After Her

by Amber Kay

  19

  Adrian takes the long route back to my apartment.

  I know this is intentional and strategic. Beethoven plays from the car radio as I watch Orange County pass us. An onslaught of expensive, sporty cars and McMansions fade into the backdrop as we head out of the suburbs and into the city limits.

  The city is alive with its usual activity. Jammed traffic. Sidewalks occupy with jogging mothers pushing strollers, elderly dog walkers and high school students filing in line en route to the buses collecting them for the day. A morning sun climbs into the sky, cloaked by a veil of clouds and smog.

  I observe the outside world, feeling the need to distract myself with it to forget the fact that Adrian Lynch is sitting less than three feet away. Beethoven’s orchestra blasts a symphony of trumpets, pianos, violins and cellos. I can’t find focus. Without thinking, I switch off the radio.

  “You don’t like Beethoven?” Adrian asks me as I sit back with my arms folded, staring out the windshield.

  “My roommate is a music major,” I say. “She used to play her violin at the apartment nonstop, rehearsing. To tell you the truth, I’d like to never hear another classical orchestra piece ever again.”

  Adrian nods and flicks the radio back on. While flipping through the stations from jazz to pop, he glances at me, seeking approval.

  “What’s more your pleasure?” he asks and though I sense a different context behind his words, I hesitantly reply, “Aerosmith, Journey, Bon Jovi, anything reeking of the 80’s would be good enough for me.”

  He presses buttons on the touchscreen dashboard panel until a new station appears on the illuminated screen. After hearing Steve Tyler’s voice croon from the speakers, I lean forward and notice my name scrolling across the screen.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Your new playlist,” he replies. “I think you deserve some enjoyment since you’re stuck in a car with me.”

  I slide my finger across the screen to browse the listed songs. It’s a retro paradise.

  “U2, Genesis, Billy Idol and Depeche Mode? This is pay dirt,” I say. “I am in love with your radio.”

  “It’s nothing a subscription to Sirius radio can’t solve.”

  I allow myself to smile.

  “I can’t afford this kind of luxury,” I say. “We normal people have to work to acquire the things we want.”

  Adrian frowns. “You don’t think I work for a living?”

  “I don’t think you have to work,” I reply. “‘Lynch Enterprises is a multimillion dollar conglomerate with several subsidiaries and sister companies located all over the world.’ That’s how Wikipedia describes it. You were voted number five on Forbes list of most influential people in the country with a net worth of 2.6 billion dollars. You never have to work another day of your life.”

  “So you’ve researched me?” he remarks with a quirked left brow.

  I turn away, my cheeks colored with embarrassment. Red, like a fresh bruise.

  “Vivian offered me an internship,” I say. “Did you really think I wouldn’t Google you at some point?”

  He drives the next several minutes in silence, taking us further into the city then onto the highway to dodge a morning traffic jam. I skim the songs on his Sirius playlist, listening to one 80’s gem after another.

  “Running a company is more than just about making money,” he says after a Cyndi Lauper song transitions to a Def Leppard classic.

  “You’re gonna sit here and complain to me about how hard it is being rich? Good luck with that.”

  “I wasn’t born wrapped in money, Cassandra. As a teenager, I worked many odd jobs for a mere two-fifty an hour,” he says.

  “Really?” I ask.

  He nods. “Unfortunately, the only decent paying work where I come from is farm work. Someone always had a plow job available. I pushed plows and pulled vegetable crops for years. At seventeen, I bought a bus ticket to New York, attended Cornell and established my company right out of college. I have worked to get to where I am.”

  I glance at him. He’s almost glaring at me. I notice the slight twitch of his bottom lip and realize, he’s offended. I have underestimated him. He’s built a business from the ground up. You don’t get to be as successful as him by being an idiot. As smart as he seems to be, how did he end up roped into a murder rap? Smart people don’t commit murders and get caught. Smart people don’t get caught unless they want to.

  “What line of business is Lynch Enterprises anyway?” I ask since he appears to be a semi talkative mood. This drive is bound to be a long one. Might as well fill the awkward silence with some trivial small talk.

  “Lynch Enterprises specializes in high-stakes stockbroking,” he says without looking at me. “Selling, purchasing and collecting stocks then earning commission from the interest we charge our clientele.”

  “In other words, you got rich by convincing other rich people to give you their money.”

  His lips pull into a smile that he tries to fight. “Something like that, more or less.”

  “Ah, then you’re just fancy con-artist,” I tease.

  Again, he smiles and a chuckle seeps out of him.

  “I’ve been called worst by some of my more disgruntled former clients.”

  “Disgruntled?”

  “My line of business has been known to attract a certain sense of danger,” he says. “Some clients get in over their heads, invest too money into the wrong account and find themselves disappointed when they lose it all. Some have fallen prey to bankruptcy. Others have lost their entire life savings, pensions and 401ks. By then, people tend to scapegoat someone else for their mistakes.”

  “Any of these disgruntled clients ever get violent?”

  “Open the glove compartment,” he says abruptly.

  I blink at him, confused.

  “What?”

  “The glove compartment,” he repeats. “Open it.”

  I reach forward, popping the compartment open. Inside, I find a pistol. Coated black with a silver-colored trigger.

  “Jesus Adrian, why the hell is that in your car?!” I say.

  “Money can complicate things,” he says. “I’ve had some past indiscretions that I'm not proud of. Had to do things to safeguard my livelihood.”

  “Have you ever used that thing?” I ask in a state of momentary awe.

  “Never on a human.” He reaches across my lap and closes the glove compartment. “Does that put your mind at ease?”

  “Not really, honestly,” I say. “I mean—I knew that you and Vivian didn’t exactly live some wholesome, clean-cut life, but driving around with guns in your car? That’s fucking extreme.”

  “I have to protect my own,” he says. “I hope that doesn’t scare you.”

  “You must have taught Vivian everything she knows,” I say.

  “Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve taught her too much,” he murmurs to himself as if I wasn’t meant to hear it.

  “Vivian owns a few shares of Lynch Enterprises, doesn’t she?”

  “Vivian’s job is to be what she already is,” he says in a patronizing tone. “She’s an excellent trophy wife and arm piece for me to show off to potential investors. All that is required of her is that she look good, flirt with the clientele to ensure finalized deals and to pretend she loves me more than anyone else.”

  “She does love you,” I say as I'm reminded of her many declarations. “She’s not faking or pretending.”

  Adrian smirks at my remark.

  “I don’t doubt Vivian’s commitment, but I refuse to believe it’s reserved for me.”

  I'm tempted to insist otherwise, but all I hear is Vivian’s voice pleading with me to shut up. She’d hate me for exposing her morbid plans to him, for mentioning the martial proposition she offered me, but I don’t like hearing Adrian insult her.

  “Take my word for it,” I say. “You’d be surprised by the sacrifices she’s making to keep you happy.”

  “Hmm, she’s managed to fool
you after all,” he replies.

  “Adrian, your wife is dying,” I say. “Don’t you even care?”

  He remains faced forward, focus set on the traffic ahead when he speaks.

  “What is your role in this?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Vivian doesn’t need an intern to handle her wifely duties,” he says. “Her share of Lynch Enterprises is less than half a fraction. Nothing she chooses to do with her division will affect the company overall. Her sole occupation is to organize fundraisers and charity drives. She can handle that alone.”

  “What’s your point?” I ask.

  “Why did she really hire you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, scrambling to alibi myself. “She needed an intern and I accepted. Why does there have to be some sinister ulterior motive or conspiracy?”

  “I’ve known Vivian for twenty-five years,” he says. “Nothing she does comes without an ulterior motive.”

  “How long has Vivian been taking mood stabilizers?” I blurt to change the subject. The Miata picks up speed. Adrian’s hands clench in fists around the steering wheel. This is becoming an odd habit with him.

  “Everything is a mystery to you,” he replies with laughter at my expense. This, I'm sure, is a defense mechanism.

  “Vivian involved me,” I say. “I deserve answers.”

  He murmurs something beneath his breath. And I realize that he’s counting down from ten.

  “Adrian?” I say. “Are you…counting?”

  He glares at me.

  “One day you’re going to ask a question that you won’t like the answer to,” he says.

  I watch his left hand flex in and out of a fist. As his right hand clutches the steering wheel, it trembles.

  “What’s wrong with your hands?” I ask.

  He slows the car. At the next stop sign, off the highway, the car stops abruptly. Adrian turns me to with some semblance of a polite smile and he replies, “For now, let’s stick to the subject of Vivian.”

  Judging by his tone, he’s adverse to any discussion concerning his hands. I decide to cut him a break. The last thing I need is to piss him off by reminding him of the things he doesn’t like about himself.

  “What is wrong with Vivian?” I ask. “Other than what I already know?”

  “She was diagnosed after our second wedding anniversary,” he says with a sigh. “Doctors said she had bipolar disorder.”

  I sit with the words for a moment, allowing them to sink in before speaking.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Because she’s in denial about it herself,” he says. “She has a crazed image obsession. There is no way in hell she’d want the world to know that she’s mentally ill. It would destroy her reputation.”

  “Has she been taking her medication?”

  He shakes his head.

  “She refuses to take her meds. Sometimes I have to drop them into her food or drink to force her,” he says. “I do not drug my wife. I do everything that I can to keep her from hurting herself and others. If I have to trick her into taking her medication, then so be it.”

  “How long have you been secretly medicating her?”

  “Ten years,” he says. “She lost her way during my murder trial. Neglected her meds and ran off in the middle of the night. She refused to sleep for days at a time and the police brought her home twice a week claiming they’d picked her up from some sleazy bar. It was a constant battle with her. Sometimes I couldn’t keep up.”

  “So you had her committed,” I say.

  “I knew that the doctors would force her to take her pills and I couldn’t handle her on my own anymore. She was virtually a child that I couldn’t take care of during the trial so yes, I signed her into the hospital. I regret abandoning her, but I couldn’t help her anymore. That’s why I'm beginning to rethink this arrangement with you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re good for her,” he says. “She doesn’t usually keep an intern around for long. She likes you.”

  “I can’t be what Vivian wants me to be,” I say. “I’m not a doctor. Or a psychiatrist.”

  “Just be her friend,” he replies paternally like a father advising his kid to socialize at summer camp. “She has developed an attachment to you. Abandoning her could push her over the edge. You haven’t seen her at her worst. I have. Do you want to be held responsible for anything irrational she might do?”

  I glare into the windshield, then at him.

  “No,” I snap. “You can’t just make her my responsibility.”

  “You don’t care about her…even a little?”

  “This is ridiculous.” I face away, staring out the passenger door window. Adrian grips my chin, turning my head to face him. I jerk away.

  “Don’t touch me!” I say. “Never touch me without permission again.”

  He pulls away, heeding to my orders without objection.

  “Okay,” he says after placing his hand back atop the steering wheel. “I won’t touch you anymore.”

  “Good. Now drive me home.”

  Adrian sighs. I feel him staring, but I don’t acknowledge him.

  “Don’t abandon her, Cassandra,” he says. “Amuse her. She won’t be around for much longer. Do whatever she asks. Wear the clothes she picks out, go shopping with her anytime she wants and just…be her friend.”

  I almost laugh at the irony of all of this. Yesterday, Vivian begged me to be Adrian’s toy. Less than twenty-four hours later, Adrian is pleading with me to be the same thing for Vivian. I scoff at these thoughts then scold myself for thinking them.

  Somehow, I don’t feel like an intern, a friend, a surrogate daughter, or even a person anymore. I’ve become their coping mechanism and their captive marriage counselor. I am their hired marionette.

  20

  Sasha’s Corvette isn’t parked in its usual spot.

  I sigh aloud the moment I notice her usual parking space vacant. At least now, she won’t be home to scold me for not returning to the apartment last night. Adrian pulls into the lot and parks in Sasha’s space. As he shifts the engine off, I exhale.

  “You don’t want to be here, do you?” Adrian asks and I feel him assessing me from the driver’s seat.

  “My roommate will give me hell for not coming home last night. I’m not ready to face her yet.”

  “I can take you somewhere else if you’d like,” he says. “There are several nooks and crannies owned by the Lynch name that can hide you away.”

  “Geez, how much of Orange County do you own?” I ask. “You have other houses?”

  “And several apartment complexes, a few condominiums, two hotels in East LA and a couple ranches in Oklahoma and Wyoming. I’m on the lookout for some good vacation spots. There isn’t enough time to jet set as much as I’d like to.”

  “You’re a real estate whore,” I joke. “What’s with all the houses?”

  “Sometimes I need to be away from the city. Business can get hectic. Boardroom meetings are monotonous. Being Adrian Lynch isn’t the most exciting or rewarding reality sometimes.”

  There is something dejected behind his eyes as he says this. I don’t ask what it is. I'm not sure I even want to know.

  “Are you sure it’s the city you want away from?” I ask. “Vivian has nothing to do with your insatiable wanderlust?”

  “Being Vivian’s husband feels like a part-time job sometimes,” he says. “Can you blame me for wanting to be away from her a few weeks out of the year? Isn’t there anyone in your life you’d love a vacation from?”

  Sasha immediately comes to mind. I feel horrid for allowing myself that thought.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I never thought I’d find some common ground with you, but on this front, I understand.”

  He smiles then reaches into his pocket. After fishing out his billfold, he removes a business card from inside then hands it to me. I glance at the printed words, finding his company name, its address and a ph
one number.

  “What is this for?”

  “Emergencies,” he replies. “I’m on call 24/7. Anything you need or want. Call and tell my assistant that you are top priority.”

  “24/7? Yeah right. What if I call at 3AM begging for pistachio ice cream? You’d climb out of bed and rush to the market for ice cream just because your wife’s intern asked for it?” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh.

  “You like pistachio? Hmm, I’ll have to remember that for future references.”

  “Adrian, I was kidding.”

  “Well, I'm not. As of now, you are an honorary Lynch and there isn’t a thing in the world that a Lynch can’t have,” he says.

  I know he means that. History has proven that assertion true. Adrian and Vivian have made a life of getting what they want. I'm living proof of this assessment. Vivian wanted a successor so she bought one. Adrian wants a new plaything. By giving me this card, he’s solidifying his intent to get one.

  What if I did call him at three in the morning? I doubt he’d expect me to be calling only for ice cream. There is no way Adrian Lynch is rushing to my apartment at dawn to deliver ice cream, not without expecting something of equivalent value in return.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say while stuffing his card into my back pocket. “Keep Vivian out of trouble.”

  “Controlling Vivian is one of the many things I do best,” he replies. After another tentative glance at him, I gather the nerve to exit the car. I watch from the sidewalk as his Miata veers out of the parking lot then down the street.

  For some reason, I don’t move from where I am. I feel his card in my pocket, reminding me of our conversation. I chuckle at myself for taking it so seriously. There is no way he has a private line reserved for me.

  I'm sure if I called right now, he wouldn’t even give it a second thought. I glance into my purse and at my cell phone, listing the what-ifs and consequences of calling that number, but I resist the urge to dial.

  “It was just a stupid joke,” I mutter to reassure myself. I have class in an hour. No more time to play games with Adrian Lynch. I saunter up the apartment complex stairs, stopping on the third floor where my apartment sits.