by Quinn, Cari
“You have an early appointment tomorrow,” I reminded Mia, not wanting to mention her therapist’s name out loud. Not that Slater wouldn’t be cool about it, but I could only imagine my mother’s reaction to Mia needing counseling. Ridiculous, really, because she did as well, and I probably did too if I was being honest.
Not tonight.
She averted her gaze. “I moved it to next week. Figured we had enough on our plates this week, and Carly’s starting school Monday.”
I got up and walked around the sofa, well aware of the eyes focused on us. But it didn’t stop me from tipping up her face and making her gaze meet mine. “We can make the time.”
Something flickered through her expression. A question. She was wondering if that meant I’d go too. I didn’t have an answer.
“Next week.” She smiled and stepped away. “So who’s ready for dinner?”
I watched her walk into the kitchen and start unwrapping everything Carly and I had so carefully put together. Her shoulders were lifted, her spine straight. She was back to the Mia who’d challenged me to a fight last winter. The girl I loved with all my heart.
I just couldn’t tell if that was a step forward or back.
Fifteen
“Have a seat, Mia.”
I sat and cast a nervous glance at Tray, who took the seat beside me in front of Elliott Knox’s glass and chrome desk. The office was austere and remote, much like the man himself.
To prepare myself for this meeting, I’d showered off the sweat from three hours of training that morning and swapped my bike shorts and tank for a simple black skirt and black top. It was the same outfit I’d worn to my father’s funeral. This was also the only skirt I owned.
Carly would be horrified.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you for looking into this matter, sir.”
Elliott didn’t look up from the paperwork he was reviewing. He was wearing his gold wire-rimmed glasses, and he appeared more like a professor than my conception of a lawyer. Not that I knew many.
Okay, any. My crowd consisted of bartenders and brawlers.
“You realize my specialty is medical malpractice.”
“I do, sir.”
Tray leaned forward, not as willing as I was to play this particular game. “Did you find out anything or not?”
“Always impatient, aren’t you, Trayherne?” His father took off his glasses and set them on his blotter. “Though I have to applaud your choice of girlfriends, since yours is apparently a very wealthy woman.”
I let out the breath that had been caught in my chest all day. Hell, all weekend since I’d read that article online. “So it’s true.”
“It’s true. I did some checking around behind the scenes and verified the bulk of the money is being held in trust for you until the age of twenty-five.”
Stunned, I glanced at Tray. He was staring back at me. “Why wasn’t I ever told about it?”
“The trust is bogus. Your aunt has been drawing from it as your guardian and still continues to do so, long after you’ve left her care.” He folded his hands over the papers. “I’m not sure how she managed it, but she set up a trust that was official looking enough to appease the courts after the settlement was reached, but it’s not legal. It’s not real. She’s been depleting the money all this time.”
“So it’s almost gone.” I gripped the arms of my chair. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. I didn’t want the money, didn’t know what to do with it, but it had been mine.
It was blood money, yes, and a sort of profit from the darkest days of my life. But that payment had been granted in my name, and I hadn’t even been given the option of deciding what to do with it.
“I said the bulk remains in the account. From what I can tell, your aunt is a frugal woman, though I’m a litigator, not a private investigator. There is much I’m not privy to.”
He was saying words, but in my head they translated to blah-blah-blah.
“How much money?” Tray’s voice was only slightly less tinny than his father’s. It was as if they were talking at the other end of a long tunnel.
“Over two million.” He consulted his notes. “Approximately two-point-three—”
That was the last thing I heard before my head was between my knees and Tray was crouching beside me, rubbing my back. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe.”
“I’m fine.” I was. Mostly. Just a little lightheaded and a lot confused.
How could I have gone from being a struggling bartender and occasional trainer to a millionaire?
That kind of thing didn’t happen to girls like me.
Just like getting a guy like Tray. He wasn’t supposed to fall for you either, was he?
I hated that voice in my head. Nothing ever drowned it out.
“Here, have some water.” Tray pushed a plastic cup at me and cupped the back of my head, helping me drink. I nudged him back and drained the cup, squeezing it in my fist so the last few drops squeezed over my funeral wear.
I’d buried my father in this skirt, and now I was burying the girl I’d been yesterday. The one who had to struggle for every nickel and dime.
“Are you okay to stand?”
Blankly, I looked up at Tray. Why was he herding me out so fast?
Then I glanced at his father and realized we were sitting in a viper’s den as far as Tray was concerned. He’d gone along with this visit because of me. Now that I’d gotten the info I needed, he wanted us to get out of there.
I wasn’t sure my legs would support me right now, but I couldn’t blame him.
Nodding, I pushed out of the chair. The room wavered a bit, but I was mostly steady. Until Tray’s father rose as well, and I glimpsed the malice on his face, directed squarely at his son.
“That’s it then. You use me for your ends and then you dismiss me as if I’m your servant.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of his mile-wide desk. “That’s how we’re playing things now?”
Tray ignored him as he took my elbow and brushed a kiss across my forehead. “Ready?”
Swallowing hard, I nodded and cast a quick look at his father. “Thank you for your help.”
I didn’t know where I was supposed to go from here. Was I supposed to get an attorney to represent my interests? Would I have to sue my aunt to get the money that was rightfully mine?
God, I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to deal with any of this.
Elliott didn’t appear to hear me. His focus remained solely on Tray. “So Cynthia is staying with you. I’m surprised there’s enough room. How many people are staying in that closet? Half a dozen?”
The corner of Tray’s mouth lifted in a hint of a smile. “Guess we’ll be able to afford more than a closet now, huh?”
For some unknown reason, that struck me as hilarious. I let out a giggle and then covered my mouth in horror. “Sorry,” I muttered.
No matter how much money I had, I would always specialize in inappropriate reactions and awkward behavior. Twas my gift.
“You know if you start a lawsuit over this money, you’re going to have to relive it all. It will all be dragged through the papers again.”
This time, Elliott was speaking to me. Coldly.
“I’m not bringing suit.” I wasn’t sure what to do. Too much was whirling through my head.
“Let’s go.” Tray nudged me forward with his arm around my waist.
“It’s easy to look down your nose at your parents when you’re a kid who’s never faced a real trial in his life. You’ve been shielded from everything, yet you stand in judgement of me.”
Tray stiffened, but the arm around my back remained gentle. “You know what I was never shielded from?” He stared straight ahead, at a place I couldn’t see. “From the sounds of you hitting my mother. From the bruises on her face. No one shielded me from that, and I’m glad for it. Because I know I’ll never be like you, no matter what happens.”
Though it felt like I was moving through syrup, I walked with him to the door. I
kept waiting for his father to say something more, to try to defend the indefensible.
He never did.
We headed out of the building and crossed the parking lot to Tray’s ‘Vette without saying anything. The ride home was just as quiet.
I didn’t know what to say about any of it. So much was changing. Between us, outside of us. The ground beneath our feet felt as solid as quicksand.
He was my anchor, and now he was swinging too.
Once he’d stopped the car outside my building and turned off the ignition, I closed my hand around his on the keys. “You’re nothing like him.”
Bowing his head, he didn’t reply.
So I continued fumbling my way through the dark, because he did the same for me, over and over again.
“You’re angry at her for staying with a man who hurt her. I’ve put that much together, even without knowing all the pieces. But she found the strength to leave. Finally.” I sucked in a breath. Telling him my truth hurt every damn time. “Sometimes it’s easier to stay in hell than it is to risk it’ll be any better on the outside of it.”
His head lifted and his gorgeous blue eyes seared mine. “You fought your way out. You didn’t stay. You were fourteen.” He laughed bitterly. “She’s forty-four.”
“I could’ve tried to get away sooner than I did. Yes, he used Carly as a weapon, but it wasn’t only fear that kept me there. He worked on my head, convinced me I was nothing without him. That I couldn’t survive on my own. A part of me thought I really did need him.”
“That’s Stockholm—”
“Don’t spout syndromes at me. I’m telling you the reality. You’re so strong, and I’m glad for it. But you can’t blame someone else for being weak, when they don’t know how to be anything else.”
“You’re the strongest person I know. I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.” He framed my face with his hands and pressed a kiss to my forehead that felt like a benediction. “God, if only I had a quarter of your strength. Then I wouldn’t hate her for loving him, even though I still do too. I can’t stand it, but goddammit, he’s my father.”
“I know.” I gripped his wrist and held on. “Baby, I know.”
He shut his eyes for a moment. Two. When he opened them again, they were clearer. “We have work, then we’re going back to the gym. You doing okay?”
Such an innocuous question. I felt another laugh bubbling up, but I squelched it by reminding myself the conversation I had to have with my aunt would be far from funny. My amusement wasn’t arising from true humor, anyway.
More from the absolute what-the-fuck that made up my life.
“I’m good.”
It was only partially a lie. Like some of the other things I hadn’t shared with him lately.
My caller hadn’t made contact this morning. I wasn’t naïve enough to think that maybe that phase was over. Instead, I wondered which angle they’d come at me from next.
“You sure?” His lips twitched. “Ms. Millionaire.”
“Don’t even start.” But I was smiling back when I touched my mouth to his.
For an instant, everything faded away. The incessant honking outside the car, the street noises, the bustle of life in the city that never even napped, never mind slept.
There were just warm lips, and soft sighs, and the fact that I loved and was loved in return.
I couldn’t ask for anything more.
“I gotta go to work, baby.” Reluctantly, he pulled back and trailed his hand over my hair. “Don’t wanna. Would rather go curl up in our bed.”
I grinned. “Don’t you mean our sleeping bag?”
“I don’t mind curling up there either.” His eyebrow waggle was nothing short of lascivious.
Laughing, I slid across the seat. “Go to work, sex maniac. I’ll see you later.”
He nodded, waiting a beat. Then he said the words I was waiting for, the ones I knew were coming. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” I scrambled out of the car and shut the door on his laughter.
So I hadn’t mastered the romantic version of the statement yet. At least I could say it now. Occasionally.
I went upstairs to our apartment and found a note from Tray’s mom. She was following a lead on a job and would be back later. I smiled, setting it aside. Good for her. I didn’t know if she’d ever worked outside the home, so this was a big step for her.
Lots of big steps, all stacking up at once.
Tray wasn’t ready to believe that she was really making a clean break this time, but I was trying to have enough faith for both of us.
After I doublechecked I hadn’t missed a text from Carly about how school was going—I hadn’t—I sat down on the couch and debated what to do with my rare couple hours of free time before work. Tray normally would’ve had class tonight after his shift, but he was blowing it off to help me train. I’d tried to dissuade him, and it had worked about as well as my attempts to dissuade him usually did.
Unless sex was involved, most of the time I struck out.
I tugged his laptop onto my lap, intending just to mindlessly surf a bit. I needed to chill for a while and not think about anything. Just veg. Maybe I’d go on YouTube and watch some cat videos. They were usually good for a laugh.
The news ticker on the side of the browser caught my eye.
Bronx girl, 8, missing. Family seeks public’s help.
That was the last thing I should click on. Even knowing it didn’t stop me. Those kind of articles pulled at me the same way people were drawn to stare at car crashes. The awfulness was exactly what made it impossible to ignore.
Biting my lip, I clicked and read.
The eight-year-old, Miranda, had been playing in her front yard while her mother took care of the baby inside. Her mother hadn’t been gone for more than a few moments, just long enough to change her son’s diaper. By the time she returned, little Miranda was gone, her bicycle’s wheels still spinning in the gutter where she’d dropped it.
Neighbors had seen a brown van pulling away from the scene. A balding man behind the wheel. Nondescript. Jersey plates.
Three days she’d been gone. Long enough for unspeakable horrors to transpire while she was still alive to transcribe them for others to cry and whisper about. Or they might become locked in her own head, never to escape.
She could be dead. Could be worse than dead. Three days was a lifetime. I knew that better than anyone.
Before I knew what I was doing, I followed another link.
Click here for more stories of missing children.
The page loaded, full of faces. Some smiling, some serious, all far too young. Most would be changed irreparably if they came back from what they’d lived through.
Some wouldn’t come back at all.
I couldn’t stop clicking. So many stories. I couldn’t digest them all. Sometimes I found my way to a survivor’s story. That was what we were called.
Victims who became survivors. There should be another word. I didn’t want to just survive any longer.
I wanted to live.
An article about a seventeen-year-old named Lainey Peterson caught my eye. She’d been taken on her way to school one day when she was thirteen. She’d stepped off the school bus just feet from her school, but it had been too far. Her backpack strap had broken off and she’d been the last one off the bus because she tried to fix it. She’d lagged at the back of the pack of kids, and a man had been waiting.
She’d been imprisoned for six weeks, raped and beaten repeatedly. Until one day, he’d just let her off on a street in downtown Chicago, far from her home in Champaign. She’d wandered in circles, not knowing where to go or how to tell people what she’d lived through.
I shut my eyes. That was one of the worst parts of the whole ordeal. Coming back and having to tell people what happened. It was like being victimized all over again. But silence was worse, because then people wondered why you didn’t “bounce back” faster. Why you looked mostly the same on th
e outside, but on the inside, all the parts and pieces had been moved around to form a new whole.
She’d made it. She’d lived. Hers was a success story. They even wrote a followup article a few years later, when she was starting college and engaged to a nice young man. She was excited about the future, she said, and she’d come a long way.
The only problem was the road that she was on—that I was on—was one without a destination. We could come a long way forever and never reach the end. Every day, we started at the beginning all over again.
Time disappeared while I searched for more on Lainey Peterson. More proof that she’d made it. She hadn’t turned on herself and erased all the progress she’d made. Somewhere she was living with her nice young man, making love and babies. Going to work and school, her life utterly boring and normal.
But I couldn’t find anything else about Lainey. She’d vanished again, for a different reason this time. The routine of normal life had absorbed her. I hoped.
God, I hoped.
There were other Laineys. Different stories, different details. Too many kids to count. All of them struggling, trying to find a way to make sense of what made none.
What would my story say after my life was over? That I’d fought hard and lost? Or that I’d won in my own little corner of the world, keeping to myself, holding on to what was left of my sanity with an iron fist?
My story wasn’t over yet. I still had time to change it.
The buzzer rang and I startled, nearly upending the laptop. A hurried check of my phone showed that I had spent almost an hour and a half lost in the stories I’d found. I had to get ready for work soon.
The fight never stopped. At least when I was in the ring I didn’t have to pretend otherwise.
Crossing the room, I tried to shake off all that I’d read. “Who is it?” I said into the intercom.
“Lorenzo. Let me up.”
I stilled. I didn’t even breathe. What the hell was he doing here?
I debated my options. Refuse him entry? Call Tray? Go down and kick his ass in the vestibule?
Or let him up and trust that I could handle myself by myself, whatever happened.
