The Do It List (The Do It List #1)

by Jillian Stone

  “Derek and I visited last night.” She grabbed a cronut. “So, what’s your assessment?”

  I tilted my chin, evaluating. “Did you meet her husband?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “I think she’s going to be okay after a few years of therapy.”

  We went straight to work after coffee and cronuts. Sarah re-styled the bedroom, which included a good deal of fluffing duvet and pillows. Finally, I took up a corner of the bed and opened my laptop.

  “Angle your body more.” Sarah squinted into the viewfinder. “One knee up—maybe your chin on your knee while you type.” My talented art director knew how to work with the available morning light. “Tilt your head toward the window.”

  We worked for an hour or so before shooting b-roll—fingertips clicking on a keyboard, turning pages of the newspaper.

  “Bite your bottom lip.” She adjusted the zoom for an extreme close-up. “Slant your eyes right…”

  “Bradley thinks we’re having lesbian sex,” I murmured. “What is it with men and lesbian sex fantasies? “

  Sarah shrugged. “It’s a ménage fantasy masquerading as a lesbian fantasy.”

  I nodded. “He encouraged me to open up with Audrey. I shared some painful personal stuff yesterday, and it seemed to help.”

  Sarah looked up from the view screen. “What kind of painful personal stuff?”

  “I was gang raped my freshman year in college.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Gracie…you never…”

  “I know, I should have shared this long ago.” I reached for her hand. “Sorry.”

  Sarah put down the camera. “Nothing to be sorry for. Do you want to talk about it?”

  I met her gaze and sighed. “I ran into the one of my rapists at the dinner party Thursday night. I had a major meltdown. Turns out he’s one of Bradley’s mother’s attorneys.“

  “Get out.” Her eyes were bulging. ”What did Bradley do?”

  “He offered to kick his ass down Park Avenue to Harlem River.”

  Sarah snorted. “Good for him.” Who is this guy—the rapist?”

  “Troy Lambert. We went to high school together. I had a huge crush on him our senior year. We got close a few times but never really dated. Then, we both decided on UCLA, and of course we ran into each other. He was pledging for a fraternity and asked me to a party.”

  I shook my head. “He has always claimed he didn’t rape me, that he was unaware my drink had been spiked. No one really believed him, but there was no DNA match—not like the others.”

  “So what happened?”

  His father is a big-time attorney and got him off with deferred probation and community service.” I exhaled a sigh. Truth telling was exhausting, but also liberating. “I made Bradley promise not to punch his lights out.”

  Sarah listened to a full recounting of Ann Getty-Craig’s dinner party, as well as the Friday evening phone call from Troy.

  “Are you going to call him?”

  I stared for a moment. “A part of me wants a face off. Ask tough questions and watch his reaction. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—maybe some closure. Am I weird?”

  Sarah sat back and chewed her lip. “I was date raped in college. His name was Chad Martin—an Aussie with the accent.” Her eyes rolled upward. “So cute and he knew it. He ended up in my dorm room one night, stoned out of his mind, asked if he could crash—just friends, no funny stuff.”

  Now it was my turn to stare. “And then the funny stuff happened.”

  Sarah nodded. “In the middle of the night I feel his hands on me. No big thing I push them away. Then his dick starts poking around. So I say no and he backs off. We go back and forth like that for awhile.” She shook her head with a shrug. “I let him fuck me so I could get some sleep. It still gives me the creeps when I think about it.”

  I nodded. “My family says I’m blessed. Not about the rapes, but the fact that I recall so little of it. I do remember waking up bruised and sore.“ I shook off an involuntary shiver.

  Blurry half-remembered images were all I’d ever know of my frat boy violators. I’d seen their mugshots at the Westwood police station. Four strangers had stared back at me. Faces that quickly faded into amorphous gray shadows—ghosts that had haunted my dreams for years.

  Sarah reached out and held my hand. “Maybe we take a break?”

  Neither of us felt much like lunch, not after cronuts and rape confessions. “I’ll make us something light to eat.”

  I made two dainty-sized chopped salads and added plenty of crumbled blue cheese. “Peach tea?” I asked.

  She nodded and set the bowls down on the table. “You just whipped this out, like it was no trouble at all.”

  I smiled. “It’s one of my go-to comfort dishes.”

  “Blue-cheesy, eggy-bacony goodness.” Sarah waved her fork in the air. “Mine’s macaroni and cheese—crusty top, gooey inside—with the big elbow macaroni.”

  I rolled my eyes and moaned. “Grandma Nona makes the best macaroni and cheese.” My phone did a little shimmy along the table. I checked the caller I.D. “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “Troy Lambert.” My stomach went a little queasy. “Not a call, a text.”

  Sarah stopped chewing and stared. “And…?”

  I read the message out loud. “Urgent we talk. Meet me at 5:30 Bar Seven Five.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I met her gaze girlfriend to girlfriend. I knew what I wanted to do.

  She sighed. “Correction. What would you do if you were a kick-ass Amazon warrior princess?”

  “Lop his head off his shoulders.”

  Sarah’s grin quickly faded. “You’ve gotta do it.”

  I sighed. “Maybe not the decapitation part, though it’s tempting.”

  “You need to let him have it.” Rarely had I seen Sarah so serious. “If I ever ran into Chad again, I’d give it to him with both barrels.”

  I returned her stare.

  “Crowded public bar—what could go wrong?” Sarah pushed. “Gracie, take back your power. Get some closure.”

  I nodded. “Bradley’s being a little possessive lately and a lot protective. Sweet really, but he’s not going to like this—”

  “This is not about Bradley, this is about you.” Sarah’s grin returned. “You go for it, girl—you need to have it out.”

  I picked up my phone. After closing bell, Bar Seven Five swarmed with zero point one percenters—traders, investment bankers, hedge fund managers, attorneys.

  I texted a different location down the street. Meet u @ The Growler. More low key. Less douchey.

  After lunch, we returned to the office. Sarah had reserved an edit bay and we poured through old agency reels for footage. We found two Emporio Armani shower spots with gorgeous close-ups of male and female body parts. Sudsy water running over a nicely muscled torso, and a curvy breast profile—no nipple.

  “Beautiful, can we use that?” I asked.

  Sarah nodded. “We’ll cut out of the move before we see anyone’s face.”

  Next, we delved into director show reels for the Everyday Héros rip-o-matic.

  “First thing tomorrow I’ll need you to record voice over for Everyday Héros. We have to have both spots ready by early afternoon. And remember we need to get Bradley on board…Gracie?”

  For a good part of the afternoon, I had managed to stay focused. But as the hour of my meeting with Troy drew near, my attention waned. “Sorry.” I checked my watch. “Jeezus, it’s ten after five.”

  Sarah searched my face. “Are you getting nervous? “

  I bit my lip and nodded. “Walk me to the elevator?”

  “You look like a doll, Doll. Philip Lim black leggings, white V-tee and your gray waffle-knit moto jacket, which you hardly wore last year.”

  I grinned. “The sweater was waiting to be paired with the leggings.”

  Sarah turned to me at the bank of elevators. “If Bradley asks, what do I say?”
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  “I don’t want you to lie—avoid him.”

  “So if I’m cornered you want me to tell him you’re with Troy?”

  “Maybe you better lie.”

  The elevator door dinged, and I stepped inside.

  Sarah grinned. “Make him squirm.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and nodded.

  I left the building wearing shades. Everything about this meeting felt dangerous and thrilling.

  And wrong.

  It’s a weird thing to catch yourself in a lie. I hiccupped. Why did I feel like I was sneaking around?

  Because you’re sneaking around, Gracie.

  Eighth Avenue was a snarl of traffic, but I managed to flag down a cab. I checked my watch. The longer the ride took, the colder my feet became.

  I closed my eyes and promised myself I would tell Bradley about the meeting with Troy. He wouldn’t be happy about it, but this face-to-face had to be done alone. No posse of friends or wannabe protectors hovering on the sidelines. No Daddy. No Mommy. And especially no Bradley.

  And there was something else that had been niggling at me all day—the phone call. Bradley’s relationship with his ex had always felt unresolved to me. And now there was her present tense use of the word “wife.”

  I knew from first-hand experience, that ex-wives or husbands were omnipresent in any new relationship. After the divorce, I had watched my parents struggle with shared custody, alimony disputes, and dating.

  Most disturbing of all, Claire was in town. Why was she here and what did she want with Bradley?

  “Don’t let her get to you, Gracie.” Bradley’s words, as well as his kisses, had given me courage this morning. And I wanted to believe him when he said we could work through anything together—ex-wives, former rapists, parents, children—whatever the fates decided to throw at us.

  A few raindrops dotted the windshield of the taxicab. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through colorful apps until I found the weather.

  Scattered memories the rest of today and tomorrow. I shook my head and laughed out loud. Nervous much?

  I peered through a drizzle of rain and shivered. I sensed strongly that I would know if Troy lied. After all, we’d known each other since junior high.

  In seventh grade, I had experienced my first major crush on a boy named Troy Lambert. And then again, in our senior year in high school we had both made sly moves on each other, even though we were dating other people.

  Sudden memories of prom night rocked my brain. He had caught my hand as I left the girl’s room.

  “Troy what are you doing? And where’s your date?” I protested.

  “Dancing with Alex.” He pulled me outside the gym. “Come, run away with me.” He flashed that dazzling smile of his.

  My date to the prom, more friend than boyfriend, was taking a turn as DJ. Still, I hesitated.

  “Gracie, we won’t be missed.”

  He pulled me to him and kissed me long and hard. Hungry for each other, we kissed until we were both gasping for air.

  He broke away. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  Grudgingly, I let him pull me along. “Troy…”

  “Just you and me—best fucking idea I’ve had all year.”

  We dashed across the athletic field to the student parking lot and scrambled into his Jeep. How gallantly and cutely he had swept my dress inside the door.

  Behind the wheel, he yanked off the bow tie and unbuttoned the collar of his tuxedo shirt.

  “This is crazy, Troy.”

  He gunned the motor. “Crazy cool, huh?”

  His devilish grin perfectly complimented the chiseled lines of his face, so strikingly handsome in the moonlight. At that moment, years ago, I would have followed him to Timbuktu.

  The ends of my mouth curled as I glanced out the cab window. Neon signs reflected on wet pavers—for an instant, everything seemed hyper-reality clear.

  This meeting with Troy was inevitable.

  The cab turned down Stone Street, a quiet byway known for its posh eateries and bars. I paid the driver and dashed inside.

  I took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit, moderately crowded watering hole. A hipster version of a gentleman’s club, the atmosphere exuded style and comfort.

  “Gracie.” The familiar voice carried across the room. Troy stood at the bar with two other suits who appeared to be coworkers. Both men turned and gawked at me like I was a sizzling New York Strip Steak served up rare.

  Something about this happy hour crowd smacked of Greek letters and rich white frat boys turned hedge fund managers—older now and infinitely better dressed.

  Troy appeared to sense my unease and made quick introductions. “Gracie and I have some catching up to do if you don’t mind?”

  I nodded. “Gentlemen.”

  Troy found a table in the back and I ordered off the cocktail menu. “I’ll have the Arugula Vodka Martini.”

  “And I’ll have the free range Wild Turkey,” He winked at the waiter. “Russell’s Reserve on the rocks.”

  The moment our server left, a gulf of painful silence settled between us.

  Finally, I spoke. “You said you had something urgent to tell me.”

  Awkwardly, he continued to stare. “Jesus Christ, you are so damn beautiful.” His shrug reminded me of the cute boy I had kissed spontaneously at the spring prom. I was tempted to flirt and call him Surfer Dude like I used to and avoid confrontation.

  Mentally, I shook off the effects of being so close and so alone with Troy. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few things I’d like to say.”

  He remained calm, even stoic. “If you have to yell, break things, scream at me—go for it. If they throw us out, we’ll find a less civilized bar. Just do it, Gracie.”

  His resolute gaze faltered somewhat. “But try not to cry. I swear to God—I’ll lose it.”

  “I’ll cry a bloody fucking river if I feel like it.” My angry flare-up caused an awkward moment between us, and still he held my gaze.

  “Sorry.”

  I decided not to begin at the beginning, but with the aftermath, the stuff I could recall in detail.

  “Eighteen months after the rapes I met a grad student. We both wanted to take it to a physical level, only I couldn’t do it. Every time things got close, the intimacy triggered a panic attack. I have almost no memory of what took place that night in the frat house, but my body remembered for years afterward.”

  The waiter arrived with our drinks and Troy tipped his glass to mine. “Veritas, baby.”

  I gulped vodka laced with peppery greens. Wonderfully refreshing—like the truth. “So, I went back into therapy. My first shrink came up with a diagnosis. ‘Residual, unresolved anxiety or PTSD.’ She encouraged me to keep trying to have sex with the idea that things would most likely normalize.”

  His mouth formed a grim line. “And…did things normalize?”

  I stared for long time before nodding. “I found another therapist, an older gentlemen close to retirement. I was his last new patient.” I smiled at the memory of Doctor Earl, hunched into his wing chair; legs comfortably crossed, eyes bright, peering at me over his reading glasses. “He renewed my faith in everything—men, mostly.”

  “Gracie, I—”

  “I’m not finished.” I glared. “Doctor Earl helped me turn it around. I’m a survivor, not a victim. But that doesn’t mean everything is resolved. The Rohypnol had a powerful effect on me. I barely recall anything, and when I try to remember I get panicky. I’m twenty-eight years old. I should be over the rapes, but how do I get closure if I can’t recall what happened?”

  His gorgeous, hazel-green gaze softened. “So, that’s why you came tonight.”

  I nodded. For the better part of the next hour, I detailed the after effects of the rapes, revisiting that hospital room at the medical center, and my father’s pursuit of the guilty frat boys, including Troy. “Since they found no DNA with your name on it, you got your plea bargain, and off you went to Princeton and Harvard
Law.” I paused for another sip of arugula martini. “Had enough?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “Rip me to shreds, Gracie.” He leaned closer and spoke softly. “Say whatever you have to say. All I ask is that one day, you can begin to forgive me.”

  I had to give him this—he met every slight with a humble kind of courage, and with no excuses. As I spoke, I could not help but notice that he listened carefully, and when he spoke, there was a simple sincerity in his manner.

  He appeared interested in whatever I could remember, and I found myself recalling bits and pieces of the frat party I hadn’t thought about in years. “It happened so fast. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until it was too late—the drug hit hard.”

  I even shared details about my recovery that no one outside my family knew. “I was sick for five days, slept all the time—like the flu only much worse. I threw up the morning after and experienced these strange hot flashes. Really awful. Even after the drug left my system it continued to fuck with me—mostly my memory.”

  Gradually the tension between us lessened, but the heartache of Troy’s massive betrayal stubbornly lingered on. I needed to hear his version of events, listen carefully to the timber in his voice, analyze his mannerisms.

  I had read his testimony several times over, yet I still ached for answers. The kind of closure I could only get from him.

  “What about you, Troy?”

  “Are you asking me to relive my shame?”

  After years of waiting, I wasn’t going to defer a minute longer. “And are you…ashamed?”

  THIRTY

  A MICROCLIMATE AS dangerous as a pre-tornado sky hovered over the table. Painful memories hung thick in the air “as suffocatin’ as Tallahassee in summer,” as Grandma Nona would say.

  A bolt of Troy lightening struck as I shrugged out of my moto sweater,

  “At trial, every one of your rapists said you wanted it—loved it.”

  “Ruled prejudicial evidence as well as hearsay,” I argued. My cheeks burned, and I felt completely flummoxed by his comment. Where the hell was he going with this?