by Meli Raine
“Any time, Lindsay. Anything you need, I’m here.” Her eyes pierce me. “I mean that.”
First time anyone here at home has said that, and it’s a perfect stranger. I haven’t even seen my own mother yet. Tears threaten to overpower me. I can’t let them.
“Thanks,” I say again, and then walk away, knowing it’s rude. Sometimes, you have to be rude instead of falling to pieces in front of someone. If I have to pick, I’ll choose rude every time.
I rush through the double French doors out to the large stone patio and stop. A fine mist covers the view to the ocean, and the air smells like salt and hope. In two hours all the mist will burn off and the sun will be back out, but for now, I embrace this. The morning chill is just enough to give me goosebumps, but as I start off with an easy jog I know the cold will fade fast.
I jog, shoving the earbuds in, and let Nine Inch Nails take me out of my own head and pound all my feelings into my bones, one step at a time.
Chapter 11
Two miles later and I’m flushed, the heat emanating from within. My plan runs through my blood like a pathogen. I’m infected with this germ of a thought that came to me about a year ago.
I know how to get back at them. All four of them.
Except now, maybe, only the three.
Having Daddy assign Drew to be in charge of my security detail is a major blow to my plan. For four years I just assumed he was in on the rapes. That he was complicit. One look in his eyes yesterday dissolved all that. There is no way he was part of it.
And now I have to rethink everything I thought I knew was true.
Taking Drew out of my plan makes this so much easier. Technically, he didn’t violate me. He wasn’t part of the crew who used my own clothing to tie me up. His body never, ever penetrated mine to the bone. He didn’t bloody me. Bruise me. Steal my soul.
But by doing nothing, he was worse.
So much worse.
I picked my running playlist based on the pace of the songs, choosing beats meant to drown out the world. I’m flying now, the strenuous clip making me huff as I nearly sprint on the carefully-groomed walking path that Mom designed about ten years ago. It’s exactly two and a half miles and today, I plan to run it four times in a row.
If I exhaust myself and turn into a noodle, it’ll be the best possible outcome for this impossible transition home.
Something touches my shoulder. I shrug, then scream behind closed lips. I feel heat behind me. Animal heat. Next to me. Vibrations from someone make me rip my earbuds out and sprint—hard. Someone’s following me, and at this point in the path, there’s no safety. I’m completely encased by some giant, thick-vined plant that feels like a spiny cage and can’t be seen by anyone at the main house.
Something touches my shoulder again.
I throw myself to the ground, remembering my self-defense training classes at the island. Women have more power in their leg muscles, so when you’re being attacked, drop. Use that power. Scream. Fight.
Fight.
I coil my leg back, ready to strike, and look up.
To find a very amused, panting, sweating Drew looking down at me. He’s wearing cargo shorts that look out of place, running shoes, and a tight, light-blue t-shirt that is soaked with perspiration. No sunglasses. A headpiece for a cell phone.
Cargo shorts?
And then I see the gun strapped into a belt around his waist.
“What the hell?” I scream, keeping my legs ready. Maybe Daddy made a huge mistake. Maybe Drew really was part of the attack and what if he’s here to get his turn, now.
As I make eye contact, all the amusement in Drew’s expression drains out.
“Are you out of your mind?” I scream again. “Get the hell away from me!”
He steps back, then says something into his mouthpiece.
“I’m sorry for scaring you, Lindsay. I just didn’t want to come up on you from behind and—”
“And what? Scare me more?” My heart feels like it took off into outer space, beating so hard I feel my pulse pound in my neck. The artery is like a bass drum.
“There was no perfect way to let you know I was here.”
“Then don’t be here.”
“That’s not an option.”
“What?”
“You can’t be allowed to roam an estate of this size alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s too—what?” I’m dumbstruck. Truly dumbstruck. “I’ve never needed a babysitter at my own home before, Drew!”
“That was then.”
“You asshole.”
He offers me his hand to help me up. I ignore it, shove my earbuds in, and continue my run. I’m fleeing, no pace, no steady gait. I’m running like a spooked fawn in the woods, fleeing a potential predator, and damn it, Drew can tell.
He follows, but at a respectful ten paces behind me.
I can’t stop thinking about him. No song on my playlist is disruptive enough to stop my thoughts. No rhythm is strong enough to override my awareness of him. His bronzed skin glistens back there, the sun peeking out and kissing his legs. His tight t-shirt conforms to broad pecs that have thickened in the four years since I touched him. That chest used to have a place where my cheek could fit perfectly. Those corded, muscular arms used to wrap around me in passion, in pleasure, in comfort and in joy.
My tortured heart nearly cries out as I think about it. Willing myself to stop isn’t working. How do you stop thinking about someone who is so close? How do you stop feeling so much for a person who betrayed you so deeply?
Four years of therapy and I still don’t have an answer to those questions.
Five miles into the run and my legs are crying out for relief, but I keep going. No matter how high I turn up my music’s volume, I hear his footsteps behind me, the shuffle of dried leaves on the path, the sound of his steady, but increasingly labored, breathing cutting through the earbuds. I can’t drown him out. Can’t lose him. Can’t stop remembering he’s there.
Maybe that’s just it.
Maybe that’s the answer.
Chapter 12
I halt suddenly, the epiphany so strong it’s like it sucked all the kinetic energy out of me. A wall of muscle named Drew slams into me from behind, pitching me to the ground, my cheek in mulch and dirty, his entire body pressed against mine from the back.
And God help me, it feels so good.
“Oh, shit,” he mutters, jumping up. The chill from the loss of his heat is like another betrayal. I’m not sure who betrayed whom, though. Am I betraying myself by feeling all this for him after what he did?
I am breathing so hard it feels like sandpaper lines my throat and nose, but I stay on the ground, face down, knowing if I turn over he’ll read every emotion I have for him in my face and I will be revealed for the fool that I am.
“Lindsay! You okay? Do I need to get a medic in here?”
“This isn’t a war zone, Drew. A medic?”
“You sure about that?”
“What?”
“That this isn’t a war zone?” He sits down on a giant round rock on the edge of the path, planting his elbows on his knees, drinking from a small water bottle in his hand.
I turn my face, the smooth, cool dirt like a caress. I look at him. Study him. He’s become the kind of man I always imagined he’d become. So strong. Commanding. Powerful in a graceful way, like he owns the world and has authority because it’s natural for him. Not because he’s ambitious, but because he’s called to step up to the occasion.
“You see any guns around here, other than the one on your belt?” I mutter.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I do.”
He blinks at me, his breathing slowing down, his body relaxed as he stretches his calves. They’re so defined, the muscles curving into a heart right above the Achilles tendon. I remember touching those legs. Running my palms along the sleek muscles. Exploring his body back in a time when every touch was a promise. When undressing was an exc
iting game. When being naked together in bed was about boundaries and crossing them one by one in a playful passionate way, as we made our way towards an intimacy that needed to be cultivated.
Four years is a long, long time.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he blurts out.
Huh?
I finally roll up and sit, my knees red and scraped. I brush them off and look at him. His eyes burn with so many questions. I’ll bet mine do, too.
“You already did,” I reply.
He winces. I stand. This conversation is dangerous. Being alone on this path is risky. Drew won’t hurt me. I know that in my soul. The danger and risk isn’t the normal kind.
The danger and risk is that I’ll let myself fall for him again.
Fall for a guy who let those monsters do unspeakable things to me.
How messed up am I to still want him? What kind of woman still has feelings for a man who would do what Drew did to me? Am I that self-destructive? The therapists on the island said yes. They told me that while it was normal to have feelings for Drew, it wasn’t normal to hold on to them.
I cling to those feelings. Four years of clinging makes my fingers ache, and yet here I am. Here I am, now, alone with him and looking at him with a pleading in my eyes that must scream out to him.
Tell me why.
Tell me why.
Tell me why, damn you.
He flinches. Maybe I really do have telepathic powers, because he stands, his breathing picking up again, his face twisted with emotion. His eyes are dark with a mixture of protectiveness, rage, and a desire so strong it makes me hold my breath.
When his hand touches my scraped knee, I gasp. When his other hand reaches for mine and clasps it, I flood with heat. My pulse quickens and I keep my eyes down. If I look up, I’ll reach out for him. I’m two different Lindsays inside right now. I’m the angry, betrayed Lindsay who wants Drew to suffer like I have.
And then I’m the sad, lonely Lindsay who just wants my best friend and boyfriend back.
I can’t look up. If I look up, if I meet his eyes, if I squeeze his hand and feel his skin, if I move one millimeter I’ll fling myself into his arms and beg him to love me like I thought he did.
Before.
Before.
I stiffen.
“I—” He starts to talk. I look up and pull my hand away, standing.
And without another word, I limp off, back to the house. He follows. I can feel him. But he doesn’t say another word.
I can fix my own damn knees, thank you. I can tend my own wounds.
I can protect myself.
I don’t need Drew.
I don’t need anyone at all.
Chapter 13
“You’re in charge of your own personal schedule, Lindsay,” Anya says with an apologetic tone, “but your father insisted I set up this informal coffee date with Jane so you could transition back to your regular life. He felt Jane would be a good entry point.”
Transition. Entry point. My father turns friendship into management jargon.
“Jane,” I say, nodding. Jane is Anya’s daughter, and we were in the same loose, larger circle of friends for a while. Jane’s the person who found me, tied up and bleeding, after—
Well, after.
Anya just smiles and waits with anticipation, as if I’m supposed to say more.
“Does Jane want to see me?” I’m more blunt than I should be. The morning’s craziness infused me with a sense of boldness. Maybe I don’t need to read everyone and conform to their expectations of me.
What if, instead, the world had to shape itself around what I want?
That idea is scary. Wouldn’t it be great to have that kind of power?
Anya looks shocked at my words. “Of course she does, Lindsay. She always liked you.”
Liked.
I smile. “I’d love to see her. I never got the chance to thank her.”
Anya’s face softens with compassion. “You never, ever need to thank her for that. My God, honey. She just did what any decent person would do.”
Any decent person.
Right.
Like...Drew?
Oh. Wait. Drew didn’t do anything.
Scratch Drew off the Decent Person List.
“Still...” I say, dipping my head in that way people do when they’re showing humility. “I can’t wait to catch up with her.”
Right answer. Anya’s face spreads into a relaxed smile. She reaches out and squeezes my wrist with a warmth any mother should possess. “Great,” she says. ”Two o’clock at The Toast.”
I jolt slightly. The Toast. Our old coffee shop hangout. I haven’t thought about that place in years. Frankly, The Island had fabulous coffee and of all the things I longed for, coffee wasn’t one.
The Toast was a total hippie dive shop, the kind of place that had vegan muffins forty years before being vegan was popular. They have an ancient espresso machine that looks like something out of the kid’s movie, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. We used to go slumming there when we were in high school and thought it was funny to hang out with the aging hippies.
Now, though, I think I’d really feel comfortable there, because no one ever judged me when I sat alone at a table and just drank coffee while I stared out a window.
The whole not being judged aspect is more appealing than the coffee.
“Sounds good. Do you have Jane’s number in case I need to call if there’s a problem?”
Anya points to the phone in my hand. “It’s already programmed in there.”
By the time I verify that she’s right, she’s down the hall and in her office again.
And I’m left holding yet more evidence that my entire life is programmed.
Whether I like it or not.
“Hey! Another bulletproof coffee?” Connie asks, turning the corner and carrying a small basket of fresh herbs. I learned this morning, as I came in from my disastrous run, that she has continued the tradition of the chef’s herb garden. Mom insisted on that when I was a kid. Speaking of Mom...
Where the hell is she?
I shake my head. “No. Thanks. A little too much if I have two a day,” I say with a smile. I lean on the kitchen island and ask in a conspirator’s voice, “Have you seen my mom today?”
Connie’s eyes widen. There’s a calculation there. She’s trying to decide how much to tell me. My heart tightens with cynicism.
She’s one of them, I remind myself. No one in this household is on my side.
Sometimes, not even me.
“Monica is supposed to be home sometime this afternoon. There was some charity committee she had to serve on, and it went on for longer than expected.”
I smile. “You mean her chemical peel caused more skin reddening than expected.”
Connie blushes and looks at me with her mouth slightly agape.
“It’s all code, Connie. I know my mom. If Daddy’s gearing up for a new campaign, Mom’s trying to lose weight, defy gravity, and turn back the clock. This is how it works.”
Connie just nods, her fingers worrying the sprigs of herbs.
I notice she doesn’t say anything more, though. I wonder where Daddy found her. She feels like she’s half CIA, half Cordon Bleu.
That’s probably about right.
I look at the clock. 11:11 a.m. If I were on the island, I’d be in group therapy right now. Lunch at noon. Water aerobics at 1 p.m. I know the schedule and am trying hard to forget it. This is my life now. I’m home.
And I have a two o’clock coffee date with an old friend.
My phone rings, startling me. I swipe and the phone screen says it’s my mother.
I close my eyes, lean against the counter, and brace myself.
“SWEETIIIIEEEEEEEEEE,” she gushes into the phone. “My darling is back!” Monica Bosworth is a stereotype of a stereotype. I would have to say that at least half of my therapy sessions over the past four years have been about her. You would think that those hours would have been spent proc
essing the gang rape, but no.
They were spent processing my mother’s reaction to the event.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, forcing a smile.
“‘Hi, Mom’? My daughter finally comes home and ‘Hi, Mom’ is all she can manage? You’re so understated, Lindsay! You should be shopping! Celebrating! Ooooo, we should have a party!” she adds, breathless with possibility. Her voice changes, going low. “But a quiet one. Nothing that triggers press coverage, of course.”
“No, really, Mom. Please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Don’t go to all that trouble.” I know the code. She isn’t really going to throw me a party. I know what’s coming next.
She lowers her voice. “Good point. I wouldn’t want to re-traumatize you by inviting a bunch of people because there’s always that one person who says the most inappropriate and rude comment to you.”
Right.
Mom doesn’t realize that she’s that person.
“I’m sorry I’m not there, Lindsay. You know how busy this time can get,” she says, shifting into her no-nonsense voice. “I’m at the spa and there’s been a delay.”
I called it.
“It’s fine, Mom. I know how it works when Daddy’s getting ready for a campaign.” A cold wave of liquid steel fills my stomach. I know one of the reasons I’ve finally been let out is because Daddy’s about to campaign again. I’ll be expected to show up to events, to be pristine in my appearance for campaign photos and appearances. Smile, be on stage, hold hands with Daddy, film commercials, and basically, be a cardboard cut-out version of The Perfect Daughter.
It’s a role I could handle four years ago.
I wonder how much the press has turned me into The Imperfect Daughter.
And then it hits me: I have a smartphone. With search engine apps. I can search myself. On the island, I had limited moments when I could research. Mostly, new staff members who came in were the only way I got unfiltered Internet access. Using regular computers in the labs there was a joke. They filtered my name. I couldn’t even research myself.
