by SM West
“I know you would have helped. I couldn’t say anything. And I’m okay. Actually, more than okay, I’m free,” I say, trying to sound convincing.
I am happy but can’t seem to muster the enthusiasm one should have for ridding themselves of a bastard father and torturous husband.
“I know this has got to be difficult and shitty, but I’m so glad you’re free.” Her small arms embrace, squeezing tight. Her hug is the best thing. Totally what I need. Her warm touch and friendship are a like a salve to my heavy heart.
“Yes, it’s difficult because this is just the beginning of this whole process to put them away.”
“True but it’s a start. And don’t think you’re not off the hook. We’re dissecting this later and you will tell me EVERYTHING,” she declares. “Now, go shower and get dressed. You know where everything is. There’s coffee and a key in the kitchen.”
“You’re the best friend a girl could ever have.”
“And don’t you forget it. Well, I better go because my partner’s a HUGE slacker. She works me like a slave and goofs off all the time. If it weren’t for me, running the place on my lonesome, I really don’t know where we’d be.” We both laugh with one more quick embrace.
***
MY PARENTS’ PLACE IS QUIET, with the exception of faint voices down the hall. Shaking out my arms and deeply inhaling, I prepare for the conversation.
My mother’s on the phone, barking orders when I enter. Her icy eyes land on me. I wait patiently as she finishes the call.
“Tate, thank goodness. I’ve been trying to find out where you were.” If she’s trying to pull off concern, she’s failing miserably. Her tone is demanding and cold. Nothing new. “They wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“The FBI arrested me and finally let me go when they realized I knew nothing. They told me father was arrested too.”
“His arraignment’s in a few hours. We need to get over to the courthouse. I’ve got the blue guest room ready for you and we’re working on getting your father’s lawyer in to see Bobby. It’ll be best if they’re represented by the same attorney.”
I listen to her ramble, fighting my urge to smirk. She really is clueless.
“I’m done,” my tone’s hard and final.
Her face contorts like she’s trying to comprehend what I said.
“You will stay here. We’re going to the courthouse now. Let’s go.”
“I’m done. Done with my marriage. Done with being your puppet. Done with it all. I came to tell you this in person. This is where we part ways.”
She stops what she’s doing. Her expression blank but tense. Slowly, her icy blue irises darken. “Tate, I don’t have time for your silliness. I’m not getting into this now. We can talk about this later. I have to go.”
She grabs her purse before leaving. Well, that went better than I thought. I should be disappointed or at the very least angry with her dismissal. Truthfully, I’m just glad to be rid of her. She doesn’t know it yet, but she can no longer control me. My tormentors are behind bars. From this point on, this is my life. Finally.
I head to the Surrey, making a pit stop at Macy’s to grab the essentials. Julia’s not going to be pleased. She expects me to stay with her. I need space. To decompress and process. Plan my next move. That last thought sends me into fits of laughter. Planning is all I’ve done for the past several years. The cabbie eyes me through the rear-view mirror like I’ve gone mad. Buddy, you don’t know the half it. He’s happy to see me leave.
The next few days are filled with moving forward on my divorce and tying up some loose ends for clients. I don’t leave my hotel room. I know what I should be doing, yet I’ve got no direction right now. Julia’s holding down the fort and while she’s not happy to have me at a hotel, she’s giving me space.
And Max. We’ve been playing phone tag. With the time difference and his crazy school schedule, we’ve not been able to connect. We’ve texted. While he’s thrilled our father and Bobby are behind bars, he hates that I kept my arrangement with the FBI from him. As to be expected, he wishes I’d trusted him.
My mother calls daily. In my face about Bobby. He’s refusing to see the lawyer she sent. And she wants me to go to my father’s bail hearing. He actually gets a bloody hearing. They must have the judge in their pocket. I’d like to find out more, ask Ry what he thinks. Unfortunately, I’ve heard nothing from him. Not a word. And nothing from Noel or any other member of the FBI. They got what they wanted and now I no longer exist.
My next move is Bobby. Yes, Bobby. Like the devil on my back, I’ve got unfinished business with him. It may not be my smartest move. I want him to know it was me. I’ve given it careful thought and if I plan to testify about Griffin’s death, then he’ll find out anyway. I could go into witness protection, but I refuse to hide. This is my life and I want the satisfaction of telling Bobby to his face.
His bail hearing is today. Yes, like my father, he managed to get a hearing. If he gets out…I will not think about it or I’ll go crazy. He won’t get to me. If he does, I’ve already determined what I’ll do. I sit staring at the Plexiglas watching him walk through the door, hands in front in cuffs and a prison guard close behind.
He appears in front of me, the glass between us. Glowering while the guard un-cuffs him, pushes him forcefully into the seat and then re-cuffs him to the counter. Even shackled, he’s menacing. Bobby continues to match me stare for stare.
He looks like shit. His hair is in disarray, eyes ringed with dark circles and if it’s even possible, he looks like he’s lost a few pounds in the week since I last saw him. I finally pick up the phone and wait for him to do the same.
“Did you come to take me home after I get bail?” he sneers.
“Hopefully you won’t get bail,” I counter, his eyebrows rise, surprised at my derision. “You have me to thank for putting you behind bars.” I relish the words, beaming from ear-to-ear. Hoping my contempt and victory is as plain to see as a flashing neon red sign.
“I jumped at the chance to work with the FBI. To bring you down. All those times you took me. Beat me. All those years in captivity, not once was I sympathetic to you or turned on by you, you sick bastard,” my words spit from my mouth like poison. “But you know what turns me on, Bobby?” I barely pause, not giving him a chance to interject. “Knowing you’ll rot in a jail cell for the rest of your miserable life. Hoping and praying there’s someone more sick and depraved than you in there that’ll teach you a lesson. That’ll make you their bitch.”
Saying the words brings victory closer, like land in sight. Yet deep inside of me, fear is also near like sharks circling. I hope he can’t smell my fear, the drops of blood in the water. I’m not afraid of his retribution, he’s already done his worst. I fear that he might actually get out. His eyes narrow into sharp, pointed slits like the tip of a knife, pinning me with murderous rage. His large fists clench, his jaw tightens.
“I’ll fucking kill you if it’s the last thing I ever do,” he terrorizes, his voice low and guttural.
I gleefully laugh, watching his face go red with anger at my amusement. His death would have been the purest joy, but I’ll take this if it means his freedom is no longer possible.
“Your days of threatening me are over. You can dream about it, but you’ll never get the chance,” I reply with bravado. My smile big and bright.
“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. I’ll have your last breath. Your blood will be on my hands,” he hisses on a whisper, making sure the guards don’t overhear.
I’m playing with fire, fully aware of what he’s capable of. Logically, I could believe his threats are idle. He should be powerless behind bars. Fuck logic. If he wants me dead, he could make it happen, easily. Old habits die hard. Small sweat beads trickle down between my breasts. The palm of my hand holding the receiver is clammy, almost slick. Even separated by this clear barrier, I don’t want him near me.
His dark, inhuman eyes promise harm. Deliberately slowi
ng my breath, my gaze never wavers from him. I press on as if he hasn’t just threatened my life.
“I’ve filed for divorce. Lucky for me, imprisonment is valid grounds for divorce in the state of New York. You’ll not contest it. You will sign the papers and we’ll both move on,” I order.
He howls with laughter, loud and hard. The guard zeroes in on him. Inmates and their visitors on either side of us turn to look. His dark eyes are almost black and crazed. It’s killing him that he’s helpless behind a piece of clear plastic. While not nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped delivering this news would be, I give him my best smug smile.
“Rot in hell asshole.”
Perhaps taunting him isn’t wise, yet there’s satisfaction in this reckless act of rebellion. Hopefully, this will be our last standoff.
“I’ll be seeing you real soon, Tate. I’ll get bail and be out before you know it. And then you better run, little rabbit,” he taunts.
Before he can say more, the receiver’s back in the cradle and I leave. If I have my way, this will be the last time I ever lay eyes on Robert Thornton.
He continues to rant as I walk away, getting louder and banging the phone on the glass. The guards’ stern, threatening voices and muffled scuffling are the last things I hear as I walk through the doors.
My ride to the hotel is long and uneventful. I fight the urge to stew over his threats. My lawyer’s at his bail hearing and will call the minute he knows what we’re dealing with. Entering the hotel, my phone rings.
“Walter,” I say, forgetting any pleasantries. “What happened?”
The walk through the lobby and into the elevator is a blur. I hang on his every word, detailing Bobby’s arraignment. I’d been holding my breath since I’d heard he might get out. Bail was denied. My stomach’s aquiver, relief floods my body.
He’s still behind bars. Close to two years of work to finally put him away. His death would have been the purest victory, but his incarceration will do. This all started as a wild, perhaps even desperate, and risky chance that I’d ventured on. Is it possible that it’s finally paying off?
Quickly snatching the elevator railing, I sag against the wall, wrestling for control. Am I winning the war? He’s that much closer to being put away for life. Can I finally let go? Exhaustion assails me at the possibility of finally moving on. On shaky legs, my dark hotel room welcomes me.
***
I HOLE UP IN MY room, doing nothing. For days. Julia, mother, Max and Noel call me countless time. Ry even calls. The calls keep coming. I don’t answer. I’m grieving. For what I’m not really sure. There’s no loss or sadness for the end of my marriage. Although, there is a heaviness weighing on my mind, body and soul. So heavy, it threatens to drown me.
Relentless banging and shouting wake me. Bright rays peek through the heavy curtain. Turning, I glance at the clock, two-o’clock. The banging continues. I recognize the voice. Rylan.
“Tate, open this door now or I will. You’ve got twenty seconds and then, we’re coming in,” he says testily.
Unceremoniously, unlocking the door, I swing it wide without even glancing at him. Darkness cloaks the suite, except for the slice of sunlight peeping through the drapes.
“Thank you,” he says to the hotel staff, locking the door behind him. “Tate, what the hell? We’ve been trying to reach you for days.” He sounds aggravated.
“Well, you found me,” I flippantly respond.
He’s wearing another impeccably tailored suit. Hands on his hips, dark hair tousled in that sexy way of his, a smattering of dark scruff along his square jaw, eyes critical. You’d have to blind, deaf and dumb to miss the anger radiating off of him. On top of that, there is something else simmering on the surface. A visceral almost volatile energy. Is it desire?
Damn, I could fall to my knees, worship at the sight of him. A devastating craving bombards me, my core heats and belly flutters. For days, I’ve been anesthetized and now, I’m turned on. Alive. Clamoring and clawing for him. I battle my insatiable yearning. It’s an insurmountable fight to keep my mask firmly in place
“What’s wrong?”
He’s indifferent and I’m susceptible in my current state. I’m a mess with my ungroomed hair that hasn’t seen a brush in days. I’m braless with only his shirt on, legs bare. Yes, his shirt from days ago. No, it must be at least a week ago. Feeling less than, I shrug in response, mirroring his apathy.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks in a quarrelsome tone.
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap.
Like a lit match to dry kindling, my fire burns. Straightening my posture, my heart beats a little faster and heat ignites my cheeks.
“Is it the guilt?”
“What guilt?” I ask puzzled.
“The car. I told you to let this go. To stop,” his tone is bitter and staid.
I’m completely in the dark. He’s seriously upset with me. It’s beyond obvious. But why? I’ve been in bed for days. Racking my brain, I can’t think of one plausible reason for his indignation.
“Stop talking in riddles and tell me what you’re accusing me of,” I demand.
“Tate, cut the act. I asked you not to do this. I didn’t want this for you. I told you I’d fix it. I just needed you to trust me,” he says resigned and dejected.
His disappointment is like a bucket of cold water dumped on me. It shocks, stills me. I’m at a loss. Before I can try to bridge this divide, his head lifts. He has his game face on. He’s stern, determined with sharp eyes and lips pinched together.
Crossing my arms, I prepare to standoff. I won’t be the only one baring my soul. Shit, even when he’s angry, he’s hot. Fuck him. Just staring at him hurts.
Glowering, I square my shoulders, chin up and chest out. Likely not smart. My nipples are hard, poking the threadbare fabric of his shirt. If he notices, no indication is evident. He doesn’t falter from pinning me with his penetrating eyes.
The tension’s thick. Suffocating. I wish I knew what this was about.
“Just tell me,” I plea bitterly.
“The fucking car accident. Your parents’ car. It’s only a matter of time before others in the FBI figure out,” he’s yelling, violently pointing his finger at me. “You tried to kill your parents.”
FROWNING, I INTENTLY WATCH HER. She’s bewildered, disheveled and dirty. Yes, it’s evident she hasn’t showered in days, yet I can’t tear my eyes away. Her perfect tits, her nipples shouting to be noticed. Tate in my shirt, the one I gave her and knowing she deliberately took it, makes me painfully hard.
None of this should turn me on but fuck me, she does. Even when she’s royally pissed me off and possibly FUBAR’d this entire case. Her actions have made it my problem. She’s mine. Whether she knows it or not, she’s mine. I’ve claimed her.
“Well, I’ve got news for you,” I continue, a lot calmer than minutes ago, yet still serious. “You didn’t succeed. They’re both alive.”
Carefully watching her every move, shock, confusion and anger flit through her emerald eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s surprised. Stepping back, she distances herself from me.
“What accident? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she yells, outraged.
“On the way from the courthouse, your parents’ car crashed.”
“My father’s in jail,” she interrupts.
Quizzically studying her, she should know bail was granted. Is she innocent?
“You’re father’s out on bail. We don’t know what happened, preliminary reports indicate it was the brakes. They were likely tampered with.”
Needing more to exonerate her, I deliberately withhold information. Exhaustion at this fucking tug-o-war between us sets in. Why can’t she trust me, already? Christ, I’ve never given her reason to doubt me.
“And?” She’s exasperated.
“You know the rest,” I test.
“No, I don’t,” she contradicts. “I didn’t do this. I had nothing to do wi
th this. What makes you think I did?”
With her question, she blinks several times and hesitates. It’s rhetorical. She hasn’t always been honest with me.
“Didn’t you?” I push.
“Ry, stop this.” Despair evident in her voice. “Why are you doing this? I swear I had nothing to do with this.” Agitation is clear in her troubled face, unshed tears pooling in her eyes.
She weakens my resolve. What do I make of this? Damn it, I want to believe her even if the evidence and her actions say otherwise. Slowly this case has become so much more than getting justice for Griffin. It still is, but it’s also about getting her away from them. She’s got to work with me.
I watch her closely, studying her reactions, as I share more, “Really Tate? Let’s try this again. Jones.”
“Yes, I called Mr. Jones,” she readily admits, shoulders deflating.
“You ordered the hit on your parents. We heard the call.”
“What? No. I called to cancel our arrangement. Going into this, I was told that if at any time I wanted to cancel, I had to call it in. I didn’t arrange anything for my father. I swear. The call you heard was to cancel,” her voice is shaky, high-pitched and adamant.
She’s emotional and candid in her claims of innocence. From all my years of assessing people, separating the innocent from the criminal, I’d say she’s telling the truth. What do I know? Perhaps I’m too close to this? Too close to her?
“We heard the call, Tate,” I press further. “It didn’t sound like you were calling it off. ‘It calls for rain soon’ sounds like a signal for something to happen.”
“No.” Shaking her head, she walks to me, grabbing and squeezing my forearms. “That’s the code they told me to use if I was canceling. Ry, I swear.”
“Really?” I press, desperately wanting to believe her. It’d be so easy to drop it, but I know what she’s capable of. I understand what she’s been pushed to do, to consider. I don’t want to hurt or punish her. I just want to help her.
“I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s the truth,” she says defeated.
