Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  I put my face into my hands and sob.

  Parker rushes over to me. He kneels in front of me and grips my upper arms.

  “Victoria, please—don’t be upset! I didn’t tell you this to try to make you feel sorry for me, or jealous of her, or for any other reason than that I wanted you to know everything about me, what makes me tick! I want you to know all my secrets so that you’ll trust me when I say I can keep your secrets. I want us to be on even footing going forward, equals. You understand?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. I cry harder.

  He gathers me into his arms. His voice comes out in a rush, the words spilling over one another in his hurry to get them out. “Listen to me—after I opened Bel Époch I got obsessed with trying to get my father back for being such a prick. Through a friend I’d made—a guy with a military background who owned a security company—I found out my father wasn’t running a legit import/export business; he was a drug dealer. We’d lived in Laredo because Mexico was right across the goddamn river. What he really was importing was mountains of cocaine.”

  I lift my head and stare at him, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  What I wouldn’t have given for this information even one hour ago.

  Parker nods. “That’s how he made all his money. The only reason I didn’t turn him in to the police was my mother. I knew she didn’t know anything about the drugs, and she probably would have been implicated in an investigation. Even if she wasn’t, the scandal would’ve killed her. So I made him a deal: retire, become a fucking pillar of the community, give away most of your money, and you get to stay out of prison. One little slip and you’re taking it up the ass by a guy named Big Daddy for the rest of your life.

  “My friend Connor covered up the nasty fact of my family business, erased any connections my father had to the cartel—but nothing is foolproof. I’m sure if you wanted to leak that to the press, someone would come forward to corroborate it. Some criminal would use it in a plea bargain, and my company would kick me off the board—and forget about my run for Congress. Who knows? I might even get thrown in jail for collusion. For all intents and purposes, my life would be over.

  “So there’s another of my secrets, OK? My father’s a former drug lord. I’m basically a murderer. And I’ve already told you I spent time in jail—that was for possession of pot, by the way. I’ve got enough dirt in my background that you could build a life-size replica of the Taj Mahal from it.”

  His voice gentles. His frantic tone grows soft. “I’m telling you all this so that you feel safe with me knowing what I know about you. So that you know I’ll never tell anyone who you really are, because I trust you, and you trust me, and together our secrets are safe from the world.”

  I don’t know if it’s the barrage of emotion that’s making me unable to comprehend what precisely it is that Parker’s telling me, or if I’m just in the middle of a mental breakdown.

  “W-who I really am?”

  Parker smooths the hair off my face, wipes my wet cheeks with his thumbs, and smiles a smile of such beautiful tenderness it almost sends me into a fresh onslaught of tears.

  “Yes,” he says softly. “I know who you are, and you don’t have to hide from me, Victoria. You never have to hide again.”

  A terrible feeling of doom settles in the pit of my stomach. I whisper, “Who am I, exactly?”

  He shakes his head and smiles wider, as if I’m playing a game. “Polaroid.”

  When he sees the furrow form between my brows, he adds, “The Hello Kitty hacker. The woman who breaks into government computer systems for fun, writes sophisticated software programs that can’t be traced, is on law enforcement’s most wanted lists. I suspected it before, but when I saw your little good luck charm on the nightstand, the calling card you always leave behind when you hack a system—like when you tried to hack into mine—well…”

  It hits me with such force I nearly double over.

  Tabby. Oh my God, Tabby. He thinks I’m her.

  He nods in satisfaction when he sees the horrified recognition on my face, taking it for an admission of my guilt. And then, when I put together what he’s just said about us being on equal footing, about keeping my secrets—“Have you ever heard of something called spousal privilege?”—I realize what this whole exercise in disclosure is really all about. Why he’s really brought me to the House of Truth.

  Blackmail.

  A boom of thunder rattles the windows. A jagged bolt of white flashes brilliantly across the black sky, and then the clouds crack open and release their burden of rain.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Because all my muscles are immobilized under the crushing weight of my spirit, which has collapsed upon itself like a black hole formed from a dying star, I can’t walk—or even stand up, for that matter—so Parker lifts me and carries me into the master bedroom.

  So rarely in my adult life have I been rendered speechless that, viewed objectively, it’s an interesting experience. Or it would be, if I weren’t so busy trying to block out the deafening chorus of my silent screams.

  The inside of my head is Armageddon.

  In contrast, Parker seems the better for telling his story. His step is sure and easy. His expression is calm. Apparently unburdening yourself of all of your past transgressions, accusing the woman you’re sleeping with of being a criminal computer genius, and making a passive-aggressive, semi-oblique suggestion that you won’t testify against her in court if she becomes your wife have psychological benefits.

  Catharsis, if you will.

  Parker gently lays me on the bed. He arranges my limbs like I’m a quadriplegic and he’s my attentive, caring nurse—legs demurely together, arms by my sides—and then climbs into bed beside me. He slides his arm under my neck, wraps his other arm around my waist, and nuzzles his face into my hair. His sigh is deeply content.

  He says, “So.”

  That’s it. One syllable. Two letters. That’s all it takes to seal your fate.

  I stare at the ceiling, listening to the relentless drum of the rain on the roof, and think about the seminar today. I think about all those women who came to hear me speak about being strong, standing up for themselves, not taking any shit from their men. I think about the woman in the front row who said I was her hero.

  I’m nobody’s hero. Especially not my own.

  What would those women think of me now if they could see me lying here, as limp and acquiescent as a ragdoll beside the man who was, until moments ago, my greatest enemy? What would they think if they knew that instead of standing up and fighting, I was mutely weighing all my options, calculating every possible outcome, parsing each and every way I might extricate myself from this situation without blowing it all to hell?

  Because hell is exactly where I think this is leading. Though I’m not sure, I’ve got a strong suspicion that if I don’t continue with Parker’s assumption that I’m Polaroid, if I admit my true identity as the formerly deceased and suddenly resurrected Isabel Diaz and say, “Gee, sorry, this has all been one huuuge misunderstanding!” Tabby and I will soon be wearing matching orange jumpsuits.

  I’ve deceived him in every conceivable way. My own mother told him just about the worst lie I can think of, which he’s spent years crucifying himself over. I can’t possibly turn around now and cheerfully declare, “Hey, great news, I’m not really dead!” and expect him to treat me with any level of civility.

  I suppose I could try it. Roll the dice and see if they come up lucky. But I’m not gambling with only my life. There’s Tabby to think of. He mentioned most wanted lists; definitely not good. He put that out there for a reason. And God—he’d probably confront my mother. I can see it now, the two of them screaming at each other on her porch.

  And what if my mother slipped? What if, in her rage, she told him about Eva? About the daughter kept hidden from him for so many years?

  What would Parker do then?

  What would happen to Eva?

  If a child i
s given up for adoption and the biological father didn’t agree to it, what kind of legal nightmare would ensue if he tried to contest the adoption? He’d said at dinner he’d always wanted children. What if the child he wanted turned out to be the one he never knew he had?

  Too many questions crowd my mind. I can’t think. I close my eyes, swallowing the sound of despair trying to crawl from my throat.

  Parker says, “There’s something I have to know.”

  My eyes fly open.

  “I don’t believe in belaboring a point, so I’ll only ask this once, but I need you to be honest.”

  I break out in a cold sweat. The rain on the roof sounds like gunfire.

  His voice low but intense, he says, “You were in my office. You found my safe. You tried to get into my computers. Why?”

  I shudder. It’s involuntary, a little seizure, one of those twitching nerve things dead tissue can sometimes do. We had chickens on our farm; when you cut off their heads, they would stagger around for minutes afterward, the body still able to perform motor functions without a brain.

  I am one of those chickens.

  Finally I breathe, “I just…wanted to be sure…I could trust you.”

  What’s one more lie when your entire life is built upon a mountain of them?

  “And now you know,” he says tenderly, stroking my face.

  I swallow, inhale a fortifying breath, and test the waters to see how shark-infested they are. “You’re not worried I’ll leak all this information to the press if we break up?”

  He tenses. I hold my breath as I wait for his answer.

  Finally he says, “Neither one of us is going to the press. We both have too much to lose.”

  Contained in that sentence I hear a clear but unspoken threat; if I out him, he outs me.

  So there you have it:

  Checkmate.

  He adds with cold finality, “And we’re not breaking up. We belong together; we’re so much alike it’s scary.” He pauses, and then says more gently, “When we get back to New York, we’ll pick out a ring.”

  Ah, the sheer romance. Doesn’t every girl dream of being trapped into marriage? Can’t think of anything better, really. All my dreams have come true.

  I don’t say anything, because there’s nothing more to say.

  Parker turns my head and kisses me on the lips. The kiss begins tenderly but quickly turns ardent. Soon we’re both naked, doing what we do best.

  Even though I’m empty, though inside I feel as if I’ve been hollowed out by knives, my body responds to him the same way it always does, with desire and desperation. He is, and will always be, the center of my universe, the axis on which everything else turns.

  Afterward, lying sweaty and sated in his arms in the dark, I think of all those women again. My fans. I see them staring at me en masse, their faces accusing, their eyes so disappointed. The image of the woman in the front row quoting my own words haunts me.

  “You always have the power to say, ‘This is not how my story is going to end.’”

  I’m their idol, the person they wish they could be, confident and successful, unyielding, strong…and here I lie, letting someone else write the ending to my story. I’m cornered. Giving in. A kitten thrown to the wolves.

  The funny thing about me is, if you throw me to the wolves, I’ll return leading the pack.

  For the first time since I arrived at Casa de la Verdad, my lips curve into a genuine smile.

  My mother was right, in a way; I did commit suicide. I killed Isabel Diaz with my own two hands. Then, like a phoenix, I rose from her ashes and created something new, something better: Victoria Price.

  I listen to the rain pounding the rooftop and wonder if perhaps it’s time for Victoria Price to be laid to rest as well. Time for me—the real me, whoever she is—finally to have a chance to live.

  * * *

  Later on I’ll realize I was simply in shock. My emotions were too chaotic. My brain had shut down, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. But at the moment—coerced, cornered, optionless—it seemed the most perfect solution in the world.

  I waited until Parker was sleeping deeply, and then I crept from the bed, quietly dressed, dashed off two notes on the pad by the kitchen phone, made my way through the dark house and out into the storm, and took the wooden stairs down to the sea.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Author and Entrepreneur Victoria Price Missing, Presumed Dead

  Early Saturday morning police were called to the vacation home of Parker Maxwell, CEO of Maxwell Restaurant Group, to investigate a report of a missing woman. Mr. Maxwell and Victoria Price, bestselling author of the Bitches Do Better series of women’s self-help books and life coach to many A-list celebrities, had arrived at his home on St. Thomas in the US Virgin Islands the evening prior. They planned on spending the weekend at his residence. Mr. Maxwell told police he awoke to find Ms. Price gone, and an apparent suicide note on his kitchen counter.

  Local police confirmed that several items of clothing belonging to Ms. Price washed up on the beach south of Mr. Maxwell’s residence, indicating she might have drowned herself. No body has been recovered, and the investigation is ongoing.

  Mr. Maxwell was not available for comment.

  THIRTY-SIX

  ~ Parker ~

  Eight days after the second-worst night of my life, I exit the Rolls-Royce I bought for Victoria and am immediately beset by a hostile, jostling crowd of reporters screaming questions into my face.

  I shoulder through the crowd, head down, teeth gritted, unresponsive to their shouts of, “What did the suicide note say?” and “Were you fighting?” and “Did you have anything to do with her disappearance, Mr. Maxwell?”

  Connor, walking beside me, has to grab me and physically restrain me from lunging at the leering fat guy who asked that last one.

  “Keep your shit together, brother,” he mutters, easily pushing men with cameras out of our way with wide sweeps of his muscle-bound arm.

  I am, in fact, having a severely difficult time keeping my shit together. Over the course of the past week, I’ve been interrogated by about two dozen different detectives and investigators from both the St. Thomas and New York City police departments, been alternately vilified and canonized in the press, slept a total of maybe twelve hours, and developed an extremely unhealthy relationship with Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch, which is quickly turning into a full-blown addiction. If it hasn’t already.

  And I’m obsessed with finding Victoria. Obsessed. To the point of insanity.

  Because I know she isn’t dead.

  Unfortunately, locating her is proving extremely difficult.

  So today I’m meeting with the only two people who might be able to give me a clue as to her whereabouts.

  Connor and I barge through the elegant glass doors of the lobby of Victoria’s condo building. As soon as we’re inside, the clamor falls silent; the press can’t follow us onto private property. I resist the urge to turn and flip them off—I know they’re out there, swarming all over the doors like flies—and instead introduce myself to the young man at the front desk, who shows Connor and me to the bank of elevators.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says in a muted voice, eyes lowered.

  I want to strangle him.

  Connor drags me into the elevator, jabs his finger on the penthouse button and, when the doors slide shut, drawls, “Maybe you should let me do the talking. You don’t seem like you’re in the right mood.”

  “You want mood? I’ll give you fucking mood,” I growl, raking a hand through my hair. “I’ll give you so much mood you’ll think I’m a lava lamp.”

  Connor sighs, rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Man, a word of advice? Chill the fuck out, or these broads aren’t gonna tell you anything.”

  He’s right, I know he’s right—but there’s no way I can chill out.

  Not when Victoria has slipped through my fingers. Not when my goddamn heart is dying, just when it was lea
rning how to live again.

  When the doors open, I burst from the elevator as if I’ve been coughed out. I’m pounding on Victoria’s closed front door before Connor has a chance to catch up to me.

  “Tabby!” I shout, alternating pounding on the door with stabbing my finger repeatedly on the doorbell. “Open the goddamn door!”

  “Yeah, a lava lamp you’re not,” Connor mutters.

  Victoria’s assistant, Tabby, yanks open the door. She stands there red-faced with clenched fists and crazy eyes, in an outfit I can only describe as call-girl-meets-cartoon-character, and snarls, “You motherfucker!”

  She takes a step forward and punches me in the face.

  “Whoa!” shouts Connor. He gets in front of me and pushes Tabby back into the condo by her shoulders. As she stumbles back, she keeps her furious gaze glued to mine.

  I work my jaw, rubbing it where she hit me. I thought Victoria had a pretty good swing, but her assistant has her beat by a mile. For such a small thing, she’s got an arm like Babe Ruth.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Tabby.” I step inside the condo and slam the door behind me.

  “Get your hands off me, you ape!” Tabby snaps at Connor, slapping at his hands.

  He releases her, his expression hard, but I see the amusement shining in the depths of his obsidian eyes. He thinks it’s funny that the little badger just clocked me.

  I swear I need new friends.

  From around the corner of the living room, Darcy LaFontaine appears with a jumbo-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in hand, looking distraught. Her obvious trauma almost distracts from her incredibly tight low-cut pantsuit, the color of an overripe banana.

  “You better start talking, white boy, before I stress-eat this entire bag of chips.” She stuffs a handful into her mouth and says through it, “I already plowed through half the fridge, and I haven’t even been here ten minutes.”