by Meli Raine
Lavender. I smell it, and the scent of beeswax, plus something else unique. As I’m gently laid down on smooth, cool cotton blankets I open my eyes and realize I’m in my old bedroom.
Unlike the rest of the house, it is exactly the same. Exactly. Not a single item has been moved in four years.
I exhale without realizing I’ve been holding my breath. Relief pounds through me like a pulse. If Mom and Dad changed my room, I would probably have a nervous breakdown.
“Jesus, Lindsay, don’t do that again,” Drew rasps in my ear as he sets me down. The brush of hot breath against my earlobe makes me shiver. All the heat in my body pools between my legs. And then it begins to throb, like a beacon begging for Drew to find his way home.
For four years I have suppressed every sexual feeling inside me. My therapists told me that was unhealthy, but I didn’t care. Don’t care. Never, ever cared and never will.
My body is betraying me, though, as it comes alive from Drew’s touch.
“Don’t do what? Faint? So sorry to disappoint you, Drew. I’ll work harder to control involuntary responses to overwhelming situations next time, and all just for you.” Sarcasm fills my voice, the sound dripping with contempt. I have to marshal the negativity. If I don’t, the sound of my own craving will fill the room and Drew will hear it.
Know it.
And reject it.
He flinches, but doesn’t back down. “I meant,” he says, eyes made of steel, “that you have to be more careful.”
“Worried about my safety, suddenly? What a refreshing change.”
This time he goes silent, nose flaring with anger, mouth tightening.
Daddy walks in and looks at me with an expression of concern tinged with something more calculating than just a father’s worry.
“Maybe you’re not ready to come home, Lindsay.” Daddy and Drew exchange a look. “Maybe this is too soon,” he adds. Drew’s face remains blank.
No.
Hell, no.
A switch in my brain flips, pushed by the sheer force of my will to go from A to B. Click. I give him my best fake-genuine smile, tempered slightly with the pretend feeling of being overwhelmed by fainting.
By life.
“I’ll be fine, Daddy. Just fine. I need a few days to adjust,” I say in an even tone. I’ve practiced this for four years, and fooled the staff at the island, so Daddy’s no match for me.
His shoulders relax, tension pouring out.
Right answer.
“That’s my girl,” he says, already thinking about the next major item on his daily To Do list. Anya, his long-time executive administrator, walks in the room, head bent over a clipboard and a stack of files, a wireless phone earpiece in her ear like something out of a Star Trek movie.
“Senator Bosworth, the foreign relations committee is holding an emergency session on...” Her voice trails down as she realizes Drew and I are in the room.
“Lindsay!” Anya’s steel-blue eyes light up with genuine warmth. Her ash-blonde hair is coiffed perfectly, cut in an easy, layered style befitting a fifty-something woman, and she’s wearing a pearl-grey suit. For fun, she runs triathlons.
Daddy wouldn’t know when to go to the bathroom without Anya. She runs his life. Daddy thinks he’s the big, powerful senator with all the connections, but if Anya ever quits he’d be as helpless as an infant.
“Hi,” I say, waving awkwardly from my bed. I sit up on my elbows. Thankfully, I chose to wear pants for this homecoming trip. I tuck my feet under me and sit up, grabbing a pillow for support. Suddenly, vulnerable, I feel like I’m naked even though I’m fully dressed.
Anya gives my dad a questioning look. “You didn’t mention Lindsay was coming home.” She’s smiling and friendly, but there’s a tone under those words. I feel instantly vindicated. Anya’s clearly been on my side this entire time.
Unlike Daddy and my mom.
And Drew.
“We weren’t sure until the last minute that she was,” Daddy says, matching her tone. His message is clear: Don’t cross me on this.
The only hint that Anya’s disturbed by all this comes from the slight widening of her eyeliner-heavy eyes. Tight cheeks rise up in a smile.
“What a wonderful surprise!” Anya turns away from Daddy, drops her armload of papers on my desk, and reaches for a hug. I stand, my legs more sure than they were just a couple of minutes ago. Drew reaches for my elbow, as if to steady me, but I pretend I don’t notice.
He doesn’t actually touch me. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but in the balance, I think I’m more disappointed than relieved.
Knowing that makes me panic.
And flush.
Anya’s hug is warm and sincere, the first true welcome I’ve felt since I escaped from the island and walked into my own house. It occurs to me that my mother isn’t here. I haven’t seen her. Is she even home?
I open my mouth to ask, then stop myself. Daddy, Drew and Anya are all giving me covert side glances. I’m under a microscope. Now isn’t the time to ask about Mom.
Besides, I pretty much know the answer. Why would she be here today, of all days, when she could only make the time to visit me once a year on the island?
A raw feeling pulses in my chest. It rises up, threatening to strangle me. Like hands on my collarbone, wrapping around the soft skin of my neck, it seeks to cut me off from my life source. I can’t breathe. My skin hums. I’m being watched in my own home. This is supposed to be my safe place. My sanctuary.
Maybe I’ve traded one prison for another.
And the worst part?
Now there really is nowhere safe in the world for me.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Lindsay,” Anya whispers in my ear. “It’s been far too long. You’re welcome at my house any time. Let’s have dinner one night next week. And Jane would love to see you, too.”
Jane. I jolt, shivering like a spider runs up my spine. I haven’t seen Jane since the night she found me.
Broken, battered, bruised, bloodied...and still tied up with those three bright scarves.
“I’d like that,” I say evenly. “How is Jane?”
“Oh, she’s working for this new tech start-up,” Anya says brightly. “Got her degree in computer science. You know how she always had such an analytical mind? Now she’s using it.”
I give her one of those socially-appropriate smiles. It’s pure instinct, the corners of my mouth moving up in response to her facial expression and tone.
“That’s great.”
Daddy and Drew are conferring, heads together, voices low and monotonic. They’re like sonar in human form.
I’m on their radar, and they’re always tracking my mood.
“Senator Bosworth,” Anya says, all business suddenly, reaching for her stack of papers and whatnot, “we need to get to the lawn for the helicopter trip.”
Daddy looks like he’s just been handed a brand new shiny red bike for Christmas. His relief at being able to leave me makes those invisible hands on my throat tighten just enough to make me cough.
Drew holds up one finger in Anya’s direction, never taking his eyes off Daddy. “He’ll be there in a minute, Anya. You go ahead and get the crew ready.”
With a curt nod, she submits, then spins on one heel and leaves.
Drew’s ice-cold eyes make my heart restart, the hands loosening at my neck, my body expanding with the pounding of blood running in double time.
Before he can say a word, I mimic Anya, not giving him the pleasure of ordering me out of the room.
Chapter 7
“You’re demanding way too much from Lindsay.” I’m almost around the corner and into the living room when I hear Drew’s angry voice. I skitter to a halt, nearly pitching forward but grabbing the wall in time. He sounds like he’s ready to punch Daddy.
“I’m in charge here. I’m her father. I’ll decide what she can and cannot handle.”
I hold my breath. There were times in the Insight Center...er, mental instituti
on...when I had a chance to overhear private conversations. The staff were so careful, but eventually people slipped up. Never Stacia. Never, ever, did Stacia make a mistake, but the lower-level counselors and nurses sometimes sat in small groups and quietly talked about the patients.
Talked about me.
Listening in on Daddy and Drew fighting about me is even more riveting than those snippets from the past.
“I thought I was in charge of Lindsay’s security,” Drew snaps. He makes no other sound. No sigh, no grunt, no nothing. He’s so self-contained. I can imagine his face, eyes hooded and fierce. I can see my dad in my mind’s eye, too. Blank face, burning eyes, and the body language of a dangerously powerful man who can squash you like a bug.
I know I’m right. If I peek around the corner, I’ll confirm I’m right.
My heart slaps against my ribs like someone playing a bongo drum. The erratic rhythm fills my ears. Blood rushes to the surface of my skin like angry bees, and swoon.
“I thought so, too,” Daddy snaps back. “And part of your job involved determining whether she was ready.”
Ready for what?
“She’s been more than ready. Four fucking years, Harry.” Drew’s voice drops to the kind of hiss reserved to brutal contempt. It’s the voice you use with someone when you have nothing left to lose.
It’s starting to occur to me that maybe Drew isn’t just here for the paycheck, after all. If I had any illusions that he and Daddy have been best buddies while I’ve been gone, they just disappeared.
“Don’t use that tone of voice with me,” Daddy answers. He doesn’t correct Drew on using his first name, though.
“You know you’ve been having her drugged up to keep her quiet.”
“I’ve done no such thing.” Daddy’s voice detours from his calm, cold focus. He sounds slightly panicky, which makes my stomach turn numb, electric shocks radiating out from my navel.
What? What? Daddy never, ever sounds like this. Senator Harwell Bosworth doesn’t do panic.
“What Monica and I have done, as Lindsay’s parents, is to consult with the medical and psychiatric experts to make sure she receives the best transitional care possible so she can re-assimilate into daily life,” he adds. By the time he’s done, he’s back in control.
My heart beat isn’t, though.
“And that included being drugged with enough sedatives to kill a baby elephant for nearly three years?” Drew’s voice is so calm it’s like they’re talking about the weather, or the Kentucky Derby, or a sale at Brooks Brothers.
It chills me to the marrow.
Because I know, and Daddy knows, that every word coming out of my ex-boyfriend’s mouth is deep truth.
“Is that what they told you at the island?” Daddy’s laugh is harsh, coarse, like sandpaper meant to rub up against your skin and make you bleed slowly. “I knew it was a mistake to give you access to Lindsay’s medical records.”
Huh?
“Not a mistake. Probably the best decision you’ve ever made in your career, Senator.”
I can feel Daddy’s physical reaction, even if I can’t see him, as Drew shifts from first name to honorific. My breath tightens. My legs feel like jello encased in numbing gel. My eyes flicker, unable to settle on one object. I look at the thermostat, the door lock, a crystal vase on a side table. Each item is like a snapshot.
My ears take in the tsunami of truth about the man behind the curtain who has been controlling me for all these years from afar.
“You know exactly why Lindsay was at the island. You know what those monsters did. And the media storm after was a nightmare for her. The accusations, the recriminations, the god-damned attacks on her character. The never-ending paparazzi, the speculation, the spun stories about her state that night.”
I have no idea what Daddy’s talking about. All I remember from four years ago is waking up, tied and bound, stuck to the carpet by what I later learned was my own, dried blood, with Jane over me, weeping and frantic, calling the police.
And then I woke up again, on the island.
I’ve spent four years there reconstructing everything about that night.
What Daddy and Drew are talking about, though, is all new to me.
“She wasn’t drunk or high, sir. I’ve told you that a thousand times. I was there for most of the night.”
Most? I almost scream the word aloud. I clap my palm over my mouth to stop myself. It’s like kissing a wall of ice. Drew was there for every second. I watched the video. I have ways of getting information online, even on the restricted venue of the island. Part of my misery—part of my healing—has come from watching the footage over and over, deconstructing every frame, understanding who did what.
And who didn’t do anything.
“You weren’t there long enough,” Daddy spits out. Drew goes silent. I can’t see them, but I can imagine them. Daddy’s voice lacks conviction, though. It’s clear this is an old argument. They’ve said these words to each other before. How many times? How well worn are the arguments between them, the discussions and analyses about me?
And what does Daddy mean that my character was attacked?
“She’s stronger than you think. But don’t expect Lindsay to be anything close to the young woman you knew before the attack,” Drew says in a sharp voice.
“Of course not! She’s traumatized and—”
“That’s not what I mean.” A chill shoots up my spine. Has Drew caught on to me? Has he figured out I’m faking so much?
“Then what?”
“When she learns the truth about what happened after the attack, she’ll, well...”
Daddy just sighs.
“We have therapists for that. And, worst case, she can return to the island.”
No.
NO!
I press my palm against my mouth so hard I feel my lower teeth dig into the knuckle of my middle finger. My skin tastes like copper.
“That’s not what I mean, sir.”
From Harry to Senator to Sir? Drew’s contempt for my father shines through as this conversation continues. How long before he starts calling him asshole?
The thought makes a hysterical giggle rise up in my throat. I bite my finger on purpose to keep it down.
“Then say what you mean!” Daddy growls.
Drew clears his throat. His voice drops. I can barely hear him, but I can make out his words.
“When Lindsay learns that the attackers convinced a group of her friends to lie and say she was drunk and high, and that she encouraged the gang rape, she will be out for blood.”
My own blood freezes.
“And when she sees the news articles, and when you go on the campaign trail with her in tow, you’re going to have to deal with all of those lies being dredged up again.”
“I know that damn well, Drew. And your job is to protect her from—”
“And she won’t take it like a victim.”
“Excuse me?” Daddy chokes out, clearly shocked by Drew’s words.
My heart pumps ice through me. I can feel chunks of it rolling against my skin. Drew’s words are more frightening than anything anyone has said to or about me in four years.
Because he’s right.
Oh, dear sweet merciful deity, he’s figured me out.
For real.
“You think you’ve brought Lindsay home so you can prop her up on the campaign trail and make a picture of a perfect family. And with enough dodging and deferral, and public relations spin and volleying, you can.”
Daddy’s voice floods with relief. “That’s exactly why she’s home.”
“But do not underestimate Lindsay’s agenda.”
Oh, God.
Daddy makes a snorting sound. I can imagine his eye roll. “Lindsay? An agenda? What agenda does Lindsay have beyond shopping for a whole new wardrobe so she can keep up with the latest fashions?”
Ouch.
“Is that really how you see her?” Drew ends his sentence with a derisive huff
.
Daddy’s silence says everything I need to hear.
“You think of her as a puppet, Harry.”
So now we’re back to first names.
“I think of her as my daughter.” A tone of anguish I’ve never heard comes out of my father. It warms me. A little.
“And I think of her as a human being who is independent and has her own feelings, thoughts, and reactions. You want her to fit into your plans for the campaign. And she might.”
“She will.”
“Don’t count on it. She’s sharper than you think. always has been. You’ve underestimated her for years. When I saw those medical records—” Drew’s voice breaks off, choked with emotion. “That mental institution just doped her up to shut her up.”
“Dammit, Drew!” Something bangs, hard, like Daddy’s slammed his fist on a table.
“And you can argue all you want, but the bottom line is this: she’s home. I’m glad she’s home. I’m glad she’s out of a place she probably only needed for the first few months, and mostly just to heal outside of the limelight. But you’ve done her no favors keeping her hidden for so long. Between what she’s about to learn about her reputation, and the juicy, vicious gossipmongers who are going to love to get their hands on any tidbit about her, you’ve set Lindsay up for a mess.”
“You done lecturing me?” Daddy’s voice has gone cold and dismissive. It’s the voice of my childhood.
“No,” Drew says casually. His words make me bite back a smile. “It’s bad enough she’s been cloistered for so long. That’s one issue. The other is that she won’t react the way you want her to. And the cat’s out of the bag. You can’t just stuff her back into that institution again.”
“What do you plan to do about that?”
“Me?” Drew’s voice goes up just enough to make me warm up.
“Yes, you. Your job is to control her.”
“My job is to protect her.”
“Same thing.” I hear footsteps. A door slams.
And then, quietly but clearly, I hear Drew hiss:
