by Laura Leone
"It's all right, just tell me." It wouldn't do either of them any good for her to be squeamish. She was the one who'd insisted on talking about why he was still escorting for a living.
"Okay." After a moment, he continued, "The client and I were having sex in her car. It was her idea—and she was the customer, after all. The cops caught us at it, figuring it would be just a public lewdness charge. Which would have made me feel stupid enough, since I knew better than to risk that. But that was the least of my worries," he said darkly, "because there was a big bag of blow right there on the seat with us. I didn't snort any of it—I don't do drugs, not ever—but, like an idiot, I had let her hand it to me before I knew what it was. So my fingerprints were all over it. Which gave some credibility to her story when she told them I was a dealer."
"Oh, no."
"They hauled us in. I was twenty-four, I had no visible means of support, no education, and I was wearing designer clothing and had a lot of cash on me."
"So they figured you had to be a drug dealer, as she said."
"She was married to a wealthy man, and her lawyer made me the fall guy. The record of my previous arrest didn't help, either."
"For soliciting?"
He said grimly, "Rape."
"Rape?" Her jaw dropped. "Ryan, whatever secrets you've kept, I know you're no rapist. How on earth did you get a rape charge?"
He sighed. "Well, some rich girl in Marin had two friends who decided to buy her an escort for her eighteenth birthday."
"You were someone's birthday present?" When she saw him shift uneasily in response to her appalled tone, she added more mildly, "How could girls that age even find an escort?"
"Oh, that's easy enough, Sara. Especially these days, with escorts advertising on the Web. Even Catherine's agency is on the Web—though her website is so discreet, you might not realize what she's selling if you just stumbled across it by accident."
"So these teenage girls found her on the Web?"
"Oh, them? No. One of them had a stepmother who used Catherine's agency, and I guess the stepdaughter pried a lot." He shrugged. "Anyhow, Catherine sent me to the appointment. I was nineteen, and she thought the girl would like someone her own age. Well, it turned out that the best thing this nice Catholic schoolgirl could say about two years of regular sex with her boyfriend was that it didn't hurt after the first few times." He tilted his head. "So she found our date pretty mind-blowing. Not exactly a big recommendation—she'd have found a date with a vibrator pretty mind-blowing. But she hired me a few more times."
"How do kids get that kind of money?"
"They have filthy rich parents who give them credit cards and don't pay much attention to what they're doing with them," he said. "Anyhow, we met in her car, or else in her house when her parents weren't there."
When he paused, Sara realized what was coming. "The girl's parents caught her with you?"
He nodded. "They came back from a party hours before she expected them. We had the stereo turned way up and didn't hear a thing—until we heard them enter the room and start screaming." Ryan's expression was resigned as he recalled what happened next. "The girl saw how furious her parents were. She panicked and told them I'd threatened her and forced her. They chose to believe her.
"I got cornered, arrested, and hauled off, scared to death. The following morning, Catherine sent a lawyer to explain the situation to the parents. He showed them a record of their daughter's credit card charges at the agency. He pointed out to them that I had nothing to lose in the scandal I would make if their daughter continued accusing me of rape, but they might not find the public embarrassment so easy to bear." He added, "I was released when the charges were dropped."
Sara digested this for a moment before saying, "Then there you were, five years later, with a rape arrest on your record, a bag of cocaine with your fingerprints on it, and a charge of drug dealing."
"Don't forget public lewdness," he said sourly. "And I didn't think it would help my situation to say, 'No, officer, I wasn't dealing drugs, I was just turning a trick.' I didn't figure they'd drop the drug charges just because I admitted to prostitution."
"What happened?"
"Well, they locked me up. I got arraigned, and my bail was high because I had no job, no family, no ties. The judge considered me a flight risk. My lawyer wasn't cheap, and he wasn't very encouraging, either. I thought I was going to go to prison on drug charges, and I was terrified." He met her eyes. "Terrified, Sara. I'd been raped and beaten within an inch of my life once already, and I didn't want to repeat the experience. I couldn't get locked up for a couple of years with guys who do that for fun. I just couldn't, Sara."
"You asked Catherine for help."
He nodded. "She said she knew people, she could make the whole mess go away. But the first time I got arrested, I'd been working for her, so her protection was automatic. This time, though, I'd gotten in trouble while free-lancing, even after she'd told me half a dozen times to stop."
"So in exchange for her help," Sara guessed, "she wanted you back where she thought you belonged."
"Yes. She told me I would have to work for her, and only for her. No more free-lancing, and I'd have to give up the idea of quitting or leaving."
"And you agreed?"
"No, I told her to go to hell. I told her I'd find a way out of this mess without her." He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "But I couldn't. I was screwed. The more clear that became, the more scared I got. I fired my lawyer and hired another, but he said the exact same thing the first one had: I should cop a plea in exchange for a reduced sentence, because they'd just put me away for a longer time if I made them go to the trouble of prosecuting me."
Sara waited for him to continue.
"I couldn't go to prison," he said. "I knew what would happen to me there. So I went back to Catherine and agreed to her terms. Including the new one she named then, which was that, because of the 'cost' of helping me out of this mess, she'd be taking a bigger cut of my earnings in future."
"That sounds perfectly in character," Sara said with disgust.
"But she kept her word, Sara. She got the charges dropped. It was over."
"And you were under her thumb again. Just as much as you'd been when you were younger." After a moment, she asked, "Is that why you moved to this apartment? Because you had to reduce your expenses?"
"That, and also... I moved into this apartment because I thought it looked like someplace a happy person would live." When she gave him a questioning look, he said, "After that whole mess, I knew I couldn't get out, but I wanted some part of my life to be separate from... from Kevin's life. From Catherine's boy." He looked down. "I split myself into separates parts. Kevin is an expensive whore with a police record. Ryan Kinsmore is a decent guy who lives quietly in a friendly neighborhood and pays taxes on his 'modeling' income."
"You pay taxes on your earnings?"
"I do now. When I got arrested that second time, I realized what a tight corner I'd put myself in by having no visible income and not even the fiction of a normal lifestyle."
"So you made up the story about being a catalogue model."
"I figured that it explained my strange work schedule and my trips out of town, and that my lack of education wouldn't matter."
"And keeping yourself in such good shape and having such nice clothes—that fits most people's idea of a model, too."
"I also decided that, even if I couldn't get out of the life, it didn't do me any good to have no education. So I got my G.E.D. about six months before you moved in."
"The equivalent of a high school diploma?"
He nodded. "I just wanted to be... Different than I was. Better. When I'm here, using my real name. I wanted to be..."
Sensing his insecurity, she said, "I never would have guessed that you had no education. You read all the time—"
"It's a habit Catherine got me into."
"Your mind is quick, you're a problem solver, you're computer literate."
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"Well, compared to you, Macy is computer literate."
She smiled. "You know, there are professional novelists who don't have college degrees."
"Really?" Like so many people, he seemed surprised by that. "Writers?"
"Really. And I've certainly met plenty of college graduates who don't strike me as better educated than you. Or as intelligent as you are."
He smiled, clearly pleased. "If that's true, it means a lot to me. That someone like you..." He grinned. "Likes me for my mind."
She smiled back. "Now that you have your G.E.D., if you wanted to study for another career, you could go to college and—"
He sighed. "I've just told you, Sara. A career change isn't possible."
It broke her heart. "Ryan." She put her hand on his cheek. "How can she do this to you? What kind of a person is she?"
"It's business, Sara."
"No, it's not! She's ruining your life! I think she's ruining my life now, too."
She regretted saying that when she saw how it pained him. He took her hand from his cheek, and pressed it against his mouth. "I think I'm ruining your life."
"No." After a moment, she admitted, "The jury's still out on that."
"I'm hurting you," he murmured. "Upsetting you. And interfering with your work."
"Well, I guess I'm hurting you, too." He closed his eyes and kissed her hand again. "Upsetting you. And as for interfering with your work..."
"Actually..." He opened his eyes. "That's what I came to talk to you about."
"Yes?" She sank into the feel of his breath against her knuckles, his thumb caressing her as he held her hand.
"I have to go away tomorrow."
That startled her out of her pleasant distraction. "You're going away?"
"I'll be back Friday," he assured her. "So I won't miss your party."
She pulled her hand out of his. "Work?"
"Yes." Aware of her withdrawal, he sat back a bit. "I wasn't even going to ask you to take care of the animals. Under the circumstances, it seemed too..." He shrugged. "But I knew you'd be hurt—and maybe really worried—if I just left without saying goodbye. And then I wondered if you'd feel hurt if I didn't ask you to take care of them, because they're the same as always, even if you and I..." He rubbed his forehead. "I'm babbling."
"Where are you going? What are you going to be doing?" she demanded, frowning at him.
"Details aren't a good idea, Sara."
"No, if I'm going to be walking your dog while you're—"
"I'm going to the island," he snapped. "Catherine leases a villa in Mexico. A luxury retreat for clients."
"And what'll you be do—"
"I'm not telling you, Sara." He rose to leave. "I just wanted you to know I'll be gone for two—"
"I'll take care of them," she said as he walked past her.
He paused. "You don't have to. Not if this is too much to ask. If taking care of them is just going to make you think about me and what I'm doing, then it's better if I hire my old pet sitter again, or else take them to stay at the vet's."
"Your cat's so insecure she gets sick when you do that, Macy gets depressed, and only someone very fond of you would ever agree to look after that demented bird of yours," Sara said grumpily. "I'll take care of them. Don't worry about it."
"Thanks." He paused in the doorway and met her eyes as she looked over her shoulder at him. "Are you still very fond of me?"
"Yes." She felt as if he had thrown cold water on her, but she wouldn't toy with his emotions or make him doubt her regard for him. "What about Adam? Does he need looking after, too?"
He shook his head. "I don't want you going into that neighborhood without me."
"Oh. Okay."
Their eyes held. Sara's heart was bursting with things she wanted to say, but her brain felt numb and unable to herd the rampant feelings into coherent thoughts.
"When I get back," he said, "I'll help you get ready for your party." He shrugged. "Move furniture or carry groceries upstairs. Whatever. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Uh... Macy threw up today. But I think it was just because he ate my socks. It probably won't happen again."
"All right."
He couldn't seem to leave, and she couldn't look away. Miriam was right, the two of them had trouble saying goodbye in less than a half hour.
She wanted to kiss him, hug him, touch him, something. But it wasn't wise. And, considering where she knew he was going tomorrow, she also wanted to hit him, shout at him, weep.
"Sara, I'm sorr—"
"Don't," she said. "Don't keep saying that to me."
He lowered his head. After a moment, he said, "I'll see you when I get back."
And until then, he would be... Sara pressed her fists against her temples, which were starting to throb.
Don't think about what he'll be doing until then. Just don't.
But the writer's imagination was a powerful thing, and Sara found she couldn't simply shut it off at will.
Chapter Twelve
By nine o'clock Saturday night, Sara's little apartment was so crowded that the latest arrivals to her housewarming party couldn't even enter it. So they started partying in the hallway, their festive spirit undiminished by this minor inconvenience.
Ryan decided that he and Sara should discuss accommodating the overflowing guests more comfortably. So he sought her in the laughter-filled throng, where her friends and relatives were eating, drinking, talking, gesticulating, mingling, searching for the bathroom, and (in a few cases) guessing what Lance's murals were trying to say.
"I think he's saying he hates Sara!"
"I think he's trying to inspire Sara to write horror."
"It reminds me of township art."
"What the hell is township art?"
"Are we positive that Sara didn't paint this herself and is just trying to cast blame elsewhere now?"
Lance had been invited to the party, though he hadn't yet made an appearance. If he did, Ryan had a feeling that Sara's friends would be delighted with her wild-eyed, eccentric landlord.
As Ryan passed the drinks table he had set up this afternoon, he checked to make sure it didn't need replenishing. A quick glance revealed that, in fact, it probably wouldn't need replenishing until the following century. So many of the guests had brought wine, Sara might wind up with more bottles at the end of the night than she had started out with.
Nearby, a thin young man in glasses and conservative clothes was saying to a redheaded woman, "Wait! How could they pay him for the rewrite of a script that didn't exist in the first place? There was nothing to rewrite!"
"See? See what I'm saying?" the redhead said. "This is why we ought to go to Hollywood. It's like stealing!"
A fat, middle-aged man with glasses, long hair, a beard, and a strange hat snorted. "You mean it's like prostitution."
Ryan glanced curiously at him for a moment.
"Okay, that's a good story, I admit," said the younger man. "Nonetheless, it's generally true that Hollywood shits on writers even worse than New York does."
Ryan squeezed past three men and a blonde woman engrossed in a passionate discussion about Macintosh computers, then passed several people whom Sara had introduced to him earlier as old college friends. Then he spotted Sara herself.
She looked wonderful. Her hair was piled atop her head, with wispy dark curls escaping to lie against her fair skin. Her dangly earrings swung gracefully with every turn of her head. She wore some simple but exotic-looking outfit with tiny gold threads scattered throughout the fabric; they caught the light and gleamed subtly whenever she moved. She was clearly enjoying herself tremendously, reconnecting with the people in her life now that she had settled into the apartment well enough to take this break from her work and welcome them all into her home. Her face was prettily flushed, her eyes sparkled, and she was laughing a lot.
She was happy. And Ryan hadn't seen her look happy lately. It made him feel guilty. What the hell was he doing, clinging to h
er as he did? What could he possibly offer her that was worth the pain he was causing her?
The scratches on his back, which he'd gotten during his stay on the island, suddenly seemed to burn. If Sara knew everything, would she even want him in her home, let alone in her bed?
And she was indeed on the verge of inviting him into her bed. He could see it in her eyes, in her body language, in the thoughts which drifted across her candid face when silence fell between them. She was leaning heavily towards it by now. Ryan knew that with the slightest nudge from him, she would open her bed, her arms, herself to him, and he could crawl inside and get warm there.
It was tempting. So tempting. But the scratches on his back burned in silent accusation. He didn't deserve to touch her. He should leave her alone.
He knew that. Yet, even so, because it was safe tonight, because they were surrounded by people and nothing could happen, when he came up behind Sara, he put his hands on her waist and squeezed affectionately. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it.
She paused in her conversation with her Great Aunt Minnie, a tiny, fierce, and immensely old lady whom Ryan had already met and found frightening, and smiled over her shoulder at him.
As someone elbowed past him, Ryan leaned into Sara, melding himself against her back and bottom, pressing closer to her. She snuggled back against him, inviting the contact. He lowered his head, resisted dropping a kiss on her neck, and said into her ear, "I'm going to open my balcony doors and my front door, so people can just circulate through both apartments."
She put her hand over one of his as it rested on her waist and turned her head, her cheek brushing against his. "Oh, are you sure? Somebody might spill something or—"
"If they do, I'll just make you clean my place tomorrow." He added, "I cleaned yours this morning, after all."
"Well, if you really don't mind..." She squeezed his hand and pressed it more firmly against her. "Opening your apartment would be wonderful, Ryan." She looked around. "I had no idea so many people would turn up."
Aunt Minnie asked, "How many did you invite?"
"Um... I'm not sure. I just kept inviting people as they came to mind."