"It's going to be alright," he assured me as he tucked me into bed. "You'll get him next time."
Except the next time, Michael didn't show up. And the time after that, it was so crowded he didn't even see me there. And the time after that, I'd been cornered by an old friend of my father's who wouldn't let me slip away.
It became almost a normal, boring part of life.
I worked. I spent time with Nixon. I ran errands. I got scratched by Mal. And I got dressed and went to charity functions alone, hoping Michael would corner me.
I knew as I walked up the paver driveway that easily cost a couple hundred grand that the valet was actually one of Lo's guys, that two of the caterers were hers as well, that the woman in the understated black dress and icy blue eyes was there to keep an eye on me too. I also knew that the van parked across the street with the local water company's logo on it was actually where Lo and one of the other guys were watching the cameras the caterers had discreetly placed around the common areas of the house. I also was very aware that the fitness watch on my wrist was listening to every word I uttered.
This was the event I was least looking forward to. At least the art show allowed me to look at some interesting pieces, inwardly wondering what Nixon would think of each, since he was so wholly horrified by the one piece of art I owned. And the charity fundraiser supported a good cause.
This? This was just a dinner party full of rich people who liked to talk to other rich people who were going to criticize the canapé and the wine.
It was the kind of thing I used to enjoy. Back in my old life. With my old people. Now, though, I couldn't help but start to see things through Nixon's eyes as well as my own, cringing each time someone commented about the new yacht they were having built or how many maids they had gone through that year.
I nursed a white wine, hanging on the fringes of conversations since I only knew the hosts through a friend of a friend, and didn't know a single other person at the event.
"You look bored out of your mind," a familiar voice said behind my left shoulder, breath warm on my neck, sending a shiver up my spine.
"I... yeah, a little," I admitted, trying to keep my voice low, sweet, not let my sudden anxiety creep out from between my lips.
"You're new to this crowd," Michael went on as I turned, swallowing hard when I noticed he didn't bother to take a step back, just continued standing far too close given our distant relationship.
"Yeah. I've been so busy working, getting my business turned around, that I've let my social calendar lapse. I finally started going out last month. It's been... awkward," I added, lacing some truth in with the lie.
"Well, luckily, you've run into an old friend," he said, giving me a smile that made my stomach turn sour.
"It's amazing that we ended up in the same place!" I agreed, smiling saccharine sweet.
"You look well, princess," he said, and I felt my spine stiffen, having to concentrate to relax each vertebra until my posture relaxed again.
"Thanks, Mr. McDermot," I said, head dipping. It likely looked shy, demure, sweet, but it was actually the only way to hide the revulsion in my face.
"Michael," he corrected, fingers touching my hand, making my gaze shoot up. "Let me take this for you," he told me, removing the wine glass from my hand. "I'll grab you a refill," he added, flagging down the closest server, taking one of the white wine glasses from his tray, bringing it back toward me.
I took it in numb fingers, offering a polite thank you.
"How have your parents been?"
"They're good. Trying to downsize some of their properties. I think they are realizing they don't need five different houses in the continental U.S."
"They're keeping their main place in California though, surely."
My parents had bought a little shack on the beach several years before I was even born, knocking it down, rebuilding their dream home. Mansions popped up around them, but no one had the square footage of shore frontage. Those that even came close would set a new buyer back a cool forty million. Everyone was always waiting for them to decide to downsize, to move, to put that amazing property on the market.
I didn't care if we somehow ended up destitute, I would rather the bank take their house than let Michael have it. To have him walk through the living room where Sammy and I used to binge-watch movies, dive into the pool where we used to have swimming contests, sit on the warm sand where we used to build intricate sand castles.
"No. They love that house. But they're unloading the ones in the colder states mostly. And the smaller one in California. They want to get a villa in Italy in the next year. If they can find one that doesn't need too much work."
"What are the chances of that?" he asked, knowingly. "You will miss them when they're gone."
"They've always been travelers," I said, shrugging. "We've always managed to make time to see each other."
"So what about you, princess? What have you been up to in this little town of ours?"
"Well, I've taken over the helm at Devil Tears."
"Right, right. Great whiskey."
"I agree. And it's my mission to get it in more hands. Make it more accessible."
"Sounds like a great plan. If anyone can do it, I know it's you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said. "Geez," I hissed when someone stepped back suddenly, ramming into my shoulder, knocking me forward into Michael's chest, spilling a bit of my wine on both of us.
"A little crowded," Michael observed, hand moving out to steady me, making my stomach drop. "Come on, let's get a little space," he suggested.
And because I had to, because this was the plan, even if everything was screaming at me to run in the other direction, I let him put his hand on my lower back and lead me away from the safety of the crowd.
Michael stopped in front of a closed door, one that was clearly closed for a reason, one where guests didn't seem welcome. He released me so he could turn the knob, walking inside, waiting for me to follow.
And then closing the door behind me.
Warning sirens blared in my ears as I tried to keep my breathing slow and even, remind myself that I was safe, that people were listening, that it was going to be okay.
The room in question was clearly a study. A "gentleman's study," as my father would put it--full of dark built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an oversize executive desk to match, thick, buttery-soft brown leather chairs, a matching couch against a wall. There was a globe on a stand that I had seen often enough to know it wasn't a globe at all, but where the owner of the house likely kept liquor and a couple of glasses situated. There was a box of cigars on the desk, the same ones I had brought Charlie Mallick the first time I'd gone to his house. That suddenly felt like a long time ago, though it had only been about six weeks or so. When I took a deep breath, I could smell the smoke clinging to the soft fabrics of the carpet, the drapes.
I'd been in rooms much like this many times in my life. I had been in rooms like this with men like this more often than I could even remember.
It never occurred to me before this moment how easily that could have turned into a bad situation. Cornered, alone, surrounded by thick wood and heavy tomes that acted as sound barriers.
You had to wonder why Michael would know he could bring a woman here, why he would know it was safe to, that he wouldn't be interrupted.
My mind whipped through conspiracy theories about some big group of wealthy men preying on unsuspecting women as Michael prattled on about classics on the shelves, ones he clearly hadn't read. I knew this because I had, and because people who actually read them formed opinions about them, didn't just spout Cliffsnotes facts about them.
I offered him the answers he wanted, stroked his ego as I drank my wine, as I tried to remind myself that if I stayed on his good side, if I played the part of the nice, unassuming, compliant girl, that this could all be over, that I wouldn't have to spend my nights chasing down a man to make sure he didn't hurt anyone else, that I could
stop feeling like business was unfinished, that my sister went unavenged.
"What about you?" he asked, the first direct question he'd sent my way since we walked into the room.
"What about me?" I asked, the wine starting to make its way through my bloodstream, making me a little light, a little slow. I should have eaten before I came, so the alcohol wouldn't slow me down.
"What is your favorite book?" he asked, coming to sit down on the couch near me. The couch was large, big enough for four, but he felt too close. He felt closer still when he moved one of his legs to cock up on the cushions to face me. It was a seemingly innocent move, but I felt myself stiffening, felt my belly twisting, recoiling, everything in me suggesting I get away as soon as possible.
When it came to fight or flight, I guess I was the kind to want to take wing.
I couldn't, though, and that reality was making me feel oddly buzzy.
"Oh, um," I started, trying to trudge through the thickness in my brain, finding the consistency much like molasses, confusing me. I reached for the first thought that made sense even though I knew as it was coming out of my mouth that it wasn't the right book, that it wasn't my favorite. No, it was Sammy's favorite. "Sense and Sensibility," I told him, finding my words slow, a little slurred.
That wasn't right.
I didn't drink that much.
I shouldn't have been slurring.
My brain shouldn't have been so slow.
My body shouldn't have felt so weird, so disconnected.
Testing my theory, I went to lift my glass up toward my mouth, but found it wobbly, weak, the fragile wine glass tilting in my hand, spilling what was left of the cool liquid on my dress, soaking through to my thigh.
"Oh, what did you do, princess? Let me help you," he suggested, reaching into his jacket to produce a white handkerchief, holding out toward me, blotting at the spot on my dress.
Then pushing up the material, wiping my bare thigh, fingers high, too high.
The words flashed in my mind as I numbly tried to push his hand away, finding no strength there to do so.
Drugged.
He'd drugged me.
My mouth opened as his body shifted, taking the glass, reaching to put it behind me on the end table, then pressing his body against mine, but I found my tongue fat, unable to make proper noises.
This was how he did it.
He slipped something into their drinks--into Sammy's drink--to make them easy, compliant, unable to scream or fight back, likely woozy on the details later, maybe wondering if they drank too much, if they had been willing participants.
Garbled noises escaped me as a hand grabbed the bodice of my dress, pulling it down, exposing my breast to his greedy palm.
Hailstorm wasn't going to charge in, I realized, a bubble of panic working its way through my system. They didn't put cameras in this room from what I'd heard from the brief Lo had told me. The homeowners had been watching the staff like hawks to make sure they didn't grab any valuables. With the door closed, they hadn't been able to get into the study or the family room which was equally as off-limits during the event.
And they wouldn't hear me speak, cry, scream, because I couldn't seem to make my mouth find any words.
Not even as his mouth moved over my skin, not even as his hands slipped my skirt further up.
No.
Nonono.
"Oh, I have wanted you for years, princess."
That word, God, that word started to break through the fog, reminded me of why this was happening.
Sammy.
He'd hurt Sammy like this.
He made her powerless like this.
She couldn't stop him.
I could.
I could if I could just get word to Lo and her people.
His hand clumsily pawed at my panties as I focused on my arm, getting it to rise, getting it close to my face, knowing that whatever was going to come out of me was not going to be loud.
When I felt the material rip, the word whispered out of me.
"Help."
I heard a zipper slide down.
It was quickly drowned out by something else, though.
A door flying open, feet storming inside, yelling.
Michael's body was pulled off of me, un-obstructing my view, allowing me to see not only Lo's team, but various party guests rushing in, horrified looks on their faces.
The first person to come to my side was not on my team, was not one of the highly trained individuals I had met with several times.
No.
It was a woman in her fifties in a champagne-colored dress with a giant diamond hanging between her breasts. A woman I had exchanged pleasantries with just about an hour before. One of the owners of the house. Olivia.
"Oh, honey, okay," she said, yanking my skirt back down, pulling my top back up, protecting my modesty as she tried to sit me up. "I saw it. I saw what he was doing. Don't you worry. Me and Marvin, we are going to make sure the cops know what he was doing. Are you... can you sit up?" she asked, trying again, finding me flopping around.
"I think she's been drugged," one of Lo's women said, coming up, gently grabbing my face, lifting it, looking in my eyes. "We need to get her to a hospital."
"I called the police," another voice from the crowd called. "They're on their way."
"What's her name?" Lo's woman asked, already knowing, but we had to all play our parts flawlessly if we wanted the charges to stick.
"R-something," the woman still kneeling before me said. "Rachel? No, Reagan."
"Reagan, honey, it's going to be okay," I was told, even as my brain felt even more floaty, more disconnected.
"N-N-Nixon," I murmured, not knowing much at this point, but knowing he was on the forefront of my mind.
"Nick? Did she say Nick? Maybe her boyfriend? Does anyone know this woman personally?" the hostess asked the crowd.
But they didn't. Aside from introductions. I hadn't been trying to make friends.
"It's okay, sweetheart, the police and doctors will take care of you. And find your Nick. I promise."
I wasn't sure where Michael was at this point, but I heard shouting from the front of the house.
Some time passed before I could hear police, could see faces dancing around in front of me, before I felt myself strapped to a gurney, my body jostling around on the bumpy route to the hospital.
Everything after that was a blur as the drugs took a tighter hold on my system. I knew I was put in a bed, had my blood drawn, an IV was put in.
For the most part, I was left alone as my stomach rolled, as my vision flashed, as everything went numb--blissfully, beautifully numb.
Whatever time I woke up, it was with a hangover the likes I had never known. My brain was splitting, my stomach queasy, and I felt wrung out inside.
"Hey."
It wasn't Nixon's voice.
I wanted Nixon.
I vaguely remember asking for him.
But he wasn't there.
Why wasn't he there?
Instead, when my head turned on the pillow, I saw Lo sitting at my bedside, arms resting on her thighs, her long blonde hair pulled up.
"Hey," I mumbled, my mouth weirdly dry, my tongue almost, I don't know, fluffy.
"I know you want Nixon," she told me, reading my thoughts. "I know you are confused and hurting and you want him. But he can't be here. You know why he can't be here."
I did.
Because we were trying to reduce any chance of things getting thrown out of court, because his previous connection to Michael might look suspicious if Michael had people private investigating leading up to the inevitable trial.
"I know," I agreed, feeling a hole spreading inside.
"He's a wreck, just so you know. I literally have three guards on him because he tried to plow through the one I brought with me when I told him what happened."
"He's a good man."
"Seems that way," she agreed, giving me a small smile. "Now, back to what happen
ed to you."
"He drugged me."
"Yes," she agreed, nodding. "I'm sorry."
"You didn't drug me."
"No, but I should have anticipated that angle. There should have been cameras in that room."
"It's not your fault. I watched him," I said, foggy memories trying to come back to me. "I watched him get me a drink, and hand me the drink. I didn't even see him do it."
"It was our job to see it. We failed you."
"It didn't get that far. I don't think it got that far," I clarified, realizing there were big holes in my memory.
"He had your top down and he got your panties off but that was as far as it got. The police arrested him on sight. It's not common that the elite turn on one of their own, but when they all saw it, the mob dynamic thing sets in. We also lucked out in that Olivia and Marvin have cameras in their living room and study. I managed to get the detectives to give me a looksie. It was clear you only had about a drink and a half. And in the room, that you were drugged, slow. It's pretty open-and-shut."
"Good."
"It's all over the news. I imagine... I think maybe you should get in touch with your parents."
Oh, God.
My parents.
I had selfishly considered the fact that they would finally believe me when I proved Michael was the scumbag rapist I told them he was. I hadn't, however, given their reaction to this happening to a second daughter much thought. They had to have been a mess.
"You are going to be discharged in a little bit. I once helped one of your nurses get her children back from her abusive ex, so she let me in here, filled me in. You were drugged, obviously. Unfortunately, it is becoming easier to get in this town lately. You're going to feel like shit today. And your memory might forever be fuzzy. But you're physically fine to go home and rest."
"Alone," I added, hearing the pity in my own voice.
"Well, see," Lo started, giving me a knowing smile, "I think we have worked out that one last kink."
"How?"
"Nixon told us when the two of you ran into Michael on the street, that you said you were friends. In a situation such as this, you would seek out private security. Especially if you know someone in the business. You are going to hire the Rivers Brothers. And then there is an excuse to have them around you all the time. They'd never be able to prove anything else. And I doubt they will even try."
Lock You Down Page 17
