by Meli Raine
“And your gut says I’m a good person?” I’m amused by this. I’m not sure why.
“My gut says to trust Drew. He’s never wrong. So if Drew says you’re good, you’re good.”
I want to tell him that trusting Drew is a bad, bad idea, but instead I reply with, “And if other people say I’m bad?”
“I don’t care what other people say. All you need is one clear-headed person who has good instincts. You find one like that, you hang onto them and follow them anywhere.”
He stands and offers me his hand, pulling me up.
I start walking, slowly, down to the beach, where I run six miles before my cheek stops burning.
Chapter 30
I’m back at home, grabbing a glass of water, when I hear someone come in behind me.
“I’m sorry.” Mom’s words make me do a double-take. Daddy’s behind her and his face is stone.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t make me say it again, Lindsay. I said I’m sorry.” Her mouth purses, throat shifting with a dry swallow. “I should never have slapped you like that.”
Daddy and I share a look. I’m about to apologize to him for the same action when he shakes his head slightly. Ah. Mom doesn’t know I slapped him.
“I forgive you,” I say.
Mom’s face fills with true emotion. She can be an automaton most of the time, but sometimes I think she’s that way because it’s too hard to feel all her feelings and play the role of senator’s wife.
Soon to be president’s wife.
Her hug feels good. Authentic. We laugh a little and settle into an uneasy peace. By lunchtime, she offers to have me eat with her, a rare invitation. Mom is the queen of the power lunch. We have to take separate cars because she has an event after. That’s the old norm. She squeezed in time for me between senator’s wife obligations. We drive there in separate cars.
I haven’t driven in four years. I narrowly missed being unable to renew my driver’s license while living on the Island, but I made it happen. I go super-slow and take main roads that aren’t highways. I make it there just fine.
Within five minutes I realize that I’m just another power lunch to her. This meal is not a mother-daughter bonding session.
“Your father told me how upset you are about not feeling heard,” she says while she picks at her arugula, apple and gorgonzola salad. I’m eating the same thing, except I’ve slathered mine in olive oil vinaigrette and parmesan cheese. Mom eyes my loaded fork with envy.
She’s determined to drop ten pounds this month before Daddy declares his run for the White House.
I nod. I don’t know how to respond.
“We can’t change what already happened. And your father and I did what we thought was best at the time.”
If I had a dollar for every time one of them said that to me...well, I’d have a hundred bucks or so, I guess.
My phone buzzes as Mom starts to say something else. I ignore it. Must be Jane. She’s the only person who has this number, other than Daddy, Mom, and Drew’s security people.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asks, a little too casual.
A creepy-crawly sensation stipples my skin.
I pull out the phone to find a text.
From Stacia.
Hi Lindsay. I’d love to talk with you.
I inhale so sharply from shock that a piece of apple gets caught in my throat, making me gag. Hacking, I cough hard, the piece dislodging.
“For goodness sake, Lindsay,” Mom says in hushed tones. “Try not to make a spectacle of yourself.”
“Right,” I rasp. “I’ll remember that next time I’m experiencing oxygen deprivation. Priority: don’t make waves.”
Mom glares.
I glare back. “You gave Stacia my phone number?”
“Anya must have. We decided it was best.”
“Who decided?”
She ignores that question. A master at swinging any conversation in the direction of her choosing, Mom says, “Weekly phone sessions with Stacia will be critical for your success during the campaign.”
“I can’t stand Stacia.”
“She’s good for you.”
“She’s good for you.”
“You need professional help.”
She’s right. I hate to admit it, but she’s right. “I’ll see a psychologist.”
Mom looks so satisfied with herself. She resumes eating, jabbing the salad like it’s a fencing competition.
“But not her. A different doctor. One I choose.”
“You are so stubborn—”
“Just like your father,” I say with her, our voices in stereo. We laugh. I think we’re both desperate to find a way to bridge from our anger to something better.
That is so hard.
And I have a feeling she expects me to extend the olive branch. No way.
“My choice. I’ll pick. And not someone you or Daddy vets.”
“That’s a tall order. You know we need to make sure any professional you might confide in won’t turn around and sell your stories to the tabloids.”
“A professional psychologist with a Ph.D. and a license isn’t going to do that, Mom.”
“Your first one already did. While you were at the Island.”
I feel like I am floating in the ocean, thousands of miles from land, and giant swells keep crashing into me, making me sputter, the taste of sea water destroying me from the outside in.
“That happened?” I croak. “Who?”
“One of the rape counselors from the emergency room.”
“The what?”
“You were groggy, but able to speak, when you first came in.” Mom describes this like she’s telling me the storyline for the latest movie she saw. “A rape counselor interviewed you. Later, when Tara, Mandy and Jenna came forward and shared that you’d asked for the kinky foursome, the rape counselor did, too. Told everyone you told her it was consensual.”
My knees turn to rubber bands again.
No wonder no one believes me.
I stare at Mom, who gives me a look that isn’t quite sympathy, isn’t quite dismissive, but somewhere in between. “Do you see, Lindsay? This is why we kept you safe on the Island all these years. Too many leaks. Too much disinformation. Back then, it was a shitstorm,” she hisses. “Harry didn’t know who to believe, and controlling his election was the priority. For all we knew, this was deliberate sabotage on someone’s part to make sure your father wasn’t re-elected.”
I’m still blown away by the fact that a rape counselor I don’t even remember lied to the media.
“Huh?”
“The second six-year term was critical for solidifying power on the important committees in the senate, and to pave the way for the White House,” she explains, as if that’s what I was questioning.
“No. No. I, uh, I understand that,” I say. “I mean—the rape counselor lied and nothing happened to her?”
“Oh, something happened, all right. We learned she made a tidy six figures from the tabloid she shoveled that steaming pile of manure to.”
My mind scrambles to connect all of this. Why? Why did someone do this to me? So many someones? Why would person after person lie about who I am and let those bastards get away with this?
“And Tara?” I ask. At the mention of my ex-best-friend’s name Mom’s face hardens.
“What about her?”
“Did someone pay her and my other friends off, too? Is that why they lied?”
She huffs, one hand going to her hair, primping. “Who knows what those little twits were thinking when they conjured up that little attention-seeking circus.” Mom’s anger is coming through. Her words hurt, but the feeling underneath them is the first sense I have that she really does understand that I didn’t choose any of what happened to me. She understands the truth.
She just won’t act on it.
Mom’s phone buzzes. She doesn’t even look at it. “I have to go now, sweetie.” She stands, most of her salad
abandoned. “A new playground in Fresno that Daddy got through federal funds. A new community center, too. I’m the guest of honor.” Mom did these appearances non-stop, and had for years. When I was still in school and younger, she came to every single one of my school events, every choir performance, every football game where I cheered, every graduation.
And the press ate it up.
We air kiss, and she departs, like a Category 5 tornado that comes and goes in three minutes, doing more damage in that short window than you could ever fathom possible.
I am hollow.
Empty.
I pick at the rest of my salad and finish off the green bottle of sparkling water. Then I signal to the waiter and order a three-scoop hot fudge sundae. Mom would be horrified.
And that’s why I do it.
As the waiter departs, I see Drew, sitting discreetly at the restaurant’s entrance in a club chair, pretending to be looking at his phone. All the security guys who’ve been following me since Daddy was elected to national office have this uniformity to them. Clearly trained with the same basic techniques, once you know what they are supposed to do, you can pick them out in a crowd in about two seconds. They’re so obvious.
If you know what to look for.
My sundae’s delivered and the candied pecans on top are an extra treat. The first bite nearly makes me moan. My appetite comes roaring back and for the first time in two days, I feel a tiny bit normal. People around me are talking about bills and corporate mergers, about someone getting married and a child with autism, the wisps of conversations so average.
No one is discussing slut-shaming. Or group sex. No political sabotage. No gang rape. Given my limited experience since coming home from the Island, I feel like they’re the weirdos, living sheltered lives where their problems are nothing compared to mine.
“Care for some company?” Drew’s voice startles me and I drop my loaded spoon. It hits the edge of the sundae bowl and flies backwards, plopping into my lap, staining my white pants.
“Thanks,” I snap. “And no. Can’t I stuff my face with ice cream in peace?”
“Not on my watch.” He sits down and observes as I pat the ice cream and hot fudge off my pants.
“Quit staring.”
“It’s my job to look at you.”
“You sound more and more like a creepy stalker.”
The waiter comes over and asks Drew if he’d like something to drink. Drew orders coffee.
“You can get your own table.”
“I have something to say.”
“You’ve said more than enough, Drew. You’re my bodyguard. I get that. I have to tolerate it, because for some screwed up reason, Daddy decided to hire you and your company. But I do not have to agree to let you break into my personal space and sit here like we’re old friends having a lovely afternoon lunch.”
“If this were a normal client relationship, I’d agree.”
“I don’t need you to agree. Just follow my orders.”
He leans back in the chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket. As he stretches his arms along the chair, I see his gun holster on his left. Drew’s right-handed.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen the resemblance in you to your father, Lindsay.” His mouth twitches with amusement. I look at his lips. Those were on mine yesterday. The memory of his heavy, muscled arms around me, my body curled in his lap, makes me warm.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Tormenting me.”
He arches one eyebrow. “I’m protecting you.”
“You’re making my life so much harder.”
“Why?”
The tears start in the base of my throat, a tightening I know will turn into a full-blown crying jag if I don’t do something. One giant scoop of ice cream later, and at least my mouth is shocked by the cold.
“Need a shovel?” he jokes. I know he’s trying to navigate the landmine of this mess. But the comment just makes me swallow and set the spoon aside.
“Take care of the bill for me. I’m leaving.” I stand and coldly walk away. Security teams often do handle these details, though I’ve never acted like this before. Drew’s ease and familiarity with me drives me insane.
And then there was that kiss.
A kiss I want more of.
By the time he catches up to me, I’m walking along a side street where the water laps at the shore. Mom loves this part of our sleepy little exclusive town, where it’s a crime to be homeless but an even bigger crime to be out of fashion. I’m sure crying and blubbering with hot fudge stains on your white pants is worse than either of those.
Drew stays ten feet behind me.
I ache for him. I ache for answers—real answers—to questions I’m pretty sure I can’t ask. And if I ask them, I won’t get a straight answer anyway, so why bother? Has it really only been two days since I’ve been home? How can two days be so jam-packed full of so much horror?
“Mom just told me the rape counselor at the emergency room sold a bunch of lies to a tabloid for six figures,” I say, staring at the water. It rises up and catches the sunlight, then glimmers off the hull of a boat docked to the little marina beside the set of shops.
“I know.”
“You know everything, don’t you?”
“No. I don’t. I wish I did.”
“I don’t! I wish I didn’t know any of this. My God, Drew! All these people did this to me.” I make a barky laugh, the sound so insane even I know I’m frothing into hysteria. “No one knows who the guys in that video are—except they do. The authorities do. The ones who could bring them to justice.”
“Lindsay—”
“My best friends lied to the press, they lied so bad that my parents acted on it. A rape counselor lied, too. My Mom and Dad know I didn’t ask for the gang rape, and yet they’re choosing to act like they think the lies are true. They’re in damage control mode. Do you have any idea how hard it is to know that they know I was a victim but they’re acting like I asked for it?”
Pain makes Drew’s face change. He takes a step closer. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ll leave you alone if that’s really what you want. What you need. But I can fill in some of your gaps if it helps you to make sense of everything.”
He’s a foot away from me, his heat drawing me in. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
And then I hear it.
Voices.
The high-pitched chatter of a gaggle of young women in a pack.
My eyes fly open because I know those voices.
It’s Tara, Jenna and Mandy.
Chapter 31
Drew’s nostrils flare and his speckled-brown eyes tighten like a hawk’s. My old “friends” don’t see us at first, teetering down the cobblestoned walkway on the newest high-heel fashion, their dresses oh, so perfect. They’re lunching, an activity we all looked forward to after graduating college. When you’re raised in luxury and power, this is what you’re taught.
This is what you emulate.
They halt as Tara realizes we’re here. Her face goes from her typical cool, fake-friendly L.A. gaze to something more sinister and manipulative. When she thinks no one important is watching, she goes full Queen Bee.
And thinks she can get away with it.
“Lindsay! OMIGOD! Look at you!” Her eyes comb over me with the slow, treacherous look of someone seeking an error. She finds it.
Everywhere.
“You look great!” She comes in for a kiss. Mandy and Jenna stand like Barbie zombies, unsure what to do. Whatever Tara’s plan here is, they’re not in on it. Mandy gives Drew a contemptuous look.
I sidestep Tara and edge over to the water. Her heel catches between two cobblestones and she wobbles. As she starts to go down she glares at Drew, as if he’s supposed to jump in and help her.
He doesn’t. He stands there, hands on hips, face a blank sheet of paper, sunglasses on.
He is The Man.
“What, um, w
hat’s up, Lindsay?” Jenna asks. Her voice gains more cattiness as the words come out. Jenna is the consummate follower. She does whatever Mandy and Tara tell her to do.
“Oh,” I say back, casual as can be, head held high. I cut my gaze to Tara, who magically caught herself before falling, juggling an armload of shopping bags. “You know. The same old same old. Nothing new.”
Jenna titters. Tara shoots her an evil glare that shuts her up.
A harmless little plan forms in my mind. I walk closer to Tara, my steps careful, leading her toward the water as casually as I can. I look around the area without bringing attention to myself. Seconds pass before I see what I’m searching for. Aha. There they are. Security cameras on the walls of the mall, all facing the water. And no buildings on the other side past the moored sailboats in this tiny marina.
This might work.
“What about you?” I ask Tara, pretending to be interested, wanting to reach out and slap the saucy grin off her face now that I know how completely and utterly she destroyed the already-ruined shreds of my old life.
“Just graduated, of course,” Tara says, the tip of her tongue peeking out to touch her teeth, her look flirty and vicious. She bounces her eye contact between me and Drew. He’s become a marble statue, though. “You know...oh,” she sighs, pretended to be sad. “That’s right. You don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t know what it’s like to graduate.”
“I finished my degree.”
“I mean with your master’s degree, Lindsay. I just finished my MBA. Accelerated program at Berkeley.” She primps and preens with her eyes, the glee at her perception of my inferiority like an unlimited power source, as if Tara’s evil is a sun.
“Congrats! I always knew you’d do well in business. Whichever wealthy man you manage to snag will find your achievement to be great for his arm candy creds.” I say the words so smoothly she doesn’t realize it’s an insult until she’s proven she missed it.
My mom may be cold and difficult, but she’s really good for one thing.
Learning how to burn someone with words.
Tara’s face turns nasty, but as she bites her lower lip and her eyes reflect her on-the-spot calculation for her response, I see how hollow she really is. If she were just an empty, vapid little bitch none of this would matter, but she’s not.
