Perfectly Scripted

by Christy Pastore

  Then a story from one of my group meetings sprang to mind. A woman had told us that she had been able to talk her attacker out of beating her by appealing to his emotions. They’d had a personal relationship, like Derek and I had once shared. By skill or with enough luck, maybe I would make it out of there unharmed.

  Speaking softly, I looked him straight in the eyes. “Once upon a time, you told me I was the most precious thing in your life. I was your lucky charm.” I lifted my hands, wrapping my fingers around his forearms.

  Derek backed away, crossing his arms, and his expression softened. “Once you were, but that, sweetheart, was a long time ago. You hold no value to me anymore.”

  Oh God. Chills spiked at my spine. This was fucking crazy. I don’t think I can do this. This man had viciously raped and beaten me, and there I was, trying to have a civil conversation with him. I am a stupid girl. This would never work. If I stayed, he’d possibly break me mentally, destroy me physically, and the aftermath would be too much to bear.

  “Well, if that is true, then just go on about your business and leave me be.” Anger brewed inside me.

  He snorted, inching closer to me. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”

  “You’re sick,” I spat. “Why don’t you just go crawl back into the dark hole you crawled out of?”

  Ignoring my question, Derek asked one of his own. “So, New York City is where you’ve been hiding, Holli? I see you’ve changed your hair color, but everything else remained the same. I knew we’d meet again one day.”

  He trailed a finger over my collarbone. My skin crawled, and my strength was beginning to deteriorate. Surely he would find the cracks in my slightly damaged façade and slowly chip away at them, crushing me into smaller weak fragments. Finally, he’d reduce me to only dust and wipe away any part left of my mind, my body, and my soul. But I dug deep, finding that part of me that burned with utter determination. I would not go down without a fight.

  “I hoped we’d never meet again.” I swallowed hard. “Don’t you have a seat waiting for you on the bus to Hell?”

  He laughed. “You always were a delight, Holli Grace. Your sense of humor is wickedly delicious.”

  Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. With caution, I slinked past Derek to gather my things, surprised that he’d let me. I was even more surprised at my own strength. My body wasn’t fighting me. In every nightmare scenario I’d ever envisioned where Derek had found me only to come back and finish the job he’d started, I’d always fallen apart and allowed the fear take over. Today, however, was a breakthrough.

  I am not skipping for joy or anything. I want and need to get the fuck out of here.

  “Leaving so soon? That’s a shame. I hoped we could finish our soak together and catch up. You know, for old times’ sake.” He followed closely behind me as I darted towards the stairs.

  Clutching my keycard firmly in my hand, I proceeded to the exit.

  “Nice to see you again. I’m sure we’ll being seeing each other very soon.”

  Was he fucking serious? I hoped I never saw his face again.

  As I slid the card across the keypad, my heart rate sped up. His shadow fell over me as I scanned my card over and over with shaky hands, needing to hear the sound of the door unlocking. Finally, the door buzzed, my hand turned the handle, and I was so close to the other side.

  Derek grabbed the door, firmly holding it in place. Then he lowered his mouth to my ear. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Prescott,” he whispered darkly.

  My last name curled off Derek’s tongue and sent chills around my entire body. I didn’t look at him or make any attempt to let him know it had registered with me. But, inside my body, nothing but alarms went off.

  I pushed the door with all of my strength and wedged my body between the door and its frame. Everything was a haze after that. I slouched in the chair, stare at the wall and replayed the words he spoke in my head.

  Derek Saunders knows my last name. How the fuck did that happen?

  He knows my last name. He found me.

  Ronan

  “Right this way, Mr. Connolly.”

  My legs carried me in a run down the long corridor, but I didn’t know where I was going. The fact that I had no idea of where she was had me going out of my mind with worry. The only thing I did know at that moment was that Holliday was “out of sorts” according to the hotel manager.

  Faster. Get to her faster.

  Adrenaline coursed through my veins. My heart hammered against my rib cage.

  “Is she hurt, Marco?” I called over my shoulder.

  “She does not appear to be, sir,” he answered behind me.

  We came to a passage where we could keep going straight or turn left. Before I could ask, Marco instructed me to go left towards the hotel salon. Then Holliday’s long legs came into view. Her body was slouched in a chair. I slowed my pace. Her robe revealed that she was still wearing her swimsuit. She didn’t turn to look at me when I approached though. Hotel security stood on either side of her.

  One of the security guards sauntered towards me. “A hotel maid found her sitting like this about twenty minutes ago, Mr. Connolly, and she hasn’t moved since. However, we don’t know exactly how long she has been here.”

  “Thank you. I’m grateful for your being here with her.”

  I knelt in front of her. Still, she didn’t look at me. That’s when I heard her mumbling broken words—

  “He…How…My name…”

  “Holliday, can you hear me?” I asked, rubbing the back of her leg.

  After a few moments, she looked at me blankly and said, “He…he was here.”

  “Who was here?”

  “Derek Saunders.”

  Fuck! At the sound of his name, anger roared inside me.

  Did he touch her? I’ll kill him.

  “Where did you see him?”

  “In the spa…the whirlpool…He knew it was me. He saw my…He saw the scar.” She pushed to her feet, stumbling slightly when she tried to walk.

  I caught her by the elbow and urged her to sit back down.

  Saunders is here?

  In The York?

  I had so many questions, but my first priority was Holliday’s well-being. I wondered if she’d endured a panic attack. I was certain she was in some kind of shock.

  What did Saunders do to her?

  Was it simply seeing him that brought her to this state?

  Fuck! All of her therapy and recovery—would this incident set her back?

  “Did he hurt you? Are you hurt?”

  She looked up at me, her eyes glossy. “He pushed me around. My head hurts,” she whispered and hung her head as if she were ashamed. “Ronan…he knew it was me…He found me.”

  My heart crumbled under a hammer of worry. “Marco, I need to get her back up to the penthouse and call a doctor.” I shoved a hand through my hair. “What do you suggest?”

  “Certainly, sir. There is a service elevator down this hallway. We can take it straight to your penthouse.”

  I scooped Holliday into my arms, and she wrapped her arms around my neck. Marco and one of the security guards led the way. The other guard followed five paces behind. We stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed. I stared at my not-so-clear reflection in the metal, wondering if I’d somehow fucked up. Blake should have been on duty this weekend. No, no, fuck. I should have been with her and made sure she was safe.

  “My bag…and my keys are still in my locker at the gym…I…I need to get them.” Holliday was dazed and rambling.

  I kissed her forehead, whispering in her ear, “Shh. It’s okay. I will get them for you. Don’t worry.”

  How could I have been so careless?

  Why was Saunders here?

  Was he specifically looking for Holliday?

  If Saunders had laid a fucking hand on her, I would move Heaven and Earth to find the motherfucker and kill him myself. I wanted him to feel the pain he’d caused Holliday. I wanted him to suffer forever.

/>   I remembered it as if it was yesterday…

  When I was a young boy, about nine years old, we had a new student arrive at school. Her name was Binne. It was October, pretty chilly weather. She walked into the classroom wearing only a beige jumper with a black skirt—no coat. Her dark-red hair was tied back in a braided ponytail. The only color her fair complexion radiated was rosy pink on her cheeks from the cold. She stood with a smile on her face the entire time our teacher introduced her to the class.

  After she’d hung her backpack up, she walked over to the only seat available—the desk beside me in the back of the classroom. When Binne took her seat, her small fingers ran over the top of the wooden desk, tracing each line and groove. She carefully studied the carvings of names and designs that had been made by previous students who’d sat at that same desk. Her smile grew wide when she opened the lid of her desk. I suspected she was over the moon about her new school supplies—a crayon box, assorted pencils, erasers, and a writing tablet.

  After a few moments, I said hello to her, and she smiled and whispered hello back. There was no time for talking, as our teacher had directed us to that week’s assigned reading lesson.

  Raising her hand, Binne volunteered to read the next chapter in the story. However, it was my turn in the rotation. I began reading out loud. A few sentences in, I heard Binne quietly reading along. It was annoying, and I thought she was trying to interrupt me or trip me up. Before I got too much further along, I explained to the teacher that Binne really wanted to read today and I would skip my turn for her since she was the new girl. She cast a surprised look my way, but she pushed to her feet and began reading, not missing a beat.

  As the school year went on, I noticed that Binne never shied away from anything. She made friends fast and always volunteered to help our teacher with classroom tasks. But when each school day ended, she seemed to shut down. While the rest of us couldn’t wait to go home or outside to play, Binne sat at her desk for as long as she could, always the last one in line at the door. I didn’t understand why she loved school so much.

  One spring morning, I saw Binne sitting by herself on a swing. Her normal group of girlfriends was nowhere in sight. When I got closer, I heard her crying, and that was when I saw the bruises on her arm. I asked her what happened. Binne told me that she was so stupid for running in her house and she’d injured her arm by slamming into a chest of drawers. I believed her. I mean, we were kids for Christ’s sakes. Getting cuts, bumps, and bruises was kind of our thing.

  Only years later did I realize that the clock was her enemy, because if she was lucky, she’d only get a beating once week.

  Binne and I remained good friends throughout the rest of our primary and prep school days. When I went away to boarding school, she sent letters telling me about everything happening home, keeping me up to date with her life. She even came to visit me one weekend in London. We went to the theater, a concert in the park, and a party at a schoolmate’s flat. Everything seemed fine—until her cardigan fell off her shoulder at the party, revealing black-and-blue marks. I confronted her about the bruises, and this time, she didn’t lie. She confessed that her boyfriend had inflicted the pain.

  We left the party and walked around the city, popping in and out of taverns. I listened as Binne told me her “real” life story, the story about how her dad was a chronic abuser. Behind her smiling and bubbly exterior, she tried to hide the secret that she was a victim. There was no “typical” reason for his abuse. His anger wasn’t brought on by drugs or alcohol. When he snapped, he just snapped. Taking all of his rage out on Binne. And her mother stood by and watched.

  I didn’t understand how parents could treat their children this way. All I knew was that it was wrong and I hated hearing that someone I cared about was being hurt. That wasn’t the first time her boyfriend had beaten her up, she admitted. I begged Binne to leave her boyfriend, even going as far as to suggest she move away from Cork and find a job in London or anywhere far away from the toxic environment. Somewhere around three in the morning, after several pints of beer, Binne told me that she’d made a decision to leave her boyfriend and family behind.

  The next day, she boarded the train for home, but that was the last time I saw her—alive, anyway. Two weeks later, I attended Binne’s funeral. I watched, stunned, as her parents grieved for a daughter who had been beaten and stabbed to death by her abusive boyfriend. Anger bubbled inside me while I listened to her mother bawling. Rage pumped through my system as I witnessed Binne’s father asking the Lord why he’d taken his only child, shaking his head over and over. The cherry on top, the ultimate undoing of self-control, was watching Binne’s mother hurl her body over the casket before they lowered it into the cold ground.

  I saw red. My fists flew at Binne’s father’s face. He was a large, burly man, so it was no wonder that Binne hadn’t ever escaped his grip. He instantly knocked my ass to the ground. My own father picked me up and told me to mind my fucking manners.

  Pure fucking rage consumed me, and I lost it. I let everyone know that day that Binne’s parents had beaten the fucking shit out of her nearly every day of her young life. That they were just as guilty as the man who had taken her life. As far as I was concerned, they both had Binne’s spilled blood on their hands. I hoped Binne wasn’t too upset with me for disrupting her funeral.

  Perhaps the saddest part of Binne’s tragedy was that there was no justice for my friend, because the man who’d killed her ended up taking his own life weeks before his trial.

  I sat beside Holliday as she slept from the mild sedative Dr. Goodwin had given her to relax. Scrubbing my hands down my face, I couldn’t help shake the feeling that perhaps my need to get justice for Holliday was possibly related to Binne. If I was somehow able to get justice for Holliday, in some small way, Binne would receive peace as well. I sounded crazy.

  Dr. Goodwin was obviously concerned for Holliday’s well-being. “This is the second time I’ve had to give a sedative to Holliday.”

  I was fairly certain he wanted to add on the words since you two began your relationship.

  “I’m well aware of that fact, Doctor. I’m the one who called you on both occasions.”

  “I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” he said firmly. Then he stood and ambled towards the door. “Let Holliday know if she needs to talk to call my office and set an appointment.”

  Nodding, I handed him his coat and thanked him for coming to check on Holliday so swiftly.

  After he’d left, I poured a drink and stared out the window. The gloomy, grey clouds that hung in the sky perfectly complemented my sad mood. This was not how I’d wanted to spend a romantic weekend with Holliday.

  I grabbed my phone off the desk and swiped the screen. A message from Ella appeared.

  ELLA: I’m fairly certain I’ll be in NYC this spring or summer. So excited! Will call you with details soon.

  While this bit of news made me happy, it also sent my mind reeling. I was feeling somewhere between concerned and uneasy. I had to make sure Ella would be safe.

  As the hours ticked by, I grew restless. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and slumped down on the couch. I still hadn’t heard from Dean. I needed to know why Saunders was in town. Any information could have been helpful. More importantly, I wanted to talk to Holliday. I just hoped she’d be okay, and I prayed that this incident hadn’t undone all the hard work with her recovery. He’d laid his filthy hands on her again—that much I knew to be true.

  And so help me God, it would be the last fucking time.

  Holliday

  The rumbling of thunder and the whooshing of wind jolted me from my sleep. Darkness swirled around me. A tiny bit of light spread across the carpet from under the doors of the master suite. Fog coated my brain and body, and sickness rolled through my stomach.

  Why did I take a nap? Naps make me feel disgusting. Better yet, how long was my nap?

  My bare feet padded over the thick carpet to the cool tile of the bathroom. The overs
ized T-shirt I was wearing clung to my sweat-soaked skin. I flipped the switch and waited for the lights to go from dim to bright so I could assess my physical appearance.

  The faint smell of chlorine zipped up my nose. Then my eyes fell to my swimsuit, which was hanging from the towel rack. I turned the faucet on and splashed cool water on my overheated skin. Muddled images of Derek and the whirlpool room flashed in my head. As if on cue, a throbbing pain pounded at the back of my skull.

  Derek found me.

  A chill climbed up my legs and settled in my spine. I shook the memory off and grabbed a towel from the linen closet. Steam filled the room as I tugged the T-shirt over my head and tossed it to the floor.

  As I showered, I scrubbed the horrible encounter with Derek off my body. Lathering the shampoo through my wet strands, I stripped them free of chlorine and his choking grip. The memory of Derek’s face, his snarling lips, and his demonic eyes suffocated me. I scrubbed harder and faster. The smell of peppermint danced around me, frosting over the ugliness.

  Stepping out of the shower I wrapped the dry towel around me and then combed through my hair. My blonde roots had begun to shine through. I thought about my next salon appointment as my fingers weaved through the hairs along my part, studying each patch of light color.

  I pulled on a pair of comfy pajama bottoms and a cotton tank top. Then I entered the bathroom again and applied a generous amount of eye cream along with some facial moisturizer.

  “Holliday.”

  I turned at the sound of Ronan’s voice. He was standing in the doorway, holding a bottle of whiskey. Yes, a bottle—not a tumbler. The light from the bathroom hit his face, bringing heavy-lidded, red eyes into view.