by Young, M. H.
John nodded.
Bentley turned to us. “That guy,” he said, nodding in the direction of the retreating football player, “has his buddies with him. You might want to think about getting out of here, like now. He comes back with them and I’m not going to be able to stop them again.”
Kishani blew a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “That’s just great.”
“Party doesn’t have to be over,” the older guy said.
Kishani shot John a poisonous look, like the whole thing had been his fault. “Yeah, it kind of does. We won’t get into another club this late.”
Bentley smiled. “If you all want to hang out, I have a place up the coast. Right on the beach.”
We all traded looks. None of us wanted the night to end on this bum note. And if Bentley hadn’t shown up, John would have had his ass kicked.
“Why not?” Kishani said. “I mean, what the fuck, right?”
Four
We walked outside with Bentley. The blonde girl that had been with him earlier had disappeared. It was just him, and the three of us. He handed a ticket to the valet. Standing outside, in the fresh air, was when it started to feel a little bit weird. This guy didn’t know any of us, and yet here he was inviting us back to his place. It wasn’t even as if we’d been hanging out. He’d spoken to us once at the bar, and then he’d jumped in to save John. There was something else that didn’t make sense to me. Kishani was the single one, but it had seemed like I was the one he was hitting on.
Or maybe I was just reading way too much into it. I had a habit of doing that sometimes. I’d pick over something someone said, or how they looked at me, for ages. Not always in a suspicious way, wondering about peoples’ motives. Mostly it was just little things. The way someone said ‘Hi’, or if they ignored me. Nine times out of ten I was being stupid.
I glanced over at Kishani, who was a little drunk (Kish, despite all her practice, really couldn’t hold her liquor), and had an arm draped over Bentley. “Thanks for rescuing us.”
“I didn’t need rescuing,” John said, offended.
“You kind of did,” I told him.
He glared at me; boys and their egos were the worst. He started to say something but stopped. Before we could get into a fight, the valet pulled up next to us in a huge black Cadillac Escalade.
“Jump in,” said Bentley, handing the valet twenty bucks I’d have to work a couple of hours to make, and jumping into the driver’s seat.
The gleaming black SUV was enough to take John’s mind off what I’d said. “Woah, sweet ride,” he said.
Kish got in the front passenger seat, and John and I got in back. We took off fast, music blasting, the windows down.
Bentley reached into the top of his shirt and pulled out a joint. He lit up, took a drag, and offered it to Kishani. She practically snatched it out of his hand. She pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, inhaled and started to cough.
“Good shit,” she said, giggling.
She offered it to me. I waved her away. “No, thanks.”
I caught Bentley staring at me in the rear-view mirror. “Good girl, huh?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to have to defend the fact I didn’t smoke weed. I had done it once at a party in my senior year in high school. I’d been drinking before and proceeded to spend the rest of the night throwing up. Once was enough. Plus I didn’t like how it made people giggling imbeciles. And, I really objected to how if you didn’t want to do something you had to justify it. If people wanted to drink, or take drugs, or do whatever I didn’t give them a hard time about it, so I didn’t see why they couldn’t be the same. Live and let live.
John reached past me and took the joint. I knew that he and his buddies sometimes smoked, even though they seemed really geeky. I figured that it might not be the worst in the world if he relaxed a bit. The last thing I wanted was to fight with him when we’d have most of the summer apart. I wasn’t sure where ‘we’ were going, or if there even was a ‘we’ but I didn’t want to blow something that might be good over a dumb argument outside a club.
“Where’d you say you lived again?” I asked Bentley.
Outside, I could see the Pacific Ocean on my left as we headed north. We were heading out of Santa Barbara and up the coast.
“You’ll see,” he said.
Five
“Oh my God, this place is insane,” said Kishani as we stood in the living room and stared at the water through the floor to ceiling windows that ran the whole length of Bentley’s beach house. If even Kishani was impressed, you knew that it had to be something special.
We had turned off the highway and headed down a narrow road that led straight down towards the ocean. A garage door had opened, and we drove straight in. We got out. There was a green sports car parked next to us. John ran his hand along the side of it. “Aston Martin DB9?” he said
I knew nothing about cars, and didn’t want to either, but this car was clearly a big deal. I don’t think John had ever looked at me like he was looking at this car. His tongue was practically hanging out.
“Vantage,” said Bentley, speaking fluent guy.
We followed as Bentley headed towards an elevator. He touched a button and the doors opened. We got in and headed up.
The doors opened and we stepped into something like Robert Downey Jr.’s house in Iron Man (I might not have known my cars, but I did know my superheroes). Apart from being right on the beach, with windows that made the most of the view, the place was huge and open-plan with a big living room area, a wet bar, and a kitchen. There were sliding glass doors that led out onto a huge wraparound deck with a hot tub.
Bentley opened the doors to let some air in. I could smell the ocean and hear the waves crashing onto the beach below. I’d had a Barbie Malibu Dream House when I was a little girl, but this was way cooler than that.
Bentley crossed to the kitchen area and opened one of two Sub Zero refrigerators. Between them, the appliances in his kitchen had probably cost more than my mom had paid for our whole house.
He produced a six pack of beer, peeled two cans from pack, and threw one across the room to John. The throw was short by six inches and John missed the catch, the can spilling from his grasp onto the floor.
“Sorry, dude,” said Bentley as Kish got a fit of the giggles. John was laughing too. I was starting to feel a little left out.
“Ladies, what would you like?” I have a full bar.” He held up a finger. “Wait, this you’ll like. He opened a freezer and dug out a bottle of icy-cold vodka. He grabbed four shot glasses from a cabinet and poured out for shots. “It’s imported specially from the Ukraine.”
He turned to me. “Laura?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to be a complete kill joy and even though it was late and I had to work the next day, it seemed rude not to join everyone else. “Sure, I’ll have some.”
He winked at me. “Good girl.” The way he looked at me was kinda creepy. I looked over at John and Kish, but they hadn’t noticed.
The second shot of vodka burnt at the back of my throat, settling with a warm glow. I looked over at Kish, who was smiling at a joke only she seemed privy to. John was at the window, looking out over the Pacific.
“This place is amazing. How’d you afford it?” he said.
Bentley walked up behind him, and clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m a trust fund asshole. But don’t hold it against me, ‘kay?”
Kishani closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “What was that stuff called again?”
“Vodka,” Bentley said, deadpan. “Anyone want another?”
I was already starting to feel a little woozy.
I shook my head. “We should probably be getting back.”
“It’s like your one night off,” Kishani said, digging into her purse for a packet of Marlboro Lights. “Tell her, John.”
Kishani smoking was a sure sign that she was drunk off her ass.
John took another sip of beer. “She’s right. There
’s no hurry.”
I found a fresh glass of vodka being pressed into my hand. Now I really was starting to feel strange It was as if I was experiencing everything from behind a thick sheet of glass. I felt removed and distant, and tired, like I could go to sleep right here. “I have work tomorrow,” I protested.
“Not until the afternoon,” one of the guy’s said, although I wasn’t sure if was John or Bentley. I guessed it had to be John because Bentley wouldn’t have known my schedule. As every minute passed my brain felt more and more like someone had wrapped it in cotton wool. I wondered what time it was. I didn’t wear a wristwatch, relying on my cell phone, but I didn’t know where that was either. I looked around and spotted my bag on a counter. I walked over to it, worried about losing my balance, but finding that it was like my body was on auto-pilot. I started to dig into my bag for the cellphone but then Bentley said, “Hey, you guys want to check out the hot tub? It’s outside on the deck.”
Next, Kishani had grabbed my and was dragging me outside onto the deck. Maybe the fresh air would sober me up. I didn’t have a costume, but everyone else was already stripping off, John’s body pale next to Kishani and Bentley. John crossed over to me and kissed me on the lips. It felt amazing. “Come on,” he said, pulling at my top.
The wooziness was gone, replaced by a rush. Everything seemed both out of focus and fuzzy and sharp, all at the same time. I didn’t seem to mind him pawing at me. Everyone was smiling, happy, and I wanted to be the same.
I laughed and pushed him away. I took off my clothes, and climbed into the hot tub, feeling completely engulfed by warmth. Bentley reached back and pressed down on a white plastic button and the jets sprung into life, cold at first, then warm. Beyond the hot tub, the Pacific ocean pounded against the rocks. In the distance, I could see the lights of Santa Barbara. Bentley was lucky, having all this.
I felt someone’s foot press against my ankle. It moved up to my knee. It pressed on, pushing against my thigh and up between my legs. I assumed it was John until I looked over to see Bentley, his shoulders sunk down in the water, staring at me, with a smile on his face.
I grabbed the foot and pinched hard at the big toe. It retreated. I saw Bentley squirm a little, and adjust his position so that he was facing Kishani, but he kept looking at me.
When I woke, the water in the hot tub was still, the surface calm and even. John was outside the tub, wearing a heavy white cotton robe like the ones you would see in a fancy hotel. Bentley and Kishani were gone. I was glad.
“Come on,” he said.
“Are we going home?” I asked as he helped me out of the tub.
“No, Bentley said we can crash here. There’s a guest room.”
An uneasiness stirred in me. But even the thought of getting dressed and calling a cab left me feeling exhausted. Still naked, John led me inside. The house was quiet. We walked up a single flight of stairs. A white painted door opened into a bedroom with a king sized bed. I lay down on the bed and John lay next to me. He was wasted. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
Six
Louis Armstrong’s What A Wonderful World filled both main dining rooms of The Palace Grill. Every evening, song sheets with the lyrics were handed out, and every evening the wait staff sang along with the customers. It was a Santa Barbara tradition, and along with some of the best food in town, it guaranteed a long line outside the restaurant every evening. In some establishments it might have seemed gimmicky or contrived, but here it worked, and it was one of the things that I loved about working here. Tonight was different.
As soon as I had woken that morning, naked, in the beach house, a cold ocean wind blowing directly through the open window of the small bedroom, and John snoring loudly next to me, I knew something terrible had happened. Waking usually pushed a nightmare away. Your heart rate would level off as you opened your eyes and realised that it had been your mind playing tricks on you. This was the opposite sensation. A heavy, low dread had settled in the pit of my stomach.
I might have woken up in the bed I had passed out in, next to John, but this wasn’t where I had spent the whole night. There had been a waking. I had been led, barely conscious, like a sleepwalker, to another bedroom. I had been pushed down onto a bed.
I remembered seeing Kishani, her eyes closed, one leg twitching in her sleep. I had felt a man’s body pressing down on me. There had been hands, and fingers, touching, and squeezing, and finally probing. Then there had been pain. I had tried to force myself awake, to drive energy into my limbs, to resist somehow. But I had been helpless.
I stood at my designated place next to the doorway which linked the two main dining areas. I had the song sheet in my hand as the music played. I was supposed to be singing along with the customers, but a rock had found its way into my throat and lodged itself there. One of the bus boys was staring at me now from the door into the kitchen. My heart was thumping in my chest as the singing continued, everyone smiling as they sung about green trees, and blue skies.
In the morning, I had tried to wake John but he was dead to the world. I walked into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet to pee. That was when I knew for sure. I could feel it. I knew that someone had been inside me. I’d had sex. But not with John.
All I could think about now was escape, of getting out of there. Maybe I could leave it behind. Maybe the outside world and day light would somehow break the horror.
I had found my clothes, scattered around the house, and fled.
As I walked into my dorm room, John had called my cell. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t face anyone. I let it go to voicemail and took a shower, getting the water as hot as she could, not thinking, as I would later, that my body was a crime scene. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
When I got back from the shower, there was another missed call and a text from Kishani asking if I was okay. There was no good answer to that question. It went on: Great night last night, huh? That part left my head spinning even more.
I had slumped down onto the edge of my bed, and burst into tears. Long, mucus-filled, painful sobs shook my body as something flashed, quite literally, into my mind. A camera. As I had lain there, he had taken pictures.
After another hour, I gathered the strength to get dressed. The crying had helped to the point that now all I felt was numb, the unreality of the situation returning. I needed time to think. But I had work. It seemed ridiculous but it was there for me, something routine and familiar. I didn’t want to face Kishani either. Or John. I wanted to go back to the night before. To have a do over. To go to another club. Or better yet, to not go out at all.
At work, I coped. One or two other staff members picked up on my mood and asked if I was okay. I brushed away any further enquiries by saying I had a hangover, which I did. I had screwed up a few orders but scrambled through my shift until the singalong.
All around me, voices rose in volume. People were smiling at each other. Wine glasses were raised in a toast to a wonderful world. I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt like I was losing my mind.
I took off, reached the door, ran past the hostess, and the line of people waiting for the second dinner seating, and out onto Cota Street. I kept running for three blocks, finally making a left onto Garden Street. By De La Guerra Street I was out of breath but I kept going. Palm trees gave way to sycamores as I ran along the neat Santa Barbara sidewalks, so clean you probably could eat from it. Everything postcard perfect, but inside me, rage and fear fighting each other.
My head was pounding. My legs ached. I stopped next to a fire hydrant as my stomach lurched and I threw up, yellow bile splashing at my feet. An elderly woman getting into her car looked at me, probably assuming I was just another college girl who had overdone things at the end of the year.
I straightened up and broke back into a jog. Approaching the intersection with East Figueroa Street, I slowed to a walk and turned left. I stopped outside the white stucco-ed Spanish colonial building, home to the Santa Barbara Police Department. I knew that once I ste
pped inside, there would be no going back.
I walked up the steps, pushed open the door, walked into the cool of the foyer, and approached the main desk. The police officer behind the desk glanced up at me from his computer terminal.
“Can I help you?”
I took a deep breath. “My name’s Laura Warner. Last night I was raped.”
Seven
I was in the middle of a late dinner when the call came to let me know that a young woman called Laura Warner had just walked in off the street to report that the previous evening she had been drugged, and then raped. It might sound kind of sick to an outsider, but part of me, the hard charging career part, was happy to get the call. This kind of case was why I’d wanted to be a detective in the first place.
At twenty-seven I was the youngest person working in the Detective Bureau of the Santa Barbara Police Department. Not that the Investigative Division, as it was officially known, was that large, topping out at around eighteen bodies. I worked the Crimes Against Persons section, which, as the name suggested, dealt with homicide, rape, robbery, battery, assaults, with and without weapons, and all that other fun stuff. It was the kind of police work I’d always wanted to do the stuff that really mattered to people. And I’d worked hard to get where I was. I’d started off in the LAPD cadet program at sixteen, got my college degree in criminology at UCLA, started at the academy when I was twenty-one, and done my time in patrol before making detective. Then, when the job had come up in SB, I’d taken it for personal reasons.
I was a little surprised to catch a rape case, because those were usually dealt with, for good reason, by a female officer. But between people out sick or on vacation we were short staffed. Plus, I did have a rep as being good with vics, especially kids and teens, who often saw me as a big brother figure. So when the Sergeant back in Santa Barbara had filled in the vic’s face sheet, it was no huge surprise that I going to catch this one. The only surprise, judging from the bare details, was that the victim had come to us. Most rape victims didn’t. Conviction rates for rape and sexual assault are low, and the process can be so long and arduous that victims’ complaint that they felt violated all over again by the legal system. Punch someone in the face, you’d be convicted. Destroy someone’s sense of self and trust in others, and the chances were that some smart-ass defense attorney was going to make sure you walked out of court with a shit-eating grin plastered all over your face, and a goddamn commendation for being a good citizen.
