by P. Dangelico
I’m dying a million tiny painful deaths. A million. If there’s a personal circle of hell for each and every one of us, this is mine.
I’m convinced that men like Ethan Vaughn are put on this planet to make the rest of us feel bad about ourselves. He’s too…perfect. I hate that word, I really do, but there’s no other way to describe this dude. A face and body that would make Adonis bristle in envy, successful, impeccably dressed. He’s neat. He’s very neat. It’s past midnight and he’s still pressed and clean. How the fuck is that possible? I bet he rinses his recycling before placing it in the blue bin. Probably farts perfume.
I don’t buy it. I just don’t buy it. My bullshit meter tells me something’s off. Or maybe it’s my black soul. Whatever, one of those two tells me that beneath the picture perfect surface, he may secretly be a homophobe, or rude to waiters, or mean to animals. Who knows, maybe he likes to kick cats when no one is watching.
Mr. Perfect is still staring, and has yet to say a word. Nor does he have to. My skin is burning from his shrewd assessment.
Take a good look, you sick cat kicking motherfu…
“I was under the impression you needed a lawyer.” His deep voice is even and unaffected. Is he under the impression that I need him to get me out of a parking ticket? What’s next, a yawn?
He slips his cell phone into his jacket pocket and crosses his arms. I meet his bullshit blasé attitude with one of my own. Except I go for bored, as if it’s every day I hang out in jails looking like the newest member of the Suicide Squad. “Aren’t you a sports lawyer, or corporate lawyer, or something?”
“I’m licensed to practice.”
Dandy. Just dandy. “Did you speak to Camilla? Is she coming?”
Camilla and Vaughn forged an unlikely friendship last year while she was working for Calvin, as a nanny slash teacher for his nephew Sam. She has a soft spot for this guy, and for the life of me I cannot figure out why.
“Yes.”
That’s it? No other explanation? The silence continues. Apparently not. His cool gaze sweeps down my person once again and my spine snaps straight. I got this. This is what I’m good at. On the inside I’m a blubbering, embarrassed mess, where as on the outside I’m stoic with a capital S, smooth as silk and just as cool. I’m an actress, playing pretend is my thing. I’ve got skillz in this department. Thus, digging down deep into my bag of skillz, I level him with my most devil-may-care stare.
“The prosecutor is asking for bail to be set at two hundred thousand.”
“Wut?”
Forget the devil-may-care stare. Just forget it, because it falls right off my face, seamlessly replaced by shock and unmitigated fear. My heart begins thumping so hard inside my chest it feels like it’s about to explode.
“Explain to me exactly what happened and don’t leave out any of the truthful parts.”
There’s blood rushing in my ears. All I hear is wah wah wah wah truthful parts. I’m feeing woozy, my legs unsteady. Stumbling, I seek out the only chair in the room and slump down in it.
“I…I––” My chin jerks up to take a good measure of the man hovering over me. “Are you suggesting I would lie?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you to give me the truth and only the truth, or you’ll be spending this night and every other night in the foreseeable future in a place worse than this.”
Swallowing is an impossible feat, my throat dammed up by a hot chunk of terror. Under any other circumstance, I would rather shave with a rusty blade than expose my soft underbelly to this guy. However, as it stands, looking like a gullible jackass is a far cry better than serious jail time.
“Parker, my ex-fiancé, called two days ago and said he really needed to speak to me, that he was in town for his parents’ New Year’s Eve party. The Gregorys have it every year––”
“I know,” Vaughn interrupts.
“How do you––”
“Never mind how.”
His tone irks me in the worst possible way. It gets under my skin and makes me itch to hurl words that would make your ears bleed. Need I explain that I have poor impulse control?
He steps closer and I instantly tense. He half sits on the corner of the table, looming over me, and says…nothing. He simply waits me out as if has he all the time in the world to torture me with his silence. Not for the first time I wonder who I raped and pillaged in a past life to deserve this crap.
He’s too close. His proximity is messing with my ability to form a single, cohesive thought. And I can smell him. Christ, what is that? It’s seriously distracting––in a not entirely unpleasant way. Which only stokes my anger.
“Jones?”
“Right.” I glance up and meet his intense gaze squarely. “He invited me. Left me three messages saying that he had something important to tell me. I have them if you need them.”
“Personal?”
“At the time, I had no idea. It could’ve been work related.” I sure as heck hoped it was personal, though. That, I do not say.
“Go on.”
“There were over a hundred people there, most of who were either drunk or high by midnight. The few times I saw Parker he kept saying he needed to talk to me, that he would find me the minute he got a chance. His parents had people there that were potential investors for one of his films and he was busy pitching them. I thought nothing of it…” I fiddle with the ripped seam of my dress, every word coming out of my mouth making me more anxious as I relive the events. “I know a few of his friends so it’s not like I was waiting around…” My voice loses volume. Who am I kidding? Of course I was waiting around. Even to my own ears the excuse sounds pretty thin.
“But he didn’t.”
“No,” I murmur, shaking my head. “Then, right before midnight, Susan, his mother, made a toast congratulating Parker on his recent engagement.” I glance up into a face as flawlessly static as a sheet of ice, nothing to indicate what he’s thinking. “I was…surprised.” Not exactly the right word but I’m keeping it PG. “He never even mentioned dating anyone.”
My voice fades. Vaughn’s expression hasn’t changed one bit. Not a drop of sympathy or understanding to be found anywhere.
“I thought…” What the hell did I think was going to happen? That he’d fall to his knees and profess he’d made a mistake––beg me to take him back? Yeah, I did. I wanted him to grovel. I had no intention of taking him back––there was a greater chance of me curing cancer––however, the thought of Parker groveling made me maniacally giddy with delight.
“Let’s get to the part where you started a fire.”
My narrowed eyes cut back to him. If I ever again hear Camilla call this guy charming, she’s getting tit punched without warning. “Why are you really here?”
“I owe Calvin a favor.”
This night keeps getting better and better. I should’ve known. My relationship with Calvin can best be described as tenuous. I think he’s a grouchy asshat. He thinks I’m…who the hell knows what he thinks, but I have reason to believe it isn’t good.
Thing is, he loves Camilla. He makes her happy. And as long as she’s happy, we get along. God help him if he starts making her unhappy. I certainly don’t want to owe the man, however, with an almost quarter million dollar noose hanging around my neck, I am not about to take my chances with a public defender.
“I bolted for the kitchen, Parker followed, we started arguing. You have to understand, between the catering staff and guests wandering in and out, it was chaos. So we’re arguing, and I…I may have pushed two chaffing dishes onto the wood floor and, umm, you know those little thingees under––”
“May, or did?” he interrupts, eyebrow lifting into an arrogant arch.
“Did.” His silence urges me to continue. “It was the party sludge! How was I supposed to know someone had spilled a bottle of booze on the floor?!”
The floor looked flambéed. It was kind of funny. Until it wasn’t. Until the flames reached the drapes and the fire
got out of hand.
“Nobody could find the fire extinguisher. Seconds later it reached the drapes. The rest you know.”
Another full minute of silence ticks by. In the meantime I can feel his judgment all over me. Far worse than being considered dangerous, I’m being tried and convicted an idiot. In his eyes, I will forever be a screw up of the highest order, a bunny boiler, the crazy chick that almost burned down her ex’s parents’ house. And I couldn’t even get that right. Put a bullet in me and call it a mercy killing.
“Who the hell hangs drapes in the kitchen?!!” I screech in my defense. All things considered, it’s a miracle I haven’t started bawling my eyes out yet.
A long, tortured sigh escapes my supposed lawyer. “Okay, this is the deal. You’re being charged with arson in the fifth degree. Which is a Class A misdemeanor, the least serious. However, it still carries a possible jail sentence of a year if they can prove that the fire was intentionally set––”
Jail sentence? A year? This can’t really be happening. Never once did I think there would come a day that I would pray for someone to have slipped the date rape drug into my champagne, but that day has come. Right now, I’m praying and praying hard.
“What if I was rufied?”
His perfect brow wrinkles. “How much did you drink?”
“One glass of champagne.” I look up and, for the first time, find concern in his big brown eyes. “I wanted to keep my wits about me.”
“Did you pass out at any point?”
“Umm, no,” I reluctantly admit.
“We’ll proceed on the assumption that you weren’t. Do I need to explain that the Gregorys are pillars of this community? It’ll be your word against theirs––specifically Susan’s.”
“Susan never liked me. Parker was there. He knows it was an accident!”
“Regardless, it’s her property. Susan is running the show and it will be her word against yours.”
Chapter Three
Ten minutes later we’re being escorted down the hall to a small courtroom. I’m shaking. With each step we take, my body vibrates at a rate that could very well spin me off the planet. Vaughn’s steady presence beside me is the only thing preventing that from happening. Outside the courtroom, we sit on a bench and await our turn.
“Whatever happens in there, you are not to say a word.” Vaughn’s pointed gaze bores into mine. “Are we clear?”
I’m too tired to argue or defend myself. I’m too disillusioned with life. I nod and mean it as I briefly check him out. For the first time all night, I’m glad he’s here––even though I’d rather pull my nails off with a pair of needle-nose pliers than admit that to him. No one paints a better picture of respectability and competence than this guy. It’s got to lend some credibility to my cause…here’s hoping.
“Jones.”
My eyes snap up. “Hmm.”
His gaze travels over my upturned face. “You can count on me.”
Honesty and concern stare back at me. The concern surprises me. I’ve been around this guy a handful of times; we’re virtual strangers. And yet the concern is real. And not in a detached, ‘sorry your life sucks’ kind of way. No, it’s real in a way that looks personal, like he has something at stake as well.
“Can I?” I intone, most of me riddled with skepticism while a small part desperately wants to believe him. He has no idea what he’s asking. I don’t do counting on people. I never have. Except now I have no choice.
“Yes,” he unequivocally replies.
His quiet voice hits me in a soft spot I thought had grown callous. I can’t handle him being nice right now. I can take anything except nice. Squeezing my eyes closed, I fight back the wave of emotion that pushes up my throat.
“What about Cassandra?” My eyes blink open, and find him focused on me with a look of utter confusion.
“Who’s Cassandra?”
Minutes later we stand in a small courtroom. A tired, disheveled young prosecutor to our right. Before us, a judge that looks straight out of central casting. He’s about a century old, complete with bushy white eyebrows and a mustache. This is about right. This is my life in a nutshell.
“Really?” I mutter under my breath.
“Shhh,” Vaughn whispers without glancing my way, his face a study in concentration.
“The man has an herb garden growing out of his ears. He can’t hear a thing,” I whisper-hiss back. On the edge of my vision, I notice Cal and Cam walk in and take a seat ten rows down. Relief crashes into me. The cavalry has arrived.
“Vaughn?” mutters the judge. Eyebrows that resemble two West Highland terriers climb up his forehead. “Any relation to Harrison Vaughn?”
“Yes, your Honor, he’s my father.”
“Hmm, tell him Charlie Weebly says hello.”
“Will do, your Honor.”
The judge drones on and on, reads the charges. Per my lawyer, I cringe and sweat as quietly as I possibly can.
“How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, your Honor.”
The judge addresses the prosecutor who has to look through some notes before he can answer back.
Vaughn quickly cuts him off. “Your Honor, the defendant has no record. And she was invited to the scene of the alleged crime. Her phone records will show as much. She hasn’t made any attempt to contact the injured party in two years.”
Two things. First, I’m slightly relieved. I know that Vaughn is not a criminal defense attorney so this could’ve gone either way. Second, I’m slightly in awe. Granted, I’ve never seen him in a work environment before, however, the confidence and command of the courtroom Vaughn is exhibiting is giving me goose bumps.
“Your Honor, there is significant damage to the victim’s property,” the annoyed and overly tired prosecutor retorts. “There are a number of witnesses to the crime.”
“Who were intoxicated, your Honor,” Vaughn counters. “There’s evidence of drug use as well.”
“What do you propose, Mr. Vaughn? This looks like a crime of passion. I’m disinclined to believe it won’t escalate if I release her. Can’t have her wreaking havoc in my town.”
So now I’m King Kong. Great, just great.
“I’ll be posting her bail, your Honor.”
My head whips around, my eyeballs urging Vaughn to look at me. He does not look at me, however. In fact, his unwavering attention remains on the judge.
Bushy eyebrows climb back up the judge’s forehead. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” He pauses, flips through some papers. “Fine. Let the record show that I will grant your request for a reduced bail in the amount of fifty thousand on one condition––house arrest until either a deal is reached, or a court date set.”
“Your Honor, the defendant will lose her job and suffer serious financial hardship if she can’t leave her home.” Almost imperceptibly, Vaughn’s eyes flicker to me and away. I catch it nonetheless. “I’m prepared to assume responsibility for Miss Jones. She can stay with me.”
Say wut?
I’m getting whiplash. I keep staring at him, poking him with my eyeballs to get his attention, and yet nothing. I may as well not even exist.
“Fifty thousand dollars and she will be remanded in your custody, Mr. Vaughn. Good luck.” The judge bangs his gavel. “Next case on the docket.” His voice disappears as the high pitch ringing in my ear drowns it out.
“You look like absolute dog shit,” Camilla announces, walking over to me with open arms. We’re outside the courtroom, waiting for Vaughn to file whatever paperwork is necessary to get me the heck out of Dodge.
“That good, huh?”
Camilla throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight, which has me disappearing into the landscape of her body, my face squashed between two gargantuan sized breasts.
“You’re thuffacating me,” I feel the need to point out.
Holding me away from her, she inspects me closer. “Where are your shoes, and what in the world happened to your dress?”
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br /> Looking down, I see what she’s seeing. Not good. “I lost them in the kerfuffle. I need to find a ladies room.”
“Around the corner,” responds the surly giant standing next to her. Arms crossed and legs slightly spread apart, his posture and raised black eyebrow are a dead giveaway that he’s silently judging me. His expression says I’m the bad news he doesn’t want his wife anywhere near. My expression says I wish I could flip you off but you will most likely be paying my bail thanks to your wife therefore I won’t.
“I’m going to go sit on the bench, Boo. My feet hurt.”
Boo leans down and places two quick kisses on his wife’s lips. “Be there in a minute, Honey.”
I vomit a little in my mouth. “You guys are making me sick.”
Camilla’s thick lips spread into a huge, white grin.
Thankfully, the ladies’ room is empty. I catch sight of the horror that is myself in the mirror and gasp. What was only hours ago a very neat bun is now a blonde nest for woodland creatures, my silver beaded dress is shredded in all the wrong places, and my smoky black eye make-up, the one I thought made my murky hazel eyes look green, has turned into skid marks running down my cheeks. It looks like a Chihuahua has wiped his little dirty doggy butt down my cheeks. I grab a bunch of paper towels and run them under the faucet.
As I stare at the image in the mirror, a surge of recalcitrance gets past the embarrassment, past the fear that I may have caused irreparable damage to my life. It lifts my chin, and squares my shoulders. I don’t bother cleaning my face. Nope. I chuck the wet paper towels in the trash and wear that hideous mess as a badge of honor.
I stopped caring what anybody thinks of me a long time ago. The mess in the mirror, this is who I am in all my abundantly flawed glory. Heavy emphasis on the flawed part. No apologies made. No figs given. I do me, for better or worse––usually worse.
Outside the ladies room, I locate a water fountain. In the middle of taking a huge gulp, voices from around the corner get my attention. Not like they’re whispering, so you can’t blame me for listening.