Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  This should be interesting. What the fuck is he doing at my place?

  I put the Audi in park and roll down my window, hoping like hell the guys on my tail have their cameras rolling.

  “Get out of the fucking car you piece of shit!” Addison shouts at me, boldly pounding his fists on the roof above my head.

  Is he fucking serious? He wants to do this in the street? All right.

  I open the door, stepping out, stepping up, saying nothing.

  “You’re a dead man!” he hisses, poking his finger into my chest. “You’re dead. You hear me. Not just your so-called career. I have people who will put you down like the untrained cur you are. You think you can fuck my daughter? You think you can fuck me over? You’re already dead.”

  Just as he finishes hurtling his last threat, he wakes up to the fact that he’s just given a crushing performance in front of an audience of well-armed paps. His face blanches white. He drops his arms, taking a step back.

  I give him a stunning smile and turn to the cars that followed me all the way here.

  The paparazzi are as stunned as he is. They can’t even gather themselves up enough to load up and launch questions to accompany their film footage.

  Bill Addison walks backwards a few steps, then turns, hustling away at pace, as the paparazzi and I watch him go.

  I look at them. They look at me, with cameras still running.

  I can’t help but smile. “Did you guys get all that?” I ask.

  One guy nods. Then another. A third guy says, “Got it, but I’m not sure what to do with it. There’s probably no way I can sell it. Bill Addison’s untouchable.”

  “Nobody’s untouchable,” I offer. “I’ll make you guys a deal. Five grand to the first guy who’s willing to give me his flash of that footage, and ten grand to the first one of you who can make what just happened here a top trending item on social media. I’m as good as my word.”

  I collect a flash card from the guy who said he couldn’t sell what he shot, and a dozen business cards from the rest of them. I write down my accountant’s name and phone number for the first guy, telling him to pick up his check tomorrow.

  I still want to know what Addison was doing at my apartment. Given his state of mind, I doubt whatever he was up to is good. I shove the memory card in my pocket and get back in my car, hoping that Winter isn’t at home.

  I am sadly disappointed.

  I find her on the floor, balled up on her side, hugging her knees like a frightened child. When I come in, she immediately bursts into tears, whaling against my shoulder, climbing onto me, holding tight. I pull her away from the door, holding onto her, trying to understand what she’s saying through her sobs.

  When I’m finally able to put some air between us, I see the bruise on her face, and a swollen eye, already turning dark.

  “He hit you?”

  Ransom said he beat his ex-wife.

  “Fucking hell.” I pull her close, hugging her, feeling my own rage boil inside me. “You’re safe now. You’re safe. He’s gone. I’m so sorry. I should have been here.”

  “He’s so awful.” She looks up at me with confused eyes, blurry from crying. I feel the pit of rage swell up inside of me—and then something else, worry.

  “Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

  She nods slowly. “I think the baby is okay.” She starts crying in earnest. “I want this baby so badly. This baby is ours. And he wanted to take it away. Take me away from you. I never saw it—he’s so fucking terrifying.”

  “He’s nothing. He’s a coward.”

  I have two choices. I can kill him myself, or I can take him down the slow, painful way. I can let him die the death of a thousand cuts. As much as I want to rip him to pieces with my own bare hands, I know that’s too good for him, and I need to be around to take care of Winter and raise our kid, rather than rotting in a California state penitentiary.

  While I hold Winter tight, enclosed inside my left arm, I lift my phone from my pocket with my right and dial 911.

  “911 dispatch, what is your emergency?” a business-like voice pops across the line.

  “I need to report an assault on a pregnant female, domestic abuse,” I say. “I’m with the victim. The man has left, but I know who he is. He also threatened me on his way out.”

  She gets my address, promising officers are on their way.

  By the time the cops arrive, which isn’t long at all, I have Winter calmed down, sitting in the kitchen with a bag of ice on her eye and a glass of wine to settle her shaking hands.

  It’s all handled with astonishing professionalism. The police take Winter’s statement, then mine. They photograph the bruises on her face, her arms, and shoulder, which I hadn’t seen until the cops asked her if there were others. They watch the video of Addison threatening me, and ask for a copy, which I happily provide.

  While they stand in my kitchen, they call out a description of Addison, his vehicle, and his address, with instructions to detain and arrest on sight.

  “We’ll pick him up tonight, most likely,” the lead officer, a sergeant, says to me. “Palos Verdes PD has been alerted. If he goes home, they’ll take him into custody there, then hand him over to LAPD for arraignment.”

  He glances down at Winter, then back up at me. “Guys like this have good lawyers. He’ll be out by Monday morning is my guess. You need to take out a restraining order. You can do that downtown in the morning.”

  One of the EMTs who responded with the police suggests I take Winter to the hospital for an ultrasound, just to make sure she doesn’t have any internal bleeding.

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Winter says. “I’m okay. Just shaken up. I’m okay.”

  The EMT shrugs at me. “If she starts slurring her speech or starts behaving oddly, get her to a hospital. If she develops any vaginal bleeding, get her to a hospital.”

  I promise him I will.

  When they’re gone, I sit down beside Winter, taking her hand in mine.

  “I want to take you out of here,” I say. “Out of town. At least until I can be sure he’s not coming back.”

  Winter shakes her head. “No,” she says, her jaw flexing, her mouth set hard. “This is our place. He may have knocked me down, but he didn’t win. I’m not afraid of him.”

  I’m glad Winter is calling up her inner ninja, but I’m also aware Addison knows some seriously bad people.

  I dial Drew in San Diego, looking for solutions.

  When he picks up, I explain what’s gone down, and that I need some fast, temporary security. I call looking for advice and maybe a referral, but Ransom won’t let me handle it.

  “I’ve got this,” he insists. “You take care of your girl. Someone will call you within the hour with details. You’ll have protection on site before midnight. Until then, doors locked, windows down. Stay inside.”

  “We will,” I assure him. “I know the drill.” Barricade in place until reinforcements arrive.

  Something tells me Drew Ransom is going to have Fairfax Avenue locked down as tight as the Pentagon by first light. He never does anything half-way.

  Chapter 23

  Winter

  I’ve spent most of my life trying to measure up to my father’s expectations, or at least trying not to disappoint him. Consistently failing that, I’ve managed to accept the fact that I never will measure up, and the best I can do is not become an obvious embarrassment to him.

  When I found Gates again, I started to believe there was more to life than merely existing as Bill Addison’s daughter. I never doubted the idea that my father was looking out for my best interest; that while he was often over-bearing and sometimes cruel, his goal was to protect me.

  And then he showed me who he really is.

  I never imagined I’d hear him—a man who’s given a million dollars or more to Right-to-Life—say I should kill my unborn child. I never imagined a man who so self-righteously sells religion and some storybook nonsensical version of family val
ues as his stock and trade would hit me so hard with his closed fist that it took me off my feet. Or that he would promise to end the life of the father of my child, who I love more than even myself.

  There are plenty of amazing people in this world who love their religion and love their families as well. Bill Addison is a charlatan who loves neither.

  I know who Bill Addison is now, and he’s as dead in the soul as a Biblical demon. If I believed in the darker aspects of my own religion, I might believe he was possessed of something vile and dark. As it is, I simply accept that my father is a sociopath who cares about nothing except himself and his own ambition. Everything else, any small kindness or generosity ever shown me, was a matter of manipulation.

  Gates and I talk a long time after the police go away. He seems content with whatever happens, knowing full well that at the very least, my father plans to destroy any prospects he has of ever working in the film industry again.

  “The only thing that matters to me is you,” Gates says, holding both my hands inside his. “You and our kid. If it’s not this business, it’ll be something else. As long as I have you, I don’t care what I do to earn a buck.”

  He’s so calm about things that I’ve stressed about my entire life. I suppose I’ve stressed about them because I’ve never actually had to earn a buck. If I had, and learned that I could reliably provide for myself, I might be just as cool and collected.

  Of course, the work I’m getting is picking up. I’m booked solid with studio shoots well into next month. If this keeps up, I’m going to need to rent permanent studio space, so I can cut my costs.

  And as bad as things are with my father, Gates didn’t breach his contract, and he made it through six weeks of filming without a hiccup in his schedule. If my father fires him now, he’s still entitled to almost his full fee, plus all the box and media. Of course, that won’t stop my father from tying him up in litigation, costing time and money, stretching out over years.

  “I don’t think he’s going to do that,” Gates states with an air of confidence I don’t quite fathom. “Don’t ask me why. Just take my word for it.”

  He hauls in a deep breath, letting go of it slowly, gathering his thoughts.

  “Whatever happens, I know one thing that’s got to change.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He looks around the apartment, then out the windows onto the lights of the city stretching below.

  “I don’t want to raise a kid in this town, with these kind of people. Even if I somehow manage to keep a film career going, I want to come home to someplace sane, that isn’t surrounded by neon, patrolled by people with cameras.”

  That sounds entirely reasonable to me.

  “You have any ideas?” I ask him.

  Gates shrugs. “Not yet.”

  Just then his phone rings.

  “Shit. It’s Sam. I should take it,” Gates says. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course.”

  He takes the call, walking into the main room to talk, standing in front of the big windows, probably getting his picture taken by an army of paps outside. After today’s drama, I’m almost happy for them to be there. They offer a kind of weird protection against worse intrusions. No one will hurt us while they’re lurking around, filming every move we make.

  “You’re kidding?” Gates says to Sam. “She said that?”

  I wish I could hear the other end of the conversation.

  “Okay. I’ll check my inbox and go over it. If I have any questions, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  When the call is over Gates returns to me wearing a truly befuddled expression. He hauls in a breath, then another, before letting go in one deep sigh.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was?” I ask him. Judging by his expression, it was clearly something.

  He lifts his eyes, a tiny smile turning his lip, amber eyes almost glowing with mischief.

  “Two things,” he says. “The first is that Doug called Sam and told her they were done with me. I’m cut from the last two days of filming, without any penalty. Doug said that came straight from Addison.”

  That’s astounding. My father is running scared. Good.

  “And… I got the serial killer part.”

  What?!

  “That’s awesome!” I almost shout, except it hurts my head to shout, so I check my excitement. “That’s incredible!”

  “Sam said that they were all so impressed with way I handled the press conference the other day, as well as the reading I did, they knew I was the guy.”

  Gates shakes his head in disbelief.

  “They’ve sent a deal memo in advance of the contract, along with a season-one schedule. Production starts in eight weeks in Richmond, Virginia. We’ve got twelve episodes a season, three seasons guaranteed, with an option for at least two more.”

  I can’t help but laugh, even though it hurts.

  “Can you sustain a serial killer for five seasons?” I ask. “I mean this guy must be an evil genius. Or the cops really suck!”

  We both have a great laugh at the idea of it. “It worked for Dexter. I think he lasted seven seasons.”

  “True,” I say. “With four good ones.”

  “If I last four good seasons in Richmond, I’ll call it a win. And I’ll act in the last one, even if it’s terrible. That’s what actors say about TV shows—they’re good for families. I can go to the same place every day, live in the same home, and see you and our baby each and every night.”

  “I’ve never been to Richmond,” I say. “What’s it like?”

  Gates smiles. “It’s real. It’s a very real place. Lots of history, good and bad. Lots of beautiful homes and gardens. Lots of housing projects. All within a stone’s throw from one another. A big university. Great bookstores. Awesome downtown with a big arts and music scene.”

  “Is it a good place to raise kids?” I ask.

  Gates grins. “I think it might be a great place to raise kids.”

  As soon as my headache goes away, I’m going to Google Richmond and see what I can learn about the place. Aside from New York, I’ve not spent much time on the east coast. The farthest south I’ve ever been is New Jersey.

  A little while later, Gates gets another call. This one takes him outside to meet the security detail Drew Ransom arranged. When he comes back, he doesn’t come alone. Trailing him into the apartment are two buff-looking people wearing utility pants, open collar shirts, and sport jackets. One is male, named Jack Tyner. One is female, named Beth Spencer. Gates introduces us, explaining to me they’ll be working inside the apartment tonight, while another four men work outside.

  “This seems a little excessive,” I observe warily.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Gates replies. “Remember what your father threatened. I’m going to take him at his word.”

  Beth Spencer gives me a thorough once over. “That’s a pretty good shiner you got there. We don’t want you to get anymore. We’ll stay out of your way. You won’t even know we’re here.”

  I wish that was true, but the condo just isn’t that large.

  Chapter 24

  Gates

  Morning comes early, and not in an altogether good way. Tyner rouses me at four, trying his best to wake me without waking Winter. I’ve intentionally slept light, because I’m expecting this, but it doesn’t make creeping out of bed at oh-dark-thirty any easier, given the anxiety and exhaustion of yesterday.

  I close the bedroom door behind me, stepping into the hallway, then lead Tyner out to the main room where we can talk.

  “Addison was arrested at his home in Palos Verde about an hour ago. The local PD saw him pass through the gates and followed him to his residence. He went along without incident.” Tyner reports.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “He’s in holding while they wait for LAPD to pick him up. That’s probably happening within the hour.”

  “Any idea how long it takes to get an arraignment?” I ask, feeling myself fina
lly waking up, my brain beginning to fire on all cylinders.

  “For a guy like him, pretty quick,” Tyner says. “He’ll have a lawyer working on this yesterday.”

  I struggle to think of what day it is. It’s Sunday. He can’t get out before mid-morning tomorrow. That said, he doesn’t need to be out to have his people doing bad things.