Strange Addiction

by Alexis Nicole

  Chapter 41

  When I pulled into my driveway, I sighed. King was back home, and there was a car parked next to his. I didn’t recognize the BMW, though I was sure it belonged to either King’s publicist or his agent.

  Good!

  Maybe one of them could help him climb out of the never-ending depression that he’d fallen into.

  After another minute I got out of my car. Even though I wanted to, I couldn’t sit in it all day. And who knew? Maybe there was good news behind the front door. But the moment I stepped inside my home, I froze. There, at the bottom of the steps, stood King . . . and someone from my past. Blair!

  They were just standing there shoulder to shoulder, but King’s eyes were wide, as if he’d just been caught. Blair, though, was smiling.

  “Hey, girl,” I said tentatively, not sure what this was about. I had to admit, she looked good. She was dressed in True Religion jeans and a silk blouse that looked like it cost a million dollars. She looked glamorous, especially next to me and the sweats that I had on. I said to her, “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  She folded her arms. “Really?”

  “Yeah, your number was disconnected, and I didn’t have another way of getting in touch with you.”

  “Yeah, well, Blair was just leaving.” King glared at Blair, but she rolled her eyes and turned back to me.

  “Why?” I asked. “Didn’t you come by to see me?”

  Blair nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Blair!” King yelled, and that made my heart pound.

  Blair shook her head. “No, King. I’m sick of this. She needs to know.”

  “Know what?” I asked, my eyes darting from King to Blair and back to King.

  King grabbed Blair’s arm and tried to drag her across the floor, but she held on to the banister.

  “King! What are you doing?” I shouted.

  Blair answered for him. “He’s trying to stop me from telling you the truth. The truth about the two of us.”

  “Shut up, Blair!” King shouted.

  “No, I’m tired of living this way.” Turning to me, she said, “I’ve been with King for almost as long as you have. From before you two took that trip to Connecticut.”

  “Blair!” King yelled.

  “He’s been taking care of me and practically living with me.”

  “Blair!”

  “Where do you think he has been when he comes home late at night? What do you think he’s been doing, and who do you think he’s been doing it with?”

  This time King and I screamed her name together.

  Blair went on. “It’s time for you to know the truth, Heiress. So that you can move on, and King and I can be together the way we want to be.”

  The shaking started at my soles and moved up until every part of me was trembling.

  “You can’t handle a man like King,” Blair said. “Just admit it. That’s why you two have so many problems. He needs someone who’s strong. Someone like me.”

  I guess because he couldn’t get her to stop talking, King thought he might be able to stop me from listening.

  “Let’s go, Heiress. You don’t need to be here with this madness,” he said.

  My eyes were already red, I was sure. This could not be happening. This could not be true.

  “You’ve been sleeping with King?” I whispered.

  She smirked. “It’s been more than sleeping. We’ve been having sex, making love, and now we’re in love.”

  “No, we’re not, you crazy bitch,” King screamed.

  King’s words didn’t seem to faze Blair. “That’s what he’s saying now, because he didn’t want you to find out. But I’m tired of sharing my man.”

  Her man? How could she call him that? But King stood there, not really denying any of it.

  I couldn’t believe that Blair had done this to me. That King had done this to me.

  But it was what came next that pushed me to the edge.

  “It’s about time that you knew the truth,” Blair said. “Because I’m pregnant.”

  Pregnant?

  “And King’s the father.”

  Oh my God!

  “And since you can’t have children . . .”

  My head snapped up. “What?” I had never told her about that. I’d wanted to, but I couldn’t find her to talk.

  Blair nodded. “Oh, yeah, I know all about it. King tells me everything. So, since you can’t have children, it’s time for you to go so that King and I can raise our child together.”

  I didn’t know how I did it, really. Didn’t know how I stood there and listened. It was probably just a couple of minutes, maybe three. But it felt like a lifetime.

  I had to get away from both of them.

  Turning toward the kitchen, I ran. I didn’t know why, didn’t know what I was going to do, but I had to get away. But running gave me no relief. Blair followed me. And King followed Blair.

  “That’s right, Heiress. I’m pregnant,” Blair repeated.

  Why was she taunting me? Why did she hate me? We were friends. In an instant I replayed in my mind the years that we’d spent together, talking and laughing and sharing. Sharing! I guess we were sharing now.

  “I’m having King’s baby.”

  I had to lean on the counter for support. Or else I would fall and I might never get back up. I looked up and faced my tormentor . . . and Blair.

  Looking into King’s eyes, I asked, “Is this true?” My voice quivered.

  “Heiress, I love you.”

  How many times had I heard that before? How many times had he said that while he was sleeping with Blair? While he was getting her pregnant?

  “I really do!”

  It was because of everything. It was because of the way King had grabbed me and pushed me around. It was because of the way he had spoken to me and disrespected me. It was because of the way he had treated me, when all I’d wanted to do was love him.

  But it was really because of the fact that Blair was pregnant. And I was not.

  “So what are you going to do, Heiress?” Blair asked.

  It took me only a second to decide. I reached across the counter, grabbed a knife from the butcher block, and then I charged.

  The only thing I heard after that were screams. Blair’s screams. King’s screams. And my screams.

  Chapter 42

  It wasn’t a gun, but the result was the same. It was a knife, and it was still King.

  I stared at him as he lay on the floor and Blair cried over him, even as she had the phone in her hand.

  “Please,” she cried. “Please hurry.”

  I just stood there and watched as the blood gushed from King’s chest, soaking Blair. There was blood on me too, mostly on my hands. Not that I completely remembered how it got there.

  I was still standing there, frozen, still holding the knife when the police arrived. One of the officers had to pry it from my fingers.

  Not too much longer after that, though, one officer started reciting words that I’d heard on TV all the time.

  “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

  Was I being arrested?

  “Do you understand these rights as they’ve been explained to you?” asked the officer.

  I nodded as the other police officer locked handcuffs around my wrists. Then they stuffed me into the back of a police cruiser.

  But I didn’t really know why this was happening. What had I done? I didn’t really remember. The last thing in my memory was Blair asking me what I was going to do. The next thing I knew, King was on the floor.

  This was bad. I knew that. I had to call someone.

  Donovan!

  I wondered what he was doing right now. Was he at work or at home? Or maybe he was at the warehouse, working on a machine. He sure looked good when he did that.

  At the police station I was shocked to see the number of people standing outside. And then, when the officers helped me out of the back of the cruiser, I realized who these pe
ople were.

  The cameras flashed as the officers, one on each side of me, escorted me into the building.

  “What happened?” asked one of the onlookers.

  “Was there a domestic dispute?” asked another.

  The questions flew by me. But it was the last one that I heard before we ducked into the building that made me pause.

  “Heiress, did you kill King Stevens?”

  Kill King? Is he dead?

  Oh, my God. I had to talk to Donovan.

  “Heiress, you can wait for an attorney, but do you want to talk to us?” asked one of the officers.

  I wasn’t sure, so I just shrugged.

  “Did you attack King Stevens?” the officer asked.

  I shook my head a little. I wasn’t saying yes. I wasn’t saying no. I just didn’t know.

  “Did he attack you?”

  “I’m . . . I’m . . .” I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. I needed to ask someone. “Can I make a call?”

  My question seemed to shock the officer, but he unlocked the cuffs that were around my wrists and pointed to the phone on his desk.

  I dialed Donovan’s number as fast as I could, closed my eyes, and prayed that he answered. I wasn’t sure he would, because he’d told me he didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

  But then he answered.

  “Hello!” He sounded frantic, and I wondered what was wrong.

  “I’m so glad you answered.”

  “Heiress, where are you?”

  “I’ve really missed you.”

  “Heiress, it’s all on the news. Did you attack King? Did you stab him?”

  “Our friendship has meant a lot to me.”

  “Heiress, please, please tell me what happened. Where are you?”

  “The police came and got me.”

  “Oh, God,” he moaned.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked.

  “Anything, Heiress. Anything.”

  “Can you go to my house and get my journal?”

  “What?”

  “My journal. It’s in my nightstand drawer, and I really need it.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly.

  “Do you promise?”

  “I don’t think they’ll let me in the house, but I’ll see what I can do. And then I’ll be right there, okay? I’m coming, Heiress.”

  “Thank you, Donny. Thank you so, so much.” And then I hung up, so grateful.

  I turned to the officer. “I’m ready to talk now.”

  Chapter 43

  It had been months and months of just one thing . . . the death of King Stevens and the trial of Heiress Montgomery.

  I still could not believe this was happening to me. I was on trial for murder. How had this become my life?

  But here I was, with lawyers and judges and the media all up in my life. It was hard for me to handle, but even harder for my parents.

  That was the thing that hurt my heart the most—my parents were hurting. Sometimes it felt like they were on trial. They had given up their life in Ohio, mortgaged their house for my bail, and moved to Los Angeles to be close to me while I was going through this. We’d all moved into a small two-bedroom apartment right outside of downtown Los Angeles, so we weren’t too far from the courthouse.

  But at least my parents were with me. And I needed them.

  Actually, I had quite a team. In addition to my parents, there were Donovan and Leslie and my hotshot attorney, Chyanne Monroe. Chyanne was new to California, but she had built an incredible reputation and was one of the best defense attorneys in New York. Recently she’d brought her talents to California . . . just in time to help me.

  I wasn’t quite sure how my parents afforded Chyanne, but I suspected that it was a group effort: my parents, Donovan, and Leslie had invariably pitched in, and Chyanne had probably lowered her fee quite a bit.

  Chyanne had never told me if what I suspected was true, but if it was, she was working hard for her money. She’d gotten me out on an enormous bail, but the trial was a different story. For the past few months, the media hadn’t given me much of a chance of getting off. It was an uphill battle since all the evidence was against me. After all, Blair, the prosecution’s key witness, was an eyewitness, and she had gotten on the stand and sung like a jailbird about how I had stabbed King over and over and over.

  My ex–best friend was telling the truth. I had stabbed King over and over again. Seventeen times, according to the forensic pathologist.

  Then it was the defense’s turn to present our case, and Chyanne had quite a lineup. She’d already put a psychologist on the stand, who said that these kinds of attacks were usually done by someone who had been abused, emotionally or physically. And then Leslie had gotten on the stand and had said she had been concerned about something like this happening. She was convinced that I had been abused and broken down by King. Even Donovan had had a chance to testify on my behalf. He’d told the jury how King had mistreated me over and over again. He’d talked about how I had changed completely, trying to please a man who was never satisfied.

  Today, though, was the biggest day of the trial. It was the day when Chyanne’s final witness would take the stand—me! And she’d warned me that the courtroom would be packed.

  “Isn’t it packed every day?” I’d asked her. After all, this trial was as big as O.J.’s had been. King Stevens was a Hollywood star and had been murdered by his fiancée while his pregnant girlfriend stood by.

  “Yes,” she’d told me. “But today there will be standing room only.” She had paused. “And today I expect that the prosecution will have King’s parents there.”

  “Oh no,” I’d cried.

  She’d nodded. “Just in case you come off as a sympathetic victim—and you will—they want the jury to see King’s parents. They want the jury to remember the people they consider the real victims.”

  After hearing that, I hadn’t been able to sleep at all last night, knowing that I was going to have to face King’s parents for the first time since that fateful day. So many times I’d wanted to call them and tell them just how sorry I was. I wanted to explain that I’d just lost it. I was sure that on some level, Mrs. Stevens would understand. But I never had the courage. I was angry at myself about that, but I just couldn’t do it.

  Now I sat on the stand, facing them. But I kept my eyes focused on Chyanne, which was exactly what she’d told me to do.

  “So, Heiress, you loved King Stevens?” she asked.

  That was an easy question. “With all my heart.”

  For a moment, I did what Chyanne had told me not to do. I sneaked a peek at King’s parents. They sat close together, as if they were holding each other up. There were tears in Mrs. Stevens’s eyes, but Mr. Stevens just sat there, stiff and strong, staring me down. I turned my glance quickly back to Chyanne.

  “Can you tell us about the day of the incident?”

  I nodded. “I don’t remember a lot.”

  “Tell us what you do remember.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to recall those last moments. “I remember that Blair was shouting that she was pregnant and that I needed to leave.”

  This part had already been entered into evidence. Chyanne had broken Blair down when she was on the stand. She’d got Blair to admit that she’d been tormenting me, trying to get me so upset that I would just leave King so that she could have him to herself. According to Chyanne, that was good for my defense. Everyone would understand someone being driven to the edge by being tormented.

  “How did that make you feel?” Chyanne asked.

  “I don’t even have the words. I was devastated. I’d just lost my child because of King.”

  “Objection!” the prosecutor said.

  “Overruled,” the judge countered.

  That part had already been submitted as evidence too. Not only had the doctors already testified about my miscarriage, but in a brilliant move, Chyanne had also had my journal entered into evidence. For weeks and weeks I had con
fided in my journal, chronicling my abusive relationship with King—from the first time he abused me in Connecticut to everything that I’d gone through since the Oscars. I’d recounted a plethora of incidents where King behaved badly and I was the long-suffering girlfriend who stood by his side.

  “So you lost your child because of King,” Chyanne repeated, bringing me back to the moment.

  “Yes, and I was . . . I’m still devastated about that.”

  “So when Blair told you she was pregnant by King Stevens, what were you thinking?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even know. At first, I was confused, and then I thought she was lying. But then I asked King about it.”

  “You asked him, and what did he say?”

  I had been over all these questions with Chyanne, but it didn’t matter. It still hurt. “He didn’t answer, but in a way, he did. I could tell by the look on his face, it was true. And I was just crushed.”

  “So”—Chyanne came closer to the stand—“tell us what happened next.”

  Again, I closed my eyes and really tried to remember. But there wasn’t much there. “I was so hurt, just crushed. I just wanted my pain to go away. There had been so much pain. So much.” I glanced again at the Stevenses. Mrs. Stevens still had tears in her eyes, but this time she was nodding. I was not even sure she realized she was doing it, but she was giving me courage. “All I kept thinking was that I wanted the pain to go away. And then . . . and then . . . and then . . .”

  Chyanne nodded. “That’s fine, Heiress. Thank you.”

  She sat down, and the prosecutor, a black man who looked a little like P. Diddy, stood up.

  “I have just one question for you, Ms. Montgomery,” he said. “Did you kill King Stevens?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Did you stab him seventeen times?” he asked me, though he was looking at the jury.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, I really don’t.”

  “But King Stevens is dead, isn’t he?” The prosecutor held up his hand, stopping Chyanne from objecting. “I have no more for this witness.”

  “You may step down,” the judge told me.