by Helena Maeve
On the wrong side of the debris-littered carpet, Malcolm was too bewildered, too slow to react. Hazel bolted for door of the suite, her knees threatening to buckle under her.
Get out. Get out now.
She groped for the handle with a weak fist, keenly aware of her slowing pulse. It twisted open after two attempts. The door swung inward.
“Hazel!” Malcolm’s shout reached her from too far away to matter.
Stumbling, Hazel lurched toward the elevator. She remembered the layout of the corridors and knew where she had to go, but her steps were sluggish, body weighed by the cement in her limbs. Come on. Just a little farther.
A man was exiting the shiny steel cabin. Hazel staggered past him, heedless of his bafflement or the spectacle she was making of herself, and furiously stabbed her finger into the L button.
The elevator doors began to close before Malcolm rounded the corner. Hazel sunk to the floor, her vision pinholing until darkness swallowed her up.
A cheery, all-instrumental cover of La Vie en Rose trilled from the speakers, lulling her into a dead sleep.
* * * *
The nurse stayed with her, checking her blood pressure and jotting numbers onto her chart long after Hazel was told she would have to talk to a police officer. The hospital insisted. The hotel would probably prefer it, the nurse added under his breath.
“People will sue for a paper cut these days.”
“Yes, well. Date rape drugs tend to be a little more serious,” the officer shot back, making little effort to conceal her annoyance. She looked like a capable, no-nonsense sort of woman, her curly black hair tamed into a neat bun low on her nape. “Could I have a minute alone with Ms. Whitley?”
Hazel slammed the brakes on her apprehension. It had to come to this. Sooner or later, she had always known Malcolm would land her in hospital.
“So I was drugged?” she clarified, once they were alone. Her clothes were gone, a backless paper gown draped over her body in their place. It crinkled when she moved.
The uniformed officer cocked an eyebrow. “You knew?”
“I think… I’m not sure and I can’t prove it, but I think it’s not the first time he’s tried something like this.” Hazel dropped her gaze to her hands. “We went to college together. It’s a long story.” And like all stories, it involved a monster and a handsome prince, only they happened to be one and the same. Hazel blinked away the thought. “I’m sorry, that’s not relevant, is it?” Embarrassed, she huffed out a dry chuckle, trying to cast her mind back to recent history. “Um, there was a man in the hallway. He saw me as I was leaving.”
“We’ve spoken to him. And your toxicology report came back positive—”
“His name is Malcolm Pryce,” Hazel blurted out, emboldened. “The man who did this to me.” I have you now, you son of a bitch. Her eyes stinging with hot, unshed tears, she added, “He’s staying at Omni, in room—”
“Ma’am, let me stop you right there.” The officer seemed uneasy, her pen no longer scratching against the notepad. “Mr. Pryce already made a statement. He claims you attacked him.”
The revelation was a punch to Hazel’s solar plexus.
“What?” Her voice failed her, throat closing up with a mixture of disbelief and shock. It was just as well that she was already sitting down.
“He’s pressing charges, ma’am. Do you have an attorney? Someone you can contact?”
Hazel shook her head. She couldn’t process the question, couldn’t get past the bombshell that Malcolm had saddled her with the blame. “How… There was another woman. My friend, she saw everything…” She knows everything. “How can he say I attacked him when he’s the one who drugged me?”
The officer pursed her lips. “Ma’am, I understand this is hard, but you have to remain here.” Or else seemed implicit in the instruction.
Hazel clammed up at once.
“Ms. Ling has corroborated Mr. Pryce’s version of events. She claims you became enraged when you discovered that she and Mr. Pryce were having an affair.”
It was easy to believe. Sadie, dressed in Malcolm’s clothes, sleeping in his bed, the perfect mistress for a playboy with money to spend on more than one woman. Hazel didn’t fit the part, so she had been cast as the jealous ex who couldn’t let him go.
Nicely done. It was a deft bit of thinking on his feet from Malcolm.
“I really must advise you to call a lawyer.” The officer stepped closer to the bed, boots squeaking on the sticky tile floor. “Ma’am, I have to take you in as soon as the doctor discharges you. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
No. Hazel let her head drop back against the pillow. “I need to make a phone call.”
* * * *
All told, Hazel’s stay in jail amounted to less than three hours—the time it took for her to be processed, for bail to be determined and for Ward to pay it. They drove away in silence. Hazel didn’t ask why Dylan wasn’t with him. Part of her was afraid to find out. The other couldn’t muster more than grim acceptance at the thought of his deciding to pull away. She was surprised when Ward parked the BMW in front of four-seven-one Aulden Way.
“I can head home,” Hazel started. “My car’s probably—”
“It’s been towed,” Ward replied. “Sorry, I checked. You were parked in a yellow zone overnight.”
“Oh. I can take the bus?” Once at the hotel, she’d been too deep into her own head to pay attention to the color of the curb. After the past twenty-four hours, Hazel couldn’t muster the energy to fret. Her regrets were steep mountains and she had only the strength of her feeble arms to pull herself up.
“Do you…not want to be here?” Ward asked at length. He had cut the engine, plunging them into silence as the car baked in the late afternoon heat.
Hazel shrugged. She knew it wasn’t good enough. Ward deserved better than her half-truths and constant drama. Even if the sex was good, she was more trouble than she was worth.
To Hazel’s surprise, he reached across the gearshift and gently placed his hand over hers. “Come up. I’ll make coffee. We can talk.”
“Only if there’s Jack.” She feigned a smile, which he mirrored, but neither of them could do a very good job of pretending.
A better woman than Hazel would have made the hard choice and ripped off the Band-Aid. Said, no, Ward, it’s over. Hazel was not that woman.
Greedy for memories she could pore over later, she ran her hand over the banister on the way up the stairs, treasuring every dip and snag in the metal, enjoying the echo of their discordant steps as they ascended one floor, then another. Whether it was a matter of design choice or building codes, she was glad the architects responsible for the renovation of the warehouse hadn’t installed an elevator. The slow, breathless climb masked some of the tightness in her chest.
She had prepared her last visit to the loft so many times that it was almost a relief to finally reach that inevitable threshold. The next time she took these stairs, it would be for good. Dylan had already retreated from her. Ward would be next.
The grating screech of metal on metal embedded itself onto Hazel’s brainstem as she walked through the door. Bathed in the soft afternoon light, the loft was awash in shades of taupe and amber, the occasional oily gray-black gleam where stairs met floor or couch legs clashed against cow hide rug.
“Hazel?”
Dylan’s voice tore her from her silent study. There he was, stalking out of the shadowy corridor that led to his room and stalking brashly toward her. Hazel had never learned how to flinch from his touch.
“Oh, thank God…”
Before she could speak, Dylan had his arms around her shoulders, embracing her tightly enough to curtail her breaths.
Who needed oxygen, anyway?
“Easy,” Ward cautioned.
“Shit, you’re right.” Dylan released her at once. “How—did everything go okay? Do you want to sit down or—I can make you something to eat.”
Hazel stared at him in amazement. “You’re n
ot angry?”
“Why would I be?”
Because I did something stupid. Again. Because you can’t possibly trust me anymore.
“You missed class last night,” Ward said, grunting as he dragged the door shut. “But I called your professor, so you can catch up on the reading. Feel free to yell at me later, if you want.”
“Why…?” Hazel glanced between them, puzzled. “I don’t understand.” She had disappeared on them, put herself in danger—nearly wound up in Malcolm’s clutches through her own stupidity. And now she owed Ward five hundred dollars, plus all her other debts.
“We’re just glad you’re okay. When Ward came home…” Dylan cut his eyes to him, brief but affectionate. “He realized something wasn’t right. We called the diner, went by your place. No sign of you. We feared the worst.”
“Like Sadie,” Ward said. “Only…you know.” Successfully.
Hazel couldn’t find the breath to tell them how wrong she’d been about what went down that night. She was still struggling to wrap her head around the fact that Dylan didn’t chalk this up to another in a long string of bad surprises.
It stretched credulity to feel his warm body beside hers.
“Took us a while to start calling hospitals,” Ward put in after a beat. “When you called—honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to stroll into a jail in my life.” One corner of his lips twitched. “You still up for Jackie D?”
Hazel smiled, shaking her head. “No…but I’ll take that coffee.” Just the thought of alcohol was enough to turn her stomach.
“One espresso, coming up.”
“I’ll have one, too,” Dylan volleyed at his back.
“Make your own,” Ward retorted.
Dylan winced.
Although dog-tired and running on fumes, Hazel picked up on the tension in Ward’s voice. She cocked both eyebrows. “Something wrong?”
“He blames me for what happened. Or did.” Dylan hitched his shoulders. “Frankly, I’m inclined to agree. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that. You deserved better. I got jealous. I know it’s ridiculous,” he added hastily, “and I do trust you, I just…”
“You played into his hands.”
Dylan held her gaze. “Did he…? We couldn’t get a straight answer out of anyone. Ward tried badgering the hospital, but they shut us out since we’re not family. We still don’t know what happened in that room.”
His voice soft, the implicit question stretched over Hazel like a silken shroud. Did he hurt you? It was the first of the yes-or-no queries on a checklist that would alter the way Dylan and Ward treated her.
Hazel waited him out, but Dylan seemed unwilling to ask it aloud. He always seemed to tread carefully where she was concerned.
“That makes two of us,” Hazel confessed, unprompted. She hesitated a beat before taking his hand in hers and lightly threading their fingers.
The espresso machine gurgled as Ward set it in motion, the dark, familiar scent of fresh coffee spreading languorously through the loft.
Dylan squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to… Real Housewives is on,” he offered, shooting her a tentative smile.
Hazel could have kissed him. The thought of curling up on the couch, her head in his lap and her legs draped over Ward’s snagged like a fishhook in her chest. Burying her head in the sand hadn’t worked these many years.
Time to stop running.
“I do,” she said. “I have to talk about it. Because you’re a part of this now.” Like it or not.
Chapter Twelve
Over the course of two cups of espresso, Hazel told them everything. She cast her memory back to the discovery that Sadie had apparently up and vanished with only the most cryptic of notes to her mother, and the smorgasbord of clues stuck to her mirror. Her throat constricted when it came to what she’d found in the hotel room.
“I don’t know if he was waiting for me or if he ordered the champagne so he and Sadie could celebrate. Frankly,” Hazel confessed, “it doesn’t make any difference.”
“It might if we can prove intent,” Ward argued. He had taken to pacing the breadth of the living room, his socked feet silent on the naked oak floors.
“We won’t. By the time I woke up, he’d already made me out to be some crazy stalker ex. He even got Sadie to support his side of it.”
Dylan tipped forward and rested his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this.”
“Oh great, now he’s getting Dylan on his side,” Hazel drawled. She regretted the joke as soon as Dylan flung a stunned glance her way. Ward abruptly ceased his patrol, both of them white-faced. Hazel groaned and held up her hands. “Kidding, kidding! God, you two really didn’t see this coming, did you?”
“Not with Sadie,” Dylan replied. “Not like this.”
Ward took a step closer to them, arms folded across his chest. “Did you?”
Hindsight made all the clues seem obvious, but Hazel couldn’t claim to have enjoyed such clarity of thought when it counted. She reached down to smooth a wrinkle in her jeans. “I should have. I knew what he was like. He never pulled anything like this when we were together, sure, but…it’s familiar territory. He’s not telling me I’m topping from the bottom if I refuse to fuck his buddies while he watches, he’s just saying I’m crazy if I won’t let him assault me.” She offered Ward a shallow smile. “And apparently the cops buy it.”
“We’ll see about that. I’ve been looking into what we were talking about.”
Hazel’s stomach growled loudly, cutting him off. She grimaced. “Sorry. Keep talking, I’ll make a sandwich—”
“Fridge’s empty,” Dylan lamented. “I was supposed to get groceries today… We can order in.”
“There’s always tempura,” Ward agreed.
“Or,” said Hazel, “we could go out.”
The suggestion seemed to baffle them. Dylan was first to wipe astonishment from his features. “You’re up for that?”
“Make it sound like I’m an invalid.” Laughter fled Hazel’s voice as she stood and slowly rounded the coffee table. “Once and for all…” Dylan’s hair was thick and soft, and slid gently through her fingertips until she tightened her grip, tilting his head back and making him meet her eyes. “He didn’t touch me. I’d never let him.”
“It’s not always about—”
“It was this time,” Hazel told Dylan. There had been others, but they were specks of grit on the backs of her eyelids, occasionally scoring the watery whites of her eyes but mostly unnoticed. She didn’t want Dylan’s pity. “I need you to understand that.”
His throat bobbed when he swallowed. “I do.”
He didn’t seem to notice the pull of her fingers as he bent his head to her belly. Warmth pooled in the pit of Hazel’s stomach with the sudden, little known desire to keep him safe. Ward was watching them when she peered up, a hand on the back of Dylan’s chair.
“You know that place we went to,” Hazel recalled, “with the dancing and the snotty waiters?”
Ward nodded, lips twitching.
“Think you can get us a table?”
“If I can’t do that, what’s the good of a controlling interest, right?”
He sauntered to dig out his cell phone before Hazel could process the comeback.
“I love how he does that,” Dylan murmured, his breath hot through the thin fabric of her tank top. “Casually dropping in reminders that he’s loaded… Probably thinks we won’t notice.”
Hazel smiled. “Blissful ignorance, right?” Although now she knew better. There was nothing blissful about being kept in the dark.
* * * *
With little effort, Ward obtained a last-minute dinner reservation. He insisted on driving, too, which Hazel and Dylan grudgingly allowed. “You make it sound like I’m dangerous behind the wheel.”
“Let’s just say you take an innovative approach to the rules of the road,” Hazel quipped from the backseat. Before they left, she
had changed into a pair of poly-blend pants and a chiffon blouse worn over a spaghetti-strap top, decking herself out in mourning black. The line between lugubrious and formal was a thin one. She wasn’t entirely certain she found herself on the right side of it.
Dylan and Ward were hardly reliable weather vanes. Dylan called her beautiful when she asked if she looked okay.
He would’ve said that if she put on a garbage bag.
“Slander,” Ward huffed. “I’m the picture of safe driving. And courtesy.”
Thirty minutes later, his courtesy depleted and safety set aside through countless exceptions—mostly to do with drivers who according to Ward were a public menace—they slid to a stop outside the restaurant.
The valet opened Hazel’s door unprompted. She had forgotten how upscale this place was. Guilt shivered through her with the reminder that she couldn’t ever afford to eat there on her own money. Then again, debt was the least of her problems.
“There’s a hundred in it if you manage to total the car,” Dylan told the valet in a mock whisper.
Ward scoffed, “Stop corrupting the youth.”
He hung back, though, and Hazel thought she saw him undercut Dylan’s offer with a preemptive tip. He smiled when he caught Hazel’s eye, sliding an arm around her waist. “That face you’re making right now? I know what that means. You’re about to say something about me throwing money away. Well, I’m not. It’s an investment.”
“Uh-huh.” Hazel let him steer her into the restaurant without offering resistance. She had no desire to scold Ward for playing fast and loose with his cash. He’d said it himself—it wasn’t earned, he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. If he wanted to waste Benjamins on not-quite-wagers with Dylan, it was his business.
Ward’s influence, unearned as it was, still netted them a warm welcome from the maître d’ and a table with a view of the dance floor, where couples were swaying to the harmonies of an elegant string quartet.
Hazel sat back in her seat to watch. It was hard to reconcile this with the jail cell she’d left behind just hours earlier, the hospital bed before that. The hotel suite. White table cloths that brushed the floor and gleaming silverware were so far above her pay grade they might have been a fantasy. She recognized the Tchaikovsky piece from the violin lessons her mother had forced her to take as a kid. Absent any real talent, she had given up the bow after a few unhappy months. Giving up had been her MO long before Malcolm walked into her life.
