“Open up,” he said, trying to pry my legs open.
“No!” I screamed.
“Come on, Grace. Just open up a little.” The more he begged, the tighter I squeezed my legs closed. The strength of my seventeen-year-old glutes were no match for the depravity of Javier Roberts. Forcing my legs open, he positioned himself between them before I could clamp them shut again. It felt as though he was trying to stuff all six feet of himself inside of me. He tore through my shirt and kissed my chest and neck over and over again.
I stiffened my body underneath Javier, thinking that he would stop. Instead, the more I resisted, the more excited and belligerent he became. Javier slapped me relentlessly until my head crashed against the wooden arm of the gray sofa.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered in my ear, pressing his fingers so deeply into my thighs, impressions of his fingertips were left behind.
I looked up into his demonic eyes and felt my stomach turn. I could hear my mother’s constant warnings that my loose behavior was going to land me right in the hands of the enemy.
“Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone. . . . I promise. . . .” I swallowed hard, trying to keep back the Greek salad I had had for lunch, which was threatening to escape from my stomach and burst out of my mouth. My lips trembled as I tried to reason with Javier. “No one has to know what happened.... I—I swear to God, I will never tell anyone. You can keep living your life with your wife—”
Javier squeezed my cheeks together, causing my lips to form a perfect pout. He kissed me, then spit on me. “You belong to me now. You won’t ever speak of this. Do you understand?”
Even though I didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to belong to Javier, I nodded my head. My body gave up its protest, and Javier Roberts usurped what little sense of self, power, and autonomy I had. When it was over, he carried me to the dressing room, then instructed me to clean myself up and go home.
“I’m going to need you on the set bright and early tomorrow for a Calvin Klein, and I’m shooting.”
“I’m booked already.”
“I’ll unbook you. You belong to me now, and Javier Roberts always gets the model he wants.” He sneered before closing the door.
I stood still for a long time, waiting for him to return, and when he didn’t, I acquiesced to the weakness I felt in my bones. I collapsed to the floor, hugged my knees to my chest, and cried in the fetal position. The tears were supposed to be enough to wash away the pain.
They were not. When I was finally able to get up, I strolled to the liquor store a few blocks away from the shoot. I begged, pleaded, and then spent my entire day’s pay in an effort to get one of the guys in front of the store to purchase some liquid therapy for me.
Today the tears that came down were as hot and heavy as those in the picture playing in high definition in her mind. Pulling herself up from the floor, Grace decided she could not handle this alone—she was going to need some therapy.
Chapter 12
Pushing the papers around on his desk halfheartedly, Ethan reviewed the documents before him. Grace was almost broke. Not broke, like she was going to be homeless, but broke enough that she might have to get rid of a property or two or auction off some of the designer duds she owned. Ethan sighed as his mind roamed to where his heart was—Candace. He wondered what kind of case she was working on today. It had to be a serious one. She usually called him when she took a break or had time between cases. He glanced at the clock; it was three, and Candace had not even sent him a text.
Avoiding the appearance of being thirsty, Ethan hadn’t called her, but as the clock on his desk continued to tick, it became more difficult for him to resist calling her. Ethan reclined in his chair and reached for his phone on the Bose dock he had nestled behind his desk. As he reached for it, his phone began to chime. He looked at the number and smiled. It was some strange 212 number. Assuming it was Candace calling from the judge’s chambers, Ethan whispered into the phone, “Hey, Candy. You know how to make a man feel good by sneaking a call in.”
“Brother Ethan, if I had known you’d be this delighted to hear from me, I would’ve called you sooner,” Horace said, laughing into the receiver.
Ethan brought his voice up an octave to sound as macho as possible and replied, “Ah, man, I thought you were someone else. What can I do for you, Brother Horace?”
“I was wondering if you had heard from Grace.”
“Why? What did she do now?” Ethan loosened his tie and prepared for an onslaught of fresh accusations, which generally followed when someone asked if he’d heard from Grace.
“She didn’t do anything, man. It’s . . . it’s just . . .”
“What happened, Horace? It’s best if you tell me so I can take care of it,” Ethan said, trying to dispel the slight sense of worry he’d picked up in Horace’s tone.
“It’s just that she hasn’t been by the church in a few days, and I was kind of worried about her. When was the last time you heard from her?”
Ethan thought about the last time he’d spoken to Grace or seen her. While he was trying to enjoy his dinner at Serafina with Candace, Grace had called from the church and had ranted about a man. He’d dismissed her. Then he’d had to deliver the script for Javier Roberts’s debut film to her. She had still had a little attitude then.
Horace cleared his throat and asked once more, “When was the last time you heard from her?”
“It’s been a few days, Brother Horace. Do you need something from her?” Ethan asked, wondering what had aroused his concern. Was he the guy driving Grace crazy?
“No, just a little concerned.”
“Are you sure there isn’t something else troubling you?” Ethan asked, pressing, trying to squeeze the juice of the matter out of Horace. Ethan needed to know if this was a real concern, a nosy inquiry, or a call from one of Grace’s potential suitors. Somehow he’d become the guardian of all things Grace, and even when he didn’t want to be concerned, he couldn’t help himself.
“Naw, man, it’s all good,” Horace replied. “I was just checking on her. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t skipping out on us. You know what I mean?” He laughed.
“All right, brother. I’ll look into it.”
After he got off the phone, Ethan wondered if he really should look into the matter. Grace’s disappearing acts weren’t a new thing, but it had been a while since she’d pulled one. Ethan strummed his fingers on the desk and tried to convince himself that it wasn’t necessary for him to check on Grace. After all, she was a grown woman. When was she going to take responsibility for her own actions? What would Grace learn if Ethan didn’t allow her to work certain issues out on her own? He hated feeling conflicted. He needed a resolution, and he needed one now. Bowing his head and folding his hands on top of the table, Ethan called on the God of wisdom and asked for some direction in this matter.
No sooner had he said amen than Alice was half knocking as she walked halfway through his office door.
“Mr. Summerville, Javier Roberts is on the phone for you. He sounded pretty pissed off because of a certain model,” Alice said, raising her eyebrows up and down. “I don’t have to tell you which one, do I?” Alice folded her arms across her chest, as if she was the one who had been running to and fro for Grace all this time.
Ethan sucked up as much air as he possibly could, then exhaled through his nose to purge himself of all the negativity he could feel piling up inside of him. He picked up the phone and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Roberts. How is everything?”
“Please call me Javier. Everyone calls me Javier. Mr. Roberts is my mean and less handsome father,” Javier said, laughing. “I need to know what is going on with Grace. The producers want to see her do a screen test, and I cannot reach her.”
“A screen test?” Ethan shook his head from side to side. With his free hand, he signaled to Alice to call Grace. “I thought you said the part was hers,” he said as calmly as possible, trying to conceal his anger. If there was one thing that b
othered Ethan about this business, it was the pretentious people who pretended to have more sway than they actually had.
“Of course the part is hers, but the producers want to see her on film. They want to know if she’s still got it, so to speak, in light of her recent run-ins with the law,” Javier said, reassuring Ethan. “That’s why I contacted her instead of your office when they asked to see her. I’ve been calling her for three days now, and I haven’t received a reply to a single message. I know it’s been a while since we spoke, but I thought that our history together meant something to her. Do you know what I did for her career?” Javier spat.
Ethan rolled his eyes and entertained Javier’s delusions of grandeur. “Yes, yes, I know how instrumental you’ve been in her success.”
“I photographed her exclusively for—”
“Five years,” Ethan said. “You took her on several exclusive shoots and made her a household name.” Grace was beyond beautiful, with her rounded apple face and soft doe eyes. She was every photographer’s dream, with the physique of what the industry called an amazon—five feet nine, wide shoulders, and pronounced hips and breasts. And somehow she could contort that body into editorial poses. If it hadn’t been Javier, another photographer would have figured out what to do with her.
“Then you understand that this type of behavior is unacceptable. She owes me at least a response. If I don’t hear from her personally within the next forty-eight hours, she’s going to be dropped from the film, and I’m coming after you for holding up production.”
Ethan didn’t know how to respond, and he didn’t have to, either. Javier hung up on him after making that statement. Massaging his head with both his hands, Ethan summoned Alice into the office.
“Did you get her on the phone?” he asked when she appeared in the doorway.
“No answer. Do you want me to try her again, Mr. Summerville?”
“Don’t worry about it, Alice,” he said, rising to his feet. “Forward any messages to my cell. I’m going to find out what Grace King is up to now.”
He grabbed his coat from the rack near the door and stormed out of the office.
Chapter 13
Ethan pounded on Grace’s door, pausing between each knock, patiently waiting for Grace to respond. “This is ridiculous,” he fumed, and then he proceeded to bang on the door again, his bangs coming in rapid procession.
Ethan’s hope was that if he increased the fervency of his knocking, Grace would be motivated to open the door. He knew she was probably still angry with him, so she’d make him wait. After five minutes of knocking on her door, Ethan recognized that something might be tragically wrong.
Droplets of sweat began to stream down his face as he went through several possible scenarios. She’s not coming to the door, because she overdosed on pills. He combed his mind, trying to remember what current prescriptions she had and if he’d seen any pill bottles in her condo the last time he was there. He couldn’t recall any, nor could he recall a time when not having a prescription had stopped Grace from getting Oxycontin or any other pill she felt the need to pop. Maybe she fell and hit her head. That’s not dramatic enough for Grace King, he thought. She did it; she committed suicide. The pressure of attempting to meet everyone’s unrealistic standards of perfection with regard to her looks and her behavior and failing at it repeatedly had finally caught up with her, he thought. Maybe Javier’s demand for a screen test had made her question her ability to transition from modeling to acting. Failure was frightening, and recently, failing was all she’d done.
His chest tightened; the rhythm of his heartbeat went staccato. Ethan began to wheeze at the thought of Grace hanging from one of the exposed pipes on the second floor of her condo or lying naked in a pool of blood after slitting her wrists.
Wiping the thick film of sweat that had collected on his forehead, Ethan removed his navy blue blazer, backed up, and tried to bust the door open with his shoulder blade. The door didn’t budge, but he heard several bones crack. After the third unsuccessful attempt, he phoned the doorman.
“New Millennium Condominiums,” Arnie said.
“I need you to come up here ASAP with the key, or send someone to bust this door down.”
“Who is this?” Arnie inquired.
“This is Ethan Sum—”
“Oh . . . Summerville, right, Ms. King’s lawyer.”
“Do you want to know my sign as well?” Ethan snapped. He didn’t mean to be flippant, but he didn’t want to be held responsible for this tragedy, either. “This is an emergency. I need this door unlocked or busted down.”
“Mr. Summerville, I’m afraid I can’t do that. Technically, I shouldn’t have allowed you upstairs without a key or approval from Ms. King, but I figured I’d use my discretion and allow you to go upstairs, but now—”
“Now you need to use your discretion and throw caution to the wind. Just think about it. When was the last time you saw her?” Ethan repeated nearly the same question Brother Horace had asked him on the phone.
Arnie paused to think about it. Ethan hoped he’d quickly conclude that he needed to take action, but Arnie remained silent.
“Well, man, are you going to open this door or what?”
“I don’t have the key. Only the super of management can open the door. I’d have to call one of them up.”
“Well, do something,” Ethan growled. “Do you want Grace King’s blood on your hands?” Ethan asked, trying to shift the blame for this mishap onto someone other than himself.
Ethan’s prompting was enough to move Arnie to action. In less than two minutes the doorman was standing next to Ethan with his foot raised in midair, preparing to execute one of those door-busting kicks he’d seen Derek Morgan do on Criminal Minds.
“I could lose my job for this,” Arnie said before one of his size twelve, black wingtip Rockports crashed through her door.
“I could lose Grace if you don’t do this,” Ethan murmured in a low whisper that only he and God could hear. “Please don’t let me be too late.”
Arnie was able to knock the door off its hinges, and the acrid odor that greeted them threatened to knock them off their feet. A mixture of dry heat, whiskey, and body odor welcomed them. Ethan covered his mouth and swallowed the bile that the stench in Grace’s condo had elicited.
Ethan ran to the couch, where Grace was sprawled out. Careful not to step in the dry chunks of vomit, Ethan kneeled down beside her. He racked his brain, trying to figure out what could have sent her this far off the map. Pages of Javier Roberts’s script were strewn all over the living room floor. Some pages had been rolled into little balls, some pages were covered in vomit, and some of them had been ripped up.
“Summerville, is she alive or what?” the doorman shouted from the hallway. “Do you want me to call an ambulance or the police?”
“No ambulance and no police,” Ethan commanded, rising to his feet. He did a quick assessment of the situation. Grace was semiconscious and in the same teal racerback shirt and gray yoga pants he’d seen her in three days ago. Her skin looked like cracked wood, there was a bottle of whiskey tucked in the side of the couch, and bottles of gin that varied in size decorated the floor.
I can’t call the police or the ambulance until this place gets straightened up, Ethan thought. This will be all over the scanners, the news stations will be here, and my days as a lawyer will be long gone.
First, Ethan tried to wake her. He shook her, he yelled, and then he banged on pots and pans.
“Water. Summerville, throw some cold water on her,” Arnie stated.
Ethan darted into the kitchen. He snatched a paper towel off the silver spinning dispenser, held it under cold water, and dashed back to the couch. Ethan swiped the wet paper towel across her face. Grace jumped up, coughing and cringing, and then collapsed back on the couch.
“What’s going on?” she moaned.
“I don’t know, Grace. You tell me.”
She lay there, unresponsive.
“Grace? Grace, you have to get up,” Ethan said, shaking her languid arm.
“I can’t.” She rubbed her tongue across her top lip. “I can’t feel my legs. You got any coke?”
“What?”
“Coke, dopamine, or anything in that family,” Arnie explained. “She needs an upper. She crashed, and she wants something to help get her pumped up again.”
The urge to smash Arnie’s head in overtook Ethan as Arnie rattled off the kinds of narcotics that would be helpful in this situation. His ambivalent attitude was just enough to send Ethan over the edge. Ethan charged toward the doorman.
“That’s why she’s messed up, man!” Ethan grabbed Arnie by the collar and slammed him against the door. “You know way too much about this, man.”
“Mr. Summerville, of course I know about this. Do you think she’s special? A doped-up model is nothing special and nothing worth either of us losing our composure over.”
The rational, logical, and legalistic side of Ethan agreed. There was nothing novel about a celebrity drowning his or her sorrows in alcohol or abusing drugs to dim the pain when the camera lights were turned off, but Grace wasn’t a stranger or just a name to Ethan or to God.
As Grace leaned over the side of the couch, hacking, with spittle slowly dripping out of the corner of her mouth, he could hear the words ringing clearly in his heart. For the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost. Suddenly, he remembered why he was there.
Ethan released Arnie, realigned the collar of Arnie’s shirt, and smoothed out the wrinkles. “You’re absolutely right. There’s no need for either of us to lose our composure. Why don’t you return to your post? I’ll handle things up here.”
“You sure, man?”
“One hundred percent.” Ethan held his thumb up. “I’ve got this.”
Arnie bowed and walked to the elevator bank.
Now finding himself alone with the mess that lay on the couch and the floor, Ethan paced back and forth parallel to the couch. Sunlight beamed through the windows, filling him with the warmth that this situation had zapped out of him. His first thought was to call Junell, who almost always knew what to do to get Grace out of a jam, but she was on the set, filming her show. Everyone at the firm had had enough of Grace’s antics, so he decided that they would be the last people he called. With no other help available, Ethan called the one friend he had who was always there for him when his back was pressed against the wall.
Seasoned with Grace Page 7