by Hyland, Tara
As Elizabeth studied the figures, she realized it might just work. At the level they were offering, it wouldn’t make much financial sense for Armand Bouchard to top that. And William wouldn’t be able to amass the sort of backing he would need in order to counter the bid.
“And with his ill health lately, I don’t think any bank will see him as a good risk,” Piers concluded. “Of course, I know neither of us wants to hurt your father,” he said hurriedly, “but it does seem to me that he isn’t thinking straight at the moment. Maybe in the long run he’ll even thank us for this.”
On her way home that night, Elizabeth wondered if she dared talk Piers’s proposal over with Cole. Usually she liked to get his opinion on any major decision within the company, since he often saw something that she didn’t. Maybe this would be a good way to get them talking again. But as soon as Elizabeth walked into the house, she knew it wasn’t to be.
Two brown leather cases stood by the front door. Cole was leaving her.
She found him in the living room, sitting in the dark. A glass of whiskey sat in front of him on the coffee table—it was hardly touched. Elizabeth stood still, a cold feeling sweeping through her. She was surprised how strong her voice sounded as she asked, “What’s going on, Cole?”
Cole ran the tumbler of amber liquid between his hands. He couldn’t even look at her.
“I’m moving out. Slowly he raised his gaze to meet hers. “There’s no point in me being here. I haven’t been happy for a long time, and I don’t think you have either.”
She walked over to the chair opposite him and sat down. “How can you know what I’m feeling when you haven’t bothered to ask?” she said, more calmly than she felt.
“I have been asking, Elizabeth. You just haven’t noticed. I’ve tried talking about this.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “I’ve been trying for months. But you don’t seem remotely interested in making things work.”
“And you are?” she retorted. “Because tell me, please—how exactly is screwing your secretary helping our marriage?”
The words took a moment to sink in. She saw the look of surprise cross his face and almost enjoyed it.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said softly. “I know all about Sumiko.”
He had the grace to look ashamed. “Look, it just happened, okay? You were never here . . .”
“Oh, so this is my fault?” Elizabeth broke in. “I drove you to it, did I? Let me guess, I don’t understand you the way she does.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He ran a hand through his short, dark hair. “It just . . . wasn’t the same between us. And Sumiko—well, she flattered me, paid me a lot of attention, I suppose.”
“Yeah, I just bet she did.”
Cole winced at the venom in her voice. Elizabeth saw his reaction and wished that she could take the words back. Why did she always find it easier to make a quick retort than say what was in her heart? She wanted to start this conversation over, only this time she’d tell him how she really felt: how she hated what he had done, how she had cried for hours over his affair . . . how she still loved him and wished she’d listened to him months earlier, so that it hadn’t come to this.
But when she closed her eyes, she couldn’t get that image of the two of them out of her head. She wasn’t sure she ever would. Sumiko: soft and obliging, sweet and exotic . . . everything that she, Elizabeth, wasn’t.
“I guess it was handy for you,” she said sharply, suddenly wanting to pick a fight.
He looked at her wearily. “What’s that?”
“That I was working so hard. I guess it gave you a lot of free time to see her.” Elizabeth couldn’t stand to say her name again. “I mean, how long has it been going on for? It must have been a while. I figured it out a few weeks ago, and what do they always say—that the wife is the last to know.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “So it must have started a long time before that—”
Cole looked pained. “Elizabeth, please. This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Well, I think I have a right to know the details. Like, when did it start between you? And where exactly did you conduct your little trysts?”
“Elizabeth, don’t!”
But she wasn’t listening. “Did you go to a hotel? Did you bring her back here?” She could hear her voice growing shrill, a note of hysteria creeping in, but she continued with her rant. “Does everyone at your office know? Have they all been laughing behind my back?” She stopped abruptly, aware suddenly of how overwrought she sounded.
Cole stared at her for a long moment. “Maybe it’s best if I go,” he said quietly.
“Go where?” she snapped. “To be with her?”
Sensing the conversation was going nowhere, Cole got to his feet. It struck her then. He was going; he was really leaving her. She desperately wanted to say something to stop him. She knew this was the moment, if ever there had been one, to tell him about the baby. But her pride intervened. If this was really it, she didn’t want his last image to be of her begging him to stay.
So she said nothing and instead watched as he walked away from her.
At the door he stopped, turned back. “This isn’t about Sumiko, Elizabeth. It never was. She’s the symptom, not the cause, of what’s been going wrong.”
With that, he was gone.
52
_________
Amber was feeling no pain. She was happy, oh so happy. There was nothing like it—sitting cross-legged around the flame, that long moment of anticipation as the brown powder melted into a ball of fluid, and then leaning over greedily to breathe in its magical perfume.
Over the years, she’d indulged in everything from alcohol and marijuana to ketamine, coke, Ecstasy, and speed. But, for her, nothing beat the heroin rush: that first burst of euphoria as the drug crossed the blood-brain barrier, the intense explosion of pleasure in her gut that slowly melted into a feeling of warmth and well-being, as though she were floating away on a cloud where no one could touch her. There were no worries with heroin, no nagging self-doubt—only sweet release. And that’s what Amber craved.
Of course, she’d dabbled with H over the past two years, ever since that first time Johnny had introduced her to it. But this time it was different. Somehow it had become a regular part of her routine. And she would be concerned about that, except most of the time these days she was in a happy place, where there was no need to worry.
The only drawback was that Weasel seemed to be around more than ever.
“Do you have to bring him here?” Amber complained one time. “I don’t like the way he looks at me.” She shivered just thinking about him. “It gives me the creeps.”
Johnny shrugged disinterestedly. “Yeah, so he fancies you, princess. You should be flattered.” He gave her a sly look. “In fact, maybe if you were a bit nicer to him, he’d be nicer to us.”
Amber recoiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Johnny quickly shook his head. “Nothing. Just kiddin’ around. Forget it already.”
And Amber found it easy to forget once he started heating up the silver foil.
Except, as the weeks went by, it was getting harder and harder to achieve that same feeling of euphoria. She was doing more and more hits a day, but it just didn’t have the same effect.
“I know how you can feel that good again,” Johnny said whenever she complained. And she knew what he was talking about. The syringe he kept offering. The promise he made that it would hit the spot much faster, give her that same rush as the first time. Her mouth went dry, her palms sweaty, just thinking about it. It was taking all her self-control to say no.
One night Johnny brought home some extra good stuff, “Real pure,” he assured her. He was right. It was so good that Amber stopped minding that Sheri and Weasel were there, too. As the hit took hold, she sank back on the cushions spread out across the floor of the living room. Still no furniture, but who cared? She felt so mellow, like she was seeing everything through a ha
ze. Life was good.
Sheri stood up and held out her hand to Johnny. The rest of them had stuck to snorting coke, so they weren’t as out of it as Amber.
“Why don’t we go in there?” Sheri nodded at the spare room.
Johnny took one look at Amber, decided she was too far gone to notice, and followed Sheri inside. As he closed the door, he saw Weasel moving toward a drowsy Amber. The two men exchanged looks. Johnny didn’t feel bad about their little agreement. It wasn’t as if Amber had any idea what was going on right now. And it was about time she started paying her way.
Through the haze, Amber watched Johnny and Sheri go. She felt drowsy and wondered if it was time for her to sleep, too. But she didn’t want to be alone just yet. Weasel was here, though, to keep her company. She held out her arms to him.
“Wee-zel,” she sang drowsily. “Love-ly Wee-zel.” She giggled. Then she promptly passed out.
Weasel looked down at the unconscious girl. He had been looking forward to this for a long, long time. He’d had to put up with her high-and-mighty ways for months. But now everything had changed. She was in the dirt and he was in control.
He licked his cracked lips in anticipation, watching her stretch and smile in her sleep. She was in a good place, having good times. He felt his hard-on deflate a little. In his fantasies she’d always been fully aware of what he was doing to her, that was part of the turn-on.
Bitch, he thought. Fucking bitch. Well, she wasn’t going to cheat him out of this. He had the whole night to do whatever he wanted with her. Maybe he just needed to get creative.
Feeling better, he leaned down and picked her up in a fireman’s lift over his shoulder. He wasn’t a strong guy—but she weighed pretty much nothing, and it was easy enough to carry her through to the bedroom. He kicked the door shut, dropped her on the bed.
By the time he’d taken her clothes off, he was geared up and ready to go. He quickly got undressed himself, catching sight of the condom that had fallen out of his jeans pocket. God, how he hated those things. Everyone made you use one these days—even the hookers. Well, not tonight. The thought made him harder. He turned Amber over and ran his hands over her skinny white buttocks.
This was going to be great.
Amber woke in her bedroom the next morning. Her first thought, as it was every morning, was that in five minutes she could have her first hit of the day. Tears sprang to her eyes. God, she felt low. It wasn’t a new feeling, of course. She often woke miserable and depressed. Sometimes it was so bad that she just wanted everything to end. But Johnny seemed to sense those days and knew exactly what to do. The H usually cured that, made all the bad thoughts go away. But today Johnny wasn’t there with her. She was alone. And something wasn’t right.
She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, for one thing. She was on top of the sheets. Her clothes were on, but not right. Her T-shirt was inside out, the buttons on her jeans fastened wrong. She tried to remember the night before. They’d been in the living room, her, Johnny, Sheri, and Weasel. She remembered taking some stuff, some great stuff, and then . . . She must have passed out. She’d had a horrible dream. About Weasel.
She felt a chill descend on her. There was no air conditioner on, the room was like an oven, but her body was covered in goosebumps. She suddenly became aware of the pain between her legs and in her back, as if someone had tried to split her open. Her eyes strayed to the baseball bat in the corner. There was blood on the handle.
Her screams brought Johnny running in.
“What did he do?” she kept yelling over and over again. “What did you let him do to me?”
She was sobbing hysterically. Johnny kept trying to take her in his arms, to calm her down, but this time she wouldn’t be pacified so easily. Over the tears and shouting, she thought she heard the front door click closed.
“What was that?” she demanded, suddenly alert. “Was that Sheri? Did you spend the night with her while that sicko—?” She stopped talking then because she couldn’t breathe, she was almost hyperventilating. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” she kept panting over and over again.
“Fucking calm down, Amber!” Johnny yelled at her. Then he slapped her across the face hard: once, twice. He’d read that shock like that could snap someone out of their hysteria. It was a risky approach, but it paid off. Amber finally stopped screaming. The crying and shouting subsided, and soon she was just sitting on the edge of the bed, sobbing quietly.
“But you don’t understand,” she whimpered. “The stuff he did . . .”
Johnny was kneeling in front of her now. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her a little. “Don’t be stupid. That never happened. It was just a dream.”
Amber felt confused. It had seemed so real. But it couldn’t have happened, right? Johnny wouldn’t have let something like that happen to her.
He was speaking to her in low, reassuring tones. “I’ve got something for you. Something that’ll make you forget everything. Does that sound good?” She nodded numbly, knowing what he was going to do and no longer having the energy to argue. She wanted to put those horrible thoughts out of her mind.
She held out her skinny arm for him.
After that, she was mainlining three times a day. And Johnny was right, it wasn’t like all the scare stories. Life was the same as always—just so much better because whenever things got bad she knew there was that sweet release available.
Sometimes she wondered why she’d been so afraid of the syringe. She wasn’t a junkie—someone who would steal a TV for a fix, rob a pharmacy without considering getting caught. She was a functioning addict, someone who was able to hide the dilated pupils, needle scars, and ferocious hunger from everyone who knew her. For now, at least.
Rich came by to see her. He’d surprised her by keeping in touch.
“Jesus, Amber!” he said when she opened the door. “What the hell’s happened to you?”
He frowned at the long-sleeved shirt she wore even though it was hitting ninety degrees outside. That was a stupid move, she realized. People noticed stuff like that, something out of the ordinary. She’d have to be smarter.
Even she was surprised at how sneaky she could be. She learned to disguise the needle marks with makeup and cover up her weight loss by wearing baggy clothes. If anyone asked why she was so thin, she was quite happy to hint that she was anorexic. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her, as long as they didn’t find out about the precious H and take it away from her.
Johnny Wilcox had gone out that night with the express intention of getting good and drunk. He’d ended up in a bar in Reseda, one of L.A.’s shittier neighborhoods. It was a typical sleazy establishment, complete with pool table, rednecks, and a beefy bartender hiding a Glock under the counter in case of trouble. And alcohol, of course. Cheap alcohol.
Except the alcohol wasn’t having the desired effect. He owed money to men who frankly scared the shit out of him. And that was keeping him sober.
The empty-eyed waitress saw he’d finished his drink. “Can I git you anything else?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
They’d told him yesterday that he had a week to come up with the cash. There was no way. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten himself into this mess in the first place. When his record deal hadn’t come through, he’d started dealing on the side. It had seemed like easy money at first. He had good connections in the music industry, which meant a ready supply of customers who had the means to pay.
But then that deal Weasel had set him up on had gone bad. He’d turned up at the meet as usual but, instead of the regular buyer, a Hummer had drawn up. He hadn’t been able to make out any faces—he’d been too busy staring at the submachine pistol. He’d had no choice but to hand over the stuff. It was a setup, he reckoned. And he suspected Weasel had something to do with it.
“One hundred thousand dollars, Johnny,” an anonymous voice had told him down the phone last night. “By the end of next week.”
It might as well be on
e hundred million. The only major asset Amber had left was the house, and there wasn’t enough time to sell that. You’d think with all that money her family had, she’d be able to lay her hands on some cash.
The only option left was running—but he’d been assured that if he tried anything like that, it would end badly for him. He wasn’t inclined to put the threat to the test. Especially since on the way down here he was almost sure he was being followed. Maybe he was being paranoid, but a black Mercedes had been on his tail. Granted, it had sped on when he pulled over, but still . . .
He downed a final shot, threw twenty dollars he couldn’t afford on the table, and headed for the door.
Outside, the alleyway that ran along the back of the bar was deserted. He pulled his baseball cap down and hurried toward his car. Sirens wailed as two cop cars and an ambulance sped by on the main street. Another busy night in downtown L.A. He jumped as a trash-can lid crashed to the ground behind him. Then he heard a cat screech into the darkness and relaxed a little, hurrying on.
He was nearly back to where he’d parked when he noticed that another car had pulled in front of his. As he got closer, the headlights came on, hitting him in the face.
“Hey!” he protested. He held up his hand, shielding his eyes from the glare. As he became accustomed to the light, he realized the car was the black Mercedes he’d spotted earlier. The windshield glass was tinted so he couldn’t see inside.
He stopped, thought about turning and running. But he had no idea where he’d go.
One of the car doors opened. A man he didn’t recognize got out.
“Mr. Wilcox?” He spoke in a cultured English accent. “I have a business proposition for you.”
53
_________
Caitlin always loved visiting Lucien’s parents. Going to Aldringham was such a somber affair, even now, after her reconciliation with William. The Duval household was the diametric opposite—large, noisy, and haphazard.
“You have such a wonderful family,” she’d said to Lucien, the first time he’d taken her to meet them. It was how she wanted her home to be.
