by JA Huss
“You can’t?” the reporter prods. “Or you won’t?”
“Can’t. I was never allowed out of the house.”
“What about when you escaped? Didn’t you know where you were at that point?”
“I didn’t…” I swallow hard and take a cleansing breath. “I didn’t escape. I was… let go.”
The reporter just stares at me and I get uneasy. Maybe this was a mistake? Sam seemed so confident when we were talking up in her room a few moments ago. She said she needed to tell her secret because it would set her free. Allow her to move past it and take away the power these reporters had over her.
I agreed with her. I still agree with her.
But this is hard. It’s a lot harder to talk about than I thought. But it’s too late now. I started this. They’d air this unfinished if I get up and walk out, so I might as well get on with it.
Just then the door opens and Vaughn walks through with Conner and Felicity. He’s about to burst through the wall of media people and put an end to this, but I put up a hand and shake my head. He stops.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t escape. I was let go.” I wait a beat to find the right words. “I was let go because… well, I’m not sure, really. I think he got a call. A job offer, actually. I heard him talking on the phone one night and it was about a job. But it sounded like he had to move someplace far. Pick up and go, he said. I’m pretty sure. So he had three choices. He could take me with him, and clearly he was not going to do that. He could let me go, and that didn’t seem to be an option either. Or he could kill me.”
I stare at her, and then my gaze pans the room. No one makes a sound. No one moves. They are riveted.
I take another deep breath and continue. “I figured I’d be dead that night because I knew he was leaving in the morning. So I just… gave up.”
“What’s that mean, Grace? What did it mean for you to give up?”
“I just accepted it. And when he came to my door, I told him as soon as he opened it, ‘If you just let me die peacefully—drug me,’ I remember requesting—‘if you just drug me so I go easy, I’ll forgive you for everything.’ I figured that’s the only weapon I had in my arsenal, you understand?” I wait for her nod, but it never comes. She does not understand. No one will understand.
Grace, the terrified teenager named Daisy says in my head. Make them understand.
“He was… is… not well. But even though he really messed with my head, he never touched me sexually. And he could’ve. At any time, he could’ve. So I spent a lot of time thinking about this. Why didn’t he do that? What did he really want? And I came to the conclusion that he wanted me to want him. So if I told him he was forgiven, maybe he’d see that as a fair trade to let me die in peace.”
“But he didn’t kill you.”
“Obviously.”
“So your words touched him?”
“I suppose. He did drug me, but not enough to kill me. At least not quickly. He dropped me off on the front lawn of a small-town hospital in Nebraska.”
“Is that where he was keeping you? In Nebraska?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I have no idea.”
“Could you pick him out of a lineup if you wanted to try and put him away? Make him pay for what he did to you?”
I shake my head no. “He wore a mask the entire time we were in the same room.”
“What kind of mask?”
“It was one of those lifelike ones. Like they make of presidents and stuff. Only this was not a famous person. It was…” I clear my throat and swallow hard. “He was wearing a mask of a boy. A boy I knew from summer camp.” I add in a whisper.
Everyone is silent again as they all think about this.
“That’s creepy,” the reporter finally says. “Did you tell anyone about this mask?”
I shake my head. “I never told anyone anything.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? I’m sure you can figure that one out.”
Sam scoots in close to me and puts her arm around my shoulder. She rests her head against mine, like she’s my very best friend in the world. I think Bebe will hate me when she sees this. I never told her. I never told anyone. And now this family I barely know and this reporter who has no connection to me at all, they are the first to hear it.
“What were your days like?” the reporter asks to keep the flow of the interview going.
But I’m done talking. I don’t even bother to say that, either. I just stop.
“I feel so stupid,” Sam says. “I called this interview so I could tell the world about a secret I was hiding. But now that I’ve heard Grace’s story, I realize I have no idea what it means to suffer true, deep, emotional pain. I’m so sorry, Grace.”
I nod and then unhook the little microphone from my shirt and hand it to the stunned reporter. She’s probably wondering what just happened. A moment later, Vaughn is there, leading me out of the room. We keep walking, right to the car. He opens my door and places me inside, drawing the seatbelt tightly across my chest before closing the door and walking around to his side.
When he gets in, he lets out a long exhale and starts the engine. “I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t have left you alone in there. I’m sorry if you feel ambushed.”
“I don’t,” I say back, gently placing my hand over his on the gearshift. “I was talking to your sister, and she asked me if I ever felt like a victim.”
Vaughn looks over at me quickly.
“Because she said she feels like a victim. But I told her no. Because even though I do feel like a victim, I have had all the proper answers fed to me while I was in recovery. I lied. I do feel like a victim. Well…” I stop for a moment so I can try and make sense of it. “Daisy Bryndle was a victim. But Grace Kinsella did a pretty good job at keeping that useless emotion at bay with her fantasy world.”
He places his hand on my leg. “Is that why you were on Twitter? To live in a world where you had all the power?”
I can’t look at him. I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve been running from my weakness. Covering it up with a rich, online fantasy world.
“I love you, Grace.”
I look up at the real Vaughn Asher and force the tears back. “Why?”
“You’re my fantasy girl,” he says softly. “All the best fairytale princesses have the most horrific pasts. But they endure and persevere. And even though the fantasy dictates that the prince saves her, that’s not how it really happens.”
I gaze up at the man who wants to be my prince with longing and hope. “How does it really happen?”
A single finger tips my chin up so I have to look him straight in the eyes.
“Grace, the princess always survives, and she does that all on her own. Never mind the rescue—the real challenge is surviving long enough for help to arrive. And all the fairytale princesses do that all on their own. You’re not a victim, you’re a survivor. And I get it. I understand what you meant back in Vegas when you said sometimes living is the worst possible thing that can happen. And you’re right. Giving up is so much easier. But you never did give up. The fact that you’re here—a strong-willed woman with a college degree and a life eked out from the debris of Daisy Bryndle—well, sweets, that’s the opposite of victim. That’s badass.”
I giggle and shake my head.
“Bad. Ass. Princess. That’s you, babe.”
And then he starts the car, revs the engine, and we leave the castle.
Maybe a little sadder than when we came, but maybe a little stronger too.
Chapter Fifty-Seven - Vaughn
#Flashbacks
I LOSE track of time after that. I lose track of life after that. Her eyes, her words, her body… these are the only things I see, or hear, or feel for the next twenty-four hours. We drink, and eat, and fuck, and swim.
And this is all I care about. I blow off phone calls. I blow off a Friday afternoon meeting about IM2 marketing. I don’t return messages. Hell, I don’t even check messages. My li
fe is a whirlwind called Grace.
And the next day, when I wake up and she’s all pressed up against me, comfortable, safe, and still asleep… I know I can’t keep hiding it from her.
I need to come clean.
I do. I know this. Every day I wait to tell her, it compounds the repercussions. But I’m not ready to end this… this… whatever it is. This perfect weekend. This chance she represents. I don’t want her to know I’m a sneaky asshole, even though she probably already knows that. I’m getting the impression that I’ve erased some of my bad behavior on Saint Thomas and I really don’t want to fuck that up.
She rolls over and turns her back to me in bed. I take this as a sign. I’m a superstitious actor, I look for signs. And this qualifies. I can’t tell her yet. Tomorrow. When I take her home. I’ll tell her before I leave. For sure. She turns back and her hand slides up and down my abs.
“You’ve got my attention, Mrs. Invisible Man.”
“Mmmm. I need to go home.”
‘What?”
“I do, I have so much to do. Should I buy a ticket?”
“What?” I’m floored. Never in a million years did I think she’d want to go home today. “But it’s Saturday.”
“Yeah, I know. But I can’t keep avoiding Bebe. She will want to talk about the interview.”
They aired it last night. The video of Sam last Christmas was all over the place before dinner, but Sam handled it well. She was diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome when she was nine and it devastated her. She had no control over the tics for years. Rapid blinking. Sucking in her breath. Not swearing, she had very few verbal issues. But it was enough to kill her self-esteem and give her a case of obsessive-compulsive disorder as well. She outgrew most of it, but when she gets stressed, she panics and they come back.
Tray was her first real relationship. I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised that she was a virgin. That must’ve been enough to bring back her condition.
That interview was a major step forward for her. It’s time and she knows that.
“What’s wrong?” Grace asks, lifting her head up off my chest so she can see my face.
“Just… Samantha. She’s been doing so well for so many years. I really thought it was over.”
“She was very strong and determined in her interview.”
She was. I feel very proud of my little sister right now. And no one gave a shit about that video of her. The whole country is talking about Grace. “I know she was exceptionally strong and it went better than I ever imagined. But I worry about her. And you,” I add. Because I’m far more worried about Grace than Sam. “Bebe is your best friend,” I tell her, bringing us back to the topic of her leaving. “You can call her on the phone and go home tomorrow, no big deal.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to turn into one of those girls who drops her BFFs for a guy. Even if said guy is a famous movie-star. Tonight is Dirty Heaven and I’ve been absent so much lately. I don’t feel connected. I feel… sort of… adrift.”
“You’re having social media withdrawal?”
“Mmmm,” she says. Her hand dips down to my hard cock and I smile. She doesn’t want to leave, she just feels obligated to spend time being herself. And that’s not a hard wish to grant in our fairytale land.
“So play Dirty Heaven here.”
“Here?” She looks around quickly. “Oh God, I’d be way too embarrassed.”
“Why, because all your tweets are about me?”
“That, and if they know I’m with you, and they will, they will torment you relentlessly.”
My hand slips up to her breast and I pinch her nipple. Not hard, but forcefully, making her squeal a little. “So let them. You can guard my honor.”
That makes her snort. “I have to be honest, for the last three years my Dirty Heaven nights have been all about you. Now what do I tweet about?”
“Ah,” I say as my hand dips down between her legs. “I see the problem. You don’t want to make any promises you can’t keep.”
She giggles against my chest.
“Just call up Bebe, once we’re finished fucking, of course, and chat with her all you want. Take selfies on the lazy river. Get drunk with her on the phone. Fucking Skype, for all I care. Spend the whole day with Bebe, but please, Grace. Do it from here. It’s not time to go home yet.” She’s silent for a few moments and I have a little wave of panic. “Unless you really don’t want to spend the weekend with me?”
“No,” she says immediately. “That’s not it at all.”
I flip her over, straddle her ass, my hard cock pressed against the slit of her pussy, and I lean into her neck and give her a small bite that makes her buck underneath me. “Then it’s settled. You stay here. I fuck you until you’re sore. Then I’ll share you with Bebe and the rest of the Filthy Blue Birds.” She turns her head and I immediately go in for a kiss. “Is that a deal, sweets?”
“I don’t have any clothes. You only got me that one outfit for yesterday.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. This is a clothes-free zone. You have to be naked. Sorry, that’s just how it is.”
“Since when?” she squeals. “What about Felicity?”
“Yeah, well, she’s staying at the parents’ pool house with Conner, I think.”
“Are they dating?”
“Fuck, no!” I say a little too quickly. “Fuck. No. They’re working on a project for me. Together. That’s all. Now let’s get back to our little deal where I get to fuck you sore today.”
Even though her head is tilted to the side and her long blonde hair is spilling over, practically covering it, I see her smile.
“You’re mine,” I growl into her ear. “Say it,” I insist.
All her pretenses are over. All the feigned indifference is gone now. She turns towards me so I can see her smile full on. “I’m all yours.”
I lean down and touch my lips to hers, just the slightest touch. “Forever. Say it. Even if it’s an abstract concept. It’s the right thing to say right now and I need to hear it.”
She bites her lip and my heart is pounding inside my chest with doubts. These doubts double the longer she hesitates. Because I’ve never felt afraid that a woman would reject me and I am, in this moment, very, very afraid. My heart is responding with desperation. “Say it,” I urge again.
“Forever.” The word comes out like a sigh. Or a whisper.
I hug her close and lean into her ear. “Thank you.”
WE FUCK wildly for hours. We stay naked the entire day and it’s well into the fading light of late afternoon before we drag ourselves up and start to think about food. Well, I think about food. Grace is on my laptop, logged in with her Twitter friends while simultaneously chatting with Bebe on my phone. I’m thrilled that she ignored Bebe all day in favor of sex with me, but Bebe is the best friend. Her acceptance is critical and tonight is the first step in gaining that stamp of approval.
I shut down the grill and take the plate of burgers over to the outdoor kitchen. She likes American cheese, pickles, ketchup, mustard, and pepper. I asked her before she got distracted by the phone. I want this evening to be seamless and knowing what she likes is part of that.
I set her plate down on the small table next to her lounge chair and she smiles up and mouths thank you as Bebe continues to talk on the other end of the line.
I go inside and grab Felicity’s kitchen laptop and take it back outside with me. Then I settle in the lounge chair next to Grace and open up my own Twitter account and navigate to the Dirty Heaven list while I chew on my dinner. I snap a picture of Grace with my laptop camera. She’s got a towel wrapped around her because she was chilled after our last swim, so she’s not naked.
MovieStar @VaughnAsher
@FilthyBlueBird You look #Fuckable…
Her laptop pings a new interaction and I take a big bite of burger and chew as she reads it. The look on her face… priceless. “Oh yeah, baby. Game. On. Tonight.” She rolls her eyes and tries to continue her conversation w
ith Bebe, but even I can hear the screaming coming from the phone as my tweet filters out to the world.
MovieStar @VaughnAsher
@FilthyBlueBird #DirtyHeaven is mine tonight.
The ping. The smile. The feigned indifference. She hangs up the phone. A few seconds of furious keystrokes and…
Grace @FilthyBlueBird
@VaughnAsher I own #DirtyHeaven, bitch. #VaughnAsherIsMyBitch
I laugh out loud. She chews her burger, as she positions the laptop so I can’t see her screen.
MovieStar @VaughnAsher
@FilthyBlueBird #FlashbackTime Get ready.
I navigate to Felicity’s Twitter list of @FilthyBlueBird. It has all of Grace’s tweets. After Grace made her big escape from Saint Thomas and left me searching the airport like a maniac trying to make sure she wasn’t just hiding from me, Felicity figured out who she was on Twitter and started compiling. She even copied them into dummy accounts in anticipation of a possible full account deletion.
I admit, after I realized Grace was not in fact waiting for me to pick her up from departures, I went through her entire timeline. From. Day. One.
I chuckle and look up at Grace. She’s got one of those oh shit looks on her face. “Remember when you wrote this…?” I press the retweet button and shoot her a wide grin.
Her laptop bloops and she looks down. I look down too, so we can read it together.
Grace @FilthyBlueBird
Come here and take off my lip gloss @VaughnAsher #OnMyKneesWaiting
She looks up, biting said lip, and I quickly press send on my reply tweet.
MovieStar @VaughnAsher
@FilthyBlueBird #Flashback to last night. Oh, you weren’t wearing lip gloss. But you are now. #GetOnYourKneesAndWait
She chuckles and smirks as her fingers fly across the keys.
Grace @FilthyBlueBird
@VaughnAsher - Dabbing lips with a napkin. #ThatAllYouGot?
