"I'm not crazy!" I shrieked, yanking my hand away, pacing their too-clean kitchen, feeling like I was coming out of my skin.
"No one is accusing you of being crazy," she tried again, voice softer, like she was talking to a frightened animal. "I just think you are grieving, and you've had a shock, and you are looking for someone to blame."
"He is to blame."
"You have no evidence of that," my father cut in, voice getting sharper as I got more agitated. "I can't imagine why you would think Michael when you heard the news. He has always been kind to you girls."
"He called us 'princess,' Dad."
"A lot of people use that term, sweetie," my mother said, standing, coming toward me, wanting to comfort me.
I didn't want their comfort.
I wanted them to believe me.
I wanted them to see that I wasn't losing my mind, that I was right.
"Don't," I demanded, backing away from my mother when she reached for me.
"Honey, it's okay. It's going to be okay."
"It's not going to be okay. Sammy isn't here. And that bastard is the reason. And you--"
"Enough!" my father's voice boomed through the room. I was sure it made the glass on the windows tremble. His hand slammed down on the island, making me jolt almost violently, not used to such strong outward signs of anger from a man I'd always known as stoic and steady. "This family has been through enough. We are not going to let you lose your mind over some asinine idea. Let it go, Reagan. Go get the help you need. Change your meds. Talk it out. We won't listen to this anymore. We already lost one daughter. We aren't going to lose you in your own head. Get it together."
I'd never known my parents to be anything other than supportive. They didn't blink when Luis decided to pursue a career in modeling. They bought every copy in the area of the first magazine he'd been in. They let me join Girls Scouts when I was a kid even though I hated getting dirty, and thought crafts were stupid. They did everything in their power to connect Sammy with people in the industry when she said she wanted to pursue a career in fashion.
If we wanted something, they helped us. No questions asked. Full support offered.
I thought it was a testament to the continental shift in our lives that was the loss of Sammy. Our worlds were torn apart. We didn't know this new land. We didn't recognize ourselves on it.
I stared at my father for a long time, trying to remind myself of their pain, that I couldn't resent them for not wanting to take any more on.
"I'm leaving," I told them, tone curt as I grabbed my bag and stormed out.
I never went back.
When they called, I rushed off the phone without saying much.
I couldn't seem to feel the same way about them when they didn't believe me, when they didn't join me in my hatred, in my desire to see justice served.
Eventually, in an extension of an olive branch, or just wanting me out of their hair--I couldn't truly say which--my father had offered me Devil Tears.
I wanted to believe they just thought I needed the distraction, the fresh start.
But a larger part of me thought they didn't want to have to deal with the evidence of our disconnect anymore. If I was in the same state, they would have to explain why their only surviving daughter was no longer at the house for parties, no longer attending charity events, no longer updating them about her life.
I didn't take Devil Tears because I genuinely wanted it at first. I took it because it offered a chance to move without looking suspect. The man they had originally put in charge had needed to move back to Jersey five years before to help his ailing mother. He'd rented out a small office and did a one-man operation. Very badly. The books hadn't been balanced. Vendors hadn't been paid.
He'd been relieved when they'd offered him early retirement, a pension I personally didn't think he deserved, but my parents were generous that way.
And I packed everything I had in the world, and set my sights on New Jersey.
Not to run Devil Tears, but to have an excuse to be closer to Michael. To formulate a plan. To get the justice I so badly needed for my sister.
Rebuilding, though, had given me a focus I didn't know I needed. It gave me a reason to get up and get dressed every morning. Eventually, it helped soften the sharp edges of grief as I hired people who became friends, as I tried my best to take hold of the wheel of a woefully off-course ship.
But never did I lose sight of my real mission.
Even as I found the barn, as I had it remodeled, as I had the lawn ripped up and replaced with wildflowers to help the local bee population, even as I spent a small chunk of my trust fund to get the entire place running on solar panels, as I found ways to make packaging and shipping more economical and ecological.
I got myself a place.
I made friends with Krissy.
I did community outreach by helping the local delinquents.
I built a life.
But I never, not for one minute, lost sight of the real reason I was in Navesink Bank.
I was there for Michael McDermot.
I was there to make sure he never did to anyone else what he did to my sister.
I was there to catch him if he ever tried.
If he so much as grabbed ass at a bar, I knew about it.
It didn't matter that it had been over a year of watching him without a lead. Men like that, men who got off on taking away a woman's power, they never just did it once.
Eventually, he would try it again.
And I would stop him.
Catch him.
Make sure he got locked away for it.
It didn't matter if it took the rest of my life, I would find some small bit of justice for Sammy.
I would make sure her attacker paid for what he did to her.
-Present-
"Fuck," Nixon hissed, shaking his head, his hand raising to rub over the scruff on his face that was quickly becoming a decent beard. "Babe... I'm so sorry. I can't imagine."
I sucked in a deep breath, hoping it would calm the raw sensations inside.
Sammy's loss was always a fresh wound; it was never something I went a day without thinking about.
It was my first thought every morning.
I was sure it always would be.
I'd scoffed at the therapist had told me it would be the first thought for a long time, but then, one day, it would be the second thing, then the third. And that would be how I knew I was healing.
Maybe I didn't heal because I kept picking off the scab, because I didn't want to heal until I had some semblance of justice.
I was okay with that.
I didn't want to wake up and not think of Sammy first thing. Even if I knew my brother and my parents were already much further along in their recovery than I was.
"It's been rough," I agreed, hearing the thickness in my voice as I willed myself to hold the tears in. They'd been too easy to come by lately.
"I knew he was a motherfucker," he declared, voice fierce, the exclamation enough to make a surprised smile pull at my lips.
"Yeah?" I asked, finding myself pleased that I wasn't the only person who saw it, that he didn't hide his evil as easily as he thought.
"I didn't want to take the job. Tried to push it off on King. I fucking hated him instantly. He called his secretary a bitch to my face."
"I don't know how that poor woman puts up with him," I admitted, wondering how high her salary must be to put up with him day in and day out.
"That's why you turned to ice," he said, eyes a little far away, lost in some memory.
"What do you mean?"
"When we ran into him on the street. You clearly didn't want to be anywhere near him. But when he called you 'princess,' you fucking turned to ice-cold stone. I get it now."
I'd wanted to throw up. Right there on his shoes. I hated my mind for doing it, but it flashed with awful images, ones put there by the knowledge of what happened, what he'd said when he'd hurt her. I wasn't sure how I managed to keep the content
s of my stomach inside my body.
It was the first time I'd had actual contact with him. I'd been watching him for months, following him from work to home, from home to bars or business meetings or charity functions.
But I'd never even heard his voice. Never spoken to him, stood next to him.
I hadn't been prepared for the pinpricks of fear, the hand-around-the-throat sensation of anxiety, the rolling revulsion in my stomach.
I always figured the next time I would be face-to-face with the man, I would be watching him be ushered into a police cruiser while I said something to the effect of Got you, motherfucker.
"I hate that people like him get to walk the streets, get to get away with what they did."
I knew they did so more often than anyone wanted to admit, that most people brushed shoulders with a rapist every month without even being aware of it, I had seen reports that stated that six percent of men were rapists, that responses on a similar study said that one in three men would commit the act if they knew they could get away with it.
We lived in an ugly world. And there were evil people in it. They crossed streets with us, shared office buildings with us, chauffeured children to school with us, stood in line at coffee shops with us, and went to charity events with us.
Evil was really good at wearing the mask of normal.
It fooled people.
Michael's mask fooled me. Fooled my parents. Fooled everyone he'd ever been in contact with.
But he would never fool me again.
"What about your brother?" Nixon asked, pulling me out of my swirling thoughts.
"What about him?"
"Did he believe you? You said your parents didn't. Did your brother?"
We'd had the conversation over the phone since he'd been in Spain at the time.
"He didn't disbelieve me," I said, choosing my words carefully.
"But he didn't exactly believe you either," Nixon concluded.
"Yeah."
"You've been alone in this for a really long time," he said, gaze on my face, deep, full of something, but I couldn't place what it might be.
"Yeah," I agreed, feeling the tears sting my eyes.
I couldn't have known how freeing it would feel to have someone else hear the situation, and immediately believe me, and not think I was crazy.
The relief was enough to make me want to crumble, to crawl into his arms and sob.
I barely--just barely--resisted the urge.
Until he spoke again.
And the temptation became too great to resist.
"You don't have to be alone in it anymore."
I had begun to know Nixon well enough to read the deeper meaning into that, to know he was offering to help me, to be there for me, to give me the support I hadn't been able to find elsewhere.
I flew over to him, straddled his waist, wrapped him up with arms and legs, and cried my relief into his neck.
Practice hadn't exactly made Nixon more equipped to handle tears. His arms went around me too tightly, his words were broken and unsure.
But he was there.
He held on.
He didn't try to tell me to calm down or convince me that it would all be okay.
Nixon wasn't one for giving you empty words or false promises.
I found I appreciated that. Because I wasn't sure it would ever be okay. I wasn't sure I ever wanted it to be okay. My sister was gone. A beautiful life had been cut too short. Our entire family was irrevocably changed. Nothing would ever be the same. That wasn't okay. It could never be okay.
"Ever see those videos of panda zookeepers?" Nixon asked a long while later, the words so unexpected that a weird little choked laugh escaped me.
"What?" I asked, pulling back, trying to gauge what his feelings were from his face. But, as always, he was really good at being hard to read.
"They are walking around the panda enclosures trying to sweep and clean out water dishes and shit. And these fucking pandas keep clinging to their arms and legs every chance they get. The zookeepers keep untangling themselves, but the pandas keep grabbing and holding on. Think you might be part panda, Reagan."
This was the first time I had given my whole story to anyone, that I had laid myself bare, had let all the ugly seep out.
It was one of the most serious, somber moments of my life.
And this asshole had me throwing my head back and laughing.
When I looked at his face again, I saw a smile there. Not one of his condescending ones or those 'you're a fucking idiot' ones. Those seemed to be his signature looks.
This one was different.
Rare.
And while I inexplicably liked his other smiles, this one was just breathtaking.
Warm on a somewhat cold man.
Open on a typically closed person.
It seemed important that I was privy to it.
I felt special to share it, to be a recipient of it, to get to see a part of him he didn't openly share with most people.
"Uh oh," he said, brows furrowing, his hand raising, his fingertip rubbing between my brows. "That's a serious look. Did I insult you or some shit?"
Or some shit.
This man.
A laugh bubbled up and burst out at his words.
"No, you didn't insult me."
"Then what's with the look?"
"Has anyone ever told you that it is refreshing that you are so blunt?" I asked.
"Ah, well, usually people wish I would shut the fuck up with my opinions," he told me, not sounding the least bit upset about that fact.
"Well, I find it refreshing," I told him honestly. There was no guesswork. If he thought or felt it, he said it. Even if it was rude or inappropriate. Even if it would piss people off. You knew where you stood with him.
I'd been raised in a very fake social group. Everyone wanted to save face. Most people had an agenda. You could never know if someone was kind to you because they genuinely liked you, or if you fit into some plan they had for their future. It made it hard to know who to trust. Which was a big reason I had clung so hard to my siblings. At least I knew they loved me, wanted to be by me because of that connection. No ulterior motives. No dishonesty.
I had gotten to know some more genuine connections here in Navesink Bank with Krissy and Harvey and even the kids.
But I had yet to meet a man who was something more than a friend or coworker who had been so clear with me.
And because of that, because I knew he would give me the truth, I asked what I had been wondering when my face got serious.
"What is this, Nixon?"
"What's what? Your apartment? Kinda ugly, to be honest."
That got another laugh out of me, my head shaking. "No, not my apartment. This," I said, waving between our two bodies.
"Fuck if I know," he admitted, shrugging. "But it's something."
"Something," I mused, finding it oddly appropriate.
"Look," he said, sitting up straighter, making me bounce on his lap awkwardly, having to slap a hand into his chest to steady myself even though his hand was still casually anchored to my hip, holding me in place. "I'm not King, okay? I'm not fucking romantic and open and good at showing my feelings."
"I never said I wanted you to be like Kingston."
"And I'm not Atlas with his charm."
"I've known a lot of charming guys. They're overrated."
"My point is..." he said, rolling his eyes. If you had told me a month before that I would find eye rolls sexy, I would have laughed in your face. But Nixon's eye rolls? They were ridiculously sexy. "I suck at--"
"Finishing a sentence?" I provided, poking fun because I had a feeling he was struggling a bit, and I wanted to lighten the mood.
His hand slid from my hip to slap my ass. "Sometimes," he admitted. "I'm not a flowers and poetry kind of guy."
"Fresh flowers are a huge waste of money and resources. Unless you cut them from your own backyard."
"You get my point."
"I get
your point," I agreed, nodding, a little distracted by his hand on my ass.
"I know I'm difficult."
"I like difficult. I turn jigsaw puzzles upside down when I do them, so I can't see the pictures," I told him.
"Fucking masochist," he informed me.
"I like a challenge."
"I'm not a problem to be solved, babe," he told me, and there was a hint of vulnerability there for the first time. "You take me as I am, or you fuck off. You're not going to change me."
My lips pressed together, trying to hold in a smile. "I don't think a man has ever tried to convince me to date him by telling me to fuck off before."
"I'm a unique individual," he supplied, lips twitching.
He didn't deny that he was asking me to date him. And that realization made my heart swell up in my chest. He wasn't the sort to give you false hope. If he didn't agree with something you said, he let you know.
So that was what this was.
He was asking me to date him.
And, God, I didn't think I would ever be ready for that again, that I could ever find room in my life for it.
But there was no denying that I wanted this. I wanted him.
"Hm," I said, pursing my lips, pretending to think it through even though every part of me was screaming yes. "You know, I think I might actually be able to put up with your moody ass for a while."
"Just a while, huh?" he asked, both hands sliding to sink into my ass, dragging my hips closer to him, settling me right over his lap, and I couldn't seem to resist the urge to let my hips do a little wiggle against him.
"Well, see, I have this one hang-up," I told him, watching as his eyes went serious. Maybe even, dare I think it, worried.
"What's that?"
"Well, I was always told that it is very important, no, imperative, to try before you buy. And... yeah... I haven't tried you yet," I told him, shaking my head in faux concern. "I mean, you could ride terribly. You could break down in a matter of minutes. I just can't take the risk of committing to that without at least taking a test drive."
Nixon's eyes went molten as his hands sank harder into my ass, using it to anchor me to him as he knifed up, got to his feet, jiggled me once to coax me into wrapping my legs around him, then stalked off toward my bedroom.
Lock You Down Page 13
