See You In My Dreams

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  First things first. His mother would take care of Nikki. He would take care of Mr. Ian Starr.

  ~ * ~

  Antonio's Grill and Cigar Bar advertised itself as one of the few places where a man could still smoke and dine in New York City. While Max seldom indulged in the pleasant pastime of smoking a cigar, he'd chosen the Little Italy restaurant for its cuisine and location. Besides, the sidewalk café section of the restaurant reminded him of Paris. Antonio's was also known for its grand humidor and excellent selection of cigars. He savored one of them, rolling the aromatic cigar back and forth between the fingers of his right hand.

  It was unlikely anyone would disturb his meeting with a prominent attorney from the D.A.'s office. Max glanced at his watch. Already ten minutes late. Patience, not being one of his virtues, he shifted in irritation. In order to have a clear view of everyone coming and going, he'd chosen a table in the sidewalk café. He flicked the slow-growing ash from his cigar into the brass receptacle.

  From his table he observed a man who fit the description Ned had given him, walking toward him. He was tall, whippet-thin, dressed in a well-tailored, gray-silk suit. The newcomer stopped and looked from side to side, as if searching for someone. Max stood and gestured, catching his attention.

  “Mr. Devereaux?"

  Max extended his hand in greeting. “Yes."

  “Roy Parsons,” the man responded, shaking Max's hand. “Ned Landry told me you have a problem. Something to do with your agency, I believe."

  “Yes.” Max sat down and motioned for the attorney to be seated. “One of the younger models.” He dropped his gaze and studied his drink. Discussing what had happened to Nikki with a stranger wasn't something he relished. Thinking about it was difficult enough. “Ned suggested you because of your experience with cases—like this."

  “He didn't go into any details.” Parsons gave him a questioning glance.

  Max forced himself to say the words. “She was—uh, drugged, then raped by a photographer after a photo session."

  Roy Parsons frowned. “She'll have to file a complaint."

  Max shook his head. “She refuses. Can anything else be done?"

  Parsons leaned back and shook his head. “First of all, date rape is both difficult to prove and prosecute. I assume she was examined at an emergency room?"

  “No, she wouldn't hear of it. My mother's physician came to the house. Examined her took blood tests, but Nik—uh—” Max stammered, not wishing to reveal Nikki's identity unless necessary. “She became hysterical at the mention of the police."

  “So what you're saying is there's no DNA or other evidence?"

  Max shrugged, uncomfortable with the details. “She came home and showered before anyone knew what had happened."

  “Unfortunate...” Parsons admitted, “...but not uncommon."

  “She's deathly afraid of anyone finding out, but it's more than that."

  “What?"

  “She's ashamed, blames herself."

  “Any witnesses?"

  “Only friends of his. She doesn't remember what happened."

  “Not good. They'll all swear she was with him willingly. Anyone do blood tests for the date rape drug—rohypnol?"

  “Yes, she tested positive for something. Max tried to remember what the doctor had called it. “Yes, I believe that's what it was."

  “At least there's evidence she wasn't willing. How old is she?"

  “She's a minor—sixteen."

  Parsons's eyes widened. “Good God. What about her parents?"

  “There's only her mother, and her mother doesn't know."

  “What?"

  “She doesn't live with her mother. She lives with mine, who has legal custody."

  “Well, I have to be honest. If the girl does pursue it, it will certainly become a matter of public record. Let me tell you one thing. What the defense lawyer will put her through will be as much a violation as the rape. He'll drag her through the mud. He'll put her on display; her entire life history will be fodder for his defense. This young woman doesn't sound like someone who's ready to go through the legal hassles or the character assassination."

  “No, she's very fragile, right now. I don't think she could stand it. But surely, this rapist can't be allowed to get away with what he's done?"

  Parsons shrugged. “Be realistic. He already has."

  “But—” Max couldn't believe his ears.

  Parsons cleared his throat. “The last thing I would ever do is suggest you take matters into your own hands.” Parsons gave Max a narrowed glance.

  “You mean—"

  “I mean,” Parson's paused, “the last thing I would tell you to do is handle this yourself.” The attorney's gaze never left Max's.

  Max nodded. “I understand."

  “You understand that I am not telling you to commit a crime."

  “I understand."

  Nine

  Two weeks after Nikki's rape, Renée awakened in the middle of the night from a restless sleep. Too much coffee too late, she guessed. Then the sound of someone crying invaded her awareness. She sat up in bed and listened. Alexa having a bad dream?

  Renée threw back the bed covers, walked to her bedroom door, opened it and listened again.

  No, not Alexa. It must be Nikki. Yes, the crying was coming from her bedroom. She walked the short distance to the girl's room, stopped and listened again.

  Crying, whimpering. Nikki's pitiful voice. “No, stop it. No. It hurts. Mommy."

  Renée's heart clenched in her chest. A nightmare. The poor child did remember something. She knocked on the door. “Cherie?"

  No answer, but the whimpering continued. The sound of it broke Renée's heart. She hated intruding on the young woman's privacy, but how could she not offer comfort.

  Not wanting to startle the sleeping girl by knocking, she eased open the door and walked over to Nikki's restless form. “Cherie,” she repeated.

  “No, no,” Nikki whimpered. “Mommy, help me."

  Renée sat down on the side of the bed. “It's Maman. You're having a nightmare."

  Nikki pulled away from Renée's touch. The girl's eyes opened, but stared, unseeing. “No, stop. Go ‘way.” She turned her back to Renée and drew herself into a ball.

  Torn by the raw pain in front of her and by her inability to lessen it, Renée waited. Eventually Nikki's twitching movements quieted, and her whimpering stopped. Renée stroked her charge's forehead, then stood up and walked to the door. She stopped and cast one last glance over her shoulder. Surely, now Nikki would sleep the remainder of the night.

  ~ * ~

  Nikki combed her fingers back through her hair, then shook her head, assessing the effect in the bathroom mirror, then nodded. It'll have to do, she told herself. A touch of taupe shadow, a hint of blush across her cheekbones, and a smidgeon of gloss were all the makeup she wore when not on a job. Tonight would be the first time she'd been out in two weeks. It was time. She was ready.

  Before she could leave, she heard a knock on her adjoining bedroom door. “Come in.” She stopped to shake her mane of hair, once more—for the casual effect.

  The door opened and Renée peeked around it.

  Damn. She'd hoped to make her escape before her over-protective mentor returned. “I didn't know you were back.” She attempted a wide smile, knowing she seldom fooled Renée.

  “I returned about fifteen minutes ago,” Renée said, smiling. “Here, Chèrie, I have something for you."

  Nikki took it and turned the flower-covered book over in her hands. The pages were blank. She looked at Renée. “For me?"

  “For you."

  “Why?"

  “I have kept a journal for years, and I always have an extra one on hand. I thought you might enjoy it. Writing in it helps me sort things out,” Renée replied with a small shrug.

  Her eyes filled with tears. Maman knew ... knew the fear and misery that stalked her dreams, night after night. And no matter how much Nikki might deny it, her waking h
ours too. “Th-thank you. It's lovely."

  She looked into her mentor's eyes. They shone brightly, as if—

  She felt Renée's arms slip around her. She sagged into the embrace, then recovered. Straightening her back, she blinked away her tears. “I'm fine. Really."

  “I know. I only want you to know how much I've come to love you. You are very precious to me."

  Nikki wavered between collapsing into Renée's arms and pulling away. She ducked her head, unable to meet her mentor's honest gaze. “You've been so good to me—better than I deserve,” she whispered.

  “Not at all, Chèrie. You are a very sweet—"

  She took a deep breath and pulled away. “You don't have to baby me. I'll be fine."

  “No one will think less of you, if you give in to your feelings."

  “I'm all right,” she insisted a little stronger than she meant to. “You don't have to worry about me."

  “I heard you crying in the night. The first few times, I went into your room, but you were always asleep. I tried to comfort you, but it seemed to make your dreams worse. I want to help you, anyway I can."

  She pulled away. “I'm fine. I told you.” She clasped the book to her chest, knowing she'd been rude. “Th-thank you for the journal. I'll use it, okay?"

  Maman smiled. “Promise?"

  “Yeah, sure. I mean, like I'm totally over this. I would've had sex with someone, sooner or later, anyway. So, no big deal. I've seen worse things happen on the streets."

  “No big deal?” Maman protested. “You could have—"

  “But I didn't. No harm, no foul.” She reached over and kissed Renée on the cheek. “Gotta go. Marti and I are going to a club downtown tonight.” She pursed her lips and redid her lipstick.

  “But do you not think you should be careful? Please do not go out. Marti's too mature for you. She is—"

  “Only seven years older. Old enough to be a chaperone, but young enough to be some fun. Give me a break, okay. I have to go out sometime."

  Nikki fluffed her hair one more time, then placed her hands on her hips. “You can't keep me locked up in this house until I'm eighteen. No way."

  “I'm not saying you should. I won't forbid your going, but I wish you would think about it before you do."

  “I have thought about it."

  “You still have a curfew,” Maman warned.

  Nikki huffed. “What time?"

  “The usual for Friday night, eleven."

  “Eleven?” Nikki groaned. “I don't know anyone who has to be in by eleven."

  “Eleven.” Maman's voice remained firm.

  “All right. I'll be here."

  “Good.” Her mentor's face grew tense. Her lips tightened.

  “Good.” She whirled around, leaving her mentor behind and stalked back to her bedroom, muttering beneath her breath, “I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine."

  But she wasn't, and she knew it.

  Ten

  Not wanting to attract attention, Nikki eased her way into the hurly-burly madness of the back stage dressing room. As fashion events went, it wasn't a big show, but it would raise a lot of money for the Juvenile Diabetes Association. About half the models were this season's debutantes, no doubt anxious to do their bit for the good of humanity. The other half were girls like herself. Girls who worked for a living and didn't have a rich daddy picking up the tab for cars, college and fancy ski trips.

  Renée had been a tremendous mentor. Lessons in etiquette, how to walk, talk, dress—things Nikki had to be taught—things that hadn't come naturally. Would they ever?

  While envy was not one of her usual failings, life sometimes seemed a little unfair. A few had so much, and others never had a chance at all.

  Damn. What a whiner she was. She should count herself among the fortunate, and most of the time she did. What she really envied was the ease with which some girls moved through life—from prep schools and expensive universities to marriages with equally privileged men.

  Frankly, she just didn't fit anywhere.

  She found an empty mirror and sat down, quietly busying herself with her hair and makeup.

  “Nikki..."

  She turned around, looking for the source. Two agency models were at the far end of the dressing room. And they were trashing her. Midway in applying blush to her cheeks, she stopped and listened.

  “What about Nikki?” one of them asked.

  “It's all the talk."

  “Why? What's love'em and leave'em Max's little darling done now?"

  “You haven't heard? Well, Ian Starr spread it around how easy she was, said she just about attacked him after their photo shoot.

  “No shit."

  “No shit. Ian told everyone within hearing distance that she was the poster girl for Miss Roundheels."

  “That's terrible,” she heard one of them snigger.

  Nikki sat perfectly still, her face burning like she'd just stepped into a sauna. As unpleasant as it was, she had to hear the rest.

  “You haven't heard the best part,” the unseen model said with a giggle. “Apparently, Max heard about it and beat the hell out of Ian. Anyway, Mr. Ian Starr went chasing back to England. Urgent business, I hear."

  Their light laughter trilled. Nikki shivered. Stop it, she told herself. You haven't done anything wrong. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She'd show them ... all of them.

  One of the dressers rushed over to her side. “Where have you been?"

  She opened her mouth, but the dresser didn't give her a change to answer. “Never mind, we have to hurry. You're on in five minutes.” Turning to one of the other assistants, she clapped her hands together and yelled, “Dawn, get me number seven. Quickly. Quickly."

  Through their combined efforts, five minutes later Nikki stepped onto the catwalk and prowled down the catwalk with leonine grace. At the end of the runway, she turned, tossed her hair, all the while favoring the onlookers with the look. The look that said, Look all you want. You'll never touch me.

  ~ * ~

  In the audience of well-heeled patrons, Max Devereaux sat alongside his mother. Nearly overcome by Nikki's radiant presence. Her blue eyes blazed with fire, while her expression appeared to have been carved from the finest ivory. He'd never seen her quite so dazzling. Leaning his head toward his mother, he remarked, “You have done a marvelous job with Nikki. She is breathtaking."

  “Merci, mon fil.” Renée nodded. “I have to agree.” She added with a smile, “Even if I say it myself."

  “How is she, really?” he found himself asking.

  “I wish I knew. She seems to be okay, but she is a bit more temperamental—how you say, rebellious, at times?

  “But that's to be expected, n'est-ce pas?” Max asked.

  “Expected, oui,” Renée laughed brusquely, “but still she is not always so easy to handle."

  “Well, she's very young."

  “Hm, yes, but she's at the stage where she thinks she knows everything.” Renée laughed again. “Never mind, she is very headstrong, but much like you were at that same age, I must constantly remind myself."

  Max emitted a low chuckle. “Oui, Maman, I remember too.” While Max kept a professional eye on the other models from the agency, it seemed that none of the others created quite the same air of excitement Nikki generated with her duality of fire and ice.

  His mother leaned her head next to his. “Yet she is wonderful with Alexa, so patient. And your daughter dotes on her new big sister."

  Inexplicably, this bit of news warmed Max on a deep level. “They really do get along, don't they?” He couldn't keep from smiling. “So there is more to the runaway than her pretty face."

  “Indeed, even if she is the handful."

  “I know I've asked a great deal from you. I hope you don't regret my impulsive gesture."

  “Gesture, Maxim? Hardly a gesture, mon fil."

  “What else could I do? She needed rescuing ... and I needed a new model."

  “Of cours
e, I understand your motives completely. Do you?"

  Max shot his mother a don't-go-there look. Smiling, she turned her attention to the runway.

  After the fashion show ended, guests mingled, drank champagne and gossiped about the new designs. Max threaded his way through the crowd and procured two glasses of champagne.

  “Merci,” Renée said, accepting the crystal flute. “Did you know, Maxim, that Saturday is Nikki's birthday? I thought we might celebrate with an outing in the park, en famille.

  He hesitated, trying to think of a logical reason for avoiding Nikki. “I'm not sure that's a good idea, mixing work and family."

  “Maxim,” Renée interrupted, shaking her head in obvious disapproval. “You did that when you brought her to me. She thinks you're angry with her."

  “Angry with her? Why would I be angry with her?"

  “The incident with Ian Starr. She thinks you are avoiding her."

  “I am, and you know why."

  “You tell me why."

  Max shrugged. Damn, he shouldn't have to explain to his mother. It was too difficult.

  Renée arched her brow. “Then shall I tell you why?"

  He sipped his champagne and looked around, hoping no one was listening to their conversation. “Fine, Maman, tell me why."

  “You are attracted to her, and you are afraid of where it might lead, n'est-ce pas?"

  “She's too young. To Nikki I am an old man."

  Renée gave a quiet snort, shaking her head in disagreement. “The age difference will not always be a factor. Sometime you will have to address this thing you have between you."

  “There is nothing between us."

  “You are very much mistaken, if you think to pull the wool over the eyes of your maman. I have known you too long."

  Max restrained a sigh. As always, his mother could see straight through him. He'd never been able to fool her as a child, and he remained transparent as a pane of glass, even now. “Forgive my rudeness, Maman, but let us not discuss this, anymore."

  “You have done nothing for which to be forgiven.” Renée hesitated, “But what you must do is forgive yourself—for the death of Solange. That was not your fault."