells,” I say, my voice coming out in a panicked whisper. “What is it?”
I look back at Ian over my shoulder as I slide out of the bed, careful not to disturb him.
After I crashed on the couch yesterday, he finally woke me up around ten and carried me upstairs to the bedroom where I promptly passed the hell out again.
Ian seems to be resting peacefully, which is more than I can say for my sister. Her voice is a rush of words and emotions, worry and tears making it almost impossible to make out what she’s saying.
I close the door behind me, padding down the hallway and the stairs. Once I’m sure I’m out of Ian’s earshot, I speak, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ella. Calm down. Take a deep breath. I can’t understand a word coming out of your mouth. Calm down, count to ten, and tell me what’s wrong.”
I hear her suck in a rush of air and mentally count to ten right along with her.
When she finally speaks, her tears are still evident, though her tone is much less frantic, “Oh, Lexi. I’m so, so sorry. We’re going to figure this out. We’re not going to let this set you back. You hear me?”
I shake my head, still struggling to blink away the sleep in my eyes. I rub my thumb and forefinger over my brow and into the corners of my eyes. “Ells, it’s way too damn early for me to make sense of what you’re saying. Care to explain? Are the girls okay? Drew?”
Ella lets out a deep breath. “I take it, you haven’t seen the news.”
I collapse on the couch, huffing out my annoyance. Now that I know she and her family are fine, I’m a little irritated she woke me up. This couldn’t have waited until after ten?
“You know I haven’t. I’ve been sleeping, which is what normal, sane people do at seven thirty on a Sunday.”
“It’s all over the news, Lex. All over the internet. Everybody is talkin
g about it.”
I roll my eyes, letting my head fall back against the back of the couch. “What is it, Ella? Stop beating around the damn bush and tell me already.”
“You. They’re talking about you.”
My blood runs cold.
“Wh-what do you mean?” I ask stupidly. I know what she means.
“Someone found out. Someone found out Ian Taggart was dating you. And it didn’t take long for them to go digging into your past.”
“I-I-I…” I stammer, trailing off, unsure of what to say.
“What they’re saying is terrible, Lexi. And one hundred percent not true. I don’t even know where they’re getting some of their statements from.”
I reach for Ian’s laptop, grateful he told me the password a few days ago when I needed to use it to order some curtains for my house. I type it in, pulling up the first news site I can think of.
And there it is.
The main headline alongside the mug shot that was snapped after I was released from the hospital and taken down to the station. My eyes are puffy, my mascara smeared, a dark, swollen gash stitched across my left cheek.
Taggart’s New Squeeze—Drunken Party Girl
As soon as I click the link, I’m assaulted by images of me out at clubs. In the bar. Dancing with strangers. Images that could have only come from my friends—or at least, those people I thought were my friends.
There’s also an image of Ian and me outside his lake house. I remember the moment it must’ve been taken.
We were walking back from my place, and I nearly slipped on some ice. Ian swept me up into his arms, telling me I couldn’t be trusted not to fall and bust my ass in my cute, furry boots. I protested, of course, going limp in his arms in an effort to make myself harder to hold on to. I didn’t need to be carried like a damn toddler. No matter how good his arms felt wrapped around me.
But seeing the picture now, my arms hanging loosely and my head bobbing back on my neck, I look like I passed out. Whoever took the picture snapped it right when my eyes were closed, my mouth open in what’s surely me trying to berate Ian for thinking he could swoop in and save me whenever he felt like it. But, in still life, it looks much worse, head rolled back on my shoulders, as I’m being carried up the stairs. I look exactly like the headline suggests. Like a drunk.
I skim through the article, skipping over the parts about Ian’s rape charge and landing on the bits about my past.
Taggart’s recently been seen with Alexis Barnes, pictured right and below, in the small town of Maple Lake, Colorado. That would explain why he’s been flying under the radar the last few weeks. Barnes recently moved to the town after a stint in rehab and six months probation, following a car accident that nearly killed a woman and her then six-year-old daughter. Barnes was charged with a DUI and sentenced to rehab and community service, and the child lost her left leg.
“Lexi has always been a bit of a partier,” an anonymous source told us. “We’ve known each other for years, and she’s always been the one who takes things a step too far. She likes to drink. There were times when she was at the bar every night. Nothing anybody said to her did anything. She just didn’t care.”
“Lexi knew she was drunk that night,” said another source. “She knew she shouldn’t drive home. When we tried to take her keys, she laughed in our faces and told us to back off. She acted like we were daring her to drive home drunk.”
“That isn’t true!” I shout to nobody, rage flooding through me as I read these so-called statements from people who supposedly know me.
It’s not until Ella speaks that I even remember I’m on the phone with her. “None of it is true, sweetie. Stop reading it. It’ll only hurt you more. Whoever said those awful things deserves every bit of Karma that comes their way. And I’m going to personally find out who they are and ensure said Karma finds their sorry asses.”
My eyes continue to scan the words before me despite Ella’s urges to do otherwise. Certain phrases jump out at me, and each one is like a stab straight through my heart.
“…selfish person…”
“…only cares about herself…”
“…didn’t even show any remorse.”
Tears flood my eyes, blurring the words on the screen until I’m unable to make them out. I slide the laptop off my lap and curl into myself, rounding my back so that my forehead is resting on my knees. As soon as my face is hidden, I crumple.
A loud sob breaks free from my chest, taking all the air in my lungs with it. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but try to stave off the pain coursing through my body.
It hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad.
I’m vacantly aware of Ella’s soothing voice in the background, but I can’t make out any of what she’s saying. I’m grateful for her though. Her soft tone and loving words are the only things preventing me from shattering completely.
When a large hand closes over my shoulder, I jump, choking on my tears and sputtering out a horrendous cough. I swing around, finding Ian standing behind the couch, worry etched into his every feature.
“Lexi?” His voice is tentative, scared. “What’s wrong?”
I sniff loudly and turn around, my eyes falling to the carpet in front of me. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see him right now, not after I’ve ruined everything between us. But I also know I owe him an explanation. He deserves to know that I’ve destroyed him. And he deserves to hear it from me, no matter how much it will hurt to say the words.
“Ella, I’m going to have to call you back,” I say through my tears, my voice wobbly and cracking. “Ian just woke up.”
“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath. “Okay. But promise me you’ll call me back as soon as you’re done talking to him. I mean it, Lexi. If I don’t hear from you in the next hour, I’m coming over there.”
I can’t even muster the strength to squeeze out a soft laugh at her threat, like I usually do.
“Bye, Ella.”
I pull the phone from my ear, pressing the End button and setting it on the coffee table. Ian steps around the sofa, taking a seat next to me and grabbing my arms, turning me to face him.
“What is it, Lex? Is Ella okay? The twins?”
I nod, the tears rushing back to my eyes as I look at him. Taking in the handsome lines of his face, the golden honey brown of his eyes, the scruff along his jaw. My eyes pause on his lips—those soft, amazing lips that have become so acquainted with every part of me. I’m going to miss every single part of him. But I think I’ll miss those lips the most.
I open my mouth, and I begin to speak.
Chapter 23
Tag
How in the fuck did this happen?” I roar into the phone the second Ray answers.
“I could ask you the same question,” he bites back. “What the fuck were you thinking, Tag? A fucking drunk? Really? After everything I’ve done to restore your career?”
“Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t even know her. You don’t get to make those assumptions based on what some dumb-ass reporter thinks he knows.”
“I wouldn’t fucking have to if my client had told me what the fuck was going on in his life. You haven’t been answering any of my calls, Tag. What the fuck am I supposed to think?”
I exhale loudly, trying to rein in my anger. It obviously isn’t getting me anywhere. And it’s only pissing Ray off even more.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve called. I should’ve explained what’s been going on. But, believe me when I say, it was the first thing on my list to do today. I just found out about Lexi’s past the night before last. I was going to call you today, find out how we should handle it.”
“You mean to tell me you didn’t know until two days ago? How is that possible, Tag? And, even still, even if you didn’t know about the accident, you couldn’t have thought dating a drunk was a good idea. Not after everything you’ve been through.”
“Stop. Fucking. Calling. Her. That,” I seethe. “Sh
e’s not a drunk. In fact, in the entire time I’ve known her, she hasn’t had so much as a sip of alcohol.”
He lets out a sardonic laugh. “You expect me to believe that? I saw the picture, Ian. I saw you carrying her into the house while she was stone-cold drunk.”
I cringe a little when he uses my real name. I don’t think he’s called me that since the first day I met him. The turning it causes in the pit of my stomach reminds me of when I was a kid and my mother would use my full name whenever I was in trouble.
I shake it off though, my need to defend Lexi eclipsing my need to please Ray.
“You saw what a reporter wanted you to see. I was carrying her inside because she’d almost slipped on the ice. I didn’t want her to hurt herself. The picture was simply taken at the perfect moment to make it appear how the photographer wanted.”
Ray sighs loudly. “Be that as it may, it looks bad, Tag. This is bad. Not only are people up in arms about the fact that you’re dating a woman who almost killed someone—a fucking kid, no less—but now, they’re all turning their backs on you. People who, yesterday, were singing your praises are now convinced you’d paid Angela off to keep her quiet. And they’re wondering if she wasn’t the first.”
I put the phone on speaker, tossing it onto the table and running my hands over my face. “Of course they fucking are. Because, naturally, if I’m dating someone who made a mistake, that must mean I’m a fucking rapist, too.”
Ray kicks into gear at the defeat in my voice. “We’ll fix this, Tag. We just need to get you home. We need to get you away from that girl and show everyone that what they think they saw isn’t true. They don’t have to know you knew about her past. We’ll spin it, so you look like the victim here.”
