Rhea leans in so that only Beryl and I can hear her. “Did you know that Rico Holland has a mentor?”
“No, I didn’t. Honestly? I was with him for only a few months. I never got to know too many people in his life because he pretty much kept me a hostage in his house, only letting me outside to work at his company or when I was out with him.”
“Well, he does. If it weren’t for Harrison Blackwell, Rico would still be small fry. Blackwell helped bring him into the big boys’ club.”
“Why? What’s their connection? Family?”
She frowns. “No. There’s no family connection that I could find. And Harrison Blackwell is from old money. Unless there’s some kind of blackmail going on, it doesn’t make much sense.
“But I totally wouldn’t put it past that shit stain,” she adds. “Blackmail, I mean.”
“Is Blackwell part of your plan?” I ask, reaching for a coconut cream donut hole.
“In a way.” She looks a little flustered. “Uh… Priscilla mentioned to Beryl that you had an unusual occupation before you married… something she said you called…” She tilts her head and sort of grimaces. It takes me a minute before I realize that she’s embarrassed to say it and it makes me want to laugh out loud. For God’s sake, I wasn’t a prostitute.
“Go on,” I prod, grinning.
“Well, she said you called yourself a faker. She explained to me what it was.”
I nod as I swallow my donut bite, licking the residue of cream off my lips while wondering why Cilla divulged so much information about me. The only reason I’m not upset is that the sugar and grease from the donuts is pumping into my bloodstream, bringing all those feel-good endorphins with it.
“Rhea met Rico Holland about three years ago. As with you, he promised her the moon and stars. She didn’t need a job—her family gives her an allowance—so he couldn’t lure her in that way, but he did prey upon her insecurities to convince her to move in with him, and that’s when the abuse began.”
Breaking into the monologue, Rhea nods sadly. “He’s really clever at sucking a woman in until she’s in so deep she can’t see the light of the surface.”
“I know. I knew it before a month was out. I started planning my escape immediately. It took a while, though. He had someone watching me at all times.” I sip my latte. It’s too sweet for me, especially combined with the sugar on the donuts. “How long did you stay with him?”
“Almost a year. The worst of my life.”
“Why’d you stay so long?”
“Like you, I noticed things were not quite right after only a few weeks. I had my own money and family nearby, so he couldn’t control me as much as maybe others. About two months later, I moved out, but he came after me and convinced me to come back. I thought I was in love with him. Then he was on his best behavior for three months or so before he slid into the abuse again. This time, he kept eyes on me 24/7. Eventually I had to appeal to my family for help. He’s threatened me a few times since then—to the point where I had to move out of Chicago.”
I shrug. “I don’t know why he’s coming after me now. It’s been years…”
She shakes her head, and I watch as her earrings swing like pendulums with the movement. “There’s no explaining someone like him. He’s a sick bastard. But I will say this: Alex, one of Rico’s men—he called them associates but they seemed more like muscle to me—once confided in me that Rico was madly in love with a girl who got away, and that was why he was so ‘protective’—his word, not mine—about me.”
“Oh?”
She arched her brows. “It might be you he was talking about.” She half grins when I shudder in response, and to make myself feel better, I grab a cinnamon-glazed donut hole.
Relishing the sugary deliciousness, I alternate my expectant glances between them. “So… what’s the plan?” I ask for, like, the third time.
“What would you say to taking on one more faker job?”
“How will that help take him down?”
“Cut off his money. He’s well off now, but he keeps getting wealthier because of his association with Harrison Blackwell. We stop that, and he’ll start to fall back to earth. His influence will wane, and so will his income. Best-case scenario? We wreck his reputation.”
Beryl joins in. “There’s an important fundraising dinner both men will be attending. A friend of mine works for the event planner, and she’s doing seating arrangements. We can put you at the same table as both Harrison Blackwell and Rico Holland along with a well-known investigative reporter, a senator, an attorney general and a prominent political blogger. How does that sound?
I think about what she’s saying, and I stretch my lips into a slow smile. It could work.
“You mentioned something before about Rico’s associate being a former client of yours. Does that mean that Rico knows what you did before you married? The role-playing, I mean?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He was apparently working for Rico to get me back under his thumb.”
“That’s a setback but not a fatal one. You’re a pro at disguising yourself. You can keep a low profile or even come in late, and then sometime during the dinner, in front of everyone nearby, you can have a showdown. Humiliate Rico in front of his benefactor—and the whole table can be witnesses.”
The mental picture of that scenario sets my heart to racing. “Oh God, that sounds… It might enrage him to the point that he comes after me even more violently.”
Beryl reaches for my hand reassuringly. “He won’t be able to. You have security; you have Fletcher Creed. It’ll be out in the open, and his name will be further dragged through the mud if he tries anything.”
“But if he has nothing to lose?”
“It won’t go that far,” Rhea says confidently. “Just enough to put him in his place hopefully.”
I’m skeptical and it must show on my face, for she hurriedly adds, “There is an element of risk involved. I would do it myself but Blackwell knows me, and so do some of the others. Rico told everyone he could all sorts of terrible lies about me. I just don’t think it will carry the same weight as if you do it. But of course, it’s up to you.”
“Listen to me, Marley,” Beryl chimes in. “There will be a lot of important movers and shakers at this event, many of whom will be at Blackwell’s table. The reason this is such a brilliant chance at justice is the rare opportunity. We won’t get another one like this anytime soon. Just imagine, we get to decide who from the guest list sits at that table. We’ll go through the whole list and select the people who will best bring the fucker down. We are in the most excellent position to do some serious reputation damage—carnage, if we’re lucky. Do you see?”
Yeah, I see, but I’m the one taking all the risk. Well, I guess Beryl’s friend who works for the event planner is taking some too. “When is this event?”
The two women exchange glances before Beryl answers. “A week from Friday.”
Shit, that’s soon. Fletcher would have my head if he knew I was even considering doing it. But really, it’s my decision. Rico is my problem, not his, and as he himself pointed out, his protection only extends to me temporarily. I need to get Rico off my back permanently.
I chew my lip, trying to think of all the things that can go wrong. But what if it goes right? Maybe we can stop Rico Holland from getting any more power or money and put eyes on him. That would be a very good thing to come out of it.
“If I do it, I can’t tell Fletcher. I think he’ll go ballistic.”
Both Beryl and Rhea nod their assent, and Rhea swallows her mouthful of coffee. “That’s fine. Don’t tell him.”
“Should I bring a date?”
Beryl purses her lips and shifts them side to side on her face in indecision. “It’s a possibility if it would make you feel securer. We’d have to find someone quickly, though.” She sighs. “Let me think on it.”
42
Marley Jacobs
I decide to do it.
After much soul-
searching, I might add, because I really don’t want to go out on this shaky limb. But Rico Holland needs to go down so he can’t hurt any more women. If I have to put myself in harm’s way for a few minutes, so be it. It’s important that I do this for myself and for any innocents who would otherwise come after to me to suffer at his hands. Before I can chicken out and change my mind, I call Rhea.
Then Beryl.
“Hi, Marley. How are you?”
“I’m in.”
“That’s great. I’m so happy to hear that.”
“I just decided a few minutes ago. I know you need to set this thing in motion.”
“How are you going to give your guys the slip?”
I sigh. I’ve been on the phone with Rhea for the past hour talking about the way we want this to happen. Getting out of my house unseen is one of the thornier issues. “The only way I think I can get away with it is to pretend I’m ill and go to bed and then somehow sneak out of the house without anyone seeing me.”
“How will you do that?”
I tug at my lip, ideas shuttling through my brain. “I’m going to have to figure out how to override the back door on the alarm system and slip out from there. My security falls in as I leave through the front door. I’ve never left the house any other way.”
“Cool. That sounds workable.”
“What time does it start?”
“Seven. I still haven’t found anyone right to accompany you. I’ll call you back if and when that happens.”
“Too bad Cilla’s back in France.”
“Why? Would having her with you make you feel better?”
I didn’t have to think about it for a second. “Absolutely.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Not everything goes according to plan. For one thing, Harrison Blackwell did not yet RSVP. The planner called his office, and he said he’d let them know for certain by midweek. If he does show, he’s planning on ducking in and out or so his assistant claimed. My seat at Blackwell’s table was already wrangled but not a plus-one. I only wish I could bring one of my security guys for backup instead, but I know I can’t.
A companion for me is now out. The table, which had room for one more, was filled when the planner went back in to add a guest. The planner’s boss had penciled him in, so that was that.
Friday comes all too soon. Fletcher has been preoccupied with work—which is great because I’ve been ready to jump out of my skin, my nerves raw. He might have noticed if we’d spent more time together.
Last night I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring into the darkness and wondering if I am making a huge mistake doing this behind Fletcher’s back. Around four a.m. I finally drift off, but when I wake up just before eleven, I’m tired and groggy… not to mention almost instantly queasy about tonight. Am I doing the right thing? This little stunt could backfire and end up causing me way more problems than it solves.
And that would suck.
At 3:20 p.m. I announce to Tristan that I don’t feel well, and I’m going to bed. If Fletcher is true to recent form, he won’t be home until after eight p.m. By then I’ll be long gone.
Tristan looks up from his phone. “Feel better.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll take some tea and ibuprofen with me.” I make a detour to the kitchen so it all looks legit, and I actually brew myself some tea. Taking it upstairs with me, I slip inside my bedroom and lock the door.
A hot shower followed by a bracing cold one wakes me up. I don’t bother drying my hair since it’s going to be redone. Under my clothes I wear my evening underwear, a pair of lacy champagne-colored panties and matching bra, and then I quickly dress in black thermals, a gray sweater, and a pair of black Vans.
I pack my satchel. Yes, the dress will get wrinkled, but Beryl promised to make it right. I pack thigh-high shimmery silk stockings. The dress goes in next, then the wrap, and I put the shoes on top, heels up so the clothes don’t get dirty, and the shoes don’t get smashed. I tuck my travel makeup case in the side pocket.
Oops, I almost forgot my handbag. I go back to my closet and choose the smallest clutch of the lot. It doesn’t match the dress, which is a copper color, but it’s black and that goes with everything. Inside it, I place my prepaid phone—transferred with some photos of Rico, just in case. I add some lipstick—a new tube of lipstick—and money. I stuff it in the satchel between the heels.
Now I turn my attention to the bed. I create the shape of a body with pillows. I don’t have a blond wig for the hair, so I take a metallic gold skirt and try to arrange it on another pillow so that from a distance and in dim light, it might look like my hair. To ensure no one flips on a bright light, I turn on my salt-lamp night light, the faint glow of which won’t give my secret away.
Granted, it won’t be dark outside for another hour, but I’m hoping no one checks on me, at least until then.
No one ever used to come inside my room.
Especially Fletcher. Even though I desperately wanted him to come in.
But now that our relationship has changed, he will. If I’m in here, he’ll come looking for me. If he sees I’m sleeping, he may just leave it at that. I hope. I sleep in his room most nights, but I still use my bedroom for showering and dressing. I don’t know why.
I peek out into the hall. All clear. I go back into the room and shrug on my jacket.
Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I slink down the hall. The staircase and its surrounding areas are quiet, so I tiptoe down and make my way to the back of the house. Someone is vacuuming Fletcher’s office, which gives me great cover. Any noise I make won’t be heard over that din. The door is half open, though, so I peek in to make sure the maid isn’t near the door. Just as I’m about to pass, I hear footsteps.
Shit!
Quickly I throw my duffel through the open door on my right and spin around. Crap. It’s Rick. Which means only one thing.
Fletcher’s home.
But why so early?
“Hello, Mrs. Creed.”
I nod. “Rick.”
Eyeing me in my jacket, he says, “Mr. Creed would like a word with you. He’s in the parlor.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
He gives me a strange look. I guess he’s wondering why I’m lurking in the hallway. I must look guilty as hell. I force my chin into the air. “Is there anything else?”
His lips stretch into a smirk. “No, that’s it. I’ll let him know.”
I watch him do an about-face and walk away. When he turns the corner, I grab my duffel and hurry to the back door.
I get to the alarm pad. I disarm it, place my duffel just outside the door and then rearm it just in case someone should happen by and notice.
I need to think.
If I don’t go speak to Fletcher, it’s almost a certainty he’ll come looking for me. And then I’ll be screwed.
If I go to speak to him, I’ll almost definitely be late.
I decide to duck out now and then send him a text telling him I’m ill and postponing our conversation till morning.
Again, I override the alarm for the back door. Should I leave it disengaged or should I reset it after I open the door? Fletcher is so weird about security that I decide to reset it. God forbid I leave it open and something bad happens. I’d never forgive myself. I have no clue how I’ll get back inside the house, but I’ll figure something out. One of my many talents is to think on my feet. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I crack open the door and come back in to reset the alarm. Then I go out, closing the door behind me, and I’m home free. Or in my case, free of home.
I briskly walk three blocks over to a busy avenue and stand near a crowded newsstand while I call for a car. After that’s done, I text Fletcher. I just hope he doesn’t wonder why I’m texting him from my prepaid.
I look around me at the people rushing by. I feel very vulnerable without my bodyguards, and I don’t want to take any chances by isolating myself on quiet streets. I need lots o
f people all around me to feel safe. I’m beginning to understand how Fletcher feels about security. Though now that I’m in this head space, I recall it was how I felt when I first ran from Rico. And it lasted for a long time afterward. Like at least a year.
A brand-new Honda Civic pulls up at the curb in front of me, and I check the man’s license with the info on my phone. Same. I was really hoping for a female driver, but it’s fine. I open the door halfway and toss my satchel in the seat then bend myself into the car. Bhavsar is my driver’s name, and he’s a cute young guy. He entertains me the whole way, telling me about his family back in his native country and making me laugh a lot. Which is good because otherwise my nerves would stretch taut enough to snap.
When he finally pulls up to a large and stately brick townhouse, it dawns on me that Beryl is in the same social circle as Fletcher—or at least Cilla. I recall her telling me that Rhea didn’t need a job from Rico so she must be from money too. It makes me question why Rico thought he could get away with his bullshit with someone like Rhea. I guess she had other buttons he could push to ensnare her in his sticky web.
I’m not even on the second step when Beryl flings open the door.
I clap my hand over my heart. “You scared me for a sec.”
“You’re just jumpy. Now get in here. We have work to do and time is a-wastin’.”
“I’m coming.” I sprint up the rest of the steps and join her in the foyer of her home.
“I guess your dress needs steaming?”
“Yep.” I pull my satchel off my shoulder and hold it up. “Everything I’m wearing is right here in this little handy-dandy bag.”
She smiles with satisfaction. “And the sneaking out part went well?”
“Supremely well. I def should go into undercover work.”
Wagging her finger at me, she frowns. “Eh-eh, don’t get cocky. That will trip you up every time. Let’s go to my bedroom and get this show started. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
Who’s everyone? “Okay,” I agree meekly. “You don’t happen to have a clutch purse that’s a copper color, do you?”
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 28