Carmen’s not innocent in all of this, though, and I swear she gets off on antagonising Michael, especially after she has a few bottles of her favourite Pinot inside her, which has become a pretty standard occurrence by lunchtime most days. She’s singlehandedly keeping Robert Sinskey’s vineyard in business, and that is another reason I haven’t yet handed in my notice; how do I just walk away and leave these kids to the utter chaos that is their home life?
A beep sounds as Michael enters the key code into the security system, followed by a loud bang that I can only assume is the heavy oak front door swinging open and slamming against the wall behind it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles.
His keys clatter loudly, and I’m almost certain he’s dropped them onto the tiled hallway floor. I close my eyes, my sense of sound heightened, as I listen for the sound of Carmen’s heels following behind him, or even her voice, but there’s nothing.
The event they attended this evening was for one of her many charities, and I’m assuming they’ve argued, and he’s left without her.
Great! These two don’t argue quietly, especially if alcohol’s involved, and if they kick off tonight, they’ll wake the kids, and I’ll end up with them in my bed.
I have my own one-bedroom apartment attached to the side of the house with a separate entryway from the drive. There’s also a short corridor that leads to a doorway off the landing of the main house, allowing me quick access to the kids’ bedrooms and vice versa.
Moving to the top of the stairs, I listen to Michael below, moving around and mumbling to himself. I’m torn as to whether I should move the kids to my bed now.
Michael’s phone rings, and I step back out of view from the hallway and listen. There’s silence for a few seconds before he speaks . . .
“Where the fuck am I? I’m at home, that’s where the fuck I am … Why the fuck would I? Just so I could watch your drunk ass flirt with every goddamn man in the place? …
“Oh, is that right? Well, you stay and have your fun. I’ve got eyes on you, sweetheart, and they’ll be taking notes and reporting your every fucking move back to me. I know how you’ve been spending your Wednesday afternoons and who you’ve been spending them with.”
His words are slurred, his voice loud, letting me know not only is he drunk but that he’s also very pissed off.
“Yeah? Can you prove that?” Michael continues. “Go fuck yourself, Carmen, or better yet, give your twenty-year-old boy-toy a call and give me even more evidence of your whoring ways before I serve you . . . Watch me, you’ll be getting nothing.”
There’s a short pause, during which time, Michael steps into my line of sight. He’s a short, stocky man, and if Wikipedia is accurate, he’s about to turn fifty-five, but I would have picked him as closer to sixty. His hair’s completely grey and receding to the point where only the back of his head has hair.
He sways on the spot and almost snarls at whatever’s just been said to him on the phone, “Fuck you, Carmen. Fuck. You.”
Michael throws his phone, but, before it lands, I turn and rush to Oliver's room. I shake him gently until he wakes and explain that we’re going to my apartment. I help him up onto his unsteady legs and guide him to Amelia’s room. She’s a tiny little thing, so without rousing her, I lift her into my arms and carry her to my apartment.
I’ve only just got them both settled in my bed when there’s a loud banging on the door, which leads from the main house. My stomach lurches, forcing my heart to feel like it’s somewhere in my throat, where it pounds loudly. Moving silently back towards my door, I double-check that I slid the deadbolt across after I brought the kids to my room.
“You’ve got my kids in there, Billie, open this fucking door,” Michael demands from the other side.
I have absolutely no idea what to do. I’ve never been alone in the house with him when he’s been in this state, and right now, I’m terrified.
Drew, the Bosworth’s driver-come-security is who I usually call when things sound as if they’re getting out of hand, but he’s off this weekend.
The door bangs again, and I jump, my hand covering my mouth in an attempt at hiding the squeal I let out. Remaining pressed flat against the wall, I back away from the door, grab my phone from the kitchen counter, and go into my bedroom.
I call Carmen.
“H-Hello, Mrs Bosworth—”
“Billie!” she shouts, interrupting me, “Has Michael come home?”
“He’s home and trying to smash down the door to my apartment.”
Even as I speak, I can hear him banging on my door.
“Open the fucking door right now, Billie!”
“Is that him shouting?”
“Yeah, what do I do? He’s really drunk and pissed off.” My voice trembles, which pisses me off, and I look around for something I might be able to use as a weapon.
“Where are the kids? I’m on my way.”
“The kids are safe with me. I’m scared, Carmen. I’ve never seen him this drunk or angry. Should I call the police?”
“No! No. I’m about ten minutes away. Just stay put.”
Her response pisses me off as much as her husband is, but I’m silent for a few beats as I listen to Michael hammer at my door. “I’m sorry, Carmen, but if he doesn’t stop this in the next few minutes, then I’m calling for help—”
“Billie, is that my mom, what’s happening?” I turn around to see Oliver sitting up in my bed, rubbing at his eyes.
“Billie, no, please just wait—”
I hang up.
Michael Bosworth is acting like a deranged psycho and needs to fuck off. All Carmen is worried about is the bad press they’ll receive if the story gets out, not the safety of her children or me. Well, fuck that.
“Stay put, Bud. Mum’s on her way home, and I just need to go talk to your dad.” I kiss the top of his head and leave the room, again closing the door behind me.
“They’re my fucking kids. Open this door, Billie, else I swear to God I will blow it off its hinges.”
Knowing there are guns in the house has me typing 9-1-1 into my phone. I don’t hit call, but I want the number good to go if I need it.
“You need to calm down, Michael, your kids are in here safe, but they’re terrified by all your shouting and banging about.”
“Well, open the fucking door then.”
“That’s not gonna happen, and if you don’t stop, I’m gonna call the police.”
“This is my house, they are my kids, I can do whatever the fuck I like. Now open this fucking door. Right. Fucking. Now,” he roars.
The silence that follows is deafening. Holding my breath, I listen for any noise that might give me a clue as to what he’s now doing.
I hear him swear as he seems to move away from my door and along the hallway back into the main house. I let out my long-held shaky breath, as a bead of sweat travels down my spine. My skin is covered in goosebumps and a light sheen of sweat. I release the grip my hand has around my phone and stare down at the 9-1-1 I’ve entered on the keypad. If he comes back before Carmen gets home, I’m calling the police, fuck the consequences.
Sliding down to the floor, I sit on my bum, still listening for any sound coming from the hallway. I blow out a breath in an attempt at shifting my hair off my face. It doesn’t work and, when I use my fingers, I realise my face is wet with not just sweat but also tears.
A surge of anger rises up from my toes. That arsehole has me so frightened I’m crying in fear without even realising it. I brush them away with the back of my hand as the adrenalin that’s been coursing through me makes me shake, and that’s when my front door is forced open so hard it hits the wall behind it. Footsteps begin to stomp along the hallway towards me just as Oliver appears in my bedroom doorway, the sight of him finally snapping me into action.
“Get back in the bedroom,” I shout at Ollie at the same time as I hit the green call button on my phone.
He turns, and I put the phone to my ear a
s I move towards him and the relative safety of my bedroom.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a man's voice asks.
“My name’s Billie Wild. I’m at—” before I reach the bedroom, I’m pulled back by my hair and swung around. All I see is Michael’s hand coming towards me, holding a gun.
“He has a gun!” I manage to scream into my phone before being punched in my face so hard that my head snaps to the side knocking my phone from my hand. I hear it hit the floor but can see nothing except bright white light as pain shoots through my head and neck.
Despite not being able to see, I kick and make contact with some part of him. He grunts in pain, which spurs me to start throwing punches, but before any of them connect, I’m swung violently by my hair again. This time I crash to the floor.
The stars that were blinding me earlier begin to clear in time for me to see a leather loafer swing my way. I manage to roll slightly but am too slow in pulling up knees, and the first blow hits me in the chest. The second I don’t see coming, but I feel it as I’m kicked in the ribs. The pain is excruciating, and all of the wind is knocked out of my lungs. I fight to breathe, my brain screaming at me not to panic. He has a gun, he’s drunk, and two children are cowering in my bedroom, probably frantic with fear.
“You wanna fuck with me, little girl? You have no idea who you’re messing with. No fucking idea.” Michael puffs out as he pushes his foot onto my stomach.
I heave a couple of times but don’t actually vomit. I keep drawing breath in through my nose until, eventually, my lungs and chest decide to cooperate. And that’s when I become aware of Michael pushing me onto my belly while trying to pull down my pyjama shorts, and a whole new level of fear hits me. I try to remember what I was taught in the couple of lessons Drew gave me on self-defence, and I roll from side to side in an attempt to free myself, but it doesn’t work—Michael is sitting across the backs of my thighs.
I kick my legs up and hit him in the back with my heels, but I can’t get enough force behind the blows to hurt him.
He lifts me by my hips, still yanking at my shorts, and I throw my head back, making contact with his face. He rolls to the side, holding onto his nose with both his hands. I begin to crawl away, all the while looking around for the gun. It’s on the floor beside him. I have no idea how to use it so instead attempt to reach my bedroom. There’s no lock on that door, but there is one on the toilet door inside my en suite.
“You bitch. You fucking bitch.”
My hair and shoulder are again grabbed from behind, and he lifts me off the floor before throwing me down onto my back and straddling my hips.
I fight. With thoughts of Oliver and Amelia and what he might do to them fuelling my instinct to survive this, I fight him with everything I have. I keep moving. Rolling from side to side in a futile attempt at escape, but he’s too heavy, he has me pinned. I slap. I punch.
When he rips off my T-shirt, I claw at his arms. He smacks me hard across the face, catching the corner of my mouth, forcing my teeth to tear through my lip. I see stars again. But still, I keep fighting.
He pulls up my sports bra, and I scream out as loud as I can.
How dare he? How fucking dare he?
Balling my fists, I swing out, and this time, I land blows on each side of his face. The third punch is a direct hit to his mouth, and pain shoots through my hand, around my wrist, and up my forearm as it connects.
He punches me again, and for a few seconds, I see nothing but black.
I fight to come back. Images of my parents, my brother, and my niece dance before my eyes. With everything I have in me, I fight. A noise escapes my throat. It’s feral. Animalistic. It’s all I have left. Again, I swing blindly as the taste of my own blood fills my mouth.
Pain like I’ve never felt before rips through me as Michael’s teeth bite into the flesh of my left breast, but his hands are around my throat and squeezing so hard that the scream I attempt to unleash is just a gurgle as I struggle for breath. There’s only a very tiny pinpoint of light now as the darkness engulfs me.
The lyrics to “Always Here,” a song my brother wrote after the death of our parents, drifts through my mind . . .
Always here, to watch you grow.
Always here, but you might not know.
In times of need, we’ll hold your hand.
We’ll guide the way when it’s your time to go.
The room gets brighter, my vision rights itself, and my mum appears. She holds out her hand, and I reach for it. Both of hers wrap around mine, and I let go. I stop fighting and succumb to the calm, the quiet, the peace that’s offered as I’m embraced by the soft golden glow.
Mel
“Is she up yet?” Cal asks, as I hand him his coffee and take in the delicious sight of my hot, sweaty husband after his run on the treadmill. “I thought you said she was opening up the shop? She needs to be ready in an hour.”
“Nope. I knocked on her door when I got up half an hour ago, and I’ve texted her twice,” I tell him.
“What time she get in last night?” Cal opens his laptop and sits on a stool at the kitchen counter.
I sip my own coffee as I study him. I’m not sure if he’s asking because he knows our daughter didn’t arrive home until three this morning and he’s waiting to see if I’ll lie on her behalf, or if he’s just clueless.
“I’m not sure.” I opt for covering both our asses.
Cal turns and looks at me over the top of his Number One Rock Star coffee cup, eyebrows raised as he gives me his you-really-gonna-go-there look.
I fight not to smile and maintain what I hope is an impassive expression. I refuse to back down and incriminate myself. Keeping a straight face, I raise my own brows and stare right back.
“I call bullshit,” he says.
I frown, hoping to now appear confused. “What? Why?”
“Get your lying arse over here, woman.”
“No, tell me what I’m bullshitting about first.”
Cal sips his coffee and nods slowly. “You really gonna keep this up and lie for her?”
“Lie? Why am I lying?”
“Okay, if that’s the way you wanna play it.” His lips pull up into a small smile as he continues to shake his head while turning his attention back to his laptop.
I open my mouth to protest again when my cell vibrates on the edge of the counter beside me. I frown as I see Billie’s name on the screen. It’s seven-thirty here, making it around eleven-thirty at night in California. Call it female intuition, maternal instinct, call it what you will, but something in my psyche warns me this will not be good.
My stomach churns as I reach for my phone, and as much as I don’t want Callum to see the look of concern I know I’m probably wearing, my eyes instinctively slide to his, seeking reassurance that everything's going to be the same once I pick up this call.
“Hey,” I answer, outwardly sounding upbeat and inwardly armouring myself in preparation for the blow.
“Mel . . .”
Billie says my name on a sob, I frown, and can only imagine the look of pure terror I portray as I witness Callum’s reaction to it.
He stands so quickly the stool falls back and hits the floor with a crash.
“Billie, what’s going on, what’s wrong?”
“Mel?” Cal questions, moving towards me.
Billie’s sobs echo down the phone. I switch it to speakerphone and set on the counter like it’s burning a hole through my hand.
“Kid, you okay, what’s wrong?” Callum says as he steps closer to me and the phone.
We’re both silent as her sobs fill our kitchen.
“Kid?”
A myriad of scenarios rush through my mind as to what might be wrong. We’ve raised Billie as our own since she was just seven years old. She and Callum share a bond much closer than that of siblings. He’s played the role of both parent and big brother for most of her life.
“Kid, can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Cal's pan
ic-filled eyes slice to mine, and I’m amazed at how calm his voice sounds. His face was flushed earlier from his morning run, but there’s zero colour in his cheeks at this moment.
“Find my phone,” he instructs.
I look around the room while taking in deep breaths and trying to remain calm. I find his cell sitting behind us on the kitchen table with his headphones. Noticing the two missed calls, I hand it to him.
“I need you, Cal. I need you to come,” Billie whispers.
“Okay. Can you tell me what’s wrong? Where are you, kid?”
Her sobs grow louder. I cover my mouth with my hand as I try to quiet my own.
“He tried to kill me . . . H-he tried to rape me, and he tried to kill me.”
I’m not sure there’s a name to give the noise I make. It’s somewhere between a sob, a cry, and a moan as the word no escapes me. Tears stream down my face as fear coats each of my senses.
“Billie, who did? Where are you? Is there someone there I can talk to?” Cal’s voice remains composed as he asks each question at the same time as he swipes through his own phone.
“Call Len. I need the jet, and I need you with me. Billie’s in trouble,” he says into his phone.
“I’m in the hospital. I’m sorry, Cal. I’m so sorry. I just want to come home,” Billie explains.
I pace as I watch my husband do the same. He sets his own phone to speaker mode and sets it next to mine, then, lacing his fingers together, he places them at the back of his head.
“Kid, I need to know which hospital? Is Carmen there, or Michael? Who’s with you?”
We hear Billie ask someone where she is before telling us, “Cedars-Sinai.” She cries harder before adding, “Carmen’s been arrested, Cal. The police took her. They’re here. They want to talk to me. The nurse has told them no . . . Cal, I’m scared. I’m so scared I’m in trouble.”
The fear is so undeniable in her trembling voice that I have to press both hands over my nose and mouth to stifle my own sobs.
“What the fuck? Why? What the fuck’s happened?”
All the Forbidden Things Page 8
