“She knew,” he says, defending himself.
Hmm. I sense a relationship going sour there. She’s so pretty with her coppery hair and big green eyes. She’s way too young for him besides. I’m thinking she could definitely do better though perhaps not richer.
After introductions go all around the table, I pick up my wine glass and take a large swallow. I need the liquid courage. Casually glancing around the table, I note there are still three empty chairs. The first course of the meal is about to be served, and while the waiters are bringing the dishes, I steal another glance at Rico. He has his head leaning over to the woman next to him, and he’s whispering in her ear. She’s smiling, but I’m not certain it’s a genuine smile. Is she the one I saw him yelling at? I can’t remember. I want to help her escape from him if she needs it. I just don’t know if she does.
Right after the course is served, a couple—a man and woman—sits down. If I’m not mistaken, the woman is the investigative reporter Rhea and Beryl told me about. I suppose the man is her date. I’m trying to match the people up with the names and professions given me by my partners in crime. When I turn my attention away from the new couple, I feel someone near me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the seat next to me is finally filled. This is the guy who made it impossible for me to bring a guest for moral support. His seat is to my left; it had been the last empty one at the table.
I suppose he sneaked in and sat down while my attention was diverted by Diana Gleason, the reporter. Place cards at each setting told us where to sit. His name, I saw, was Dean Moriarty.
The name seems familiar to me, but I can’t place it. I hope to God he’s not one of my former clients. No, I think I’d recall the name if he was—the list isn’t that long—but some of them were not as memorable as others.
Just as I take a sip of my water, the man says in a gruff voice, “Dean Moriarty, nice to meet you, miss.”
I slightly turn my head. He seems tall though it’s hard to tell while he’s seated. He has light brown hair with lots of red in it, a mustache and beard, and is wearing funny little rectangular glasses with light-blue lenses. Answering him, I introduce myself, and he mumbles a hello, keeping his eyes trained on the diners across the table from us. I guess he’s not the friendly type.
When he reaches for his glass of water, out of the corner of my eye I notice something odd. The guy is wearing black satin gloves. Weirdo. I know in the nineteenth century and maybe the early twentieth too, men dressing formally used to wear white gloves, but today unless you’re dressing up like Michael Jackson or trying to hide a skin ailment, you don’t wear gloves indoors.
He’s not dressed as Michael Jackson, so maybe it’s his skin. And I shouldn’t mock him for it. Still, from the little I can see of his face that’s not covered by his beard, his skin looks clear. In fact, it looks quite good. My attention is diverted from my neighbor by Rico’s screeching laugh, which is grating on my nerves. I hate him. Why the hell did he have to hunt me down after all these freaking years?
How long should I wait before I spoil everyone’s dinner, especially Rico’s? I want to get it over with—I’m just so sick to my stomach with nerves. I decide to wait until the main course is served.
The dinner seems to take forever, and my stomach is doing weird gymnastics. The main course, it turns out, is the fourth course to be served after appetizers, soup, and salad. Someone remarks that it’s best to serve salad last, right before dessert, to cleanse the palate. I agree—especially tonight when my stomach is plotting against me.
It’s time.
I feel beads of perspiration popping up on my upper lip. An attack of nausea is next. Due to nerves, all I’ve been able to eat thus far is a few bites of salad, so my empty stomach is making things worse than it would be otherwise. Add in the several glasses of alcohol, and it’s a recipe for disaster.
There’s a lull in the table’s conversation, so I seize my chance. I’m Audrey Heston, I tell myself, a young woman who is about to take revenge on a horrible ex-boyfriend. I’m not Marley Jacobs Creed. Not at all.
“Mr. Holland,” I say, my voice sounding a little rusty. He looks up from his plate at me, startled, I think.
Why? That I addressed him… or does he recognize my voice? It’s been a long time since he heard it other than for those few short and terrifying moments at the party. “Do you recognize me, I wonder?”
45
Marley Jacobs
“Should I?” he responds with an arrogant smirk.
No. He doesn’t. By some miracle, he hasn’t yet put two and two together.
Unless he knows, and he thinks it’s better to play dumb?
“Well,” I drawl with a lot more confidence than I’m feeling, “I do look different, but still… I think you should.” I take another sip of my lovely pink wine. Normally I don’t like rosé, but tonight it tastes absolutely divine. “In your defense, it was a long time ago. Around six years or so, but it was memorable. You basically held me hostage and abused me. Mentally. Physically. Sexually. I managed to escape after a few months, but apparently you didn’t change your ways after that. I met a friend who had the same experience with you within the last couple of years.”
His face goes pale as understanding dawns in his eyes. Just as quickly, his genuine reaction vanishes, replaced by a carefully constructed facial expression of confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have the wrong man.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I say, leaning toward the table so everyone can hear me. “Because you see, a few weeks ago while I was attending a party with my husband, you attempted to kidnap me. Does that refresh your memory, Rico?” I gesture toward his date. “Are you holding this woman under duress too?”
I could see the whites of his eyes when he realizes exactly who I am. It drives home the point that what he did to me, he definitely did to others and not just Rhea. His lips contract into an angry grimace. “You are definitely mistaken, miss.”
“I’m definitely not, Rico, and you know it. What I don’t understand is why you came after me a few weeks ago when it’s been nearly six years since I escaped your clutches. Haven’t you tormented someone more recently who you can kidnap?”
His lip curls into a sneer, and I recognize the man I knew and loathed. “You need to see a professional. It appears you’re in some sort of mental crisis.”
“No, you’re the crazy one. My husband said he’d settle the score for me, but I think I should be the one to do it, don’t you? After all, it was me who you raped and abused, so I’m the one who should have the satisfaction. Don’t you think? Do you still have that kinky room in your house where you take your victims to abuse them? I bet you do.”
He shakes his head but never takes his eyes off me. I can’t stand looking at him, so I shift my focus to Blackwell. He is utterly composed, but his eyes betray his apparent calmness. The thing that I can’t tell is if he’s shocked by the revelations or just upset they’ve been lobbed at his protégé in a public setting. Can he be in on Rico’s dirty deeds? I can’t remember ever seeing him at those perverted parties, but that’s not proof of anything.
What about the woman? My gaze migrates over to her. She’s staring down at her plate. I think she knows very well that I’m speaking the truth. I clear my throat loudly to get her attention, and when she picks up only her eyes, I stare right at her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Susanne. Susanne Doppler,” she says at the same time that Rico snaps at her, “Don’t answer.”
Too late, asshole.
“Susanne, if you need assistance getting away from this monster, I can help you. All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll help you put major distance between yourself and him. I promise.”
I look around at the rest of the table and see shocked faces. Good. Rico stands up and tosses his napkin to the table. “I don’t have to sit here and be insulted at twenty grand a plate. I never even met this woman before.”
�
�I did disguise myself rather well tonight, didn’t I? But would you like to see a photo of us together to refresh your memory?”
I still have some on my phone. I thought they might come in handy someday. One is a selfie I snapped just as he pulled my head back by my hair. You can see in the photo that I’m in pain. I think that’s the one that should go around the table. Before I hand it to him, I send the photo to my email just in case something happens to it.
“Would you like to see it, Rico?”
“Fuck you.” He holds out his hand for his date, and she hesitates a moment before placing her hand in his.
“Susanne, you don’t have to go with him, you know. Seriously. I promise I can get you away from him.”
She turns her eyes to me, and in them I see an emotion I can easily recognize: real and genuine fear. I remember feeling exactly that with him. In the end, fear wins out, and she leaves with him.
I turn to Mr. Blackwell. “I know you and Mr. Holland go way back. Did you know this dirty secret of his—that he likes to abuse women and hold them hostage?”
“I know nothing at all that would impugn or throw doubt on his fine character. I think it’s reprehensible that you would accuse him of this kind of thing in a public setting such as this one.”
“Do you now? Should I have done it in a closet after he kidnapped me? I thought you and others might like to know. Here, look at this photo.” I hand him my phone. He glances at the picture and then looks at me again.
“This is supposed to be you?”
“It is me.” I take off the wig. The makeup is not so easily removed, but he can get the drift.
“And what was the point of making a spectacle here?”
“What is wrong with you, Mr. Blackwell? Did you not hear what I said?” I lean toward him across the table. “Your friend and protégé is a kidnapper and rapist. He abuses women. Does it really matter if I make a spectacle? To be honest, I wanted to do it in your presence, so you could find out what kind of man he is. But perhaps you already knew.”
“Don’t try to malign my character as well. I have no knowledge of anything you speak of, and Mr. Holland is innocent until proven guilty. That’s the way it works in this country.”
“Maybe you can stop enabling him by continuously making him wealthier until you find out for yourself what kind of man he is. Unless you are of similar character to the company you keep.”
I scan the other diners around the table. “I apologize for spoiling your dinner tonight. My friends and I felt it was important to let people who might support him know what kind of man Rico Holland is. He uses his wealth and position to take gross advantage of young girls and women. I need people to know that. He grabbed me at the bus station when I first arrived in Chicago at eighteen. He’s a predator.”
The woman with the short gray hair speaks up. “Don’t you worry about it, dear. What you did here tonight was very brave, and I applaud you. I hope it helps stop him from treating other women the way he treated you.”
I smile gratefully at her. “Thank you. It wasn’t easy.”
“I’ll bet it wasn’t. Good for you.” She gives the side eye to Blackwell, grimacing as if she smells something rank.
Her husband or friend smiles warmly and winks at me. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re courageous too.”
“So do I,” says the thin, elegant woman on the end of the table. “Very brave.”
Abruptly, a chair screeches back loudly, and Blackwell bolts to his feet, tossing his napkin down on the table. “I hope you all enjoy your evening. Good night.”
His companion looks up at him in confusion, and he gestures with his chin for her to leave with him. She quickly grabs her purse and rises to her feet. “Good evening,” she says, her gaze bouncing around the table but studiously avoiding mine. I wonder why.
I finish my wine, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. When I feel in better command of myself, I stand. “If you’ll all excuse me,” I say to the diners around me and then head back to the ladies’ room. Although the people at my table are kind, I still feel massively uncomfortable sitting there trying to make small talk after the scene I orchestrated. Thankfully, the restroom is fairly empty—a woman comes in right behind me, and I think someone is in a stall—so after checking my makeup, I sit down on the upholstered bench in the connecting lounge to consider my options. Rhea is outside waiting for me; however, since Rico left already, I’m nervous he’ll be lying in wait for me. Should I call my security guys and ask them to get me?
No, then Fletcher will find out what I did, and he’ll be furious. He’d been worried about my safety even before he found out about Rico. Now it’s exponentially worse. Plus, he can get so crabby and mean about minor things I do, I don’t want to ever see what he does for something big.
Like what I did tonight.
I take out my phone and type out a text to Rhea.
I’m about to send it when abruptly I can’t breathe. An arm violently grasps me around the throat, and another one loops around my waist, holding me in a tight clutch. I feel warm breath on my neck and a voice in my ear suddenly.
“You little bitch, how dare you?”
Rico.
Goose bumps explode all over my body and my limbs feel electrified.
I can’t move my head much, but from my clenched jaw, I manage to squeeze out my words. “Get off of me.”
He increases the pressure on my throat. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart. When I met you, I could have put your pretty little ass right into the pipeline, and you would either be a slave to some sex-crazed slob somewhere in Thailand or the Philippines, or you might very well be dead by now. But like a fool I loved you and wanted to keep you for myself. I treated you like my queen, and this is how you repay me?”
I can feel him shaking, so I know how angry he is, and my intuition tells me now’s not the time to argue my case. Of course, Rico can only see things from his own warped perspective and considers himself the victim. Never mind that after six years he tracked me down a few weeks ago and threatened me with kidnapping.
He must see the terror in my eyes reflected in the mirrored wall, for he barks a laugh, and I jump. He laughs again at my reaction. He’s enjoying himself at my expense, but I’d rather he be amused than so angry as he was a minute ago. Talk about mercurial mood shifts—the man is certifiable.
I’m wondering if the woman who’s in the restroom has gone for help or what? Why aren’t other women coming in? Did Rico lock the door?
He’s staring at me in the mirror. “You look so beautiful tonight. Did you know that I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen? That’s why I was keeping you for myself even though back then we had multiple orders for a young blonde.”
The hand around my waist starts roaming, and I squirm away from his reach to the extent possible.
The horror I feel at his words must be clearly etched on my face because he looks at me in the mirror and laughs again. “I guess you didn’t know about this secondary business of mine, huh? I was just starting to get into it when you abandoned me.”
He breathes into my ear and nips my earlobe. “Oh, you know what? Now we have a new revenue stream. Yeah, there are a few countries that don’t have such strict government oversight on things like medical research and the like. They have resourceful businessmen always looking for young, healthy specimens, especially for transplant research and black-market organ sales. They pay top dollar—more than for sex slaves. That’s an option we can consider for you. Personally, I prefer the sex trafficking because even one pretty girl or boy is the gift that keeps on giving. With the organ sales, it’s one and done.
“Still, it’s a thought. Especially if someone wants to put a particular individual permanently out of commission.
“Tell me something, Sasha. Do you think he loves you? Your husband, I mean.”
I refuse to discuss Fletcher with him. Besides, there’s no good answer I can give him. If I say yes, it might enrage him beca
use he somehow thinks I belong to him. If I say no, I’m all but admitting to him that my marriage is a sham. I won’t give Rico the satisfaction.
“Answer me,” he says through gritted teeth.
When I don’t answer him, he starts choking me again. The unholy look in his eyes is terrifying. He might choose to just kill me right now. My body goes into full-on panic mode, adrenaline shunting throughout my system to all points as my mind frantically scrabbles for the best way forward. The only thing I can really do in this position is use my feet for leverage to push us over backward, and I’m about to try it when I hear a loud female voice snarl at him.
“Get away from her now. Now.”
I look over my shoulder to see the woman who followed me into the bathroom. She’s about two inches shorter than I am—I guess about five-six or so—but she’s compactly built and looks muscular. I also take note of her clothing—while all the other women at the event are wearing dresses or gowns, myself included, she’s wearing black trousers with a silver button-up shirt and a black blazer.
Rico snorts in derision. “What are you going to do about it, huh, sweetheart?”
That is apparently the wrong thing to say to her. She stalks over to him, grabs him by the neck in a hold that all but paralyzes him, and efficiently pulls him off me. “That’s what I’m going to do, motherfucker. And if you haven’t had enough shit thrown at you tonight, then by all means stay and engage me. I promise that you won’t walk out of here if you do. You’ll be crawling on your hands and knees. If, that is” —she gives him a big grin— “I let you keep your knees.”
Rico glares at her but makes no move toward either of us. He straightens his suit jacket and then points at me. “You’re going to pay for this stunt, Sasha. Marley. Whatever the fuck your name is. I promise you that.”
We both watch him storm out, and the woman shakes her head. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to do a thing to you. We’re going to take care of him.”
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 30