I'll Be Waiting (The Vault Book 2)

by A. M. Hargrove

  She has no idea that my dreams have been haunted since I was fourteen. Tortured is more like it. That’s a subject that I don’t dare open with her. I’d rather take a dose of haunting. Anything’s better than what I lived through.

  Her stare is intense before she says, “Maybe after a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel differently.”

  Misha looks as though she’s never had to deal with anything difficult before. Her clothes are expensive, her nails are perfectly manicured, and even though she’s been eating and drinking, her lipstick still looks freshly applied. Her long, blond hair gleams in the dim light of my room and she probably spends lots of money on hair products. Just watching her throws me back to another time, a time when I could barely afford soap to take a bath.

  “It’s going to be okay, Midnight.”

  “Nothing about this is ever going to be okay. The fact that I was pumped full of heroin and felt like I was on cloud nine makes it worse. I can’t even explain that part. No, wait. How’s this? Imagine getting raped and knowing you’re being raped, but liking it and feeling cozy while it’s happening.”

  I’ve hit the mark because she can’t make eye contact.

  “Now I have to make up a story about being addicted to drugs, when I’m not, but was raped. Don’t you see how completely wrong this is in my brain and why I’m having a difficult time with it?”

  She scratches her temple and then clears her throat. “Yeah, I do. I’m sorry. It’s awful. But you have to put your faith and trust in Harrison. He knows what he’s doing. It’s not right. But given that you didn’t want to go to the police, it’s the only way to salvage your career. If you don’t care about that, then it’s another matter entirely.”

  “I just don’t understand why we have to lie and do this rehab thing.” Frustration bleeds from my voice.

  Misha sits up straighter and suddenly appears a foot taller in her chair. Her soft tone is replaced by a commanding one. There is much more to this woman than I initially believed.

  “Yes, you do, Midnight. Perception is everything, and you were seen online getting fucked, high as a kite. What will people automatically think?”

  She’s as silent as I am.

  She snaps her fingers. “Come on, I’m waiting.”

  Anger pools in my gut. “That I deserved it.”

  “And?”

  “And wanted it. But—”

  “I don’t give a damn about your buts. It’s what they think that counts. And even though you did nothing wrong, even though you are a victim, they’re not going to believe it. No police report was filed. That was your choice. And let’s not even talk about if they find out you were Lusty Rhoades in the past.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Not everything in life is fair. Get used to it.”

  She’s right. I learned that long ago.

  “Are you done whining?” she asks.

  “What?” I ask, my anger returning.

  “I’m not making light of what happened to you. I’m simply trying to get you to understand what Harrison is doing. You’re being hardheaded and making our jobs too difficult. We don’t like dealing with clients we have to beg. Stop making us beg, Midnight.”

  She leans back and crosses her arms. Misha just threw down the gloves.

  “Okay. I got it.”

  “Good. Now eat. It’s the last time I’m telling you. We can’t have you passing out in front of the camera tomorrow. We need you looking strong.”

  She’s right. Several more bites in and I begin feeling much better, only I don’t let her know. I’m going to give myself one more night of self-pity, and then it’s onto the next stage of life for Midnight. Rehab 101. I wonder if I’ll pass or fail.

  Chapter Seven—Harrison

  “So you were tough with her?”

  Misha fills me in on their dinner.

  “Yeah, but I got her to commit. I have to say, I felt pretty bad about it.”

  “That’s a first.” I laugh. Misha usually isn’t a softie when it comes to clients.

  She flips me off.

  “Keep in mind we’re doing the right thing for her in the long run. I thought having it come from another woman would be helpful,” I say.

  “I like her, Harrison. A lot. She’s genuine and not egotistical, which is rare in the film world.”

  “Agreed. I got that too. Maybe she’ll stay that way.”

  After Misha leaves, I sit and think. It’s difficult to find any information on Midnight. Even her foster care records are a dead end for the most part, which is unusual. It bothers me that she was so frightened. Whatever she’s concealing must be some serious shit.

  We’re all about privacy so her location won’t be revealed. Safety is a priority, and I’ll have someone keep an eye out for anything unusual. Names won’t be mentioned so it shouldn’t pose an issue.

  The next morning, we assemble in the small meeting room. Midnight looks better, though she must not have slept very well. Purple crescents still lurk beneath her eyes, casting deep shadows. She offers a weak smile.

  “There’s coffee and breakfast over there if you’d like,” I say, pointing to the sideboard.

  “That would be nice, thanks.”

  Emily ordered breakfast so I tell her to help herself. I watch as she puts a croissant on a plate, along with some fruit. Good. At least she’s eating.

  When everyone is seated, we run through the agenda. Misha explains how Emily will video Midnight’s statement and then forward it to the various media outlets. It’ll be just a quick testimony with a couple of staged questions.

  “That’s it?” Midnight asks.

  “That’s it. Finish your breakfast and we’ll get to it.”

  Midnight brushes a hand through her hair and I ask if she’s ready to begin.

  “Yeah.”

  We get situated again and Misha reviews what needs to be done.

  Emily moves in with her makeup and conceals the weariness that lines Midnight’s face.

  Misha sets up the camera on the tripod and she’s ready to go. She has Midnight sit in one of the chairs and we do a run-through.

  Once we’re satisfied, in a breathy voice, she begins, “As many of you may be aware, an incident occurred the other night of which I’m taking responsibility for.” She stops and inhales deeply. “As a result of this, I will be checking myself into rehab. Due to some issues I faced as a teenager involving abuse, I sought help in the form of drugs. Obviously, that wasn’t the right choice. Now I will face the problem and rectify it. Thank you for your support and understanding in these difficult times.” Then she dabs at her eye. I’m not sure if it’s real, but she has me one hundred percent. I motion with a finger across my neck to Misha and she turns off the camera.

  “That was perfect.”

  Midnight doesn’t move.

  “Misha, pull that up for me. I want to see the replay, just to make sure we have everything we need.”

  “Oh, we caught it. And she was perfection.”

  Everyone in the room smiles, except Midnight. Then she blurts, “Does anyone have a cigarette?”

  “Uh, this is a nonsmoking hotel,” Emily answers.

  “I can go outside. I don’t care.”

  There’s a small balcony off the bedroom and I have cigarettes. Sometimes I smoke when I drink, a bad habit, I confess.

  “Come with me.”

  She follows me to my room and I reach into my messenger bag to pull out a pack of Marlboros. I hand her one, along with a lighter, and we walk outside the sliding glass door.

  “After everything you said yesterday, I didn’t take you for a smoker.”

  “I don’t smoke,” she says.

  My brows shoot up.

  “My nerves are shot. I needed something.”

  “Technically speaking, nicotine increases anxiety levels.”

  She offers me a blank stare.

  “If you don’t believe me, google it. It’s the withdrawal from it that people feel, and when they smoke,
they’re soothing the symptoms, so they automatically feel it calms them. It’s only taking away their withdrawal symptoms. Nicotine is as addictive as heroin.”

  In a husky voice, the one that was so hot on her porn films (yes, I watched a couple of them last night), she asks, “Then why do you smoke?”

  The corner of my mouth lifts. “I smoke when I drink. They sort of go hand in hand for me.”

  She takes a long puff on the cigarette, then coughs. No, she’s not a smoker.

  Laughing, I say, “Feel better?”

  “No.”

  Her pouty expression is pretty damn cute. “I’m going to ask that you let me keep your phone while you’re in rehab.”

  “Why do you need my phone?”

  She’s doesn’t sound keen on this idea, so I continue. “It’s customary for rehab facilities to ask their patients to give up their phones and computers, and not to communicate with anyone except through written correspondence. It helps with their success rate. I’m fairly confident this place will be the same. If not, I’ll give you the phone back in a week or two. I’d like one of us to have it, just in case your attacker calls again so we can maybe get a lead on him.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Her giving in means she may be seeing the light. This will make our job much easier. But in reality, our job is almost over. Once we drop her off and make sure the public sees her as the victim, we basically walk away, unless some other issue arises.

  “Great.” She hands me her phone and I stick it in my pocket. “I promise to return it safely.”

  When she’s finished with her cigarette, we return to the other room. The team is wrapping up, and I ask for a progress report.

  “Everything’s sent. I’m sure we’ll be fielding calls, but we’ll forward everything to her agent,” Leland says.

  “Good. I need to call Rashid to see if he’s found anything.”

  “Rashid?” Midnight asks.

  With a flick of my head toward Misha, I motion for her to handle Midnight while I go to my room to make the call.

  Rashid says they have the videos but the men on them aren’t easily identifiable. He’s working with the hotel on it.

  “Do you think they know anything? Were credit cards used to pay?”

  “I’m not sure. The manager wasn’t very helpful,” Rashid says.

  “Okay. I’ll handle him. You just keep working on the tech part.”

  “Will do.”

  I need to run an errand or two before we leave. There’s a guy I know—Gino—who can help me, so I call and ask him to meet me at the hotel. He says he’ll be over in an hour.

  Pulling Leland aside, I fill him in on where I’m going. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, stay here. You need to make sure everyone boards the plane by noon.”

  “Got it.”

  The team finishes handling some things with Midnight’s agent on a conference call while I grab a taxi.

  I arrive at the hotel, closely followed by Gino. He’s a burly dude, even bigger than me, and I’m not anything to sneeze at. When I’m getting ready to rough someone up, size spells comfort. This isn’t the classiest hotel in the city. Only I’m in for a little surprise. The person at the front desk isn’t a man. It’s a woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Harley Quinn, right down to her rainbow-colored pigtails and bright red lipstick. She’s even chewing bubble gum like there’s no tomorrow. The only thing missing is the smudged eye makeup.

  The question flies through my mind whether she actually had plastic surgery to make this happen.

  When she asks, “Hey there, puddin’, what can I do for ya?” my fix-it radar starts buzzing. Dammit! Why now?

  Leaning against the counter, I ask, “Is the manager here today?”

  “Yeah. Hang on a sec.” After she winks and blows an enormous bubble, she sashays away.

  My associate mumbles, “Takes all kinds, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  A few minutes pass when a man who seriously enjoys too many beers and sports a receding hairline approaches. “You asked for the manager?”

  “I did. Is that you?”

  “No, I’m Muhammad Ali. Whad’ya want?”

  I flash a glance over at my sidekick and he shrugs.

  “We need to ask you some questions. Who was working your front desk on Wednesday night?”

  “I was. Why?”

  “Perfect. Then maybe you can help us out. A friend of ours was brought in here by a couple of men, against her will. She was drugged. Do you remember that?”

  “Nope, not that I recall.” He looks me square in the eyes without flinching.

  “Is that so? Then can I see your security tapes?”

  “Don’t have any.”

  Gino glances at me and I look pointedly toward the corner of the room at a camera mounted up high on the wall.

  Gesturing toward it, I say, “What do you call that thing?”

  The Harley look-alike giggles. The manager shoots her a nasty look and she quickly shuts up.

  “It’s fake.”

  “I see.” Gino pulls a chair underneath it and climbs up.

  The manager yells, “Hey, what’re you doing?”

  “He’s pulling it down. If it’s fake, you don’t really need it, do you?”

  “Okay, stop. It’s real.”

  That was easy enough. Now that he sees we’re not here for a picnic, things should progress a bit faster.

  “Good. We want to have a look at your videos from Wednesday night.”

  He rubs his nose and answers, “Yeah, well, I don’t think I have any.”

  “That a fact? What happened to them?”

  “Yeah, about that. Someone came in here and stole ’em.”

  “Stole ’em?”

  “Yeah. You can ask her.” He gestures toward Harley.

  Harley’s bubble pops on her face and gum is plastered all over her nose and cheeks. She pulls it off and pops it back into her mouth.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, unless you mean that dickface Trent. He came in here with his friend—”

  “Shut up, you idiot.”

  I blink at Gino, and in a matter of a second, Mr. Manager finds himself in a chokehold. Then I smile at Harley and say, “How about you and I go for a little walk?”

  Her eyes widen, but I reassure her by adding, “I’m not Trent. I’m not going to hurt you. Trent hurt a friend of mine and I want to find him.”

  “Oh.”

  Mr. Manager’s eyes bulge. Maybe he’s worried about what Harley is going to tell me. Or it could be that Gino is applying too much pressure. I don’t really give a shit. Either way, I’m going to find out some badly needed information.

  “If you help me, I can help you in return,” I tell Harley.

  “Look, mister, I may look like that kind of girl, but I’m not.”

  I smile again. “And you know what? I’m not that kind of guy. So it looks like there’s a possibility we can be friends. Can I ask you what your name is?”

  “Helen. Helen Reddy.”

  Is she shitting me? “Really? Like the singer from back in the ’70s?”

  “Yeah. I guess my mom really thought she was woman.” She’s referring to the song I Am Woman that made Helen Reddy famous. Then she throws back her head and laughs. It’s fucking contagious.

  “Did she roar?” I ask, still laughing, thinking of the lyrics I am woman hear me roar. My mother used to sing that song all the time.

  “You bet she did. Especially when she found I discovered her weed and liquor stash when I was thirteen. Then she sent me to live with my dad.”

  Her face loses its softness and all signs of humor. I don’t want to go down this road but I have many ideas this is why Helen needs fixing.

  Out of the blue, I ask, “Helen, do you need a job?”

  “I have a job.”

  “You won’t after you help me and I leave here this morning.”

  She tugs on one of her pigtails, then twirls
it around her finger. “Then yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Show me the security tapes. You know where they are, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Come on.” She motions with her hand, but suddenly stops. “Hey, what’s your name?” She pops another bubble.

  “You can call me Harry for now.”

  We walk down a hall and into another room. Helen likes to chat and before long, I have the video I need, along with a name. Then I ask if she can pull up all the records from Wednesday night.

  “Sure.”

  She logs into one of the computers and there is Trent’s name along with his credit card information. But I’m still unclear as to what connection Trent has with Midnight. Is it just a coincidence, or is there more behind this?

  I take photos of everything and download a copy of the video to a flash drive, and then we’re done.

  “So, Helen, do you have family here, a dog, an aging aunt you can’t possibly bear to leave behind, or a hamster that would starve to death without you?”

  She lets out a bubbly laugh. “No, why?”

  “There isn’t a single person who would miss you if you left? Not your mom or dad?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  “No boyfriend?”

  “Look, mister. I may not be super smart, but I ain’t stupid either. No means no. I don’t have anyone, unless you count that asshole I work for.”

  Chuckling, I say, “Okay, you want to work for me?”

  “Sure. You seem nice enough.”

  “In LA.”

  “What? Wait, I can’t move. That’d cost a lot.”

  “I’d take care of it.”

  She pinches her lip a second, then blows out another bubble. “How would I get there? I ain’t got a car.”

  “Better English, please. You’d leave in”—I check my watch—“an hour.”

  “You’re a crazy fucker.”

  “I could send someone later to pack up your belongings. In the meantime, I’d set you up in a place to live. You’d have a job doing admin work. You have good computer skills, right?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “You in or out?”

  She’s quiet, so I add, “I need an answer. I’m on a tight schedule, Helen. The plane leaves soon.”

  “I’m in.”