A Shameless Little BET

by Meli Raine

  Chapter 15

  Jane

  Bzzzz. My phone wakes me up. It’s morning. The couch is barely wide enough for my body and I nearly fall onto the floor as I lunge for the phone.

  You need to come to The Grove, the text from a hidden number demands.

  Who is this? I reply.

  Harry is the one-word answer.

  I don’t have time, I lie.

  Your life is nothing but empty time, he responds.

  Screw you, I type back, then turn my phone off, powering down just as Lindsay shuffles out of the bedroom, yawning. I spent the night on the couch last night. She got my bed.

  I doubt either of us got much sleep, though.

  “You look like the text you’re reading is made of dog poop,” she suddenly says, surprising me.

  “It feels like it. It’s Harry. Demanding I come to The Grove.”

  “Are you going?”

  I look at the twelve boxes we didn’t get to last night. “Hell, no.”

  Lindsay looks at me through the kitchen doorway, her hand on a coffee filter. “Attagirl.”

  “Isn’t that what Drew always says to you?”

  “Only when he agrees with me.” She chuckles to herself. I hear the faucet turn on, water muted as she pours it into the glass carafe. A minute later the machine gurgles, and Lindsay is walking into the living room, staring at the boxes as she yawns. Long, blonde hair flows down her back, thick strands clumping in lines that zig and zag, like a drunken weave. Shaking it out, she finger-combs it, then looks at the folder with the word WITCH on it.

  “That wasn’t a surreal dream last night, was it?”

  “Nope. Wish it were.”

  “Life would be easier, huh?” She grabs her phone and charger from the wall near my dining table. Looks at her screen. “Geez, Drew, calm down,” she mutters to herself, double-thumbing on her glass screen.

  “Is he being a pain?”

  “He read the reports from Alice already. I knew he would. He wants us to be extra careful. One hack and every box in here will be on the radar screen of the wrong people.”

  “Like your mom?” I joke.

  She doesn’t laugh. “Exactly like my mom.”

  “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”

  “Jane, if anyone has the right to take pot shots at my mom, it’s you.”

  “Let’s not talk about shots. I have no desire to harm your mother,” I say distinctly, as if someone’s listening.

  Because they are.

  “Right.” Lindsay clues in. “Drew says he and Silas are on their way back. They learned a lot in D.C.”

  “Bet we learned more right here.”

  “If this were a contest,” she agrees, “we would win.”

  “It’s nice to be a winner for once.”

  “Not so sure I like the prize.” She frowns at Alice’s folder.

  “Same here. I really cannot believe that it’s El Brujo,” I say, not using the words “biological father” on purpose, because that makes me think about my biological father.

  Who just sent me that weird text.

  “I almost wish it were him so at least I’d know. The not knowing is the hardest part.”

  My skin is crawling, my body feeling like my blood is spinning, each cell rotating to infinity. “There are too many pieces in this puzzle. It all adds up to a mess with no shape, no form. Not a real, actual picture.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Lindsay, that text Harry sent me...”

  “He commanded you to appear at The Grove. You said no.”

  “It’s not what he said. It’s how. This time, he was a major asshole.”

  “What do you mean, ‘this time’? He’s often an asshole.”

  I hold up my phone. “Read this. I only told you, before. Read it for yourself.”

  She does. Her face slowly morphs as she takes in the words, doing a small, WTF? headshake.

  “That doesn’t sound like Daddy. Normally it’s his assistant texting for him, and she wouldn’t be like that.”

  “But it’s him.”

  “I guess? That’s weird. You’re sure it’s his number?”

  I check. “Hidden. But same number he’s called me on before.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Daddy had an intern text you.”

  “Something that private?” I’m deeply skeptical.

  “Don’t look at me like that!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m being ridiculous.” She sips her coffee. “I need more of this before I can think straight.”

  That we agree on.

  It’s nice. I don’t have quiet moments like this with people. Not in my apartment. Not in a safe place. Not anywhere. Lindsay makes me feel like I have a hope of living a normal life again. The constant storm in my head follows me wherever I go. Danger beats my body like I’m a punching bag. And Silas, well... Silas isn’t here right now, is he?

  I look at the boxes.

  I wish he were.

  The pang of longing hits me hard, making me groan slightly. It surprises me without overwhelming my heart. I can feel it without being overcome by it. That makes it seem more genuine. Authentic.

  Permanent.

  Lindsay jolts, her phone clearly buzzing. She looks. She frowns. She turns to me, and I know.

  I sigh.

  “It’s Drew. He says he needs to see me. Now. He’s home.”

  “He’s home already?” My skin flushes with heat, heart skipping. That means Silas is home, too.

  One eyebrow arches as Lindsay reads my mind. “Silas is home. You two need to talk.” Her other eyebrow joins its twin as she peers over the edge of her mug.

  “Of course we do.”

  “You need to do more than talk.”

  “Lindsay!”

  “Just sayin’. You two belong together. Why torture yourself?”

  “You know why.”

  “No. I don’t. You love him, don’t you?”

  My turn for eyebrows to shoot up. “Yes.”

  “Then stop being stupid.” She finishes her coffee and walks into the kitchen. I hear the mug scrape against the stainless steel sink.

  “You know what I love about you? Your nonjudgmental nature.”

  “I’m not pulling punches. Talk it out. Screw it out. Do whatever it takes to get over the hump so you can get to humping.”

  I snort. I can’t help it.

  “What about all this?” I gesture to the boxes.

  “Have him go through it. Consider it foreplay.”

  “You are a sick woman, Lindsay Bos – er, Foster.”

  She waggles her cell phone at me. “I’m also a wanted woman. Drew won’t stop texting and is threatening to come find me and drag me home. See you later.”

  “For sure?” I can hear how needy I am as the words come out of my mouth.

  “Of course. Let me reconnect with Drew, and then we’ll meet up for coffee. Silas and Drew will have plenty to ask you about.” Her eyes drift to the boxes. “And be careful. There’s a lot in there.”

  “Who knows what else is in there?” I say in agreement.

  “Maybe I really have three dads,” she says as she walks out the door, leaving me to laugh alone. Alone with an empty coffee cup and twelve boxes of questions.

  I remedy the coffee situation quickly. I stare at the boxes. I drink half my cup, then set it on the table next to a box.

  And dig in.

  A few hours later, I realize I’m hungry just as someone knocks on the door. “Jane?” Duff says, his voice muffled and strange from the other side. For some reason, the hair along my forearms pricks up. I look in the spyhole on the door.

  Duff.

  I open the door.

  Monica Bosworth is right behind him, moving so fast around him, it’s like she’s gliding.

  “What are you doing here? I never invited you,” I insist. Monica looks at the boxes, body calm, demeanor smooth and polished, as if she owns the place.

  “What is all this?”
she asks, gesturing to the boxes.

  Duff holds his palms up in defense, as if to say, Not my fault she’s here.

  Monica shuts the door in his face.

  “What is all this?” she demands, the repetition unnerving.

  “None of your business.” My pulse jumps inside me, erratic with fear. I push it down, forcing myself to confront. “You need to get out. This is my apartment.”

  “Harry pays your rent. I am his wife. I have every right to be here.”

  “You absolutely do not. And as soon as the inheritance from Alice comes through, Harry won’t pay a damn thing for me.”

  “You can’t wait to get your hands on all that money, can you?” she says, her voice slithering like a snake on an oil slick.

  “I am not talking to you about this or anything else. Get. Out. Now.” I move to go to the door, to get Duff, to not be alone with her. To not experience any of this. Blind panic starts to seep in around the edges of my vision.

  She blocks me.

  I move toward her, feeling her revulsion, her predatory heat, how she is not just determined.

  She is deadly.

  If I do not bend to her will, I will die.

  The force of it makes me stagger, stepping back. Monica has escalated this visit from nothing to lethal danger in seconds. How? The room spins. I can’t breathe properly as the rate of change is too fast, too jarring, too unreal.

  And that’s exactly how she likes it.

  Protective instinct makes me worry about the boxes, Alice’s writing on that folder embedded in my brain. Witch. Warlock. Monica. El Brujo. Did Monica find out about the boxes? The reports?

  How?

  She gives me a tight smile. “Stop seeing Lindsay.”

  “What?”

  She grabs my arm, fingers digging in hard, nails like little knives. “Stop. Poisoning. My. Daughter. Against. Me.”

  So much blood zooms to my head, it’s as if the rush takes away my ability to strategize, to analyze. I’m all impulse, nothing but push. “You think I’m doing that? You’re crazy. You’re the one who’s driving her away!”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing, little girl.”

  I scream, “I know allllll about what you’ve done, Monica. You can’t hide it anymore. Soon everyone will know. Everyone. You broke my mother and made her life a living hell until she died, but you won’t break me.” I wrench my arm from her, trying to get Duff, get out, get free.

  Just get.

  Silas

  I hear the screams as the elevator doors open. The sprint happens without thought. Duff’s in front of me and we barrel through the door together to find Monica with her hands on Jane, Jane red with fury as she screams the words You won’t break me.

  Protocol says that the wife of a presidential candidate takes precedence, even if we’re not Secret Service, even if Harry isn’t the president. There is a hierarchy to these situations. Maddening as it is, Monica’s life is considered more important than Jane’s.

  Monica is Harry’s wife.

  Except Jane is Harry’s daughter.

  Bottom line: I have to pick one, and by stopping Jane, I’m rescuing her more than she realizes.

  Even if she hates me for it.

  Duff grabs Monica and pulls her off Jane just as I reach forward, my hands grazing Jane’s hips. She flinches and rushes across the room, Monica shrugging Duff off.

  “You heard her,” Monica says to Duff, then me. “Screaming like that.” It’s obvious Monica provoked her, set her up for us to walk in and find this mess.

  “Why are you here?” Duff asks Monica calmly. He doesn’t have to look at me to convey what he’s thinking. He knows Jane.

  He damn well knows Monica, too.

  “I came to see Lindsay,” Monica snaps. “Private family business. Where is she?” She’s lying. Duff knows it. I know it.

  “Lindsay left hours ago. And she threatened me!” Jane shouts, pointing at Monica. “Told me to stay away from Lindsay!”

  Two weeks away from Jane just makes this harder. Homecoming wasn’t supposed to be anything like this. So much for a calm, rational reunion filled with emotion and bridges, insights and connection.

  Instead, I get a red-faced, furious woman I love and a stone-cold manipulative presidential candidate’s wife who just might be trying to kill Jane.

  Can’t tip my hand. Can’t reveal what Drew told me back at the Margin of Error. All I can do is manage my way out of this, get Monica on her way, and talk to Jane.

  “Silas,” Monica says calmly, the eyeliner around her eyes thick and intense. Ice-blue irises give her an added coolness, as if her blood is arctic water. “You see how she is. What she’s capable of. She’s been luring Lindsay into her mess. Filling Lindsay’s head with lies.” Her eyes flick to the stacks of file boxes all over the place. “No wonder. Alice was nothing but a drama queen, too.”

  At the mention of Alice, I look at Jane. Her face changes, going from furious to explosive. Instinct makes me lunge and intercede, turning myself into an instant wall, knowing damn well she’s beyond reason.

  “Alice was anything but a drama queen, you psycho bitch,” Jane hisses. Her voice is low, almost a growl. Hands curled into fists, shoulders wide and ready, she’s primed.

  I look at Duff, who nods slightly.

  Monica gives Jane a tight smile, opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Jane says:

  “And a very careful collector of secrets.”

  Duff freezes. I go cold. The boxes suddenly make more sense. My phone starts buzzing, text after text flowing in. I ignore it. I have no choice.

  Monica and Jane need every iota of my attention.

  For a cold, poised woman, Monica’s reaction to Jane is remarkably inelegant. Her mask simply shatters, emotion rolling across her face like each feeling is taking its turn, one after the other. Fear. Pain. Disgust. Terror. Denial. You name it, she shows it.

  As long as it’s negative.

  And then, like a magician with a bag of tricks, she carefully folds herself up into the neat, flat mask, all the loose, wild pieces of her tucked in.

  “You’re not worth it,” she says to Jane. “Just like your mother.”

  “My mother was worth your husband falling in love with,” Jane spits back, her body nothing but energy, all of it trying to hurt. “And their love made me. That drives you insane, because you’re incapable of love. All you know is how to destroy. Lindsay spends her life trying to get away from you. No one has to poison her against you, Monica. She knows.”

  I expect Monica to slap her, which means I’ll take the blow.

  I expect Duff will have to intervene, but Monica doesn’t move.

  I expect Jane to lunge again, but all she does is breathe heavily, staring down evil with courage.

  I expect, more than anything, that the pile of pieces of this mystery just got a little bigger.

  And no less complicated.

  “You have no shame,” Monica says calmly to Jane. “You’re nothing but a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. Anyone around you is going to get burned.”

  She looks straight at me. Then she gives a dramatic, disgusted sigh and leaves.

  Duff escorts Monica out, the door clicking shut, Jane’s attention now on me. Hair a mess, still in pajamas, tears streak her angry, wet face like a typhoon lashed her, unrelenting.

  “What the hell was that?” she asks.

  “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “She appeared out of nowhere! Just a –”

  My phone goes nuts again. I want to hold her. Soothe her. Shake her. Kiss her. Screaming at Monica was the stupidest move she could have made, and yet she did it out of reactivity.

  I get it.

  “Hang on,” I say, unable to avoid the texts.

  It’s Drew.

  Get Jane out of there, he says, then a series of the same message, peppered with profanity.

  Too late. Monica was here. Duff’s taking her out, I reply.

  I
know, he responds instantly. Preserve the papers.

  A series of photo texts pounds my phone, the word WITCH in big letters on a yellow background.

  Tell Jane to show you, he says, making my head pound.

  “Jane?” I ask her, showing Drew’s text. “What papers? What is Drew talking about?”

  “Those.” She points to the boxes. “Lindsay and I found a bunch of PI reports Alice had on Monica.”

  “Whoa, what? Say that again?”

  “Alice hired a private investigator to track Monica’s movements.”

  “Alice is dead. When? Why?”

  “In 1993. We don’t know why.”

  “We?”

  “Lindsay was here when I found the papers.”

  My mind races. “1993? Then Lindsay’s biological father might be in there?” Why would Alice Mogrett, of all people, be collecting intel on Monica Bosworth? And twenty-five years ago?

  “Might be El Brujo,” she says gravely.

  “WHAT?”

  She sighs, shoulders slumping forward. “Silas, can I get more coffee before I try to tell you everything?” Her stomach growls. “Or a snack?”

  “Can I give you a hug before you get that?”

  “Pretty sure I need coffee more than a hug.”

  “Pretty sure you’re wrong, Jane.”

  “I’m not receptive to being told by yet another person how wrong I am, Silas, so –”

  I shouldn’t.

  I know I shouldn’t.

  But I do.

  I kiss her, all five and a half feet of her angry, red fury in human form. I kiss her until I feel like I can breathe again, until she grabs the lapel of my coat and kisses back, so hard, so lush, so bruising.

  We kiss until the anger becomes tongues and bites, hands in hair and fingers under shirts, until whatever the hell she’s gone through for the last two weeks gets transmitted through skin.

  Through touch.

  Through each other.

  “You left,” she says against my mouth. “Don’t do that again.”

  “I’m sorry.” We both know I’m not apologizing for my trip.

  “I forgive you.”

  “Do you? Really?”

  “I didn’t want to. For a long time, I didn’t. I hated what you and Drew did. I tried to understand. Then I felt weak for wanting you so badly that I’d push aside my own hurt to be close to you again.”