by S. M. West
Once at home, I sit in the car for a few minutes, wiping at my tears and thinking of what comes next. Gray will show up at some point. Maybe not tonight but likely by tomorrow.
There’s no way he’ll let me go to New York in two days without him even if things are still unresolved between us. He’d worry about me and want to see Henry.
Henry. I don’t want to keep them apart. I can’t. Okay, so that’s tomorrow. What about today? This afternoon? First things first, I can’t go in looking like this. Jocelyn will definitely think I’m out of my mind.
I angle the rear-view mirror so I can see my face and grimace at the blotchy cheeks, puffy eyes, and shiny red nose. My hair is a mess, and using my fingers, I comb back the stray strands as best I can, tightening the hair tie.
My phone rings again, and half expecting either Gray or Sasha, I’m momentarily stunned to see Costa’s name in bold letters on the screen.
“Costa?” My stomach clenches, and his name spills from my mouth as if I’m spitting out something that tastes bad.
“Daisy? Yes, it’s me, Costa.”
It’s strange, silly even, how hope flutters in my chest at the sound of his voice. It’s fleeting but I wonder if he’s calling to say all of this has been one sick joke. Ha, ha. Sorry for my bad judgement but hope you can laugh about it.
Stupid because I have two DNA tests that say otherwise. None of this is a joke or anything to laugh about.
“Daisy? Are you still there?” His tone is insistent, almost worried.
“Yes, I’m here.” I sniffle, cringing that he might think I’m crying about him.
“I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but I’m still in New York and then heading back to Greece in a few days.”
“It’s okay, what’s wrong?” Yes, something has got to be wrong for him to call me. My pulse speeds up, and I wonder if this is about Apollo.
Why didn’t I think to ask if Sasha had talked to Costa? No, she wouldn’t. She doesn’t like him.
“When I met Gray, he asked me to give some thought about the last time we were in Paris together…that week.” He clears his throat, sounding uncomfortable.
“Uh-huh.” I rest the back of my head on the seat rest.
Gray said as much to me so this isn’t news, but I hold my breath and tense my muscles as if readying for another blow. I’m prepared to hear Apollo’s name.
“I remembered something about the night we fought. Do you remember that night?”
He doesn’t know how many hours Sasha and I have spent reconstructing that week. He doesn’t know we’ve narrowed down the timeline to the very night he’s talking about.
Of course I remember. I’ll never forget.
“Yes. We fought a lot, but this one was about how you were always high. I was sick of it.”
“Yeah.” He chuckles but there isn’t anything light or amusing about it. “And I got so angry with you that I left.”
“What else is new. One of us was always storming out.” My disgust isn’t well hidden, and it’s okay if he mentions Apollo, or anything else. I can do this.
“True. I ended up going back to our hotel room and drank some more. It was childish, and after a while, I missed you. We only had a couple more nights together, and I didn’t want to spend them apart.”
“Okay.” It’s all I can bring myself to say, not even caring about his admission of missing me, which would have meant the world to me back then.
As if sensing my indifference, he says, “I was a selfish asshole. I don’t know how or why you put up with me.”
“You came back,” I offer up a concession, not wanting to hang on to any negative feelings toward him.
Our screwed up relationship wasn’t all his doing. We were both very good at fighting and even better at making up.
With all the hours I’ve spent rehashing the past, I sometimes wonder if that’s why we actually spent so much time at odds. I admit, sometimes I even fabricated a senseless argument only so we would have rough makeup sex.
We’d rip off each other’s clothes, nip, bite, and scratch at each other, working out our frustrations as we chased our climaxes. As good as the sex was, we were fucked up.
My relationship with Gray is so different. There’s no comparison. In addition to mind-blowing sex, he makes me feel cherished, loved, and like his partner.
“Yeah, I did.” Costa’s low voice ends any thoughts of Gray, and I focus on what he’s called to say. “It was early in the morning, like two or three a.m., I’m not sure. I headed for your bedroom at the apartment and someone was coming out of your room. Remember Jerome Pascal?”
Jerome? Not Apollo?
Suddenly, the brutal truth, like a vise-grip, tighten around my throat, choking all the air from my lungs.
Costa, Sasha, none of them from my modeling days know Jerome is here in LA. Shit.
“Daisy?” His voice cuts into my fears, and I make a strange, muffled sound, unable to form any words. “Daisy.”
“Yes.” My reply is merely a whisper.
Costa continues, “I asked him what he was doing coming from your room, and at first, he didn’t answer, only brushed by me. He was always an arrogant prick.”
Voice cold like granite, losing any grip on patience, I say, “Yes. Go on.”
“Right. I grabbed his arm and asked again. He said you were sleeping and that he brought you some water, and that was it. I had a weird feeling at the time, but I was stupid. I was coming down from everything I’d taken that night, and I felt like shit.”
Words fail me. Unlike Sasha mentioning Apollo, this is different. Terror grips at my organs, digs into my lungs, squeezes my heart.
“I’m sorry. I never gave it another thought. Even when you told me you were pregnant, I never thought of it again until Gray asked me to think back. I spent time going through every day of that week, over and over again.” He sounds like he’s exhausted as if he wants a medal for all the brain power he used in his magnanimous efforts to help me.
I shouldn’t be so hard on him, but I can’t stop myself. I was the one violated. I was the one who can’t remember what was done to her and yet he’s the one feeling aggrieved.
“And then it came to me, how I’d found you in your room.” His words are a needle prick to a balloon, blowing all air out of my hissing thoughts.
“What do you mean?” I’m light-headed and faintly sick, skin clammy.
“The bed sheets were around your ankles. You were only in your dress, but something about it felt off. Or maybe I’m only realizing that now, with everything we know about Henry and the scandal with Jerome.”
“What do you mean?” I demand, nearly yelling into the phone.
“Sorry. Your dress had ridden up to your hips and you didn’t have any panties on.”
A strangled cry vomits from my mouth, and I try to think back on that night, waking up that morning, of anything similar to what he just described. But everything is a blur, and the little bits I do remember are hazy, not helpful at all.
“Costa, Jerome is here in LA.” My head is dizzy. “He has been for over a year. What scandal are you talking about?”
“What? You’ve stayed away from him, though, right?” His frantic tone snaps something inside of me, and suddenly my mind scatters, thoughts splintering in all directions.
I force out the two words, “What scandal?”
His sudden departure from Paris comes to mind. I never pushed Jerome to tell me why he left. He was so well regarded and pretty much called the shots, picked the jobs he wanted.
It did always strike me as odd that he walked away from Paris, the epicenter of fashion, to come to LA and start at the bottom once more. He is a nobody here. Not even his reputation in Europe matters here, funnily enough.
And why didn’t I ask the questions? Because I didn’t care. The man is self-centered enough, I didn’t want to give him a reason to drone on about how he was wronged. It didn’t take much for Jerome to talk about myself.
Stupid. S
tupid. Stupid.
“He left Paris, disgraced. Persona non grata. He assaulted a young model, and I think charges were pressed. But I never followed it closely so I can’t say for sure.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” I swing open the car door, sticking my head out as I drop my feet to the ground.
“Daisy, are you okay? Is Gray there?”
The phone slips from my hand with a thud onto the floor of the car as I race to the house. Henry and Jocelyn slide in and just as quickly out of my mind. There’s no stopping to pull myself together.
I burst through the front door, swing open the powder room door, and sink to my knees to retch into the toilet. My stomach is emptied of all its contents, and I heave some more, even when there’s nothing left.
Jocelyn crouches at my side and places a hand on my shoulder. I flinch at her touch, drawing away from her and wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. Unable to look at her, I get to my feet, legs shaky, and flush the toilet.
She steps back into the hallway, worry painting her features. “Are you all right? Do you need me to get you something?”
I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and rinse my mouth out several times. In the mirror, my reflection disgusts me.
How could I have been so stupid? My attacker was here all along. In my inner circle. The urge to purge roars with a vengeance as my throat muscles convulse and saliva gathers in my mouth.
My mind races with my options. What should I do first? Call Gray? Sasha? The police? Jerome will pay for what he did to me. Of course, I’ll need a DNA test but unlike with Costa, I don’t need it. Jerome Pascal is a rapist.
“I’m okay. Just something I ate,” I lie, drying my hands and stepping into the hall.
It’s bizarre, but for the first time in a while, my mind is clear like the clouds have parted to reveal a bright sun. I feel strong and oddly empowered. The path to justice is within my reach.
The darkness isn’t gone, and I don’t know if it ever fully will go away, but I don’t feel as helpless. I can’t change the past and because of my precious son, I would never wish for a life without him, but I deserve peace.
And Gray—his gift today comes to me in a different light. Not as something I may lose at any moment or something to be feared, but like he said, it’s our future. He’s my future.
“How’s Henry?” I follow Jocelyn into the living room.
“He’s such a good boy. We had fun playing together and then your friend arrived a little earlier than expected.” She stops in the middle of the room, kneeling to pick up the last of the blocks on the floor.
“My friend?” I cock my head to one side, searching for my son.
Henry comes from the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, and behind him, a large hand grabs hold of his arm, hauling my son back against his legs.
Hard eyes glint cold, and a sinister smile captures Jerome’s mouth. “Daisy, it’s about time you got home.”
A dark shroud of fear buds within my heart, black as poison, leeching into my blood, muscles, and bones.
“Mommy.” Henry tries to leap toward me, but the man behind him has a tight grip on his arm, fingers sinking into my son’s soft, pure flesh.
Henry whimpers, Jocelyn lets out a small rush of air, and my eyes stay trained on Jerome just like his never stray from mine.
“Hey, Lovebug.” My veins fill with ice cold dread, and despite my brittle smile, I pump as much joy as is possible into my voice. “Jocelyn, please take Henry and leave.”
“No.” With a stern expression and terse tone, he lifts my son into his arms. “Jocelyn, you can go.”
“Jerome, let her take Henry. Then it’s just the two of us.” He doesn’t like children, and if I can only appeal to that, to the idea of just him and me, maybe he’ll agree.
“Jocelyn, it was great to meet you. You can go now.” His smile is cold as is his heart, and the woman looks frantically from him to me, sensing something is off, perhaps even gravely wrong and at a loss as to what to do.
What lengths Jerome is willing to go to and why he is willing to let her leave isn’t clear. For all the time I spent with him, I never really knew him and can’t decipher his motives or what he’s capable of.
I must assume the worst. If that’s the case, he could kill Jocelyn. Me. Henry. No, no, no. Not going there. Can’t.
“Thanks, Jocelyn. You can leave.” I barely spare the woman a glance, knowing I may lose my composure if I do.
She may be our only hope to get out of this, and it takes everything in me not to scream for her to get help. Maybe I don’t need to convey any of that to her because she already knows we need help.
Help. Remembering my phone, I pat a hand on my dress pockets, looking for it, but nothing. Shit, where is it?
The nanny nods, taking one final look at the three of us before she scurries from the house. Isn’t he worried she may call the cops?
As if I spoke out loud, Jerome steps closer and says, “She may call the cops, who cares.” He shrugs. “She doesn’t have enough for them to come out here any time soon, but we won’t be here anyway.”
His free hand slides around his back, and when he brings it forward, he’s holding a gun. “Let’s go.”
Henry whines, wriggling in Jerome’s arms to get free. His hands are outstretched for me and Jellycat, lying on the couch. I make for the stuffed animal and pause when Jerome releases a low animalistic growl.
“It’s his stuffed animal. His favorite.” I point to the octopus. “Can I get it? Hold him.”
He grunts and hands me Henry. “Hurry. Let’s go.”
I barely have my son and the toy in hand before he’s wrapped a large, craggy hand around my arm, pinching tightly as he drags us out the door.
The sunlight is blinding and I squint, noticing I left my car door open. Then the moments before I went into the house—the end of my call with Costa, dropping my phone, and vomiting come at me in waves.
Jerome ushers us to my car. I left the keys in the ignition. “Get in. You’re driving.”
He tries to shove me into the driver’s seat with Henry in my arms and I resist. “Wait. I have to put Henry into his car seat.”
“No.” He wrenches my son from my arms. Henry cries, batting his hands and the stuffed animal at Jerome’s chest and face.
“Stop it.” He shakes my son so violently, I lunge for him, trying to grab the gun. Jerome anticipates my attack and presses the muzzle into my chest. “I pull this and you’re dead. Then where would your precious boy be?”
I stop, frozen at his threat. His stony eyes narrow into thin slits, and his lips become a macabre twist, resembling the thin, sharp wire of a garrote. “Get in the fucking car and don’t try a thing or else he’s dead. I’ll get him in the seat.”
Jerome has a hard time getting Henry to cooperate as he stiffens his body, making it next to impossible for Jerome to get him into the seat. The older man delivers a hard slap that shocks my son, and his body goes limp.
Henry then wails, the pain replacing the shock. He releases one of those deep, mournful cries that expands his chest and rents his breath. For what feels like eternity but is only seconds, Henry is silent as his chest heaves and grasps for air.
My heart breaks, and I pounce from the front seat, hitting at Jerome’s back. He backhands me, shouting obscenities, and as if remembering the gun, he turns it now on Henry.
“No,” I cry, slumping back into the front seat, tears streaking my face.
“Fucking sit down, seat belt on, and shut up.”
I do as he says and then he’s in the front passenger seat, gun poking into my side. “Drive. And if you so much as give me lip, I blow his head off.”
29
Gray
The child is competition
Fuck, fuck, fuck. The heel of my palm slams into the steering wheel and I press my head into the back of the seat, closing my eyes to block out the magnificent beach house. Our new home.
I thought Daisy was ready, but
I was wrong. Now what?
Eli. I should call him and he’ll help me fix this. He’ll tell me what to do. The guy might not have a woman in his life, but he’s smart when it comes to the fairer sex.
I start my car and hit the dial pad on the car dashboard, but before I can select his number, my phone rings.
“Gray, it’s Sasha.” Her voice is tight. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of Daisy, but it keeps going to voicemail.”
“What’s wrong?” I put the car into drive, sensing urgency despite not knowing what this is about or if anything is wrong. There’s a mounting need inside me to be close to Daisy even if it means breaking my word and forgetting about her wish for space.
“I just talked to a friend in Paris, and she was updating me on this scandal with a photographer accused of sexual assault. She said he now lives in LA and as we talked, I started to think about that time in Paris, and I remembered Jerome Pascal was always around, which in and of itself—”
“Jerome Pascal?” Something cold and sharp lodges in my chest. “He’s the accused photographer?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“Fuck.” I swerve around the slow-moving car in front of me, suddenly wishing I could snap my fingers and be with Daisy. “He’s friends with Daisy and has been nosing around her business for over a year. He’s like a fucking virus she can’t shake.”
“No.” Her shock and terror echo in my ear, sending a shudder through me. “Is Daisy with you?”
“No, she isn’t. Tell me more about these charges. Was he…” My tongue is like a steel beam, heavy and unwieldy. “Do you remember anything to do with him and Daisy during that week?”
I’ve never liked that man, and it wouldn’t take much for me to want to hit him. But if Sasha says what I fear she will, I’ll kill him.
“Nothing specific stands out, but he was at most if not all the events we would have been at, and I’m almost certain he was at our party too.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I roar and she squeaks through the line. “Sorry.”
“No, no. Do you think it’s him?”
It’s the closest we’ve gotten to a solid link between Daisy and someone who could have attacked her. That guy, Apollo, was a possibility but the charges against Jerome and now he’s here…