by Ella James
Through the kitchen, through the dinning room, past the wash room, to the office. Nothing. Fucking nothing. I roll through the rest of the cottage like a storm and then I’m running to the rocks.
Please…
Please.
I climb halfway down. Sweat is pouring down my neck and chest. I stop on one of the rocks and try to listen. After a minute convincing myself the howling wind is not a cry for help, I go back up and check two other tree stands, both on the far side of the island.
I’m calling her name the entire time. My voice is deep and low. It carries on the wind.
“Red!”
She’s at my cabin.
Except, I get there and she’s not.
I curse the lack of truck on the island. The lack of anything, even an ATV. My heart feels too big for my chest. What if she’s dead? I swallow a few times, rub my hand over my face until I feel more grounded. How could she be dead?
I head to the beach where I first fucked her. Where the boat is. I know before I step out of the trees that something’s up. There’s a light on in the boat.
Shit.
What the fuck is going on?
As I fly across the beach, drop my jeans, and crash into the ocean, I can’t take my eyes off of the boat. I’m looking for shadows—hers and someone else’s? Why the hell would she be in the boat? If she’s there, she swam there. It’s still bobbing in ten-foot water. I break into a strong freestyle and as I move through the cold water it’s so hard not to think. So hard not to remember.
My feet shuffle against an oil-stained cement floor. I’m walking through a dark, nine-car garage on the back of a wood-shingled, colonial New England home. I’ve got the fucking flu, but I’m here because she called me. Something’s wrong. She didn’t say so in so many words but I can feel it. My aching body trembles with adrenaline.
I step out of a darkened garage and into a dimly lit one.
I smell oil, rubber, sex.
I look across the garage and see Bryson Paige’s nude body, hanging limp from the ropes Cookie likes so much. I look toward the ceiling and the world stops turning. Cookie face is purple. Dead.
I kick harder, tread until I reach the stern, and climb onto the boat, expecting to see a man. Someone hurting her. Someone coming after her because of me.
Instead, there’s Red. She’s drenched, clothes pasted to her body, hair matted to her head. And she’s trying to start the boat.
CHAPTER FIVE
RED
Well, shit. This is going to be awkward. Or scary. Hopefully just awkward. I’m pretty much refusing to let myself think he could be James Wolfe, even as I’m trying to flee because I’m scared he could be.
I see him on the beach before he sees me in the boat, so I have a few minutes to decide what to do. I found a key in one of the cup holders, and I’ve been trying to use it to unlock a little door on the steering console. I don’t know how to start a boat, but I’m hoping maybe there’s a button inside that will make the engines come to life.
But the freakin’ key won’t fit!
I struggle with it until he’s swimming quickly toward me. Then I move to the back of the boat and look at the choppy waves around me. The moon’s close to full, so the tide seems serious tonight. It was scary enough swimming out to the boat, especially after what happened to me earlier today. There’s no way in hell I’m diving off the back of this thing and hanging onto the side of the boat like they do in movies. Is there?
I’m shivering in my wet clothes. I look up at the moon, now encircled by a gleaming ring of light, and whisper, “Mom and Dad, please.”
After that, I just watch him swim.
It’s ridiculously typical of me. Once, when I was 17, I was driving a few friends to get ice cream after school. My car broke down about two feet away from a train track, and as soon as the engine conked, we heard a train’s whistle. My friend Laura had to slap my face to get me to put my foot on the pedal and go. When I get really stressed out, I freeze. Mom used to hate that.
“Hesitate when you’re driving and you’re gonna hurt yourself, or me,” she used to say.
Race’s head and shoulders grow bigger as he moves through the water, approaching faster than I’d expected. Instead of the fear Katie recommended, my body responds with a shot of heat that originates somewhere near my throat and spreads straight down.
I assume if he’s here, he’s searched most of the island by now. Why? Because he’s worried about me, or because he’s worried I will get away?
I tell myself criminology is a science. (It is, isn’t it? Yes. I’m going with yes). A crime of passion is much different than something premeditated. If he is James Wolfe and if James Wolfe did kill his wife and her lover—and both of those are pretty sizeable ‘if’s—that doesn’t mean he’d hurt me. In fact, so far he’s done nothing but save me from drowning and show my vajayjay a good time. Well, except when he left me in the tree house and snatched my phone. But it’s logical to assume he did that because he was upset I’d found out his secret identity and worried I’d tell Katie.
By the time he makes it to the back of the boat, where he pulls himself up and throws one of his muscular legs over the side, I’ve gotten myself calmed down some. That, or I’m further entrenched in denial.
Either way, as he falls on his hands and knees in the bottom of the boat, I realize he’s completely nude, having presumably dropped his jeans on the shore, and am able to briefly appreciate the view. He stands, water sluicing down his chest and stomach, following his happy trail and dripping off his half-erect dick.
I’m gawking like the pervert I am when his eyes find mine and widen. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He looks around the boat, as if he’s expecting to see me with someone else. Then his gaze boomerangs to me. He looks incredulous. Agitated. “Are you alone?”
I nod.
His face goes blank, and for a second he just stares at me. Then, softly, he says, “Did I hurt you, Red?”
His voice is so low, I feel warm between my legs. I inhale deeply and shake my head.
He looks impatient. Irritated. “What’s going on then? Why are you standing in my boat in the middle of the night? You never came to the cabin.”
He sounds so commanding. As if he gave me marching orders and I didn’t follow them.
“Did you care? You just left me. After taking my phone. I mean, I get it—maybe—but still, that’s kind of dickish.”
“So you’re trying to leave?”
I nod, a little too hesitantly. I can’t decide if I want to go or stay, if I believe he’s dangerous or not.
His eyes narrow, and I hear myself murmur, “I think I need to go. My friend…she had an accident. I called her from Gertrude’s phone.”
“She the one you were trying to reach?”
“Yeah. She got into a wreck, and she’s in the hospital.” My brain works quickly, spitting out bullshit. “One of our other friends is coming to get me at the harbor.”
I dare a look into his eyes and find them hard. “Why didn’t you ask me to take you? What are you not telling me, Red?”
“I’m telling you everything.”
He steps over to me. Takes my chin in his hand. Tilts my face up. “I don’t like liars, Red. You don’t strike me as a liar. Why don’t you be honest with me?”
Because I think you might be a murderer.
From this angle, I can see how long his eyelashes are. Long eyelashes around black eyes. The sun has kissed his skin a deep olive…
I move subtly back, forcing him to drop my chin. “I want to go, Race. What does it matter? Don’t give me the money if you don’t think I earned it.”
“This is not about money. Tell me again: Did I hurt you? If I did, you need to tell me.” He caresses my cheek with the side of his hand. When he speaks again, his voice rumbles. “I like it rough, but I’m not in the business of hurting women.”
I look down, at my still-bare feet. “I know. And I told you, Race, I need to go che
ck on my friend.”
He shakes his head, flicking little water droplets over his powerful shoulders. “I don’t buy it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What happened, Red?”
I press my lips together and look up at him.
“With your friend?” he clarifies. “What happened?”
Shit. I…uh…oh shit.
“You can’t say because you made the accident up.” He takes a strand of my hair between his fingers and exhales. “You were going drive this boat yourself? Quit lying to me.”
I step away from him, so the back of my legs are flush with the side of the boat. I can tell I’m going to do it—I’m just going to ask—and if it goes badly, I’m going to back-flip off the side and swim away.
His eyes are careful on my face. Black eyes. Dark skin. Deep voice.
For the longest moment, as the boat sways under us, it’s just him and me. Man and woman. The only two people on the island.
But it can’t stay that way. Not now, after what I heard from Katie. I have to know.
My lips move around the question, but my throat won’t form it. I make a squeaky sound and look at his face. Is this man dangerous? I count my heartbeats, one through five. And then I spit it out. “Are you James Wolfe?”
The question seems to hit him like a slap. He flinches—a small, fast movement that’s there then gone. And then his face goes absolutely still.
He takes a big step, reaching for the boat’s side, and leans against it. He raises a hand to cover his eyes, then lifts it off. He looks at me. “Where did you hear that?”
“Are you?”
His face pinches, as if the question is a mere annoyance—but he’s still not moving, even despite a wave that sprays right in his face. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
“That’s why you tried to leave.”
I nod. No point lying now. “I sent my friend your picture. That was before we left land. I didn’t—”
“Jesus, Red!” He’s on his feet. “Fuck! Which friend?”
“You wouldn’t know her. She’s someone I used to work with.”
“A reporter?”
I nod.
“A reporter for what?”
And I realize: If he’s James Wolfe, he would know her. If he’s James Wolfe, I want him to know someone real has his picture, knows I’m here with him. I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Her name is Katie Stranger, and she covered your trial.”
*
WOLFE
Katie Stranger.
Short. Blonde. Curvy. Always chewing gum.
If I remember correctly, she was a junior reporter for The New York Times. And I’m sure I do remember correctly. Someone like me—someone under house arrest, someone whose life is based on the outcome of a trial—learns every face in the courtroom. Every bailiff, every sketch artist, every reporter, every juror, even the janitors. I was there nearly every day for months. And I remember Katie Stranger.
I try to swallow but my mouth is dry. I cough. “She ID’d me?”
Red nods, looking helpless.
I lean against the boat’s side, rocking with the waves as my world crashes around me.
CHAPTER SIX
March 2, 2008
PATTERSON COUNTY COURTHOUSE
WOLFE
Have you ever ordered a dress suit online? They look like shit. Which, in my case, is good. Can’t look too pretty today. Gotta make the bastards—or, in my case, mostly bitches—of the jury think I’m a ‘normal guy.’
So here I am. Just a normal guy standing in front of the wall-high, gold-plated mirror his dead wife picked out. You know, the family friend he married so she could inherit her great-great-grandfather’s $2 billion railroad fortune. The one who lured him into saying ‘I do’ with promises that the marriage would be short if he wanted and an offer to let him continue spanking, tying up, and fucking women willing to sign an ironclad NDA.
I look around the foyer and laugh. It’s not a laugh, though. Just some bark-like sound that came from deep down in my throat, where I keep pushing all my screams.
Do you know how many days I’ve been in court this month? More than a lawyer just out of school. More than your average fucking judge.
Ah, but I’m not getting paid. (Not that I need it). I’m being tried for murder.
So very normal.
I turn my eyes back to the mirror and look at my garish tie. It’s gold, with royal blue stripes. Bugs the shit out of me how the royal blue looks against the navy blue of the suit, but nobody asked me. The team of lawyers my father is bankrolling tell me what to do. How to walk. How to sit. How to hold my mouth.
Did you know clenching your jaw makes you look like a murderer? Go fucking figure.
I’ll admit it: I’m in a worse mood than usual today. Running on about an hour of sleep—the hour just after I whacked off four times in a row—and today is the day I’m interviewed by the prosecution.
In preparation for my big day, I’ve been growing my dark brown hair shaggy over the last two months. My legal team thinks collar-length hair will make me look more relatable and working class. Because, you know, all the son of the former president of NASDAQ needs to look like Joe America is a new haircut.
As of last week, the stubble I sported so often in past years, mostly out of negligence, is gone. Apparently, men with facial hair appear more aggressive. Last night, I spent an hour getting my face as smooth as I can get it with an old-fashioned, single-blade razor my father gave me years ago.
Without a light beard, I look pale. Or maybe I’m just pale. I don’t know. I don’t get out a lot. Under house arrest, it’s kind of impossible if it’s not a doctor’s appointment or something with the court. I can barely fill the days without losing my mind. I’m bulky as shit from working out when I get bored. My legal team hates that. They don’t want me to look threatening. Today, at least my face looks thin. I haven’t eaten much the last few days.
Under the leg of my pants suit, my tracking bracelet feels especially heavy. I pull up my pants leg and scowl at the damn thing. It makes me feel like an animal. There’s some irony there, for sure. After many years of shackling women for fun, I’m the one bound now. For not the first time, I wonder how many of them are watching me on TV.
The car comes for me a few minutes later. It’s a gray Ford Escape with a New York government plate and a perpetual old French fry stench. Like most days, a gray-haired woman is driving. Her name is Pat, and I know she likes French Vanilla insta-coffee. Beside her sits Tom, a cop about my age who likes classical music and NPR. And beside me in the back is Lloyd. Another cop, this one with a fro and a red-cased iPhone he uses to play Angry Birds.
I spend my time in the car looking out the window, wondering how everyone in the other cars, in parks, on sidewalks, ended up with lives that are at least marginally functional, while mine has devolved into this. I vacillate between feeling like I don’t deserve it and feeling like surely I did something to bring it on. Years of such talk from my father doesn’t help.
At this exact second, my phone rings.
Dad. Damn. What timing. I have to answer. If I don’t, he’ll be a bigger pain in the ass later.
“What do you want?”
He clears his throat and gets right to it—no preamble, no sentimentality. “I wanted to tell you to do your best today. Don’t embarrass yourself. Do what the legal team tells you.”
I squeeze the phone. “Will do.”
He clicks, and that’s it. It’s just his manner. I’m used to it by now.
Just before I arrive at the court house my cousin Bob calls.
I hit “send” feeling a little more optimistic this time, despite the thickening traffic around the car. Downtown seems congested today, and I can’t help thinking I’m the reason why.
“Bob,” I answer.
“Race. Just wanted to say I’m with ya in spirit, man.”
Bob is a jack of all tr
ades, and he’s in Europe right now organizing a deal between a major antiques dealer and a chain department store based here in the U.S.
“Thanks, dude.”
“You hear from Paul?”
“Nah.” My older brother, like so many others, doesn’t want to be associated with me.
“Ah. Okay, well hope it goes well today.”
“Thanks.” I can hear the fuzz on the line. Transatlantic fuzz I guess. “Thanks,” I say again.
“No worries.”
We arrive to the largest crowd I’ve ever seen outside the courthouse. I’m escorted inside by the two cops, whose job is both to protect me from people and to protect people from me. My throat is dry, so I drink some fountain water that tastes like metal.
As I sit on the bench, I think of Cookie and how ironic all this is. Cookie, propositioning me for marriage because, being six years younger and in tamer circles, she thought I was a nice guy. Cookie finding out about the subs. Cookie urging me onward with the subs. Cookie asking for her own playthings…
How jealous I was.
Sitting alone one night watching “Southpark” re-runs, realizing I’d let her tie me up if she would stay home with me. Upstairs in my bed, tied to the four posts, not getting off. Fucking her from the top, with her arms secured above her head. And Cookie crying.
“I can’t have sex that way… You see, my father…”
Cookie’s bastard of a father is behind me right now. One of my lawyers leans over and says, “Nice day,” which is a code for stop scowling.
I nod and put my face more neutral.
Time passes. I don’t know how much. All I know is I’m on the stand, and there are too many people in the crowd.
“Where were you the night of May 22, 2007?” the prosecutor asks. He’s tall and thin, with adult acne and blond-white hair.
“I was at home.”
“Who can witness this?”
“You’ve already heard from my housekeeper.”
“Tell me about your night.”
My heart pounds, but I’m good at hiding it. I have my days at Bridgewater to thank for that. “I ate dinner early and spent several hours in my study on work-related things.”
