I'll Be Waiting (The Vault Book 2)

by A. M. Hargrove

  “What about it?”

  “You remember all the conspiracy theories that everyone talked about?”

  She purses her full lips and says, “I think I recall something about them.” I want to tell her to cut the snark.

  “Like it was a Mafia hit because she was too close to JFK. Or someone high up in the government had her knocked off to keep her from running her mouth.”

  “So? What does that have to do with me? You think someone is trying to kill me?”

  “Not in the least. If they had wanted you dead, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. What I am saying is, Marilyn Monroe’s death evoked and still evokes so much sympathy in people, they still hang posters of her everywhere. That could be you, minus the dying part, of course.”

  Those intensely violet-hued irises search mine for answers, and it chills me. Midnight Drake is no shallow woman. I get the feeling she would rather stand there and be whipped to death than buckle under the pressure of a few insults. This is no little kitten waiting for the first person to come along to pet and feed her. Instead, here sits a wounded tigress, willing to fight for her life. I just need to sharpen her claws because right now, they’re dull and hiding.

  “I am not at the mercy of my drug addiction, waiting for the first man to come along and rescue me, Mr. President.” She says it in the breathy tone Marilyn once used at a birthday party for JFK.

  “Never did I indicate you were. All I said was that it could be a great ploy to create a sympathetic response.”

  “Ugh,” she huffs, more to herself than me.

  “Let me reiterate. Many people saw you in a seriously compromising position on YouTube. It was uploaded from your phone. Who knows how many people saw it before it was pulled. You had a syringe full of heroin stuck in your vein. What more do you need to portray to the public that you are a train wreck? I know this is terrible, worse than anything you should have to go through, and I’m terribly sorry for that. But all I’m suggesting is you give the public what they already know, except tweak it a little. Tell them the why behind it.”

  She stands and paces. Again. “I’ve spent the last few years running from this. Avoiding it. Now you want me to revisit it.”

  “So that’s why you were a porn star. Makes perfect sense to me. And it will to them.”

  She tries to shove me but I grab her hand. “I won’t tell them that!”

  “I’m not asking you to,” I say.

  “Do you know how hard it is to earn an honest living?”

  “And the purity of the triple X–rated entertainment industry is the way to go, isn’t it?” I ask. It’s time to get tough with her. This is a part of my job I don’t particularly care for, but in order for me to really save her career, she needs to listen to my advice.

  She clamps her jaws together and says through them, “I needed the money so I answered an ad for a film role ...”

  “I know. And some dude said he could help ... and the next thing you know, you’re naked with a dick, balls deep in your mouth.”

  She licks her lips and swallows annnd … I get a fucking hard on. Okaaaay, Harrison, where the hell did that come from? I usually take a huge step back from my clients.

  “It wasn’t exactly like that,” she says.

  “But I’m close, aren’t I?”

  She shrugs. “What does it matter? You’re going to believe what you want to anyway.”

  “And you’re going to do what I tell you tomorrow or this whole deal is off, I leave, and you’re left to handle the vultures on your own.” We stare at one another before she gives me a slight nod.

  I click my fingers. “Foster care. Give it up.”

  After a long sigh, she says, “I was abused.”

  “I’m not surprised. Is that why you left?”

  “I ran away a few months shy of my eighteenth birthday.” She glances at her hands, which are in her lap now that she’s sitting back down.

  “So we add, you turned to drugs to escape the harsh reality of abuse from when you were in foster care. That’s it.”

  “What if he hears and comes after me?”

  “Who?”

  She blows out a breath. “The man who abused me.”

  “We’ll handle him.” What she doesn’t know is if anyone shows up to hurt her, we’ll bury the motherfucker. Not literally, but he won’t ever touch her again.

  Her eyes drop down, and then back up to mine. The way her hands tug on the hem of her sweater tells me she doesn’t believe me. That’s when I recognize it. Fear. Throughout all this—the waking up in a hotel room after she’d been drugged and raped, the potential loss of her career—I’ve never seen what’s lurking there until now. Raw, bone-chilling terror. What the fuck happened to her back then?

  I drop to one knee and take her hand, which is like a block of ice. “He won’t get near you. I promise. No names, no dates, just the words, I was abused. That’s it,” I say.

  Her voice shakes as she answers, “They’ll hound me for more information. And I don’t want to be that girl.”

  In a soft tone, I say, “You can be THE girl who rose above it and became the one who survived. Isn’t that what happened?”

  She nods slightly.

  “Look at me, Midnight.”

  Large, terror-filled eyes stare back at me. Gone is that sassy-mouthed woman who wanted to punch my face moments before. “I don’t know what happened, and it’s your business. All I need is to arouse the sympathy of your fans and would-be fans. This will do it.” I grab her other hand and add, “Let me do my job and make your name one of the top in Hollywood. Then maybe one day, you can help save others from the same fate. It’s up to you. This will give you the power to do anything you want.”

  She glances from our hands to my face, then back to our hands. I see her nod, only slightly at first. But soon, it must sink in and she finally says, “Okay. But all I’m saying is I was abused as a teenager. That’s how my drug use began.”

  “That’s perfect. I want those exact words. We’ll incorporate them in our media kit we send out to everyone, along with your videoed statement. Then we’ll fly you to Arizona on our way back to LA.”

  “Not Arizona. There has to be somewhere else I can go.”

  “It has the best reputation in the country.”

  “It’s too close to where I was raised. I need distance.”

  When I think about it, she’s right. Maybe that’s what’s adding to her anxiety over this.

  I call Leland and have him check around. When he texts me back, he tells me of a place in Malibu with excellent ratings that has an opening. Midnight seems more amenable to it, which I like because it won’t require an extra stop on the way home.

  I text him back and have him book her in.

  “You live in LA, so Malibu will be more convenient since it’s right there. Especially if they require any follow-up,” I say.

  “How am I going to pull this off?” she asks, worry lines creasing her forehead.

  “Aren’t you an actor?”

  “Yes, but I usually follow a script. I’m not a very good liar.”

  “You’ll have to improvise, then. This will be great for your career. But you’ll have a script to practice with.”

  “Improvising is a far cry from lying. I feel awful about lying.”

  Wait until she’s in this industry for a while. She’ll be changing her mind when lying becomes a daily occurrence to save her career. “Consider it a catharsis. The counselors will help you with any issues you may have too.”

  “Issues. Great. They’ll probably dig so deep, I’ll be stuck there for the rest of my life.”

  I laugh. “You sound like my two best friends.”

  “Why? Are they loaded with issues?”

  “You have no idea.” Which reminds me, I’m supposed to meet Prescott soon. “I hate to cut out on you, but I have a dinner meeting.”

  “No, go.”

  “I’ll have Emily drop by with some dinner and Leland’s first dr
aft of your speech for tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “One other thing. We checked out Holt and he was clean. All of his phone records checked out. No calls were made to anyone unidentifiable. Your guy is good, so you don’t have to worry about him. See you in the morning.”

  I head back to my room and let them all know what happened. Then I leave to meet Prescott. He’s already waiting for me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him and he’s looking a little shabby.

  “Dude.” We man hug. “What’s going on?”

  “The same old. So, Midnight Drake, huh?”

  “Yeah. What’s up with you?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “You don’t look like you’re on your usual Scotty game.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, man, I’m serious.”

  “Come on, Harry. Have you been talking to Weston?”

  I hold both hands in the air. “No. I swear. I know you like a brother. You should know that. What’s the deal here?”

  “Family shit. What else? Weston didn’t tell you?”

  “Nah, you know how he is.”

  He rolls his shoulders. “You remember what happened last Christmas, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, the step-cunt fucktastrophe, you mean.” His stepmother accused him at Christmas dinner of hitting on her, which was completely false. The opposite happened, and besides, Prescott hates the woman. His father ended up kicking him out during dinner and they’ve been at odds ever since.

  “Dad and I had another run-in at a company sponsored event and it got pretty nasty.”

  “You’re joking,” I say, leaning on the table.

  He laughs bitterly. “Granddad stepped in and diffused the situation. Work has been a bitch since.” He works at the family business with both his grandfather and father. Talk about awkward.

  “Dude, you should come to LA for a visit. Get away from here. Tap into some fresh, ya know?”

  The waiter shows up and hands us menus. We order appetizers and he leaves. I can’t decide what to get for my entree. The food here is amazing.

  “It’s a damn meal. If you can’t decide, order two,” Prescott says.

  “Do you ever do that?” I ask.

  “No, but you’re whining like a baby so I figured it would shut you up.”

  I laugh. “You’re such an asshole.”

  “It’s my middle name.”

  A server plunks a basket of bread on the table. I grab a slice and slather it with butter.

  We talk about more shit and then I ask him a question he doesn’t answer. “Well?” I prod.

  “What?” He downs the rest of his drink and flags the waiter over for another and while he’s here, we give him our dinner order.

  After the waiter’s gone, I aim my finger at my friend. “See? I was right. You’re not right. Something is fucking with you. Prescott Beckham is all about money and finance—except when he’s got his dick buried up to his balls in some woman. And right now, as far as I can tell”—I check under the table—“there’s not a woman in sight. So, what’s going on? Who is she?”

  He has the courtesy to wear a sheepish expression.

  “Okay, you’ll never guess who I ran into.”

  “Jesus, tell me already. I hate when people fucking do this.”

  “Vivi Renard.” He says her name like she’s a goddess.

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t remember. She went to Crestview.”

  “Did you fuck her, like all the other girls there?” I laugh.

  “No, I did not fuck her. Christ. I didn’t fuck every single girl in school.”

  My brow practically hits the ceiling. Who is he kidding? “I’m not buying the Brooklyn Bridge, asshat.”

  “She did my homework.”

  “I only remember that girl you used to pay, but her name doesn’t come to mind.”

  “She’s the one,” he says.

  “You ran into her? The brainiac? Is she a nuclear physicist or something now?”

  “Not even close. She works in a coffee shop.”

  I lean back and blink. “You’re fucking with me. Not that girl.”

  The waiter chooses that moment to deliver our food.

  “So, tell me about her. Other than she works at a coffee shop.”

  “I think she does something with their IT. But she’s changed.”

  “Oh? What does she look like? I hate to say it, but I don’t remember her face.”

  “Sort of average,” he says in a nonchalant manner. I don’t buy it for a second.

  “Bull-fucking-shit. That’s why you’re off your usual Scotty game. It’s Vivi, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I ran into her. That’s all. But I didn’t come here to discuss Vivi. I’m more interested in hearing about Midnight Drake and her video. How’re you going to fix it?”

  “It’s fixed. Tomorrow, she’ll make a statement, then we check her into rehab. They delay filming for a month or so, but it saves her career. We’ve built a story about how she was abused as a teen and never told anyone.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yeah. But she wasn’t keen on talking about it. It happened in foster care. I had to wheedle it out of her.”

  Our plates are both polished and the waiter swoops in to clear them away.

  “Harrison, what happens to the people she was with?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  My expression loses all signs of friendliness. “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t want to know anyway.”

  “No, you really don’t.” If I tell him, that’s one more person I have to worry about.

  Prescott says, “Let’s blow this place and go to mine. I have some great weed at home.”

  “Actually, I need to get back. We have an early morning call to run through her announcement and then the cleanup. Hey, come out to the West Coast. It would be a good trip for you. Get away from it all.”

  “Yeah, I might just do that.”

  He won’t. He’s been saying that for a while now. Something weird is going on with him. But he has to figure it out, and I have a full plate of my own, most of which is occupied by Midnight Drake.

  Chapter Six—Midnight

  When the door closes behind him, I run to the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and talk myself out of throwing up. Visions of their filthy hands touching my skin keep coming back to me. It worsens by the minute, making me feel nasty and soiled, like the vile creature I am. Maybe I should forget about this ... go back to porn. Maybe that’s where I belong after all.

  The scalding water stings my skin as I scrub away the reminders of what they did to me. Hazy images come into view, but no faces, only hands and fingers digging into my flesh. There is no pain or pleasure, only numbness. I should be happy there is an absence of sensation, but if I felt pain, at least there would be something. It’s the lack of anything that pushes me to the edge.

  Grabbing chunks of my hair, I pull, trying to make myself feel. Only that produces memories of one of them having his hand wrapped in my hair. Hopeless ... that’s what my situation is. Harrison Kirkland is confident he has the answers, only I’m not so sure.

  Finishing my shower, I scrub the water droplets off with the soft towel. I’m wrapping myself in the towel when I hear a soft knock on the door. I look through the peephole to find Misha standing there.

  “Hi,” I say, waving her in.

  “I’ve ordered you dinner.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “I have strict orders to make sure you eat,” she says with a smile.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Do you want me to leave so you can dress?”

  “No. You probably think I’m obsessed with showering.”

  “Not at all. I won’t pretend to imagine how you feel.”

  Her sympathetic
gaze gives me pause. I press my lips between my teeth because I don’t want to talk about this.

  “Midnight, you barely know Harrison, but when he goes after something, he gets the job done.”

  “I don’t doubt that. It’s just that it’s all built on lies.”

  “But is it?”

  The question looms before me. The foster care thing isn’t a lie. That’s a cold, hard fact. One I wanted buried forever.

  A knock interrupts us. It must be room service.

  “Go into the bathroom. I’ll handle this.”

  I do as she says, closing the door behind me. I put on the oversized plush robe hanging on the door. It swallows me up, but it’s cozy and I love that it wraps me in a cocoon of comfort—something I currently crave.

  I listen for the man to leave and then I join Misha. Everything is set up on the table.

  “Have you eaten?” I ask.

  “No, but I’m getting ready to.” She suddenly laughs and I see there are two places set.

  “Good. I don’t like to eat alone.”

  At first, my stomach rebels, so I take it slow, forcing each bite down.

  “Having a hard time with that?” Misha asks.

  It’s chicken soup and crackers. There’s a baked potato and bread too. You’d think I’d be able to inhale this since the last meal I ate was with Danny the night before.

  “A little.”

  “You’re doing the right thing. You know, eating slowly. But you need the food. It’ll make you feel better.”

  A frustrated huff gusts out of me. “I just want to feel something. All I am is numb.”

  Misha sets her fork down and leans back. “Have you stopped to think that maybe it’s for the best? Maybe your brain doesn’t want you to feel?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes the body only deals with what it can tolerate and throws out the rest. Maybe that’s what yours is doing now.”

  Thinking back to the other traumatic points in my life—and there have been several—maybe she’s right. My brain doesn’t want to go there.

  “But I want to remember their faces,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to have someone to direct all this anger toward. Now it’s just a blank slate.”

  “But then they’d haunt your dreams and who the hell wants that?”