The Darkest Secret: A New Adult Romance Novel

by Jessica Pine

  "And you didn't think to persuade her to turn around?" he says.

  "I..." She looks at me and I hardly recognize her. She looks like she did when I first met her - trapped, frantic, like someone who has forgotten how to smile.

  "I had a gun," she says. "I made him drive me here. It's not his fault."

  "You had a gun? What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "What do you think is fucking wrong with me?" she says, her voice rising to a crazy, panic-stricken scream. Her dad reaches out to touch her but she shakes him off in a rage. "Same thing that was wrong with me before," she yells. "After everything that happened you didn't think I was going to get a tiny bit antsy about being watched?"

  I don't know her. I don't know what she's talking about. And I'm trying so hard to look like I don't know what she looks like naked. She isn't ready, he said. She doesn't need another man right now. She needs friends.

  I let her seduce me. That's the truth of it. I could have walked away. I knew where she'd put both guns. I could have locked them away and I could - I can be pretty persuasive - have talked her into going home to her Dad.

  But I didn't. Because I wanted to fuck her. It's that dumb and it's that dirty.

  "I feel I should take responsibility for that," says the woman, stepping forward. Amber stares at her as though she's grown an extra head. "The extra camera," the woman adds. "I suggested it when your father was concerned that you might be contemplating a further relationship..." She trails off, like she's been shamed into silence by the look in Amber's eyes.

  "Yeah," says Amber, flatly. "You're done."

  "I apologize for..."

  Amber cuts her off. "Get out of my house," she says, without raising her voice. "You're fired."

  Even John Gillespie looks ashamed.

  "What were we supposed to do, Amber?" he says, eventually. "You know the last thing you need right now is another man in your life..."

  She snorts.

  "What would you know about what I need? You thought I'd be okay with being watched? Really?"

  He sighs.

  "Okay. Fine. I admit that was a mistake..."

  "You think?"

  "In my defense, you did kind of kidnap the security guard." He waves a hand at me. "How about you?" he says, turning to me. "You're okay, right?"

  I nod.

  "Yeah. I'm fine. Really. No harm done."

  "Well, that's a matter of opinion," he says.

  I have no idea what to say. If this was a movie this would be the moment when I tell him that I love his daughter, and he'd look at me and then at her and she'd smile and he'd see she was happy, right? Except I know that won't happen, because the last time she was in love she had her heart broken so badly it drove her nuts.

  "You need to come back home," he says, but she's shaking her head before he even gets to the end of the sentence. "Amber, you know the rules. You have to keep up your therapy..."

  "...not with her, I won't."

  "No. All right. We'll find another doctor."

  She slumps down on the couch, her head in her hands. Everyone may as well be speaking Chinese for all the sense this conversation makes to me. I can't make her happy. How the hell am I supposed to even start? She hasn't told me the first thing about herself, not really.

  But then she glances up through the straggles of her lank, salty hair and I see a light in her eyes that wasn't there before this little adventure of ours. Maybe she would have told me everything, if we'd only had more time.

  Maybe.

  ***

  I got fired, obviously.

  For the first few days I walk around in a daze, thinking she'll call, at least. If only to say she was sorry for making me lose my job. But she doesn't. The days slide by one much like the other. Halloween and Dia De Los Muertos only stand out because Chuy eats too much candy and pukes on the floor. Jo and Pops talk about me when I'm not in the room; whenever I walk in they sound like they just changed the subject. My mother thinks I'm losing weight. It's left to Beca to broach the subject with her usual trademark tact.

  "Are you seriously still hung up on that skinny white bitch?" she says.

  It's on the tip of my tongue to say Amber is not a skinny white bitch, before I realize she answers to at least two of these descriptions and right now I'm too sore to refute the third.

  "I'm not hung up," I say. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm busy. It's hard enough to find a job these days."

  "Doubly hard if you never smile," says my sister. "Pull your head out of your ass sometime. She's not worth it - the last guy she 'loved' ended up dead." And then she's out the front door before I can even ask what she means by that.

  My laptop is open in front of me - I was looking for job applications. Fuck it. Why shouldn't I break the promise I made to myself? It doesn't count now, now that she's humped me and effectively dumped me. I type in 'Amber Gillespie boyfriend' and a face peers out at me from the image search. A mugshot.

  I hate him on sight. He made a police mugshot look like a professional photoshoot - that good looking. Pale eyes, black lashes, curly dark hair. A kind of squished nose and a full mouth - a sensual, Jim Morrison sort of face. This is the man who made her lose her mind. 1987-2011. And she didn't even tell me he was dead.

  The picture alongside catches my eye, and it's Amber with her hand stuck out, trying to cover the camera lens. I close the laptop. I still can't stand those pictures. If anything it's worse, now that I know her. Or think I know her. Whichever.

  Then my phone rings and I can hardly believe what I'm seeing on the screen - John Gillespie.

  "I need your help," he says. "Please. I'm at my wits end here."

  ***

  I drive up to the Hills. Cory stares at me as he waves me past the gatehouse. I know everything is different as soon as I walk into the house - I can feel it in the air.

  "He's in here," says an assistant, leading me into a part of the house I've never seen before. It's only when I walk through the door and see the pool beyond that I realize where I am. This is Amber's bedroom.

  It's so empty that my heart almost stands still, but then I see that the closet is open and the clothes are gone. Wherever she's gone she packed. I pass the bed where she used to sleep, the nightstand with its drawer agape and empty. John Gillespie is sitting by the swimming pool, sucking on a cigar.

  "Thanks for coming," he says, standing up and offering me his hand. "I'd have understood if you didn't."

  "It's fine," I say. "Where's Amber?"

  He sighs.

  "Well, there's the rub. She's moved out. Stormed out, actually. And I have no idea what to do."

  I want to say 'Have you tried talking to her?' but then I remember this is Amber we're talking about. She's not exactly forthcoming.

  "What makes you think I can do anything?" I ask.

  "Because she trusts you," he says, and I know right away he's going to ask me to abuse that trust.

  I shake my head.

  "You don't even know what I'm asking yet," he says.

  "I think I can guess. You want to use me to keep an eye on her?"

  He gestures to the seat.

  "Sit down a minute, Jimmy. Hear me out." He stubs out his cigar in a malachite ashtray and looks steadily at me. "She's a mess," he says. "But you knew that, right?"

  I can feel my face turn hot.

  "I swear, that wasn't why I..."

  John Gillespie holds up a hand.

  "Yeah. Spare me the details. And I know you didn't. Believe me, if there's one thing you learn in this town it's how to spot the users. They hang off the back of the beautiful people like fucking vampires, feeding off their insecurities - and it's not like they're going hungry, if you know what I'm saying."

  Could I have told her to put her clothes back on and knock it off? Maybe not, but deep down I know what I should have done. And it wasn't what I did.

  "That...creature," he says. "First time I laid eyes on him I knew. I knew he was a user. I knew he was poison. And I thou
ght 'If I tell her I hate him, she'll love him all the more.' That's Amber all over - she always wants what she can't have. So God help me, I didn't even try to steer her away from that creep, until the next thing I know her roommate's on the phone telling me she's eloped to Vegas with American Psycho."

  I nod.

  He tilts his head to one side. His eyes are the same color as the pool behind him - the kind of bright, ideal blue that swimming pool tiles borrow from the Caribbean.

  "You know all this, I suppose," he says. "Did she tell you how bad it got with him?"

  "Some. She said he controlled her. Manipulated her."

  "Then she's probably told you more than me," he says, and sighs. "She's quiet on that score. Sometimes I think there are things she'll never tell me." There's a break in his voice and his eyes shine. "Things a girl can never tell her old man."

  It takes me a moment to realize what he's talking about, and when I do I feel sick. Oh Amber - why didn't you talk to me? Or to anyone?

  "It's a good thing he's dead," says John Gillespie. "Cause if I knew he'd done...that. To my little girl? I'd have fucking killed him."

  Her lightning stripteases and her hunger for me make a darker kind of sense now. Maybe that was the only way she could get around him. And why didn't she tell me? Why didn't she trust me?

  "I don't know what else to do," he says. "She's not going to listen to me. I've ruined her life once already - at least, that's the way she sees it. You know she cried for him? After everything he'd done to her?"

  I shake my head.

  "Where is she?"

  "Sunset. She rented a place." He sighs again. "Couldn't do anything about that either. I tried to get her money out of her hands before, when he was leeching off her, but Natalie - my late wife - she lawyered that up good and proper." He looks me in the eye. "Did you know she was independently wealthy?"

  "No. I didn't." None of this makes sense. Every time I think I'm getting closer to the truth there's like another layer of confusion piled on top of it. "I don't understand," I say. "If she has money to go where she wants, why was she being kept here?"

  "She wasn't," he says, with a flash of anger, then adds "Not exactly."

  "Not exactly?"

  "There were...conditions," he explains. "When she was released from the hospital."

  "The hospital?"

  John Gillespie stares at me like I've just beamed down from Mars.

  "I know you said you didn't read gossip," he says. "But how much has she told you about her and...him?"

  "I know she married him. And that you made him sign annulment papers." I swallow. "Look, Mr. Gillespie, I don't know why you think I can help. It's obvious that...well..." I don't even want to say it. "She doesn't trust me nearly as much as you think she does."

  He shakes his head.

  "Before you came along, she wouldn't even leave her bedroom. Whatever it is she sees in you, I'm not knocking it."

  "What do you want me to do?" I ask.

  "Keep an eye on her. She needs to keep up to date on her medications, her therapy appointments."

  "How am I supposed to do that?"

  He shrugs.

  "Any way you can."

  I feel queasy once more. I know what's being asked of me - he's not stupid. He knows what she wants from me. And he knows I'm dumb enough to go along with it, just because it's the only way he'll let me see her.

  "This is a lousy idea," I say.

  "It's all I've got."

  "You're willing to risk that? Because if she knows we've even had this conversation..."

  He holds up a hand.

  "Yeah. I've been through this in my head enough times, believe me. But she's not safe to be out on her own, Jimmy. She's probably flying high right now because she's angry, but when she settles back into a routine the walls are gonna start closing in on her all over again. And then it'll be the three o'clock in the morning phone calls again, the stomach pumps and psychiatric holds. I can't go through that again. And I can't lose her. She's all I've got. All I've got left of Natalie."

  She's all I've got - funny thing coming from the lips of a movie star in a gigantic mansion, a house with four swimming pools and its own movie theater. But I believe him; I do.

  "Okay," I say. "I'll do what I can."

  "Good," he says, visibly relaxing. "Thank you. I'll put you back on the payroll."

  "No."

  "Please. It's the least I can..."

  I cut him off.

  "No. I won't take your money. I feel bad enough about the situation as it is."

  "Well, the offer stands."

  "No. I'm not doing this because you're paying me. I'm doing this because I think it's the best thing for Amber."

  "It is," he says. "Trust me. If she starts to go off the rails again, I need to know."

  "And you will, I promise." It's on the tip of my tongue to say that I care for her too, but I know that's bullshit. I can't care for her - she won't let me get close enough to really care for her - but the thought of her hurting herself is too painful.

  He hands me an address and a telephone number. Deep down I know why I'm doing this - because I told him I'd be a friend to her, but when she wanted me as a lover I jumped in with both feet. And the last thing she needs is another lover.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Amber

  My new therapist's office doesn't inspire confidence.

  Her name is Katrina. Her office is cluttered with folk art and crystals. There is a giant dream catcher on the wall behind me and as I sink deeper into the overstuffed couch I'm conscious of it there, like a big spider web, waiting for me to spill my thoughts and snag them on its strands.

  She comes in, sits down opposite me.

  "I'm sorry to keep you," she says. "Now - how can we can help you, Amber?"

  I freeze. My mouth refuses to open. Her eyes are so blue they must be contacts, her eyelashes mascaraed so stiff they look like the spokes of a wheel. She has a round, open, honest face and she's wearing that friendly yet neutral expression they probably teach on the first day of Psych 101. I hate her. It's not her fault that I hate her, but she's new. She's different. New and different were never things I could handle too much of, not all in one go.

  She turns up her smile a notch, but I can't bring myself to speak. My throat feels like the Mojave.

  "Is there a specific issue you'd like to address, Amber?" she says.

  I open my mouth and try to force the words out.

  "I...I...I'm really here because I have to be," I say. "Court order."

  "I see," she says, and her voice is wrong. It's one of those things Dr. Stahl says a lot - I see - one of those nice, empty interjections that say 'I'm listening' without interrupting the flow of confessions. "And were you seeing a therapist before?"

  I nod. Yes. A better one. One I trusted. One I could talk to. I'm still mad at her.

  "Okay," says Katrina. "Perhaps maybe we could start with some deep breathing..."

  "No," I say, getting to my feet. "I don't think so."

  "Amber?"

  I have to get out of there. I mumble out a bunch of apologies and stagger to the door. The handle doesn't turn and I start to panic, my heart roaring in my ears. When the door opens I'm so close to screaming that I run, before I make a fool of myself. No, no, no. This is not working. This is wrong. This is all messed up.

  Someone is going to come after me - I can feel it. I shut myself in the car and drive to the place I'm still learning to think of as home.

  I rented the penthouse suite of an old Art Deco block on Sunset. It's large and I'm short of furniture, so that the tangle of crap I salvaged from my old bedroom looks like the possessions of a kid who's run away from home. I bought an air mattress for the floor - tomorrow I'll go and get a proper futon.

  The ceilings are high and the paint is peeling here and there, but the first time I saw beyond the giant A-shaped windows I knew I had to take it. There's a roof terrace with a small, mosaic tiled swimming pool with ra
ised sides - not that much bigger than a hot-tub really. It looks kind of shabby compared to those incredible infinity pools you see today, but once upon a time this was someone's fantasy - to live on top of Sunset Boulevard and swim in a rooftop pool shaped like the half of the moon.

  One of the original 1920's mirrors has miraculously survived numerous earthquakes. I catch sight of myself in the old spotted glass and jump as if I've seen a stranger. My hair is clumsily pinned up under a bobbed brunette wig, my eyes hidden behind giant bug-eye shades. Everyone who is anyone in Hollywood has at least a couple of wigs for emergencies.

  I stare at the phone a long while before I punch in her number.

  "Good afternoon, Dr. Stahl's office. Renee speaking. How may I help you?"

  She sounds so perky that I almost hang up. My Dad spends most of his life bitching about the relentless plastic cheerfulness of Angelenos - "Nobody is that fucking happy all the time," - but it never bothered me much. Until I was unhappy. Then it made me want to hurt someone.

  But I don't hang up. Something - guilt, loneliness, good old-fashioned shame - keeps me on the line. I clear my throat.

  "I'm a patient of Dr. Stahl's," I say. "I need to see her."

  "I see. Can I take your name, please?"

  "I'm Amber Gillespie."

  There's a brief, telling silence and then Renee says, "Would you mind holding the line for a moment, Amber?"

  I wait. I could hang up now, I guess. But then I hear Dr. Stahl's voice.

  "Amber? Is everything okay?"

  I don't know why, but it's such a relief to say it.

  "No." Everything is fucked - same as it ever was. Possibly even more fucked than it was before.

  "Would you like me to come over?" she asks, and I start to cry, stupid as it is.

  "I...I moved," I say. "I rented a place. On Sunset. I went out of the house..." I'm babbling, desperate for approval, desperate for someone to tell me I'm not a terrible person, but it's too late for that, isn't it?

  "I'll be right over," she says.

  I tear off my wig. Underneath it my hair is sweaty, unwashed. I didn't want to shower. I didn't want to wash his fingerprints away. It seems pathetic, given that I've probably ruined his life. That makes another one. How many is that now? Three? Four?