“I have seven years to make up for.”
Those are the last words either of us says before Dean rolls over onto me, pinning me to the bed for the nth time in the last twelve hours.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dean
“I’m nervous.” I wipe my hands along my jeans for the twelfth time, the handle of my guitar case slick with sweat.
Kara presses up on her toes, looking around the hall before she kisses me lightly on the lips. Since we decided to make this real, she’d been doing things like that. And my heart had been strumming constantly like a well-tuned Gibson.
“You’re going to be great. Believe me, they’re more nervous to meet you then you are them.”
She looks so sexy in her white doctor’s coat that I can’t help but swoop in for one more kiss, this time lingering a bit longer.
“Okay. I think I can go in now.” I breathe, trying to steel myself and tightening my stomach muscles.
The sign signaling the burn unit hangs in big block letters over the automatic doors, and my stomach drops as I follow her in. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, come to work with Kara, but I’ve been a chicken. A grown man who can’t handle to see how badly burned these children are, even though my fiancée does this multiple times a week. She tends to them, laughs with them, sees them for the beautiful people they are.
I’m more nervous about my own reaction being poor than I am about singing for them. It’s selfish and really uncool, to be honest, but I can’t help the way I feel. I wanted to be sure I could have my wits about me before I went in, and I think that makes me less of an asshole for being able to admit that.
With guitar case in hand, I follow Kara down the corridor that looks like any other part of the hospital. It doesn’t smell in the way I thought it would, although she’d warned me that I might be sickened by the scent at first. It mostly smells … medical. Like antiseptic or cleaning products. I’m thankful that my nostrils are not overwhelmingly hit with anything, because I want to be able to give her patients a top-notch private concert.
“Hey guys, I have someone special here who wanted to say hi.” Her tone is all friendly doctor, and pride swells in my chest that the woman I love does such amazing things for a living.
“Hi everyone.” I wave while walking into the room.
The room I walk into is essentially a playroom, but completely upgraded. It has a flat screen on one wall, and a bank of laptops neatly organized at a row of desks on the other. There is a colorful carpet covered in toys, and around the room sit probably about two dozen children. Some sitting on the floor, some in wheel chairs, others not even looking up because they’re heads are stuck in their tablets.
“Oh my God!” A girl who looks about twelve is the first to say something, and she rushes over to me. “Dr. O’Connor, you did not tell us that you were bringing him today!”
The young girl gives Kara a stink-eye, and then throws her arms around my waist in a huge hug. Looking down, I wrap my free arm around her and laugh, while noticing the wrinkled skin at the back of her neck, moving down into the hospital gown that closes half-way down her back.
“You’re that singer, right?” A boy, about nine, eyes me cautiously.
“Eh, sometimes I consider myself that.” I shrug, moving into the room and taking a seat.
I want to make them feel comfortable, and honestly, sitting among them will make me feel more comfortable. This visit is all about taking their minds off of the harsh reality they sometimes lead, Kara’s words, and I’m willing to do anything to achieve that.
“Ah! Can you play ‘Sweet Love’? That is my favorite song of yours!” The same girl who just hugged me leaps up and down. “I’m Melanie, by the way. Can you sign my phone case?”
She thrusts a phone at me, and the rest of the kids start to perk up, coming to sit around where I’ve taken a seat. “Of course, I can.”
Out in the hall, there were dozens of signed CDs for them, T-shirts, merchandise, and tons of toys, books and games I’d helped coordinate with Patrick to buy and bring with me.
“Can you sing Justin Bieber? He’s my favorite.” Another little girl, this one much younger than Melanie, quietly asked me.
It wasn’t usually my jam to sing other artist’s songs, but for them, I’d do it. “Whatever you guys want to hear, I’m here to serve.”
“Does everyone know who this is?” Kara steps in, sitting with three little boys on one side of the room.
They clamber to her, each trying to sit in her lap. My heart melts, seeing how good she is with these children. A flash of her pregnant, sometime in the future, zips through my mind. She would be the most amazing mother.
A bunch of kids respond to her and say yes, but some shake their heads. “This is my friend, Dean. He is a famous singer, he’s traveled all over the world playing concerts and performing. And he’s here especially for you all today, to, like he said, play whatever songs you want.”
While she talks, I pull my favorite guitar out of its case. It isn’t the most flashy instrument I own, and it doesn’t have the bells and whistles of the electric guitars hanging in my den, but this one holds the most special place in my heart.
Kara doesn’t see it until I strum the first chords of “Sweet Love,” the request Melanie made. But I hear the gasp when she realizes what instrument I have in my hands. I look up, my eyes connecting with those violet orbs, and I flash her a small smile as I start to sing.
The old, love-worn acoustic guitar, with its wood finish nearly rubbed away on the neck, was over ten years old. It was the first real guitar I’d ever owned, and Kara had saved up for a year to buy it for me. It wasn’t a name brand, it wasn’t fancy. But I’d rehearsed all of my first shows on this piece of wood, I’d played late into the night for my high school sweetheart as she sat up on the other end of the phone. I’d taken it with me to Hollywood, and recorded my first single using it, even to the annoyance of the studio manager who claimed it was a piece of shit.
I’d brought it here today because today was special, and it should be organic. Just like the love I had for this guitar. Just like the love I had for her.
As I switch songs, strumming into a Justin Bieber tune that I don’t loathe, I see her singing along with me. The kids become more involved getting up to dance, or just sitting at my feet and singing. I have to push past the lump in my throat to get the lyrics out, because the moment feels so powerful.
They’re healing me instead of the other way around. And all the while I get to gaze at Kara, so in her element, so caring and giving.
We spend two more hours than allotted for just sitting in the playroom, talking and singing and opening new toys with the kids. It’s one of the best days I’ve ever spent in Los Angeles, and it has nothing to do with fame, money or power.
And everything to do with the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dean
You know that stupid saying, “Time flies when you’re having fun”?
Well, it also flew when you had a guillotine hanging over your head, ready to fall at any moment.
The week between today and the day we had gone to the hospital was one of freedom. Kara had taken as many days off work as possible, we’d spent hours and hours at home, or walking the beach. I’d played for her late into the night, and we’d stayed up, making love and talking about everything and anything.
We did whatever possible to avoid the impending doom, to distract ourselves from the grim reaper at our heels.
Sweat trickles down my spine and I readjust the collar on my shirt one more time.
Why does it feel like this thing is suffocating me?
“It’s going to be fine.” Kara squeezes my hand, and her diamond engagement ring cuts into my palm.
The courthouse smells like musty mothballs, and I feel like a con artist in this suit. The day we’ve been dreading for months is here, and I don’t know if I can sit at this table with a blank look o
n my face while people argue about whether or not I raped a woman. Whether or not I physically attacked, forced, and hurt another person.
After the high of last week’s hospital visit, which of course the media picked up and ran with, this had to be one of the worst days of my life. I couldn’t sleep last night, my eyes wide open as Kara breathed softly in my arms.
“All rise for the honorable Judge Matthew Selick,” the police officer positioned in the corner of the room demanded, and we all did.
My knees were shaky as I stood, feeling my fate practically slipping from my fingers. How did you prove your own innocence? How did you make someone see that you didn’t do what you were being accused of?
My girl sits in the bank of chairs behind the wooden barrier, but our fingers tangle. My lawyer gives me a sharp look, telling us to cut it out, and I drop my hand. Jason Sheer may be harsh, but he was a shark. Patrick had secured him years ago for me, and he was on retainer for everything from defamation suits to copyright cases. If anyone could talk me out of these charges, it was him.
After the judge is seated, they bring the jury in. I stare straight ahead, just like Jason had told me to. Don’t let them see you crack, but also don’t let them see you as a villain. Just have a neutral expression on your face at all times, and don’t let them believe you’re searching them out, seeing which ones might side with you purely based on looks.
The lawyers go through their preliminary mumbo jumbo. Not that I’m not paying attention, but it’s hard to focus when my heart feels like it’s going to go into cardiac arrest. That, and the fact that the woman accusing me of assaulting her is sitting mere feet from me, looking damaged and victimized. It takes everything in me not to jump up and declare her a liar to the entire room.
First the nurses and doctor who took Hannah’s initial statements testify.
“Yes, Mr. Jacobs’ sperm was found on Miss Lockwood.”
“No, there was no bruising or evidence of trauma.”
“There was no finding of ligature marks, scratches or psychological damage.”
Their testimony looks good for me, because while it proves we did have sex, nothing on her body appeared as if it was anything but consensual. And the psychological profile, attested to by one of the on call physicians at the hospital, stated that Hannah did not exhibit the classic signs of a rape victim.
She was an actress, but apparently not a very good one. The thought hit me and I felt guilty, but I also knew that I did not do this.
Jason had instructed me before the trial, during the weeks of phone calls and coaching leading up to it, that I would not be taking the stand. As he’d said, “It will only serve to make you look guilty, no matter what you say.” He’d also made the point that by saying nothing, we weren’t giving credence to these accusations. And while that wasn’t really a defense strategy, it still sent a message.
My heart drops into my fucking stomach when Hannah makes her way to the stand. That icy blond hair wound into a stylish bun, conservative dress buttoned up to her collar, sensible heels … it all served to make her look like the most innocent person who ever did live.
I wanted to mutter under my breath that it was all bullshit, but Jason stepped discreetly on my shoe under the table. I needed to remain on my best behavior.
The waterworks didn’t take long as her lawyer began questioning her.
“Can you tell me what happened on the night of June 18, 2017? In your own words, and take your time.” He nodded at her like she was a child needing to be led through this.
Hannah sniffled, and I examined her face. It had never occurred to me before just how much plastic surgery she’d had. Her lips, nose, cheekbones … they were all modified by a knife. I knew for a fact that her boobs were fake, and that she did whatever that cool sculpting thing was to melt the fat at her hips. How had I ever been infatuated with a woman like this?
I sneak a glance back at Kara, who nods reassuringly at me, and I want to run my hands through her natural, black mane and pull her close to me. She was all real, all woman, and I cursed myself for every being interested in any one but her.
“Dean Jacobs took me out for dinner at a restaurant in West Hollywood. We were … we were having a good time. We’d been out before, and he was charming. Said all of the right things, I thought he was genuinely interested in getting to know me.” Hannah added in the occasional insecure shrug and sniffle, making herself look small instead of like the party girl vixen everyone in our world knew her to be.
Not that her image or what she preferred to spend her time doing influenced whether a man should think she was … well, easy. But again, I didn’t do this, and her act was pissing me off to the point that my nails were drawing blood out of my palms.
“After dinner, the valet brought the car around and we both got inside. Dean was a gentleman, opened the door for me. But that’s when it stopped. Once we were driving back to his place, he kept trying to reach a hand up my skirt.” She stopped, looking away, tears forming in her eyes.
Yes, I had tried to get up her skirt. But only because she’d had my pants unzipped, tugging at my hard cock as I sped down the 405.
“At first I didn’t mind, was flattered really. He was a bona fide celebrity, and I’m just a lowly actress. He probably had girls like me every other night in his bed. But then … he started to get rough. When we arrived at his place, he told me that I better be there to sleep with him, or else.” She whinnies, like a frightened horse.
“And why did you agree to go inside?” Her lawyer, a brutish dark-haired man, coached her on.
This is when the tears start sliding down her cheeks. “I was going to call for help, or a taxi, or something when I went inside. I didn’t think he was serious, this was Dean Jacobs after all. The man who sang love songs for a living. But I did, and the minute we got inside, he grabbed me. Threw me up against a wall. I said no, begged him no,” she stops to wipe a tear, “but he held me against the wall by my neck. Tore off my underwear, and … he violated me. Forced me to have sex with him.”
Hannah breaks off as if it’s just all too painful to go on discussing it. Her lawyer nods with a grim look on his face, and tells the judge that he has no further questions. I hear someone on the jury mumble, but I maintain my eye focus on the wall behind the judge’s head.
Now she was attacking my character and my career by dragging my “love songs” into it … this Goddamn bitch. It was all just lies, and I could hear Kara’s breathing increase behind me. She must be fuming, but I couldn’t turn around to see.
“Mr. Sheer, your witness.” Judge Selick looks over his glasses at my lawyer.
Jason stands, buttoning his coat. “Thank you, your honor.”
He crosses the room. “Miss Lockwood, thank you for being brave and getting up on that stand. I just have a few questions.”
She doesn’t bother looking at him, but instead wipes a fake tear.
“You and my client, Mr. Jacobs, had a relationship at the time of the night in question. Is that correct?”
“I’m not sure you could call it that.” She sniffs, her green eyes narrowing.
Jason looks at some notes on the table I sit at. “Is it true that you attended five red carpet events, had eight dinner dates, countless nights at LA nightclubs, and even spent the night at Mr. Jacobs’ house multiple times before that night? Remember, we have pictures from events and security footage from the house to prove all of this, so choose your answer wisely.”
I want to stand up and kiss my lawyer, he’s doing so well.
“I suppose we were dating, yes.” She crosses her arms, and everyone in the room can feel the icy shift in her personality.
Come on, Jason, keep digging, I think.
“Glad to establish that. Would you mind looking at some texts for me?” Jason pulls out the phone records I gave him permission to get.
“I guess so.” The jury might not see it, but the way that Hannah purses her lips, I know she’s starting to panic.
&n
bsp; “Can you read the first exchange that I’ve highlighted?” Jason sets the papers in front of her.
She stares down at it, not speaking for a minute.
Judge Selick clears his throat. “Is there a problem, Miss Lockwood?”
Hannah whips her head up. “No …”
“Then please read the section Mr. Sheer has instructed you to,” he scolds her, and I see someone on the jury shake their head out of the corner of my eye.
Hannah clears her throat and begins to read the text exchange.
Dean: Hi, sexy.
Hannah: When are you coming over, stud?
Dean: Well, I’m at the club now, too drunk. Have to find a driver.
Hannah: Or you could stay there and I’ll come find you. I heard that blow jobs feel even better with the bathroom wall vibrating behind you from the beat of the music.
Dean: Fuck, yes, get over here now.
Hannah: What do I get out of this?
Dean: What do you want?
Hannah: To be on your arm at your movie premiere next week. And before we walk out of the club tonight, you have to alert the paparazzi about us leaving together.
Dean: Deal. Now come let me feel those lips around my cock.
Internally, I cringe. I sounded like a fucking asshole, and I did not want to know what Kara’s face looked like in that moment. The only thing I could keep reminding myself as she read through it was that I had been a single, red-blooded male who was being offered sex from a smoking hot model. I had done nothing wrong … and neither had she. But it did make her motives for accusing me of rape very suspicious, and for the first time, I turned to look at the jury.
So many faces sitting in that wooden box were disapproving, one or two flushed with embarrassment, and two that I could see were hiding smirks behind their hands.
Patrick wasn’t done yet though.
“So, from this exchange, it could be assumed that you were actually the one using Mr. Jacobs.”
As Long As You Hate Me Page 14